California Reaming - A Woman's Adventures In Polyamory

Chasing other women and running around to sex parties can sometimes take its toll. When I kick back and relax, I like being in warm places, where the color scheme is basically all blue and gold. Like those Corona beer commercials are always depicting.

I've been a fan of their commercials for a while now, even though I don't touch the stuff. But I like their cheekiness.

The first one aired a few years ago, and was by far their best. Pretty racy for American TV. It depicted the corner of a hammock protruding into the frame. A man in swim trunks gets up from it, his back to us, and heads towards that improbably blue ocean. The camera pulls back to include more of the hammock, and now we see the departing man was not alone. Two sets of shapely, female legs also occupy the space. Three bottles of Corona are on a small table close by.

I noticed the sly fun going on right away. Apparently the Powers That Be did also. The commercial quickly disappeared. Those uptight network boys, don't they realize how perfectly surf, sand and sex go well together? And with beer too.

Of course, given my druthers, I would have altered the commercial just a little. Why not make the other pair of legs shapely but strong, leaving us uncertain whether it was two guys with a girl? (those threesomes we can more readily tolerate when it's two girls/guy). But two guys in the same hammock with a girl? And afterwards we all know they're going to take her back to the tiki hut and double her until she screams for mercy. And when the guys are done with her, they're gonna look at each other, and still want more, and then...well, hhmmm, well, as we say in the tropics, it's all about skin down here.

Well, then you know we'd really be "Miles Away From Ordinary," which is the Corona tag line.

Still, we have to start somewhere in this ongoing struggle to expand sexual awareness among the general public. Maybe it makes more sense with fine wine than beer.

Since then, Corona has come out with two new ones.

In one of them, a man and woman are debating something as they are seated in deck chairs. Facing that great ocean again. She holds a pair of return plane tickets. Abruptly she tears them up and sets them on the table between them. They now become coasters for the couple's Corona beers, as they go back to enjoying yet another shitty day in paradise.

The other new commercial is racier, although not quite like the very first one. But there's coded stuff going on if you care to read it, as I like to. Sometimes it's good we were settled by Puritans. Think of what we'd be like if the French had their way with us early on. We end up giving off very subliminal messages about sex, because we are too afraid of being any bolder.

This new commercial returns to the couple motif, sitting side by side on that damn beach. He holds up a bottle, now empty, and tilts it sideways, so the opening is facing the woman. On the horizon, a sailing ship appears, seemingly sailing right into the opening of the empty bottle.

Is it just me, or is this a wonderful metaphor for sex about to take place? And since the ship sails across the screen from the girl's POV, we may pose the burning question: did she bring her strap-on along to use on her male friend? Because the male seems to play the receptive role in this ad.

Of course, the all-time greatest visual gag for sexual intercourse, in my book, has to be chalked up to that master of suspense himself, Alfred Hitchcock. Remember the ending of North By Northwest, where Cary Grant pulls Eva Marie Saint up into the train berth at the end? This comes right on the heels of another scene, when they are on top of Mount Rushmore and he is pulling her up the face of George Washington to safety.

Then the train enters a tunnel and the film ends. Even the youngest members of the audience, assuming they have arrived at puberty, get that joke. Everyone in the theater laughed when I first saw the film, and this was back in the late 50's.

Much as I love the explicitness of porn, sometimes it's nice to have the sexual messages gift-wrapped a little. Your own mind has to tease it out a bit. But isn't that where the fun lies? The Corona people are obviously tapping into that.

Pardon me now, I must go mix up a mojito and continue my useless existence hanging poolside in our apartment building.

- - - - - - -

My partner D and I are headed out to meet one of our "new guys," as we call them. He had answered my ad of a few months ago on Craigslist, seeking a single male to join us in some fun. We have had difficulty in hooking up, as D's plans get changed often by his company, and he ends up out of town longer than we think he will be.

This new fellow is named D also. He is only 30, and with very limited experience, also with another couple. I am curious to know why they did not continue their meetings, but apparently they moved out of state.

We meet for drinks and nibbles at a Mexican restaurant in San Jose. D is a banker, which is why he did not want to send a head shot. D expresses a bit of uptightness over his bi side. Apparently he does not share this with many people he knows. He did send several racier pix, and we knew we liked what we saw. D is about six feet, 175, nice looking in a conservative kind of way. His heritage sounded rather interesting: his mom is Dutch, his father was from Indonesia. The man has a great tan, in a word.

D probably figures he can tolerate being "bi" for an evening in order to get with a woman. I really don't know why else he is here. My D is uncertain of his experience level. But D tells us he is willing to top us both, and provide me with the sandwich I am on the hunt for.

After the initial meeting for drinks, we go our separate ways. D is picking someone up at the airport, so we arrange a rendezvous at our place several days later.

We are joking among ourselves as to whether this D will show up. We think maybe we have scared him off. But he seems ready to drive down the peninsula from work.

We never hook up though, D's work in the bank ties him up until around 7, when he gives us a call to say he's still in San Mateo. We realize by the time he gets to us it will be late, then he has to drive back. So we mutually cancel the date. It may not ever occur, as both D's will be heading out for work on the road this coming Sunday. Not enough time for the dirty deeds we had in mind.

So D and I decide we'll have our own fun together anyway. I've had a couple of hits of pot. Sometimes it really spaces me out to the point where I am mostly useless to any sexual partner. Other times it seems to fire me up. Tonight I am somewhere in between.

I remember for several intense moments, when D was inside me, that I felt I was on this razor thin edge of sexual excitement. I stayed suspended there for what seemed like a long time, although it was probably only several minutes worth. What do the skateboard boys call it? "Grinding on the edge" I believe. Where the board itself rests on a rail, and the skater slides down it until he reaches the end. I am grinding on the edge, until I finally came. And then I thought I was going to pass out it was so intense. I have never passed out during sex, but this time was close. Lovely lovely and more lovely.

I am going to miss D. For fifteen years of togetherness, it seems our sex life is better than ever.

- - - - - - -

As I made my way deeper into the lesbian community starting back in the late 60s in Berkeley, I would sometimes run across a term that has often puzzled me.

Lesbian Bed Death, they called it. An expression referring to a state in lesbian relationships where sex goes by the boards pretty much altogether. Over time I have continued to hear this expression. And it still puzzles me.

Don't lesbians want/need/try to have as much sex as possible? Like their gay male counterparts? I mean, isn't the fact you're a lesbian saying that you are attracted to your own gender, and you want lots of nice mindboggling sex with them?

Apparently not. It is (still) a phenomenom associated specifically with the gay female community.

Recently, I tried to answer a woman's posting on Craig's List as to why LBD exists. She could not fathom it either. Along the way, I got flamed for my efforts by another blogging queer woman, who claimed the title was foisted on gay women by the hetero world, and doesn't that suck. It was yet another label from "them," the straight world, trying to manipulate "us", fine upstanding queers that we are. She claimed that she and all her circle had a ton of sex, and she didn't understand why anyone would want to dwell on the topic of Lesbian Bed Death. For her, it had no existence, and therefore no meaning. She also travelled in a crowd where basically everyone is single, and sleeping around. Like the one I first came out in. So LBD is probably not going to become too apparent unless you are attempting a relationship over time.

I would beg to differ with her for other reasons too. Hanging around both gay and straight circles, I can say that most heteros are not concerned with casting labels around on the dyke population. Most of the time they don't even seem to know it exists. The only equivalent to something similar among the straights is when guys joke about how blow jobs are the first thing to disappear from the relationship after marriage occurs. And certainly there are marriages where the passion takes a powder pretty early on. But no one has coined a term for this the way the lesbians have for themselves.

And they have come up with that term all on their own. Because they know it and have to deal with it and try to figure out a way around it.

My take on LBD is that it happens because you have two women together, not just one. There is simply not enough testosterone prsesent in the mix to keep the ship afloat, so to speak. Even when you have the women playing fairly defined roles, like one being butch while the other is more femme, you still have two women present. And there is a built-in oddness about that situation. You end up with two peas in a pod, too much similarity, and while this may be fine for building emotional connections with women, it is not good when it comes to maintaining passion.

There needs to be more testosterone in the mix. I will probably get flamed more with this comment, but I don't see a way around the truth of the situation. Somebody needs to have a strong enough sex drive to push the relationship along.

This happens more readily in gay male relationships. As a consequence, you get probably the highest incidence of sexual activity among gay men. The lowest incidence would be among gay women. If this is not testosterone at work here (or should we say, at "play"), then I don't know what is.

When gay male relationships fall upon troubled times, the guys may actually go to more play parties or bath houses in an attempt to work around the impasse.

Gay women on the other hand don't often seek other sexual partners. They will suffer in silence, or try and work it out, or focus on the positive things in the relationship that may have little to do with sex. Women are too ready to channel the energies elsewhere; gay men may not be ready enough to do that.

Who comes out ahead in this game?

- - - - - - -

One of my more luscious moments at a sex party occurred when my partner D and I attended a Black Sheets party. We migrated down to the "play zone," which is on the basement level of this house in San Francisco's Mission District, and ended up in the cute little jail cell they have there.

It's comfy and padded and a nice place to hang in when you want a bit of a break from all the other playgoers.

So he and I are hanging there, when along comes trouble in the form of a bearish looking leather boy. He and D make eye contact, and D signals his interest by spreading his legs open as he lies there on his back. I am lying next to him. Leatherman smiles at me, noticing I have a cool little leather outfit on too.

But this is going to be all about Boy Action, I am nothing but a mere spectator.

Leatherman is dressed in G-string, cap and crossing leather straps over his chest. He is a strong-looking guy. A "bear" of a man. He reaches down into his boottops and retrieves a condom.

Off he goes, inside my partner in nothing flat. This guy is a real pro, and before long D is moaning like a child on the night before Christmas. Leatherman slides his hips right up against D's butt, then keeps them there as he moves ever so slightly against my partner.

I can relate to this, as I love having my partner's pubic bone directly against mine. You may not get that thrusting, long in and out stroking, but that's fine. The close-up action is just great.

Leatherman reveals his prowess even when he's pulling out. D tells me that it is important that the "top" in the situation be able to grab hold of the base of his dick, to keep the condom from slipping into the receiving party.

All his movements seem cool and practiced. It is a lovely scene to watch. And no one expects anything of me. I loved it.


- - - - - - -

Lately we have been exploring why people attend sex parties. My partner D and I have our personal schticks going on, with our prior health problems being a key impetus for us to find as much fun as we can. Just in case we aren't around much longer to pursue it.

I used to think that couples went because of the guy, that he would prod the wife into going along with what was basically his Bright Idea. She may or may not have the same interest he did. But like our friend S's wife, she did it because HE was going to do it anyway, and she might as well go along to keep an eye on things. If you have a hand in creating the action, you feel better about life.

One bi woman friend I knew in Oakland once said her husband got them into swinging because he never got enough sex when he was younger.

Does anyone get enough sex when they are younger? I didn't think it was possible. But I've heard this one before, and probably so have you.

We could haul out Mr. Kinsey and smack him around as the instigator of all this evil. There's no doubt that the Sexual Revolution he ushered in would spark innumerable sex parties all over the place.

Sometimes it seems couples/individuals go to sex parties because they have an exhibitionist streak going on. The guy's hung like a horse and he wants to share his good fortune with the world. I love altruism, don't you? Or they like being watched as a couple by other people. There's a lot of this going on at sex parties. D and I get a gaggle of people around us when we play, usually they are guys.

I was all eyes myself at one of our parties, trying to check out these two girls. It was some weird scene they were into, involving a doctor's table and some sort of enema hookup. The "patient" was on her back, wrapped snuggly in purple saran wrap. Her partner on top was administering what I thought was an enema. I was mightily intrigued, but not at all sure just what I was watching.

But I liked watching. You're free to do that too at a sex party. It's almost a substitute for watching porn.

People go to sex parties for other reasons too. I had never seen my partner with another man before. That was high on my agenda list. He has (still) not seen me with another woman, and that was of curiosity to him.

Personally I also like the vibe in sex parties: you can look around the room and - hopefully - enjoy the lovely spectacle of varieties of different people having fun. You can enjoy watching other people play. How do they do it? Can I learn anything? Of course you can. It's an education first and foremost.

If you can sit for hours in front of a Parisian cafe, people-watching, as I have done in my life, we can certainly enjoy watching the fun at a sex party. Not much different in my book.

- - - - - -

Earlier I had written about meeting my partner D at a bisexual social function in L.A. I had gone to that party with the intention of meeting another woman. D went there hoping to hook up with a guy, for at least a fast fuck. I had already decided I liked the look of him enough that, if he called me up for a date, I was already set to take him to bed.

Why the hurry? Well, I was pretty horny at that particular time. My hormones were raging. I was approaching the age when women either have that kid or not, time is a fleeting. Not that I wanted a kid consciously. But it was somewhere in the sauce.

I probably also felt I had to bed him early to find out how he really felt about me, as a woman, he being a bisexual man. I wanted to know where the preponderance of his interest lay, with women or with men. And there was only one way to find that out.

Some bi men definitely seem more gay to me than otherwise, and I probably wanted to know where D landed in that spectrum. I like hanging with gay men, but only if they find a point where they want to take me on sexually. It doesn't matter how charming or interesting they may be. If they don't want to fuck after a decent interval of time, I have to move on. There's nothing more there for me.

So off we went, D and I, to a seafood place in the San Fernando Valley. I was housesitting at the time in the area, and after dinner D and I returned there. We hung out and talked, and started smoking some pot. Always a great icebreaker.

D had no idea I was planning to lay him so soon. He figured, well, she's of Swedish stock, and they can be pretty cool types. He'd be happy if he could hold my hand after a few months.

He was rather pleasantly floored that he was holding a lot more than that, and very soon.

We began in the living room chatting on the sofa. He remembers being attracted to the blue sundress I had on, remembering my legs and the way I was seated on the sofa. It felt very provocative to him. I of course have no recollection how I was trying to be at that point. I remember we talked about music. The homeowner had a large collection of classic RnR records, and we put on the Beatles' Magical Mystery Tour. Then D and I decided we really weren't diehard Beatle fans. We were more into the Rolling Stones.

Maybe I felt things needed to be prodded along a bit, because I said something like, "Why don't I show you the upstairs part of the house."

It was a big house. Upstairs we went, and somehow things started in the master bedroom. You would think I would remember every detail about this night. But I don't. It's more that I remember the flavors of the evening. I remember being on top of him at some point, the happy smile on his face, his eyes were closed, and I was admiring the fine reddish hairs on his chest. At some point he tied me face down on that fourposter bed. But the play was light. We saved anal sex for times to come, and there was going to be a lot of that.

It seemed like some cool breeze of adventure had blown into that room, because I remember feeling that this was going to be the most sexually adventurous partner that I had ever had. At least as far as men went. I had the sense that he and I would have very few limits together, sexually, and that was very attractive to me. He was so easy to deal with, and the night felt like a lot of fun. And it felt safe.

In the morning, he walked into the room with a cup of tea and a hard-on.

It beats a croissant any day, don't you think?

= = = = =

The first woman I ever went to bed with was Enid Buckland-Evers. I am not one to toss names about blithely in these columns, I try to be more discreet. But her name was so absolutely wonderfully British that I have to include it. It says something about the quaint frame of mind that I embarked upon my new-found lesbianism. And hell, Enid is probably married with six children by now and disgustingly transformed into a proper heterosexual.

I was 22 at the time, she a few years older than me. We met somewhere, I can't remember now. But things became rather vividly clear after we had been out clubbing one night. Somewhere in Soho she grabbed me and pressed me up against the wall of some dark alley and planted a really juicy kiss on me. Enid was hot to trot, and trot we proceeded to do, that weekend. Out to her sister's place in Oxford.

We started out in squeaky camper-style twin beds, but soon Enid ended up in mine. She taught me how to finger her, that's what we ended up doing. It felt nice. Simple, but nice. We laughed and whispered and carried on during the night, trying not to wake her relatives but not at all sure we succeeded. Not that they would say anything about it over breakfast. We're talking proper British subjects here.

Enid also proceeded to leave a lovely array of bite marks and other sweet bruises upon my person, which became the topic of conversation in my office Monday morning.

"Hhmmm, they look like mosquito bites," opined my boss, a lean dark Englishman who spoke a passable French and was the chief wine buyer for a British firm in the Haymarket. The girls in the office knew better. I think I did let out that I was dating a woman. I'm sure I did. I wanted to flaunt my new self, just to see how people reacted.

They also heard from my own lips that I wanted Enid and I to become more adventurous in our lovemaking. I was very into penetration, had been since I was about 13. Bird feeding tubes, zucchinis, anything that looked remotely phallic was soon on its way up my eager little twat. I just assumed all other girls were as eager for this as I was.

Enid was not. She was scared to death of tampons even. She was scared of men because of that. I had not heard of dildos, or strap-ons or anything like that. But I knew from my own home experiments that there was going to be more to my sex life than just diddling with the fingers.

Enid did not want to go there with me. And where she did want to go was not of interest to me at all. She was already smitten with me. Beyond reason, I felt. One time in particular alarmed me. We were downstairs in the living room one night, and we dozed off in front of the fireplace. I woke up later in the night and decided to go upstairs to bed. Enid seemed happily asleep where she was, and I decided not to wake her.

Sometime later she came upstairs and proceeded to chastise me severely for leaving her. "Don't EVER go off and leave me like that again," she said. I could hear the fear and concern in her voice. That scared me. I had only gone upstairs. In her mind, I had abandoned her and taken the shuttle to Mars.

I started retreating from her. I felt bewildered and concerned that more demands would be forthcoming. This was no longer fun.

But I felt guilty backing away from her, wondering if perhaps I had conducted myself badly, if I couldn't be nicer somehow.

I was debating how to handle this when the British government - the immigration authorities in particular - settled my hash for me. When I returned from a two-week vacation in France's Loire Valley that summer, I was grilled at Dover by the authorities. What was I doing all this time in England if I wasn't working, as I claimed? I lied about a non-existent history thesis I was doing, and needed more time here for research. I was getting money from home, I said.

I can talk pretty well, and pretty fast, so I fooled the guys part of the way. But not entirely. They let me back into England, but stipulated it would only be for three months. Then I would have to return to the States.

Return I did. Enid and I proceeded during my remaining time in England as friends. But once I returned to the States and began school in Berkeley, I did not make an attempt to renew a connection via the mail with Enid. Neither did she.

I was a little sad. But not for long. I was in Berkeley, and it was the late 60s. My upcoming adventures in lesbianism were about to begin, big time.

- - - - - - -

God, there was a time when I really really wanted to be a lesbian. I thought I was. I felt I had been groomed for years to be this. You know, the way a PhD candidate can look back at his educational career, and easily spot the signposts along the way. Honors classes perhaps in high school, getting something published in a literary journal when you're still an undergrad. Graduating cum laude or whatever. There's a progression there.

I felt I had made these steps in my own progression towards being a dyke. I can look back and remember girls I felt attracted to in high school. I remember my first crush was on Elizabeth Taylor, with her incredibly beautiful dark looks and amazingly violet eyes. But I was also vaguely aware that I liked some of her leading men too, both on and offscreen. Luckily, I never felt this presented a problem for me. It never occurred to me to choose between my various feelings, to cast my lot with either the male side or the female. I didn't feel a need to worry about such splitting of hairs. I just was.

It never occurred to me in jr high and high school that I might be a budding lesbian. But other people were. I would get teased sometimes by other girls, who felt I was "different." I liked sports and was quite aggressive and good at them, in spite of being very very shy. Because of that I never dated, I pretty much was a lone wolf. I liked reading and read a ton, and did quite well in school which preoccupied me a lot then.

My parents were aware I had turned into quite a tomboy. I think they weren't quite sure what to do about me. Probably my behavior fitted both their expectations. My father probably would have liked a son in amongst the three daughters he did end up having, and I was the closest thing he would get to that. My mother probably encouraged the growth of that tomboy side of me as a way of getting back at my father. She wanted me strong and male-like to do battle with him, as her substitute. He and I were usually very tense with each other. She encouraged that.

Not a helpful environment necessarily for a girl to grow up in, but it ended up lucky for me. I had no stomach at all to be anything remotely like my parents. Mentally, I had probably already run away from home by age three.

By age 21, I was ready to leap further afield. I went to Europe with a friend, after saving up and working my first job that summer. Europe was the beginning of my real life. The things that were really already part of me would make their presence known, I felt, in this new and more sympatico environment.

I can even remember the exact moment and place I was at when I said, "Oohhh, so THAT'S what I am!" I was in the American Library in Paris, in the late 60s. Sometimes speaking French felt overwhelming, so I tried to escape by hanging out in "English" places. Like this library.

On one of the aisles, I discovered "The Well of Loneliness," but Radcliffe Hall. The classic lesbian coming-out story of its time. As I thumbed through the book, I picked up certain things about the heroine, who came across as a physically strong, masculine sort of woman who felt very isolated.

My identification with her was absolute and nearly instantaneous. The light went on in my brain big-time. I felt incredibly light-hearted and excited. I felt I knew who I was and where I was destined to go. Why did I happen to pick up that particular book and read through it? It was a lovely reflection of destiny at work, I thought.

The background to this discovery was my meeting a woman friend back in London with whom I became quite taken. I developed a big crush on A. Don't know why or how, but there it was. I didn't know what to do about it. I felt I wanted something from her, physically, emotionally, I wasn't quite sure. I felt all over the place in my feelings towards her.

So after making this discovery about myself in Paris, I left then to return to London, where I revealed my feelings finally to A. She took it all in, with a somewhat amused but careful expression. She had already worked through her "lizzie stage," as she put it. So there was not much for me here beyond our already developing friendship.

I remember as I explored London that summer, working there quite illegally I should add, I started checking out various gay groups. I invited A to attend my first gay function with me. She happily consented, eager to see me ensconed somewhere in the gay community. And she was intellectually a very open-minded woman.

But she made (the mistake?) of telling her uptight bitch of a mother, who of course promptly nixed her daughter going out with such a disreputable person as I was proving to be. A way for A to protect herself after all? Could be.

I was so eager to live up to my "new" identity that feeling mom's wrath didn't bother me one bit. It confirmed my feelings about being gay.

It allowed me to be a Rebel. That was cool in my book. Please ma'am, can I have some more rebellion, please please.

- - - - - - -

So the first thing I did when I got back to L.A. was schedule a doctor's visit. Various studies ruled out any brain lesion. I felt pretty strongly it was not a matter of physiology. But you have to rule it out.

Other factors were ruled out also. Like altitude. We were probably at around 5,000 feet, cause perhaps for a little lightheadedness. But not two hours worth of a pretty total mental blackout.

Was I dehydrated? Low blood sugar? This thought occurred to me only recently, when I heard on the news that some diabetic blacked out at the wheel, causing a fatal car accident. He had no idea what he had done.

None of these factors entered into my case.

What the episode said to me was, you are ambivalent about yourself and other women, your feelings for other women.

On the one hand, you say you want to be with them, but on the other hand, when you're with them, you experience the experience as a kind of trauma. At least in this case.

Here you are blacking out. If I were your lady friend, I would take that as a kind of insult. In a way, I had abandoned her.

But on the other hand, she could read it as a sign of my growing attachment to her. I had been out of the dyke scene for quite a while, and now after that absence I meet J. I felt we had clicked, for various reasons. Suddenly, for the first time in many years, I was with a woman I really liked and felt strongly attracted to physically.

J may have chosen to read it that way, that I was getting so enamoured of her that I, quite literally, sent myself around the bend mentally speaking.

I have to weigh though, in my growing anticipation of wanting to see J again, if some part of me also felt intimidated by the occasion. I was moving into the deep end of the pool now.

One part of the encounter especially troubled me, apparently. This part I dimly recall. J had her fingers inside of me, and when she pulled them out they were covered in blood. "You're bleeding," I remember her saying. That really startled me.

From what J had told me about the lovemaking, we were not doing anything terribly violent, or even somewhat rough. In her opinion, that is. But I had never bled before, with men or women. I cannot really pinpoint whether I blacked out before the bleeding started, or after. Perhaps it triggered the blackout, who knows.

Maybe I saw the blood and at that point my mind took a hike. That would have been the logical sequence.

In any event, the episode was a turning point of sorts between J and I. We returned after the weekend to our separate cities, and a number of weeks went by before we were in contact again. I wrote to let her know my studies were all ok, nothing to worry about. I also had myself tested for all sexually transmitted diseases.

J was concerned because apparently, during the blackout, we engaged in sex that was not completely safe. So she was concerned about my health for that reason.

I was not sure if I believed her. Is it because I live with a bisexual man, I asked her. She professed not to have a problem with that. After all, I had told her already that D and I are scrupulously safe when he and I venture out with other people. So I thought she was reassured.

She said she was, and that the problem was with her, she had not been safe when she had last been sexually active. So she presented it as something she worried about for my sake.

I don't know if I fully believe this, though. Somewhere inside her, I felt J was worried about D being bi. And no matter what I said to convince her otherwise, I had a suspicion she would not completely believe me.

Dealing with gay women has been a real trip for me. They never quite fully say what they quite fully mean to say.

Could this be one of the reasons, among many, that (some) men want to kill us in our sleep?

- - - - -