Well hello there my little morsels of dirtiness, how are you all this evening? I'm in such a tiswas because I can't sleep. I fear my 4 day stint in rehab has left me somewhat restless. As the world goes by outside my window - not that I'd notice, I'm far too removed from reality here in Fallopia Towers - I sit, cigarillo in one hand, glass of Martini in the other, my beloved Sara nestling into my muff (which reminds me I must have it cleaned, it's spent more time as her makeshift bed than on my hands of late), and I contemplate the week gone by. Oh here I am modelling the muff back in the 30s.
How time blurs for a woman like me. A woman who lives life at a breakneck speed, one minute partying with Drag Kings in Rio, the next hang-gliding across the Riviera with Andre Agassi. A woman who dares to take life by the pubic hairs and live every moment like it were her last. A woman... desperately lonely. I kid ye not, my fair readers. The return of my ginger foe Winifred Sparrow has not only reminded me of my mortality and dormant Martial Arts prowess, but also of the fact that she is one of the few women to have melted the icy shores around the island that is my heart.
I spent last weekend lying low on 'The Salty Seaman', my good friend Fionnula Fudgefinger's boat that rocks gently in the local harbour. I don't mind saying I had fanny on tap that weekend. Her wonderful deckhand Estrogena, she of the Amazonian thighs and the face of a Boticelli angel, marred only by her glass eye, saw to my every whim. Be it the finest Martinis or the most exquisite cunning linguism, there was nothing Estrogena couldn't lend her hand to. But I did find myself thinking, as naked and breathless we bathed in the moonlight, her beautiful blue eye resting on the bedside cabinet, "When will Lesbina love again?"
It's a heady mix, my life. Sometimes I find it hard to keep up even with myself. But in those quieter moments between cocktail parties and racing the homeless for sport, I do look in the mirror and think, "Well old girl you're not getting any younger. The virgins' blood didn't work, what next?" I do believe I'm being somewhat melodramatic. I know. Not like me at all. But I'm allowed my downtime. I said to Frances Bean Cobain in rehab over the weekend, "You know, when you get as old as me, you'll see just how much of a marvel Botox is." I mean let's face it. If I hadn't gone under the knife (and dare say the syringe) 10 years ago my face today would look the same as the poor girl's father's did when he took up arms on that cold April day. But alas my face can look as radiant as I want it to look but it's my heart I worry about. As does my doctor, bless him. I think he agrees with me these days that I'd be worse off if I STOPPED ingesting Class As the way I do.
It's a quandary. How can someone of my position find a suitor in this day and age? The current crop are hardly inspiring optimism. It is ironic that two of my exes now share the screen on television every night in that god-awful jungle. Sam and Katie, sigh. I always did go for the big breasted ladies. Why feel a bit of a tit when you can lose your face in them, I say. Maybe I should join one of these internet dating sites! Something about that smacks of desperation, however. I had to remove my profile from Gaydar Girls, there's only so many groupies one can fend off. And ever the technophobe, I had left it up to my dear Daniella to manage and she never had the classiest taste. It wasn't long before there was a queue outside my door, there were more check shirts and dungarees than an episode of Prisoner Cell Block H.
Maybe I'll talk to my friend Martine Fennel-Teague. She has her finger in many pies and knows me inside out. In fact I hear she's throwing a fabulous party in the Palm House next Thursday, maybe I'll drop by and see who she can hook me up with. She's been around the block quite a few times has Martine, in fact we were in a girl group together in the 70s. We were called 'Lip Quiver' and had a minor Top 100 hit in Germany with 'Deep In Me'. The melody was stolen by that dreadful Pete Hammond and became 'Touch Me' by Sam Fox. Which is how me and the ample-bosomed one met. Ah memories. And indeed mammaries. But I grow weary as the night stretches on and I fear Sara is dribbling into my muff. I've had this thing for years, I'm not having her ruin it.
Ciao for now. And if you can think of any suitors for poor solitary Lesbina then do get in touch on my Facebook page.
Sweet dreams, peasants xx
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