I have something of a chequered sexual history. My friends could reel off a whole list of insane women I’ve screwed. While we all make mistakes, I seem to make them more willingly than most. Admittedly, they usually follow about fifteen cans of Red Stripe and don’t always end in regret, but I do consistently attract the crazy ones. This is great in one sense. Sex, for sure, is never boring, even if I do occasionally fear for my life. The downside, however, is the reality that follows and inevitably starts with the words: “So, do you want kids?” My craziest was undoubtably the Estonian. Well, actually it’s a toss up between her and the Hungarian who tried to asphyxiate me, but the less said about that one the better.
The Estonian was a total fruitcake. We met in Soho, on a sticky dancefloor amidst a heaving great mass of sweaty gay men. She was, of course, alone and dancing like a nutjob so naturally I kissed her. It was difficult to resist. She was beautiful, with a wave of jet black hair and blue eyes that could pierce a brick. Her accent alone was all the encouragement I needed and when she spoke, it was complete and utter nonsense.
We went out a bunch of times. Finally, I got her into bed one night after enduring a bizarre few hours in an underground bar where the toilets had curtains for doors and the tube clattered by at intervals. But while the sex was amazing, I was starting to realise the full extent of her madness.
It began with her revelation that she was once a star javelin thrower back in Tallinn. I have no idea whether this is actually true but she proved it, in her mind I imagine, by running off down the street where we were drinking and lobbing an invisible javelin across the skies over Soho Square. I nodded appreciatively, whilst thinking inside: “WHAT THE FUCK?” After that, I started noticing other things, like the way she was dressed – I remember once she turned up in pyjamas – and how, in the depths of winter, she would swim naked in seemingly random ponds and altogether fail to understand why I didn’t want to do the same.
Simple undertakings like buying a bottle of wine from Tesco would end up with us both knee-deep in Ravenscourt Park lido, freezing our tits off at midnight and trying to avoid the ranger who was locking up the gates. She asked me to lie on her in bed. Nothing was normal anymore.
Despite this and her inevitable future in an asylum, I found myself liking her more and more. Even my friends, who freely admitted they hated her, couldn’t deny that they got a great deal of amusement out of the whole situation. Of course, it wasn’t to last – she eventually found some other crazed loon who was perhaps more willing to dictate the thesaurus or cycle along Uxbridge Road with a crown on.
One thing’s for sure – she wasn’t my first crazy lesbian and she certainly won’t be the last.
Twiggy is a writer from London where she works for a broadcaster and occasionally makes girls cry in bars. As an avid traveller and enthusiastic lesbian, she regularly zeroes her bank account and liver. There are more homosexual witterings available at www.lesplay.co.uk or @twiggybond.
All the Lesbians I’ve Ever Slept With will be a regular feature at Citizens For Decent Literature.