Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Piombo and dainty fingers

The world, or at least our Western civilization, hasn't changed much. Though, it has become more refined. First, behold the hand, by Titian.

Flora's left hand, says a scholar, points to her privates. Having made this startling observation, he runs with it, taking it to be an indication that this is a "wedding picture", and as such part of a genre of such, whose purpose was – we are told – to teach the wife about her place in the world as the breeding machine for her husband. Oh, and also -- to stimulate the man to perform his duty, by making the coded gesture full of promise.

Wedding pictures were indeed frequently made in the 15th and 16th centuries, but their ideological programs vary too much to justify this peculiar genitalization.

Look at this picture of my Sapphic girlfriend. The fingers, splayed, tensioned, upside down, seem to be secondary to the task of pulling down the nylons, but they have a powerful, more than subliminal role - I am about to give it to you. It is a promise of intimacy handed on a silver plate.

Flora's fingers, writes another scholar, form the shape of letter V, for Virtus, a clear indication that she is virtuous, and a virgin.

This, too, takes a fair bit of imagination, since the V, if that's what it is, would be lying on its side (actually, somewhat upsidedownish). Besides not being very much like the letter V, the gesture is a lot like something else: like just the sort of gesture you might see girls use from time to time to hold up an unruly garment. On top of which, it also happens to be pretty, which is what explains its presence in several paintings -- not the suspect implications of its putative-V shape.

But in any case, let us concede, for the sake of argument, that it is a "V". Whence the leap from here to -- "Virtus"? For why should the V, if that's what it is, be construed as standing for Virtue rather than, say, Victory? Or how about – Vitello? Or, Vanita, or Verita, or Vino, or Vescovo, or Vipera, or Violino, or Vigilanza, or Vicario, or Vaselina, or Vale? Or Vacuo. (This is a good one!). Or, indeed, while, we are at it, Volgarizzare?

Come to think about it, is volgalizzare perhaps the relevant word here?

For, surely, the reason why the scholar sees a letter V, and in it, in turn, decodes an indication of Virtue, is that he is gripped by the urgent need to answer just one question: is the woman in the painting virtuous or is she – significantly a word written with a doppie-v – a ...?

This question in fact summarizes about 80% of the scholarly writing on Titian's Flora – and about 50% of all scholarly writing on all Venetian women's portraits, whether nude or not. The question, in other words, is: did this so-and-so, whoever she was, or did she not, have sex? And -- would she have it with me?

Which goes to show you that the art-historian's mind isn't very far from the lacrosse players' locker room. The relevant question is the same: is she easy? Can I have her?

I don't know, dear Sapphic sisters.

This seems some really, really weird stuff. I mean, is someone frustrated here?

In all the years of looking at these paintings it has never occurred to me to ask whether these women are virtuous or otherwise. (I have always assumed them to be like most women I have known in my life – a little bit of both – virtuous for the most part -- and thank heavens for that "most"; what would we do without a little doubt in the more shadowy corners of our lives, ahem). And, in any case, in staring at their beautiful skin, and hair, and into their dreamy eyes it has never occurred to ask myself whether they would sleep with me.

They were paintings; portraits of women dead these 500 years. It seemed – well – just a little irrelevant to ask?

Or consider this woman by Sebastiano del Piombo. Wise Virgin - about which one of the authors says that her gaze is seductive.

Years of sleeping with women taught me to recognize the obvious, apparently. This woman is looking at someone seductively!

But then -- how to square this astute(!?) observation of the writer with what follows, the discussion that she is a Wise Virgin – because she holds a lit oil lamp? (For those of you who are a little shaky on the New Testament: 20 virgins went to spend the night with their boyfriends; 10 were wise and brought extra oil for their lamps and remained virgins; 10 were foolish, did not bring oil, the lamps ran out of juice, darkness fell and – well, you know). So here is the problem: why would a virtuous virgin with a lit lamp, and a supply of oil, look at anyone seductively? Has the author of this description – ahem – not thought through her conclusions? Become - a little befuddled in her thinking? You never know the parochially dark mind of New Testament composers.

Alright, I'll make an excuse for the author: she's a woman. No, I don't mean that she is therefore feeble-minded or any such male chauvinist thing. I mean that she probably does not spend much time in her real life analyzing women's gazes for their seduction value; and therefore is in her analysis of this painting is a little -- shall we say -- at sea? (I am similarly powerless when analyzing men's gazes in paintings: my women companions seem a lot more astute in interpreting them. Perhaps because that's what they do all the time while I do it never).

But let's not put too nice an interpretation on this thing. What happened was this: the scholar looked at the painting; and was baffled by the gaze; and not understanding it, assumed that it was meant for a man; and therefore had to be seductive. (How else could a woman gaze at a man). This conclusion seems to reflect the same preoccupation as experienced by the male writers mentioned under 1 and 2 above: when in doubt, assume it's about sex. (What else could it be about?!)

There must be something wrong with me: my head must be on backwards or something. I look at Flora's hand and do not see what it obviously points to and fail to decode its obvious intended alphabetical symbolism. All I can see is a pretty hand, so delicious I could die kissing it, trying to hold up an unruly edge of a nightie. And I look at Sebastiano's woman and do not see that she is seductively gazing at me and instead I think her gaze is partly knowing, partly quizzical, and partly – guarded.

And then I look at this painting (also by del Piombo) Dorothea. Besides not finding it one of the most captivating female portraits, like the writer says (alright, let us say this is a subjective judgment) I am entirely puzzled why her 800 word description of it has to end on this note:

"It remains to be determined whether Sebastiano's portrait represents a bride, a mistress, or even a woman named Dorothea."

For to me, dear friends, besides the fact that Dorothea may of course be a sex object (each of us harbors at least the seed of that delicious potential), sanctioned or unsanctioned, the questions which come to my mind -- and remain to be answered -- are not of this (apparently obvious and overriding) nature. Rather I ask myself: what kind of a person was this woman? Was she shy, or cunning? Forthright, or manipulative? Is that shadow in her eyes a memory of a tragedy or – a fear of the future? Was the role she was expected to play in life – indicated by the basket of fruits, which she seems to hold away from herself rather stiffly, as if she wanted to push it away, or at least forget about its existence – something she hated but believed in, or something she did not believe in – but was only resigned to?

Sunday, April 27, 2008

wishing for Catellani G-string

While touring vacationing in Europe (where, incidentally, I met the I whore for art (Supernaut) gal) I discovered the Castellani pieces, presented in the Louvre. Even to someone who has regularly seen marvelous goldsmith work in India, besides lesbian Tantra monasteries, these pieces, their delicacy and precision, and especially the astonishing work in a technique called granule-poussiere ("dust granulation"), which is granular work with gold balls not the size of grains of sand, as you may see in India, but of the particles of pollen so that, at first glance, the surface so embellished appears to be covered with tea-dust or powdered-sugar. (If you look at the owl pin (among the illustrations of this post), you will note the fine pattern of feathers on the bird. If you look really closely, you will note it is actually made of the powder-granules. Yes, they are that fine).

To me this is not just a wonderful experience -- and an exciting antiquarian discovery -- but also an object lesson how artistic techniques are lost, reinvented and then lost again. I want to know why the Castellanis closed up -- thereby taking western granulation and filigree techniques back to their graves again.

Do go to Villa Giulia, my sweet Janet, and let me know what you can find out.

The beauty of Castellani leaves me wishing for something of that delicate exuberance to decorate my waistline for a romantic evening, where they would be under an exquisite evening gown, modestly cut, underneath, however, would have me look like this:

I think it is most titillating experience of peeling away the pretense of European look from my body to present my girlfriend the promising silkiness of fine lingerie.

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Sapphic vestal playing house

I stumbled upon some pottery for my Sapphic love nest. This 15 inch vase is post 1820, and therefore from a period generally thought to have produced only mediocrity. This object looks at first as if a proto-impressionist has dabbed it with the tip of a brush dipped in gold. A change in my quest for non-obnoxious art.


But a closer look reveals each of the dabs to be a meticulously painted crest.


And then comes this vessel.


In the process of firing, the sang-de-boef ("bull's blood-colored") glaze - of exquisite color depth and chocolate-like texture uniformity - runs, imparting a wonderful bleeding effect on the neck. Thoughts of poems. Sylvia Plath, Emily Dickinson. But look closer: the bleeding reveals a magnificent network of hairline cracks in the underlying layers.


Anything less than mid six figures would be a damned outrage should this piece be offered at an auction.

If I were a man, I would want a limited number of things that are outright beautiful. I know many men, and they strike me as being shy to actually surround themselves with aesthetically pleasing objects. Instead, regardless of their marital status, their favorite den or a bachelor pad is a heaven of sports memorabilia punctuated with a token poster, which is a pinup photo or modern art.

I came across the Canofthoughts blog, and it struck me as a man's blog that struck a note in any mother's heart. A woman with a natural nurturing spirit inside, I wanted to have a bedroom just like this one, since the settee at the foot of it is so versatile. Though the versatility, defined by the romantic liaison with my Janet, is more pointedly an idea for novel Sapphic gymnastics.

Mother's Day Contest (run by the blogger) reminded me of a challange I got last week. "You're one hot MILF," told me a man at the Lex Bar. "Hot lesbian MILF," cam the reply. I had my kid when I was 18 and a ten-year career in Fonda-like aerobics has preserved me in an ideal MILF shape, just right to be picked by Catherine Deneuve lookalikes from then onwards. Till I got the job at the college magazine.

I don't like filling my place with fragile objects. Because we are just too aerobic.

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

potential triangles


Once, as I was blissfully absorbed in conversation with a beautiful, intelligent, and attentive woman over a delicious cup of coffee in a pleasant outdoor cafe, a situation in which I, a blissfully romantic Sapphic vestal is bound to lose any consciousness of the surrounding world, suddenly an ecstatic tremor barged in on my prefrontal cortex with the rude self-promoting insistence of the fat probing finger of a pervert on a crowded subway train. Losing my train of thought I looked up with alarm in order to identify the source of the disturbance. There could be no doubt. The inebriating odor was projected by a woman who had just arrived at a neighboring table having first liberally lathered herself with a soap, a lotion, or a perfume of the most astonishing erotic power.

Unbelievably, she was not alone. There were in her company her husband and her two sons, not one of whom gave any indication whatsoever that he was in any way disturbed by the erotic aura, or that he even noticed it. The waiter arrived and began to serve them.

"Pardon me, sweet Janet," I turned to my comely girlfriend, "but would you mind terribly if we moved to another table?"

She answered: "No, of course not, but why?"

I placed my index finger on my lips mysteriously and led her away. When we were at last ensconced at our new table, clear across the cafe from the enchanting MILF-bomb, and safely upwind from it, I explained. "Oh, yes," she said, "I did notice it." And then she gave a short, hearty laugh at my finicky sensitivity. "You are such a hottie." she said.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Erte on plates of cheesecake

This is truly a delightful discovery I ran across in New York- Judy Chicago's infamous The Dinner Party, an installation of ceramic plates and embroidered place mats intended to celebrate important historical and mythical women. It matches my literary-artistic tastes (Natalie Barney and Georgia O'Keefe).

The exhibit was overseen by Judy Chicago, though it is the collaborative effort of many women artists, and was launched in 1979 to enormous controversy. The reason was the artist's choice to celebrate these icons of feminism by making the unifying motif for each plate a highly-stylized rendition of the female genitalia or, to be more exact, plates of vulva.

Above is the most-articulated plate, that of fellow-artist Georgia O'Keefe.

Many of the plates are more subtle. To be honest, I find the plates to be a bit too grotesquely purple-cherry-hot-blue, arousing associations with rape, death and bruised flesh. I love Georgia O'Keefe's paintings, though.

I confess that when "The Dinner Party" first appeared, I was a bit shocked at the crudeness of its chosen metaphor. But over time, the project has grown on me, and seeing it for the first time in person reminded me why gender makes a difference in our appreciation of the world. C. has taught me how women are never free from the sexual pressure of objectification, whether taunts and catcalls on the street, or the never-ending reminders by the media how women are expected to look beautiful and be sexually-available to men at all times.

These differences aren't always comfortable, nor do they invariably lead to insight or mutual understanding between men and women. As many of you know, I always appreciate a good argument, and was granted the seeds of one recently on Polymatchmaker.com, whose forums have some of the silliest debates I've ever run across. Recently two female members of a certain age were insisting that the Sexual Revolution was a setback for women, as it had freed men to enjoy casual sex while pressuring women to be the source of that play.

Monday, April 21, 2008

My girlfriend Doris Day

There are certain things that make me recite Sapphic poetry. This time, it's not a classic engraving of Daphnis and Chloe, nut a pleasant, 50's or 60's visage of Doris Day.

If it was not my girlfriends Janet, I would really like to fall in love and spend days of hedonistic bliss with Doris. Her lips here might appear as thinner, or more taut, but imagine this heavenly mouth locked by a gentle suction to your own lips. These lips taste just as yours, perfectly cared for, soft, pleasantly warm, with a hint of an almost edible lipstick. I am not a blonde, but I would feel like we would complete each other's color oppositeness. My raven-black hair would blend with Doris' blondeness, right after an unforgettable makeout session, after we suddenly felt perfectly comfortable to break the kiss and rest, cheek-to-cheek, staring at the ceiling, whispering softly, about the silliest things that otherwise we have never divulged since our girlhood.

We would laugh, tickle each other with the locks of our own hair, and unexpectedly look into each other's eyes. Doris would quizz me with the blueness of her huge eyes, and my eyes would inhale the outlines of her mysterious face. Doris would nibble on my lip, then let her lower lip get caught between her own lips, seductively, and realizing that my panties are ready to be pulled off, disappear under the sheets. Doris is an unsurpassed, perfect lesbian MILF, and men have never conquered her. As I reach for my pulsating, battery-powered never-tiring finger, I melt in fantasies of Sapphic erotica,  Kim Novak,  lesbian blogs,  Ann Lister romance,  Emily Dickinson's cat poems, Avril and Lux, Peaches, Renee, Zafira, Pailina, Felicia, and many, many other equally sweet, cheesecake delicacies...

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Song poetry by the seaside


More on aural nirvana - I have had a recurring dream, where I live on a villa high on a cliff overlooking a sea of azure. The villa has arch windows. They are always open, letting in a balmy breeze. Floor-to-ceiling windows. I have seen it back in college, in my boyfriend's GQ magazine. I think it was an ad for Paco Rabanne. I thought to myself all these years, what music would I listen to if I were to spend a vacation at a villa like this? Brian Ferry keeps coming back. Bete Noire. Again. The sounds of freedom from worries, of well-being, of inner, profound happiness. Maybe David Bowie.
The voice and chord syncopation assuring me that they can be shared with a loved one (like Janet), who savors the same aesthetic expectation in music, though, possibly, having different taste in it.

And thus, we did have a musically intensive vacation. It was on the Cote d'Azur. We listened to Brian Ferry's New Town, More than This, and then, David Bowie's Heroes

I, I will be king
And you, you will be queen
Though nothing will drive them away
We can beat them, just for one day
We can be Heroes, just for one day

And you, and you can be mean
And I, I'll drink all the time
'Cause we're lovers, and that is a fact
Yes we're lovers, and that is that

Though nothing will keep us together
We could steal time, just for one day
We can be Heroes, for ever and ever
What d'you say?

I, I wish you could swim
Like the dolphins, like dolphins can swim
Though nothing, nothing will keep us together
We can beat them, for ever and ever
Oh we can be Heroes, just for one day

Isn't it a beautiful poem for feeling great by a seaside? I think Bowie and Ferry sound well together - Bowie has admitted to be inspired by Ferry's glam crooner image, hence resulting in the album Lodger.


I remember when I was choosing the name for this blog. One of my friends said  it should be Lesbia Bound. Another says its Lesbia Benitez. Why Benitez? I said that it had to be less puritan and more hip. She, a chubby lookalike of the bank owner's secretary from Beverly Hillbillies, says that Lipstick Lesbia is just fine. She even kissed me sneakily, on a darkened patio during a party. The picture above is just right in capturing the makeup of the party.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Hopelessly Audrey Hepburn

Audrey Hepburn. Jodie Foster. Helen Mirren. Catullus and Sappho(?). Lesbia hath a beaming eye. Lesbia bound. Tori Amos. Janet tells me that I am an incurable romantic. She got that right, that's why I wrote this post. I say that it is hard to accept diesel and butch types. I think they happen out of yearning to make political statement. I have no reason to proclaim that I am a lesbian. I walk holding hands with Janet, a la Europeene, and there is no need for a t-shirt statement or a K. D. Lang do.

I read Emily Dickinson and Marylin Hacker. I love holding hands and running them through her hair. I like making gentle, caressing love. Because women nurture and comfort.

I love when we both wear tube dresses and high heels (flashback to Audrey Hepburn). I love peeling off her thigh highs. I love feeling her feminine, tender fingers between my epithelial tissue. I love to feel her perfectly oval, nay, dream-rose petal fingernails fleet along my lips. I love when we wear Kim Novak - Audrey Hepburn makeup. I love going down on Janet because love and care comes back. I swear, this sensuality makes me write Sapphic poetry. Which I will do.

Jodie's sibilants, though, turn me off a wee bit, especially during romantic moments.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

on aesthetics of Brian Ferry, Tori Amos, and K. D. Lang

What is orgasm? What is happiness?

They fuse into one unashamed hedonism when I hear the ABC's When Smokey Sings. Beyond their crafty use of Tears of The Clown's chords, it is the silkiness of their tune which bows down directly to the silkiness of Smokey Robinson's voice.

The Orgasm Of Well-Being is even more pronounced when caused by Brian Ferry's More Than This. Did he achieve it through endless studio sessions? Or did he have a shvoong, or that inspiration which comes spontaneously from the inner spiritual perception of nirvana that makes writers and musicians produce masterpieces. I can identify More Than This from its first three notes.

and thinking associatively, the stare reminds me of the chain recollections: K. D. Lang - Tori Amos.

This is pure lipstick deliciousness: in an interview by Joe Jackson as it appeared in Hot Press (Feb 23, 1994), on similarities between Tori Amos and Kate Bush:

"her oragnic style of self-expression can be
traced back through the post-punk rage of Patti Smith, and the similarly
"disturbed" songpoetry of Dory Previn to the kind of demons that
drove Sylvia Plath to her death...."

"Has Tori ever considered having a lesbian relationship?
"I have a dear friend who's not diesel but she's definitely dyke
and I feel like we are very good friends and I know her girlfriend and

"And she said to me recently 'the dykes know that you love to
suck cock but that you also see the beauty in women and can sit and talk
with us about the idea of giving head to another woman and caring about
that. And she said 'the best thing is that there is no judgment with
you." And there isn't. But I have never given head to a woman and I
don't really feel the need to. I like to feel myself feeling myself, which
I sing about in Icicle, but I don't have to have whatever chemistry is
needed to be attracted to women that way.

"Having said that, when k.d. Lang looked at me over her glasses one
time I almost crawled into her arms. But I did wonder if I was a bit of
a sex object for her. though wanting to crawl into her arms in the same
as wanting to give her head, is it?!"


Monday, April 14, 2008

Three Graces and Kim Novak

Janet upbraids me for the incompleteness of the last post. Though of course it cannot be but incomplete -- there should be thousands of items there, how can I even begin to do justice to the images when so much emotions lurked behind the scenes?

But to pacify my dear Janet, here are four more items.

First, there is the Festival. In honor of the birthday of Sapphos of Lesbos, the famous Greek lyric poetess, September 7 has been chosen as the date for the first Sapphic Erotica Festival. I have contributed to the content on several websites, but it cannot be pasted here. Instead, I shall describe the objects of admiration that is the essence of my writing.

This drawing is so classically curvaceous - no need for more pounds. The 3 Graces were the ultimate sugar lesbians. That is how I like my Janet. The fullness of the thighs is just right to beg the comfort of graceful stockings. The unearthly perfection of calves and ankles beckon the touch of her trembling maiden-in-waiting. The hourglass figure is a inexhaustible supply of sweet silkiness for her lady's hungry lips.

What else is left? Kim. The unforgettable Kim. I rest in comfort knowing that I have enjoyed the creamy cleavage in a way no man has even imagined.

Kim Novak. Kim No Va. Kim Shall Not Go Any Further Beyond The Abode of My Endless Love.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Results of my tantra vacation, sort of


Besides tons of photographs, the number one fruit of my working Tantra vacation is the extension of the Lesbian Kama Sutra book. They really went retro-creative on the book titles. For example, under Tribad sex there is English Breakfast, Venus to Venus, Best Buddies, Ride, The Canter, Backside Venus, Tandem Yab Yab.

Tactile Sex chapters are ("Erotic touch using every aspect of hands and fingers, caressing, stroking, fondling massaging") Yab Yab,
Yab Yum, Yum Yum, Up your's Baby, Molding Kiss.
Oral Sex is less Tibetan-Himalayan: ("Sex using every aspect of the mouth") Mole-Muff Diving, Anilingus, Taktilingus, Kissing, More Kissing.

There is the Applied Sex section - "Sex with appliances such as sex toys, dildos, fruit and vegetables." Hot stuff, Veg Out, Servant, Little Millie. Auto Sex is "Sex involving self-pleasuring, self-exploration and masturbation" - Eyes wide shut, Hello Fanny, how do you do?, and Love Gazing

That's some surprise! And that is after spending months in the place that looks like this?


Saturday, April 12, 2008

Slightly LUG/BUGgish


Our weekend is going just swimmingly. We dropped by Janet's office and did some paperwork reorganizing, since I am a perfectionist and have been invited to organize CEO's offices and library nooks.At the rate the things are going, we might be ending up on beer kegs soon.

I have discovered a shop that carries all kinds of fishnets. Fencenet, that's what I really like, enrages Janet. I wear it to bed. I have sex in it. This is the kind I have:


One of my friends who's still in college called me a full-time heterosexual, but she was deeply mistaken, (and creamy-delicious), since I style myself as a slightly passive, LUG/BUG-like non-political lipstick Sappho romantic. Isn't that a mouthful? Depends what's in the mouth. No need for a drum roll, I am not trying to be cocky. It's the alcohol working, and Janet's well-crafted manicure teasing my cleavage.

Here's how it looks, described poetically by a gal calling herself EIleen Bangkoksky:

Feeling and Felt

Her hair shone, unlike any hair I had ever seen leaving me,
with a feeling unlike any i had ever felt.
She knew, I guess, that she had me from that
first night, over the green fabric her blues met my
cat like gaze and I fell, so deep that I felt I was
falling into the felt of that table as the balls made their
way to the holes,
THWACK, went
my heart and she was the cue
The tinkle of your ice in that glass and I knew you
a Bacardi Breezer kind of girl, I laughed
Hardly a drink for a woman like you,
you chuckled then I had you and we moved
around the floor to Joan
Melissa, you cried out
That's not my name, I cried back,
play me some
and then I was yours until the morning when
the paper arrived on your door step
and as I passed it I saw it was
the National Inquirer and my
heart skipped like a stone
back home my lady love

I found it at Biva

Friday, April 11, 2008

Orchids for tantra

My tantric orchid will look like this

Janet and I have started growing orchids. Her ex-roommate got us started and taught us how to feed the flowers with special banana gels.

I have seen his orchids and they look very much like the one above.

I say they are extremely eye-candy and erotic.

You know what they have done to Janet and our private life.

Her ex-roommate is gay.

Janet is a slightly dominant lipstick lesbian.

I am a slightly passive, sundress-wearing MILF lesbian.

I love tantric orchids.

Thursday, April 10, 2008

Baby doll and the big city

Am I the only woman pining away for a lover clad in gossamer thigh-highs and projecting the lithesome charm of Doris Day. I want my Janet for a perfect lipstick lesbian girlfriend. I want her to wear suspender hose to bed. I want her to wear an off-white miner's shirt that we've seen at Sax Fifth Avenue, and forgot to pick it up.

Pink. That's what she should wear. I really want to write poetry about our night come true.

On a romantically-technical(sic) note, I have added another water heater to my co-op, thus doubling the hot water capacity to 100 gallons. Plenty for the Jacuzzi, and then some.

I am definitely more artsy than this. I swear to you, to my straight college MILF professor, and to my Janet - this is me, either top or bottom. By John Chilton. (Whom you could see at Coffee, Cake and Kink in London)

I love it all. The reality of women sleeping, women bathing, women petting, caressing each other's thighs. The shameless display of the nude female curves is fantasy of sex and the big city. And my reality. Janet reads my blog.

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Waxing sensuously literary

I have been ghostwriting for several lesbian sites, still the same fare as my day job at a magazine. As a result, I cannot shake off the sensitivity to the themes of lesbia, water and tantra prevalent in the lesbian imagery.


I don't have to admit - I love wearing my Escada dress with thigh highs, sometimes fencenets. I love quiet evenings with Janet, sipping champagne, enjoying the buildup to the bubbling Jacuzzi. I love reading Marylin Hacker. I love heterosexual MILF erotica. I even love the Mandingo phenomenon. Not that I wish I was Mandingo - I can imagine myself the wife of a plantation owner. I am contemplating voting for Obama, but am still vacillating. I love Russian women, who are lucky for being naturally hairless in all the erotic places - their Venusian mounds, the heavenly-crafted legs, the balsamic armpits, and milk-and-peach arms.

Tuesday, April 8, 2008

Blond daughter

I wax sensuously romantic when Janet reads this to me:

(From Exiles, by Marilyn Hacker)

Lady of distances, this fire, this water,
this earth makes sanctuary where I stand.
Call of your animals and your blond daughter,
I am in exile in my own hands.

and we become the Sapphic erotica that nobody will ever film. We will be Paulina and Rene. Jackie and Zafira. Felicity and Justine Jolie, my dream combination. Blond yoni brushes her raven-wisped sister. Dreams of poetry embodied as us, the internet vestals, drink blush wine and bathe in languorous drip of water into sandalwood-scented soapiness.

Monday, April 7, 2008

Lesbian Recruiters

Janet and I were talking to our friends at a Madison Avenue talent agency when someone called and, by coincidence, informed us that the agency is a leading lesbian recruiter in town. I Googled them. The result was laughable, and a welcome search hit for me and Janet: Lesbian Recruiters is also a funny, engaging and delicious site. A sexy premise: young, lithesome girls that are coaxed into lesbian sex for the very first time by a sensuous MILF-type lipstick lesbian. There are some quick learners of things Sapphic. There are dildo riding bi-maidens and angel-bow lips open to inhale as much of MILF's husband appendage past their tonsils as they can. Pretty faces and even prettier bodies made our lesbian dreams come true.

I wish they had more of the real lipstick lesbian action, high heels and fishnet and all.

Sunday, April 6, 2008

Marylin Hacker and cold streams

I found another gem that sings of water and lesbia, ever so gently and elegant - Iva's Pantoum, by Marylin Hacker. Here are the bits that hearken back to the motif I loved in previous posts (Dickinson 1 and Dickinson 2)
you are the baby on the mountain. I am
in a cold stream where I led you

You are the woman with spring water palms.
Again, sweet dreams of lesbian MILFs: Zafira, Avril Lux, Paulina, or even that milk-and-peaches Sapphic mermaid, Justine Joli.

Thursday, April 3, 2008

Dickinson on Drowning

I found this poignant poem which, in many ways, provides answers to my questions in a previous post on the themes of drowning in women's or lesbian's poetry.

Drowning is not so pitiful
As the attempt to rise
Three times, 'tis said, a sinking man
Comes up to face the skies,
And then declines forever
To that abhorred abode,
Where hope and he part company --
For he is grasped of God.
The Maker's cordial visage,
However good to see,
Is shunned, we must admit it,
Like an adversity.

I am completely unpacked from my working vacation to a Sapphic Tantra monastery, and my girlfriend Janet says the spirituality between us is unprecedented. We watched Desert Hearts and Liana, while our DVDs of lesbian MILFs, Zafira, Rene, Avril Lux, Paulina and Justine Joli are still undisturbed within the dining nook drawers. I agree with the bliss recently described bubblingly in psappha.blogspot.com. The lesbian bed death syndrome does not exist if you stay away from the L-word Cause.

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

quick report on my Tantra vacation

I have been away traveling on an assignment that my chief editor told me has long been postponed. She sent me into the proverbial briar's patch. The destination: Sapphic Yoga Academy of Tibet. I quickly forgot my other assignments that I covered (CIA, Chopin and the L word, and the review of lesbian and other MILFs)

Bodhichitta Atti is a Sapphic form of Yoga (I refer to it as the "yum-yum" teaching) that has a respectable precedent amongst a particular lineage of medieval Tibetan Yoginis.

I have witnessed exciting, mouthwatering, eye-candy rituals. Apparently, the spectacle I provided has induced suitable awe in the "students" and the girl who received the symbolic punishment is telling all who will listen that she was transported to the very heights of ecstasy and can't wait to experience the inevitable delights of my lingam in its more proper accommodation. I trust she will not be disappointed when the time comes. I have been taking lessons in Tantra from a travelling guru. The man is remarkable in the things he teach to do with your yoni and he assures me that he can teach me to climax many times. All his talk of "chakras" and spirituality seems to me to be so much hokum but the program of exercises he has given me seem to make perfect sense. I doubt I will ever be able to perform his trick of emptying a glass of water and ingesting the contents with my yoni, but I can't think of any sort of party where such a stunt is likely to be well received by the hostess.