A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || April 22, 2003 || 1:07 pm

The comments in this post over here (something seems to be amiss with the archives, scroll down to the 11 April entry) brought something to mind this morning:

Somehow, I am frequently the object of some lesbian affection from the segment of the sisterhood that bats for the other team. I don’t mind this, it doesn’t bother me (chicks are in many instances waaaay more discerning than guys, so it’s the highest kind of flattery to have one be appreciative of you) as it does some women out there, but I’m always baffled by it to some extent. What is it that marks me as approachable from the lesbian point of view?

I, in my grasping way, think it’s because I’m very comfortable in my sexuality. I wear it like a favorite beaten-in-but-still-flashy jacket. I heard a comment the other day, I can’t remember where or who said it, that was along the lines of, “Why do you think ‘fuck’ is such a baaaad word? Because sex is taboo, that’s why. We are both fascinated by and afraid of it.”

I use the word ‘fuck’ a lot, so this little tidbit was not lost on me. ‘Fuck’ is just another word. Sex and sexuality are just another part of what shapes and defines us as human beings. You don’t see me freaking out because I have blue eyes or a propensity for stringing words together on a page. These things just are.

The first time I was ever pursued by a lesbian, it was discomfitting because I thought that there was trouble brewing and I had no idea what started it. A carload of friends and I had spent a weekend afternoon visiting our respective boyfriends over on the base at Millington NAS. We were leaving to go home, doing a loop around the outer perimeter of the base because the lake was there and it was a pretty day. I noticed a female-laden car following us a bit too doggedly, so I made a series of erratic turns and dodges, only to see them staying on our bumper. This caused concern because there were five of them, military by the looks of it, and only me and three girlfriends: Two of whom were abject cowards and one of whom was a blanket pacifist. If there was to be a melee, I was pretty much on my own. We had discussed stopping at Mickey D’s on base to pick up some fries for the thirty-five minute ride home, and I decided to adhere to that plan, much to my friends’ dismay.

You don’t alter your plans because some fucktard is in your path (Jettism number two, Cal…).

I parked the car and stepped blithely out, two of my friends reluctantly accompanying me. The third opted for windows-up-doors-locked despite the heat of the day. The carload of WMs began rolling out of their vehicle when one of them called to me: “HEY. BLONDIE.” I steeled myself, turning around, eyes hard behind my Ray-Bans, “Yes?”


“Why don’t we meet halfway,” I called to her, “without the benefit of your posse?” I gestured to the other girls, then half-turned to nod my friends inside. She thumbed her girls toward the door, and we ambled toward one another, boots hitting pavement metronome-style in a parody of some cheap asphalt-laden showdown.

And then she hit on me. Blatantly, wantonly, out there in the open, before the luxury days of ‘don’taskdon’ttell’. Flummoxed by the moment, I don’t recall the specifics, but I do recall telling her that I was Strickly Dicklytm and had just left my boyfriend over in front of Barracks Whatsitsnumber, thanks anyway.

Perplexed. What the fuck??

Since then, the scene has replayed itself with endless variables to include settings, types of women, you name it. I’ve been okay with this for the most part (even immensely flattered, because I’ve had some outrageously fine-looking women break with the come-on), save for the extremely large black woman at the natural foods store whose want for sex was so evident as to be dripping from her every pore (I was stoned and already paranoid, the four guys that were with me drew a bead on the situation and quickly abandoned me to watch the scene play out from behind the comfort of the bulk herbs section) and the leather-pantsed brunette (great hair, that one) who tried to take advantage of a near-passed-out me in a club with a thumping, grinding dance floor. I was propped against a wall, head tilted back and eyes closed, barely holding in the drool, when that girl approached me, deftly sliding her palm around my midriff to the bare small of my back and bringing her mouth to mine, probing me with her tongue. I went apeshit, and it had nothing to do with her gender. Had a man invaded me the same way, I’d have commenced to beating the fuck out of him, as well. It was just plain predatory and ruuuuuude.

Maxim has been witness to the phenomenon several times in the years that we’ve known each other, dating, married, or just plain best friends. It amuses him to some degree, and sometimes he feels distinctly encroached upon (like the time one of my best female friends, Katherine, decided to drunkenly admit that she had been waiting for three years to press flesh with me. It tanked the friendship, not because of the admission, but because I had been vulnerable to her as a woman in so many ways…undressed both physically and emotionally…without ever being made privy to this information), but he finds the way I often handle this very interesting and informative. You see, the same situation happens to Maxim with a frequency; gay men simply love something about him.

I have no trouble admiring beauty in all its forms. If a painting moves me, I’ll wax gushy as all fuck over it. I will wrap myself in a single song that speaks to me for hours on end. I’ll tell you that, myyyy, that d00d has wonderful shoulders, rippling that way under his shirt or gee whiz, that girl has a mouth like beeswax, malleable and filled with honey. Gender is no issue. If the thing of beauty speaks to me, I’ll acknowledge that it has spoken.

Two months ago, when we went to see the Damnwells play at the Nick, we walked in and marked our table first thing. As we sat down, I took note of this girl by the bar. She was chocolate-skinned and rubenesque, immaculate afro crowning a gorgeous face. She, yellow-sunglassed, rode the barstool easy and secure. I leaned in to Maxim.

“Now that’s how a big girl should look, should carry herself.” He smiled and nodded. A few minutes later I went to buy the first round, and the only standing room at the bar was next to this creamy-dark beauty. As I stood there, waiting for the barkeep’s affection (HI PHIL! HIIII!!), she hailed me.

“Can I just say something?” I turned to her, one hand on the bar, one hand clenching my credit card.

“Sure,” I said, sideways grinsmirk escaping.

“I’d just like to tell you that you are one beautiful woman. I noticed you guys when you walked through the door.” My smile broke wide and I said thank you while encompassing her in a hug. We swapped names (hers was O’Brien, what a cool name is that?) and firm-gentle girlhandshakes (the oh-so-classic fingertip shake…she was highborn, I imagine; I was simply given the key via training) and pleasantries. I couldn’t draw a bead on her; Couldn’t quite tell if she was mining for interest or just a sexually mature appreciator of beauty…didn’t much care, to tell the truth. Her compliments were genuine and I dug that.

A short while later, she was joined by a girl who was white trash of the highest order; it wasn’t her platinum Bettie Page hairdo or the skintight latex thing she wore or the safety pin through her bottom lip that led me to this assessment. It was the way that she carried herself. Even Maxim, in all his maleness, noticed:

“Looks like somebody is putting on a show…she wants your attention….” I didn’t gift her with it, most especially because I would catch her cutting her eyes toward our table to see if I was observing her over-postured performance, all loud and over-the-top. Glee for glee’s sake is one thing. Glee for the purpose of garnering attention is quite another. Distaste.

Eventually (and my guess is out of frustration over my lack of interest in her shenaningans) Platinum Page strolled over to our table, bypassing Maxim’s side (which was nearest to her) and leaning over me, deep and low, stroked my brass-filligree cigarette case while purring, “Can I have one of theeese?”

“Sure,” I shrugged, and slid the case toward her, flicking out my lighter to fire it for her.

“Oh, what’s this?” she exclaimed in mock-surprise as she plucked my lipstick off of the tabletop. Too rehearsed, baby girl. If you’re gonna serve up a line, at least take pains to make sure that your presentation is above par.

“My lipstick,” I said coolly as she rotated the tube between her fingers, puffing out a fat plume of smoke.

“Oh, I thought it was one of those little pocket vibrators…” she replied coyly, smarmy smile hanging precariously below her nose. This, even with the egg-shaped ends and rounded sides reminiscent of a pocket rocket, was a long stretch. I grew even more bored quickly and looked her in the eye.

“No, honey,” my words snaked out at her, “One good lipstick is worth ten vibrators.”

At the risk of sounding smug, I wish everyone were as secure in and with their sexuality as I am. It’s frustrating that one person cannot render positive comment on the appearance of another without sexuality coming into play. For fucksakes, people, it’s part of the whole. You don’t ask if I’m a food critic or a chef just because I say a meal was fine.

11 worked it out »

  1. melly 4.22.2003

    I often am aroused by good humor, and since you make me laugh so much, I get a little confused in the pants.

    Also, I got all melodramatic last night and I can’t remember which thing I was supposed to post?

    I imagine it was funny, but I don’t think I could have pulled it off.

    Tonight I’m going to talk about everything that I hate.

    OH!!!!!!! OH MY !!!!!! I remember what it was now … and seeing as I hate it when that happens, it’s going on the list!

  2. cal 4.22.2003

    yes, the jettism will go up. and, did i tell you the dream included your wearing a puffy down jacket? a hug through that is just *cushy*!!

  3. delmer 4.22.2003

    the topic turns to the vast sex appeal of lesbians:

    “I can’t help it. They have those bulbous red noses and those big-ass bow ties…”

    …lesbian (mad) libs. another trademarked delmerco product!

  4. waistdog 4.23.2003


    Lesbians, gays, and clowns……Alabama is such a different place than I’d imagined.

  5. Jett 4.23.2003

    waisty…it’s very surreal.

    you would *not* believe.

  6. CJ 4.23.2003

    Wow, that was amazing. Yeah, I agree. Why does society instruct us that we are not allowed to recognize and appreciate beauty. People are all shocked that I would fuck my friend Jasmine in a second.

    “I thought you were gay?”

    “What, and limit myself? Sure, i like the boys, but damnit, have you SEEN Jazzy’s ass?”


    “And her legs taste like salt and honey.”

    But that’s okay, because I forget my Christian name when I drink Bacardi, and I turn into a manwhore.

    I just wish more peopel would take up on an offer of a blowjob.

  7. fish 4.23.2003

    I think the main reason you leave a trail of panting lesbians in your wake is just that you’re so damn sexy. Who could resist?

    But you are also right that being at home in your skin, comfortable with sexuality in general, is a giant attractor.

    Maybe these girls just want a little of that to (ahem) rub off on ‘em.

  8. umm


    you’re in my movie

    you are the head honcho that co-ordinates all the bad-ass drugdealers via text-messages, to all converge on this one dude.

    also, i said “twin collossi”, with reference to two of the henchmen “you” arranged for me.

    editing will take a few weeks, finished product should be online by the end of may

    in the meantime, you recruit rich benefactors

    if this goes anywhere maybe you can have 2% of total interests.

  9. Jett 4.23.2003

    I have the coolest fucking readers, from a myriad of standpoints.

    I scribble for me, but you guys, sheesh, leave me waxing both sentimental and my upper lip.


  10. john 4.24.2003

    I so enjoy the way you tell a story. This one was one of many.

    Anyway, if I may geek out for a sec., there is an acronym tag that you can use instead of that a tag trick. Use the same title attribute to deliver the full version within the opening acronym tag.

    You might want to customize its look via CSS. just add this, “acronym {border-bottom: 1px dotted black;}” to your css file.

  11. Angel 4.25.2003

    The first woman that came on to me was someone I considered a friend. We were in an elevator. I turned her down. The interesting thing is that her proposition came right after I became a Christian. And so my first example of something I should “hate” had the face of a friend. I wasn’t mean or ugly and we were friends for the duration of schooling (not very close, but we weren’t to start) and then, I was so in love with Christ, that it didn’t matter what other people thought of my associations… Funny how that worked out. So I never had the problem of learning how to “condemn the sin and not the person”. A writer I met and became friends with, finally told me she was gay. She said that she took a chance I would be gay because I don’t have personal space with women. It’s true, I don’t mind how close my friends get to me, guy or girl. The other day, upon returning from a trip, I hugged my best friend goodbye and told her I loved her and my brother looked at me as if I was on the throes of lesbianism. ah well, I guess the world doesn’t want you to really love EVERYONE just someone of the opposite sex.


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