"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.
Right now, as I sit here typing, a very cute cat is walking back and forth across my hands, artfully stepping over my forearms, tightroping along the tiny edge of desk in front of the laptop's keyboard, and running her tail along my upper lip, which is to say up under my nose. The cat's name is Maisie and she's filled with love for me, and I for her...except for one problem: I am allergic.
OK, actually, I hate being separated from my dogs. I think about how they curl up against me when they say hello, their perky faces, their little yelps of joy, and so on... . If only I could afford to get a place in L.A. big enough to hold all our animals--Pontifica's dalmation, her cat, my two dogs... sigh.
I am jealous of Brian.
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.
I lay back and chuckled, confident that my argument--both clever and silly--would win Pontifica over and dissolve any tension. But no. Instead she just looked at me, tears streaming down her face, then flipped over onto her side and sulked.
This was devastating. A giant AC-wave (abandonment-complex-wave) washed over me. I lay next to her, likewise pouting, and began to cry too--noisily.
A few minutes later, Pontifica turned over, took one look at my face, and said, "You can't cry. You've got to model for The Advocate in less than half an hour."
"Oh," I blubbered. "I don't give a fucking shit about that crap."
Pontifica went into the bathroom and ran a washcloth under cold water. "Come on, honey, don't cry, don't cry..." She dabbed my face. A tear of her own landed on my cheek. She dabbed that too.
"Too laaaaaate," I wailed. "I can't stoooo-op."
"Don't say it's too late. It's not too late. Please, let's forget about it."
"I CAAA-AAAN'T...."
...and then she said it: "I think you need to learn to be alone."
"Oh, ho ho." I shook my head. "Learn to be alone, eh? I need to learn to be alone? Well, let me ask you something...what about couples who meet in high school and get married and they stay together for 58 years until they die in adjoining hospital beds? Ya think anyone ever tells them they need to learn to be alone? No, they make an example of those people, do a full-page spread in the local paper, and call it a love story for the ages."
Pontifica & I went to a hip diner for breakfast this weekend, and these dykes were eating what looked like fried breaded ping-pong balls--turned out they were mac & cheese (with a touch of chili relleno stirred in), a specialty of the house. They insisted we try them, so I did what I've been instucted by Tiffany's Etiquette Guide never to do--plunged my fingers into a stranger's food--and popped one into my mouth. Delectable. Well worth the breach of manners.
And the winner is....
"Hallmark Wimbledon Folding Bicycle"
The sad thing about this is that it reminds me that Lovey and I separated before our trip to Wimbledon. Much to my chagrin (and chagrin is putting it mildly), she took her sister-in-law with her instead. When Lovey got back, she gave me two giant inflatable tennis balls, the size of those exercise gymnastic balls. This odd consolation prize was intended to be utilitarian. Couldn't I probably use them in my toil as a glorified massage parlor slave? Why, yes! The balls are a blinding neon yellow, and I have not brought myself to inflate them yet. The idea makes me want to weep sentimentally--hence the Universe's message containing a reference to Hallmark cards and a bicycle. Only don't even ask me about the bicycle.
Actually, I think what happened was...Pontifica started crying, then I did too.
It turned out The Advocate was not going to pay me $5,000 to model for their upcoming auto issue, but whatever...Anne at least bought dinner for Pontifica and me at The Blue Coyote the night before the big shoot. Also present at this Last Pre-Modeling-Career Supper: the two delightful guys donating their swank Palm Springs home as a backdrop for us posing with our new fantasy BMW. As I was about halfway through my swank chicken taco, Anne--one of the most matter-of-fact women I know-- peered intently at me with her pale gray eyes. "So, I hate to do this to you, but we think the light is going to be best at about eight tomorrow morning, so...can you girls make it that early?"
As iiiiif, Anne! I would be there at 4:30 sharp with a cardboard tray of vanilla soy lattes and a bag of assorted nonfat muffins! Anything, anything, anything--JUST LAUNCH MY CAREER!!! Put me within arm's reach of fabulous Jenny Shimizu! Or the beautiful, intellectual Kim from America's Next Top Model. (Kim, who challenged societal norms with her "gender as/s construct" quandary, yet could still pull off everywoman's heartfelt battlecry: "Hey, are you calling me FAT?") Seriously, though. Could we make it there at eight? Anne, we will give you a freaking foot massage.
The next day, at six a.m., Pontifica and I simultaneously sat up wide awake and looked at each other. We were both about to become "Next Top Lesbian Models" and it was far, far too thrilling to enjoy needless REMs. What happened between six and eight, however, was entirely unexpected...
Leslie Lange's Top Model Author Site
(Pictured above: two of my good very best top lesbian model friends.)
