As a rule, I prefer men to women. I believe that I was bathed in extra testosterone in the womb and that is why I am able to dissect a dead snake for the edification of my two sons without flinching, and why I love to poke poop with a stick if it looks interesting.
I enjoy women and cherish my women friends, but I cannot stand being in a group of straight women.
Surprisingly, as recently as yesterday, the thought came into my head that living in a lesbian community might be just what the doctor ordered. And not for the reasons one might think. I longed for a woman’s touch because I was distinctly unwell.
Yesterday was my date with the pain doctor and his giant syringe. I am phobic over needles, especially when they are in my spinal cord. For me to get through the experience meant I had to have recourse to pharmaceuticals. My doctor said I if I took two xanax “I wouldn’t care.”
Indeed, I did not care. My Royal Consort brought me home, and I floated up the stairs and spent the next several hours sleeping on my side as instructed, so the medicine could percolate down onto the enraged nerve in my back.
Being a pharmaceutical lightweight, I could not seem to snap out of my state of not caring. Day became night, and still I had not sobered up enough to really stand up and walk very convincingly. My hands were like oven mitts and I felt like a bobble head.
Eventually I got hungry. To be fair, My Royal Consort had sweetly offered to make me something to eat, but I knew what that meant. I would have to think of what he should make, assist him in the little matter of Male Refrigerator Blindness, and then, because I wouldn’t be able to stop myself, I would probably want to chop an onion. It was too overwhelming so instead, I ate a bag of Gimbels Sour Lover’s Gum Drops and some jalapeño pretzels from Job Lot.
If I lived in a lesbian community, someone would have made chicken soup the day before and known when to bring it to me. There would have been a cold drink with a bendy straw sweating on my bedside table for me to sip from whenever I awoke from my coma. I would have had all the TLC that women, and some gay men, instinctively know how to provide when someone is ill.
I love My Royal Consort and appreciate all the fun we have together, but it sure would be nice to have a lesbian couple living on the property with us. Why a lesbian couple? Well, we don’t want any jealousy issues in our utopian community. What we want is harmony and productivity. Since I seem to have fallen down on the job, it would be super to have another woman to pick up the slack in the kitchen and bring me chicken soup when I need it. As the song says “There ain’t nothing like a dame.”
If there was an extra dame around the place, I could experience what it must be like to belong to The Fraternal Order of the Penis. In other words, I could occasionally inhabit the place that I call Dude Land.
In Dude Land, those nettlesome details of life are quietly and efficiently managed by someone else. Nutritious and delicious meals appear in a timely manner, there is always soap, appointments are made and kept, taxes are paid. Animals get immunized, school books are purchased, discipline is administered to the junior dudes.
In exchange for this seamless efficiency, we ladies do reap many rewards. In my case, my dude is building me a barn. I never asked for a barn because I already have one, but I’m getting one, and far be it for me to shirk my domestic duties when someone has been kind enough to cut down a forest, borrow a sawmill, mill up the wood and then build me a pole barn. When he comes in all hot, sweaty and exhausted from building my barn, I am not going to bitch about anything.
I was an honorary dude up until just recently because for many years, I worked in construction with My Royal Consort. We were house painters, and house painting is about as dirty and low down a job as you can get. It is smelly, noisy, dirty and physically ruinous. I was right in the mix with all the subcontractors from the day the plaster cured, until the final walk-through with the millionaire client’s wife.
After a long day on the construction site as an honorary dude, I would come home and shed my filthy work clothes. Literally and figuratively stripped of my honorary dude status, I’d have to get busy rattling those pots and pans pronto, unless I wanted to eat microwaved spaghetti with jar sauce at midnight. Because I am not of the Fraternal Order of the Penis, I care about what we eat and stubbornly insist on cooking from scratch.
Had we the foresight to invite a lesbian couple into the house, I could have done what dudes the world over do after a long day of work. I could have showered, opened a beer and had a leisurely romp through the paper while dinner was magically conjured up in another part of the house. If I was a dude in training like Youngest, I could have played some guitar, or poked around on facebook while waiting for dinner.
I’m not looking to pawn off all of my dudette duties onto our resident lesbian couple. I like cooking, I like caring for my people and pets, and sometimes I even enjoy cleaning. What I am interested in is the idea of not having to always think, and being cared for when I am sick by someone who knows what to do. And that someone is usually another woman or a gay man.
If we had a lesbian couple in the house, the odds are good that one of them would be like me, bathed in testosterone, but able bodied. This would be beneficial to My Royal Consort because she could help him build my barn, while her girlfriend and I hung out in the garden.