(okay i admit i am mostly posting this because BL HARSHED MY MELLOW by informing me that i am NOT at the top of Google after all AT ALL, and want to drive up my stats. lesbian! lesbian!! LESBIAN!!!!!)
No, but yeah, but no but yeah, okay, it was about this:
In another post (which ALSO has the word LESBIAN in it, BY THE WAY), a tangent in the comments led me to remember this little ditty: "The Problem of Lesbian Sheep"
When sheep, in the mountains, are wanting to breed,
there's not very much that the sheep up there need.
For they've got quite a system when it's time to mate:
the rams nose around, and the ewes stand and wait.
Yes, the female sheep don't have to do anything,
when the rams (in the mountains) go crazy in spring,
but give off special smells from their feminine places
which those sex-hungry rams can detect - with their faces.
Yep those rams stick their noses in each ewe's behind
to detect if to mating she might be inclined,
and if so he mounts her - they both have their fun -
and that's how the process of mating is done.
And so, to sum up, there's a system in place
to ensure that the sheep can continue their race,
and it works like a charm. So, no cause to lose sleep.
... but consider the problem of lesbian sheep ...
Yes, a lesbian sheep hopes and prays she can find
a lesbian ewe who's of similar mind
but she doesn't know how! She was brought up to think
that to find a good mate, you just stand there and stink.
And alas, her true love, just a few yards away,
tries the very same thing in the very same way,
and though they both want to be loved and be held,
they just stand around, and wait to be smelled...
Which of course rang a familiar bell to several of us who have spent a fair amount of time hanging around ewe bars and/or pastures, and we shared a hearty good laugh, and I felt validated in that no, it wasn't just my imagination, or even due to the fact that i have to play "There Is Life Outside Your Apartment" at least five times before going to the corner store to buy chocolate soymilk.
But then I encountered Maggie Bitter, aka the Bad Lesbian. Who is extremely funny in her bitterness, and apparently lives in some strange Bizarro Lesbian Universe where psychotic women keep throwing themselves at her.
You’d think that by now I wouldn’t be surprised at just how bold some women are when it comes to flirtation – more so when they are attempting to flirt with me. I mean, come on, I am not exactly the flirtable type. I am perpetually cranky and my public face tends to be one of a focused scowl. Hey, I don’t like people much and if I can project a vibe that says “Really, you don’t even want to begin to try” then, dammit, I will.
Yet women always attempt to breach it.
I am standing in the food section of Cost Plus and I don’t twitch in the slightest when I hear a female voice next to me say, “Is that you?” I am in full-on Surly Maggie mode - cranky body language, scowl, head wrapped in a bad-ass bandana,(OK, maybe not bad-ass but it was keeping my damn hair out of my face.) and clothes that had seen better days. I can tell the question is directed at me since there is nobody in the aisle but me and the owner of the voice. I ignore the question but can see out of the corner of my eye that the woman who is asking is looking directly at me. Damn.
“Is that you who smells so good?”
Oh, that mother fucking patchouli oil.
“It smells nice.”
“Um, thank you.”
Then she does the unheard of - she steps forward so she is well-within my no-fly zone of personal space. Her body is so close to mine that I am trapped against the shelving that is at my back. I am shocked beyond comprehension – my mind races as I try to anticipate just what the fuck she is going to do and figure out how to get away without seeming too weird or freaked out. Then she moves her head towards my neck and…sniffs.
“It smells really nice. I love patchouli.”
You have got to be kidding me.
Then she reaches up with her left hand and takes a lock of my hair that is resting on my shoulder and twists it around her finger.
“ I really like your hair, too.”
She releases my hair, steps back, pauses, and then walks away. And I mean walks away- moving her ass in that way women do when they know you are watching them. And, boy, do I watch. Then I check to make sure that my wallet is still in my jacket pocket.
Now, this happened to her at 10:30 in the morning at Cost Plus.
So i can't even say "ah, but this is what happens to women who lead the Glamorous Life, who keep putting themselves Out There and don't limit their social interactions on a given day to the chocolate-soymilk selling guy at the corner deli."
I'm not saying I want this to happen, necessarily, mind. It all sounds rather hot as a fantasy, but in real life? Look, Glenn Close had cute blonde corkscrew curls and a fetching manner too, I know; but it hardly made up for her adventures in impromptu hassenpfeffer. And I'm not saying I don't believe her: frankly if one can believe that anyone'd come on to Michael Frigging Douglas, one can believe anything.
But, I mean, damn. I guess somewhere out there there must be a field where the sheep have broken free from their placid stand-and-wait conditioning and mutated into some strange aggressive strain. Somewhere I haven't yet encountered. Some secret ingredient i haven't tweaked. Some new strain in the stinky sheepy pheromones.
Maybe it is patchouli.