10 February 2012


One thing you may not be able to tell about me is that I heart lesbians.


And they frickin' heart me hard too.

From Sydney to San Francisco, London to Madrid, New York to Amsterdam, I have a worldwide network of lesbian sleeper cells ready to mobilise on my command.

In some parts of the world I am considered a lesbian icon.

And I am their self anointed Citrus Queen.

I don't discriminate either - I love all the types: the Shane types, the Portia types, the LaRoux types, the Beiste types - ALL of them.

So, it really makes me sad face when Dykes and Fags don't get along. Especially when it comes to waging this ridiculous turf war on each other - you can't come to our clubs and we can't come to your club...nights.

Seriously, WTF is the problem? We're all in this LGBT acronym together. I really feel it is a detriment to our community.

Imagine how excited I was to learn a stand alone bar existed for the ladies who love ladies right here in London. On my travels I have found an overwhelming worldwide need to relegate the lesbians to weeknights. It's like we don't want them ruining our weekend fun with their dungarees and sensible shoes. Pfft.

So when some lesbian friends suggested we pay a visit to Candy Bar in Soho, I thought, an untapped resource to add to my growing lesbian army - where do I check my coat?

I have always felt more at home in a room with the ladies who love ladies. It stems from my formative clubbing years when I was welcomed into a lesbian posse as their "boy". I eventually moved in with these girls after I had my shit stolen by an intravenous drug using housemate.

Let me tell you, you haven't lived until you've lived with a heroin junkie.

The lesbians always had my back though and they took me under their wing, even if that wing only had 1 bedroom and there were 4 others living there. Needless to say, we all got on the same cycle.

So when we all weren't cramping, we would head to Spicy Friday at the Lansdowne Hotel in Sydney - where everyone knew their names - sort of like a lesbian version of Cheers, but most of the people who knew their names were ex-girlfriends circling the pool table.

Oh, the lesbian drama.

For instance, one of the girls was dating an older lady who was a policewoman and she asked her cop lover, or should we say, "the one with the gun", to stalk her as part of an elaborate sexual fantasy.

Oh yeah, you heard right ladies, "stalk" her...what ever happened to buying a double ended dildo when the magic fades?

Then a month later, they broke up and the police lady - with all the police resources at her finger tips - continued to stalk her. In the end she had to get a restraining order.

The worst thing was, we all lived with her! So by proxy, we were all stalked as well!

I mean, you can't write that shit.

So, back to Candy Bar.

My friends and I made our way downstairs to the dance floor where I may have found my spiritual home: a dance floor, in a lesbian bar with a stripper pole.

I feel like by the time I placed my hand on the stripper pole, by osmosis, every lesbian on that dance floor knew my name - like the London sleeper cell had awoken.

As I began to swing my body around the pole, a diminutive lesbian grabbed the lower half. We mirrored each others moves in a choreographed spiral that looked like it had taken months to perfect. A small spotlight appeared from the DJ booth (actually happened) as though it had been placed there on purpose to illuminate such a symbiotic moment.

I could hear the lesbians chanting my name...chanting her name.

With iPhones held high like cigarette lighters, they captured the moment our community had longed for to bring this turf war to an end.

A Dyke and Fag gyrating as one on a stripper pole.

The possibilities for our community in that moment were infinite.

I mean, you can't write that shit.


  1. Loves it Smiley Winky Face!

  2. what's with the Mature Dating UK ads??????

    1. Ha I know I get them too, which is slightly disconcerting...

  3. Oh and by the way, greta blog


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