"her air-mattress" sex
Air mattress sex is definitely lesbian, perhaps even more so than futon sex. To inflate our leaky love raft, my first lover and I (in the days before motorized pumps came included) would take turns blowing ourselves into a deoxygenated stupor. I'm not sure whether this detracted from or enhanced the overall experience.
Who's that lesbian? Why it's Leslie Lange, of course! Not only did I have a mullet, but I could not afford shoes, and wore nothing but volleyball team-issued sweatpants. And, yes, that is an iron-on patch peeling off the right knee. I am also wearing a leopard-print tank top. Hot-t-t-t! Even then I had a certain brooding joie de vivre.
Early on in my coming out phase--and no, not when I was 3, but around 1986 or so when I had just turned 21--in the rainy and depressing city of Portland, Oregon, my self-described upper middle-class girlfriend, Blair, said to me, when I proposed one day getting a flat-top for fun, "As long as you don't get one of those awful lesbian haircuts...you know, the ones where the hair is short in front and long in back."
[FYI, she had a little hair tail when I met her]
That was a lesbian haircut? I created a mental checklist, searched my memory banks for the women lounging at Bar 927* where my last gf had bartended, and a little light went on--aha! She was right! Moments later, another light went on: as I was imagining my own hairstyle about two years earlier. For shame!
Blair went on: "That has got to be the UGLIEST hairstyle I have ever seen. Whenever I see one, I cringe. It makes me ashamed to be a lesbian. In fact, it's the very thing about lesbianism I DO NOT want to be associated with."
Of course, part of me was thinking Blair was being a bit mean. But another part of me was thinking Blair was giving some good information. After all, Blair was artsy and sophisticated. She'd taught me how to use my silverware. She'd taught me only low-class people lived in apartments with wall-to-wall carpeting. She'd eased me out of polyester and into 100% cotton. Her insights were invaluable, infallible, and respecting them got me laid. My decision was easy: I adopted a disdain for all things mullet.
Years later, a friend tried introducing me to "The Indigo Girls," but I took one look at their album cover and said, "Um, no thanks." He tried playing their music for me ("just listen to these lyrics"), but all I heard was, "Mull-et, mull-et, mull-et."
Now, however, I am over it.
I am not afraid of the mullet. I EMBRACE THE MULLET!
Join me, my sisters! Free yourself from class-based shame!
Send your mullet photos to leslie@leslielange.com. I will post them. I WILL FLY YOUR MULLET FLAG! We'll get though this together.
* the rougher lesbian bar of two in Portland. The other was called "The Primary Domain" and its lavender walls wore tasteful Nagel prints.
Right-minded Americans unite! Stop Mary Cheney's immoral procreation! The apocalypse is upon us! Aaaaagh!
(This isn't a gay thing. This is a Cheney thing.)
READ MY LIPS: NO NEW CHENEYS
Why were we crying? What was going on here? Sure, Pontifica felt like just another in a long line. Sure, I felt persecuted for the joyous escapades of my youth. But was this worth ruining my modeling career?
Utopia! Oh, fleeting Utopia!
"Come here." Pontifica gathered me into her arms. "Oh! OW!"
I looked at her. "What?"
"My breasts are sore. When you leaned into me it hurt like hell."
"Your breasts are sore?"
"Yeah..."
"My breasts are sore too."
"Are you saying..."
"Yes, I am."
Pontifica and I had simultaneous PMS.
Weird Search of the Week is supposed to be on Friday, but what do you expect from a total lazy-ass supermodel?
This week's winner is:
"moll, lawn mower repair, parts"
To the poor guy or gal who wound up at Kept Lesbian searching for a moll to fix the lawn mower, don't expect me to give you any answers. I live in the desert, and my yard is purely moonscape, with a smattering of dog piles distributed about the perimeter. (I hesitate to place the term "dog piles" in my blog, knowing it will lead to the arrival of some trembling individual typing the words "lesbian dog piles" into his or her search engine. But, hey, I don't choose the facts, folks, I just prints 'em.)
Rumors of Baby Suri's moppy wig were confirmed today as numerous sources disclosed the existence of a tinier conjoined twin brother separated from the top of Suri's head. "The wig was to conceal the surgical site where the wee boy-child was removed," said O.R. nurse Julie O'_____ who asked (but was not granted) that her identity remain anonymous. Baby Uri, as the boy was cruelly named, is reported to be alive and kicking.* His whereabouts are still unknown--though sources claim he is being held somewhere within a Scientology trailer compound in the town of Desert Hot Springs.
*Literally, as he is jealous of his sister's instant celebrity, and leading his team of 39 Thetan wet nurses to sometimes call him "Baby Fury."
I have a blog through typepad, which enables me--me! a total computer nincompoop! an HTML illiterate! I couldn't find my way out of a chat room!--to see how people came to visit my blog.
A lot of the time, folks are just searching for me. But more of the time, folks are just seearching for something. It has come to my attention in the last 24-hours that I have some very strange friends visiting my blog. For example the three "searches" below:
"lesbian tits slamming"
"is dog poop good for fruit trees"
(and the deeply disturbing) "lesbian little girls playing together drink pee"
Apparently my blog entries contain enough of these words to make my blog one of the top sites to pop up for folks looking for stuff like that.
Hence, my new "Weird Search of the Week" column, which shall appear every Friday (God willing) in this blog. This week's weird search of the week has to be the dog poop one. I will attempt to research this question and get back to the searcher (who, I assume, is by now an ardent fan and won't miss an entry).
Peace out. Leslie
I WAS GOING TO POST TONIGHT about September 11th--a significant day not only because of the World Trade Center attacks, but because this was the day Lovey and I first "hooked up." That's right, I was one of those millions who sought solace in someone's arms. I was going to post how my psycho roommate Freddy came bleary-eyed out of his room that morning to watch the second plane fly into the second tower and how he said, "Cool," and laughed like Butthead.
(Though Freddy's comment creeped me out, he was probably just in denial. Minutes later I caught myself marvelling that these were some of the "best special effects" I had ever seen.)
I was going to post on how I called in sick, or whatever...traumatized, and how I then called up Lovey and went out to her house in the Pacific Palisades for the first time, and how I transported my little Peke puppy there in a turquoise kitty crate.
I was going to post about how strange it all was--how just as those towering buildings were brought down, so were some towering barriers between people-- but I cannot. It's far too late and I have a splitting headache. So, let's save it, eh? Maybe tomorrow.
Prayers for the victims --both then and now in Iraq.
L.L.
NOTHING TO SAY about my first visit to the laundromat except that I almost died when I opened up a certain double-loader and was hit head-on by a killer smell. Twas as if an elephantitic homeless person had curled up inside for the night. The next one I opened was coated with dog hair. Emulating Goldilocks, I finally settled on the third one: sparkling clean, with six shiny nails at the bottom (pointing--like tea leaves--in all directions). Before dumping in my clothes, I scooped the nails into my pocket, intending to use them for hanging pictures later, but they poked my ovaries so hard in the car on the way home, I found myself pulling over to chuck them into the sand. Nothing's free, eh?
During my laundry's spin cycle, I was recognized by a friend's housekeeper: "Leslie...is that YOU????" I got to meet her daughter, Deborah, who showed me how to eat a hot dog "the right way"...and really mess up your T-shirt. Do try this at home. It is most satisfying...and you can always use the T-shirt as a dust rag from then on.
