Hot Stuff Day Five Pt 3

I could hear her smile as she responded equally playfully in a Canadian accent. We gently sparred verbally for a minute or two.

One of my friends must have heard my voice and split the crowd to search me out. When she found me unashamedly flirting with Hot Stuff she beamed with delight and announced “Congratulations Zy, I see you have managed to meet HS. HS, this is Zy.” She guessed correctly that we had not yet introduced ourselves. But the spark must have been evident, because next my buddy produced an almighty lantern that she shone obnoxiously on me. “So HS, do you like what you see?”

I felt the burning of a thousand sets of eyes as HS looked me up and down openly. The assembly seemed to be doing the same as the Zy Show drew interest from those nearest. The growing interest was evidence that HS had collected an annual lobby of suitors also queueing for her attention, which furthered my discomfort greatly.

No matter. HS gave the spectators a nod of approval and for the rest of the night we were inseparable, the attraction insurmountable. A force existed that felt dangerous and impossible. She stared at me as though I was something unpolluted and fragile. We shared a couple of dances and then she apologised because she had to leave. I observed as her silhouette dissolved into the misty darkness and wondered if it was all just an illusion.

To Be Continued...

Hot Stuff Day Five Pt 2

There was a faint hint of rain in the air subtle enough for most to ignore. Bodies heaved and swung to the masterful tunes of the dj who was working the floor toward a mass unleashing of sexual relief. I surveyed the confinement and was plagued by the natural expression this moment inspired. Something began to crack deep inside me. So far from the comfort and routine of my normal life, I could do nothing but be completely consumed by the alluring tone set before me. Fighting it was futile. Right then it felt true to be vulnerable to the charms of this magically sexual space.

The first break of thunder erupted un-opposed. But the second brought a gush of water that only the tornado season can wield. Howls of delight and shock filled the stage as everyone scrambled from the construct to find cover. Most found refuge under the great elm, the rest of us clustered untidily under an undersized marquee. The clouds were heavy and dark and as the sun had just set there was not much light.

I found myself up close and personal to a bunch of women I couldn’t recognise. Being the last to arrive I attempted poorly to huddle up to the group. My hairdo was soaked to my face and my linen shirt was leaving very little to the imagination (a very interesting predicament for my former prudish self).

Suddenly I became very aware. An individual was standing next to me who appeared to be equally out of place. Without even really looking I heard myself flirt “Are you soggy too?” As I finished the sentence I sort of looked up and there she was, Hot Stuff.  I could only just distinguish her in the dark, or maybe it was some other sagacity? But it was her. HER. I absolutely could not comprehend the probability of such an opportunity occurring.  

Feeling Lonely in a lesbian Marriage.. http://ow.ly/3sgTi 

Hot Stuff Day Five Pt 1

A momentum was building during that first week leading to the Saturday night dance. There was a frenzy of dates being secured, outfits being picked, parties being organised for pre and post, dance cards being filled, stages being built. It was like nothing else I had experienced. Even the queen of last minute threads, yours truly, was feeling frazzled to impress. I picked out what I called ‘the good girl’ uniform. Basically a white linen shirt that flowed seductively around my figure and something tight-fitting for the rest of me. The white made me feel pure and relaxed, which served to shield me against the sensual feelings the land stirred within.

Arriving at one of the pre-festivities, my appearance was met with confused anxiety. The kitchen crew boxed me as a sporty/butch so to acknowledge me wearing something feminine was awfully confronting. I charmed them back with my best gay man impersonation and it wasn’t long before the brewskis enabled everyone to settle into their party characters.

The dance stage was something else. A comprehensive female production team called ‘carps’ laboured all week to ensure the stage was boogie ready for party night. By the time our mob descended the floor was pretty full. Picture an outdoor timber stage on the edge of an open field and a low sun carving dusty shards of final light in the background. An enormous elm tree just to the side unveiled itself as a vast canopy for romance later, its branches hung tenderly near the stage invoking a feeling of natural connection.

To Be Continued..

Hot Stuff Day Two Cont...

I was incensed that such a creature had managed to exist in this world without my prior knowledge. That feeling was quickly extinguished by the reality that I was at MichFest. Perfect conditions for seduction. How would I get her attention without tripping on a miniature twig, or chat her up without destroying a reasonable sentence? I can be very very smooth you know, but in this instance I felt like a mouse in tomato soup. And I hate tomato soup.

I then set myself the task of pretending there were more important things to do, like marinating bean curd and counting peas. I was desperate not to become an ineffective staff member. I took to sweeping the grass outside the kitchen, fluffing lettuce leaves like pillow ruffles in the cooler and writing kitchen procedures on how to write kitchen procedures. It was all enormously important stuff that (I thought) would make me indispensible. Comments like “Wow Zy, you are a machine” made me feel extremely useful but, more significantly, the bout of activity saw me through to the end of the week without falling in love or eating my young. I did not think about Hot Stuff..

Saturday night finally came. This was the opening of the social program for the volunteers and staff, around 250 hungry-for-lovin’ lesbians. It was the first real opportunity to make an impression on the girls you were keen on. Plural. Nobody at Michigan likes just one person. Oh, except me..

To Be Continued..

Hot Stuff Day Two

By day 2 I could no longer resist from noticing a particular female human. The initial spotting of Hot Stuff was during my shift in the dish pit. The dish pit was an elevated trough where, during the course of the festival, thousands of lentil-caked apparatus were individually soaked, scrubbed, sanitised and swabbed. It was noteworthy that the dish pit was tactically positioned along the outdoor showers trail. Us poor dish pigs were regularly exposed to the never-ending meanderings of naked women as they made their way to and from the open-air bathing district. It was just implausible.

Working a double shift ensured I was given a daily dose of breasts, which was soothing in a remedial way.

On this particular second morning in the dish pit, I became quite lucid. Just as I was finishing off the final buff on a rather outsized soup ladle, a mortal of a most pleasing divinity happened to saunter down the path toward the breakfast pavilion. I tried to smother a Ren and Stimpy goggle-eyed tongue plunge, as I was concerned that my drooling might carve a new unnecessary watercourse. But it was useless. She was goddess-like. And I was ruined for eternity. The most suitable cliché would be that I was ‘struck by lightning’. And from that moment on every cell in my body was on a constant ‘high-alert’ in case she was nearby.

To Be Continued..

Hilarious dating story http://ow.ly/3oC2k

Hot Stuff Day One

Way way way back when Pink Sofa was shiny and new, I met an interesting woman through one of my Sofa connections. Every year this woman would go to the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival in the USA and every year she would try to convince one of her friendship circle to go with her and every year all of her friends would decline the invitation. That was until she met me.

I had heard rumours of this festival. That it was brimming with naked, non-monogamist, crunchy-granola eating, Birkenstock-wearing, herbivorous LESBIANS. I heard that around 5,000 women descended upon 650 acres of forest and some lived there for up to 6 weeks in tents! I thought that such bliss only existed in my imaginings.

I also heard magical things happened on the land. That there was a romantic force no one could resist. It was common for women to meet, fall in love and move states, countries and sometimes planets, only to return the next year to ‘repeat cycle’ [insert new love here]. How does one plan for such enchantment? Back then moving countries for ‘the one’ sounded delightful, so I arranged my references and testimonials meticulously in preparation for an anticipated rendezvous.

I wish I could have documented my wide-eyed enthusiasm from day one. Naked women really were successively running around exchanging sensual glances at each other and provoking a frenzy of undeniable longing. And I was not immune to the intoxication of this particularly foreign surrounding. Besieged with choices, I decided to channel my urges into other physical activities like ‘work’. We were rostered to do 6 x 8 hour shifts every week, so I doubled that to ensure no free time for dalliances. I absolutely did not know where to put all of my sexual energy but slicing tofu, liquidising garlic and baking pie seemed appropriate. We fed 400 women with enormous sexual appetites. Some women ate, some women worked, but 99% of them f----d.

To Be Continued..

Google Eyes Pt 4

OK, so now that you know one of my secret strategic coping methods for being dumped, I feel I can carry on with the Google saga (for those who missed it, it’s drink tea).

...

Google looked me up on the Pink Sofa username ‘search’ and sent me a quirky message about fig trees and Pride Fairs. Still can’t ascertain the connection but I appreciated the creativity.

Within 7 days she had managed to acquire part-time work at the cafe I was working in. And within 14 days of that she had acquired the spare room in my house. I am most definitely a sucker for idiosyncratic strays. I hadn’t been life stalked since my first domestic relationship 14 years prior. I managed a fabulous impersonation of a river pebble as she arranged her life to synch in with mine.

All went well for a few days, until she tried to remove my cat from the bed one night. Any bona fide crazy cat lady will warn you this is an unspeakable faux pas. I love my cat, damn I was pissed. I know that isn’t particularly sexy but sex usually isn’t on my mind when the cat is in. (Upon reflection, I am amazed that the kitty removal attempt disturbed me more than her moving herself in or working at my cafe).

So anyway. From then on the cat treated her with ruthless apathy. If Google was in the room, kitty would politely offer her his backside or deliberately heavy-step over her on his course to a more important lap, his tail ensuring to dust her nose along the way. Cats are clever like that, passive-aggressive and sluggish to forgive.

And to this day I am not sure if it was me or the cat that broke her (she refused to fill in my exit survey) because, shortly after, Google packed her bags and returned to her hometown.

Double Dumped

I feel there has been an imbalance. Most of my tales so far paint me as a tactical escapist, but believe me, I have a Post Grad in How to Get Dumped.

Once it occurred twice in 24 hours, from 2 women I met originally on Pink Sofa.

How can this be? When you dangle your toes in the dominion of open relationships it is easily achievable.

I was seeing a girl who lived overseas. It had been nearly 2 years of ‘long distance’ monkeyshines worthy of campfire horror tales. An affair that started in a 3 week frenzy driven by time constraint (she only had 3 weeks in the country) and lust. There were several trips within those 2 years and this last jaunt was a doozy. I learned about extraordinary new altitudes of lesbian relationship preservation, whilst attempting to extricate myself from being her doormat.

I was seeing another girl in my home country who suitably labelled herself as my pseudo girlfriend. I am always very open about my situation, and she was aware of the enigma who lived overseas. The truth was neither were my girlfriend, (no ring, no commitments, no puppy to share) just plenty of emotional diversion because evidently my vocation required no brain cells.

Anyway OS not girlfriend was supposed to stay with me for 3 months over summer. It was crunch time for us, make or break if you will, we needed to breakup or marry – seriously. But from the moment her plane touched down it was drama. First of all because I had to wait 2 hours for her to get through customs on account of the dust in her underwear, and then when she did barge through the double doors the first thing that caught my eye was the gargantuan suction mark on the side of her neck.

Fortunately I can now look back on that time without rolling in my own mouth foam (a recent development). What ensued over that 2 months was not unlike:

1. bungee jumping with faulty elastic cord fastened to my toes,
1. over a pit of rotted shrimp guts,
1.  cord giving way,
1.   landing in shrimp pulp, 
1.  then having to walk 100 miles for a shower with a supportive cloud of small insects.

(Perhaps more enjoyable).

And I think it was worse for her.

She dumped me on hour 22 of a 24 hour roadtrip at month 2, “You know I used to think you were the one for me” which was miraculously crushing.

Later I rang pseudo girlfriend for pseudo support. She told me “I met someone else.” I remember looking at my feet and thinking wow, this is how being double dumped feels, I need a cup of tea..

Google Eyes Pt 3

Taking a brief break from this wonderful adventure with Google..

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