Lindsay Lohan is a talented young performer. More significantly, she is a busty top-drawer hottie who has recently Gone Lez. In thrilling news it seems that the young woman stuffed with theatric promise is also stuffed with a slender girl DJ named Sam.
Well. I haven’t been so elated since discovering that Mean Girls was available in limited edition format with director’s commentary and gratis pink barrette.
I’ve admired Lohan, but not in that way, since her comic twelve –year-old’s turn in The Parent Trap. Impeccable timing and precocious swagger recalled an adolescent Jodie Foster. Her People quickly identified this likeness and chose to make it plain. Freaky Friday was remade with Lohan cast in the Foster role.
Perhaps it was Lohan’s attachment to The Method that led her to duplicate some of Jode’s less broadcast habits. Or, perhaps it was the pure love of snatch. Who knows and, indeed, who cares? I’d just love to be among the first to welcome Miss Lohan to the company of tribades. Bienvenue.
Of course, many Sapphic bouquets arrived before I could call intervulva. I’d missed my chance. Somehow, this news had almost soured by the time it reached my screen. It was, in fact, an Australian news source that alerted me to the star’s penchant for vag. Appended with a charming pictorial entitled “Stars Who Turn” the article did not report but took as granted broad knowledge of Lohan’s box luncheon.
The piece, in fact, was chiefly concerned with the Lez japery of another and far less talented young performer. It seems that Miss Jessica Origliasso, one half of Australia’s most ghastly musical act, is also going the girl growl.
One hopes, for the sake of her young friend, that the noises she makes during congress are more endurable than The Veronicas’ oeuvre.
Like Lohan, Origliasso has chosen a mate whose celebrity and physical beauty will not eclipse her own. Unlike Lohan, Origliasso is rather dull.
Why did I have to learn the saucy truth about Lindsay in such a regrettable way?
My joy was assuaged. Much as it was when I discovered that Oprah liked The Corrections as fervently as I did. Much as it was when people started reciting W H Auden verse in naff films. Much as it was when I learned that Ronald and Nancy Reagan fancied Cavalier King Charles Spaniels. Although a Cat Lady, I’ve always got along tremendously well with this wilful breed. Whereas I regard the late Reagan, his terrifying spouse and their perverse legacy as neither sane nor cuddly.
JUST SAY NO, I urged Jessica the novice vagatarian.
The plea, of course, is futile. As a Muff Diva of some years standing, I understand the lure of lady love. As a vulgar acquaintance of mine is wont to say, Once You’ve Had Crack, You’ll Never Go Back.
And so, Origliasso and I now have two things in common. We are both carbon based and both enamoured of tattooed brunettes. Beyond this, our kinship is limited and I will have nothing further to say to or about her.
Lohan, however, is a different kettle of fist. I believe she is deserving of my immediate counsel. Lindsay, do accept my heartfelt advice.
Please don’t think me impolite. Naturally, I first tried to offer such via more direct and less open means. But I was rebuffed by your unfeeling corporation who failed to grasp my Big Sister instincts.
“Lindsay needs my advice,” I told them. “I’ve been slaking the lady bacon on and off for years. She’d probably appreciate it.”
As some mandarin of the Creative Artists Agency tangles with the intricacies of an international restraining order, I continue to worry. So I offer public advice to you; the beginner butch.
Lindsay: Having sex with a woman can be very difficult. The actual sex part, as I’m certain you’ve discovered, is actually quite straightforward and nearly always good. The rejoinders of others, however, might prove impossible to take.
I know I don’t need to tell you about garden variety homophobia, Lindsay. You live in America and, no doubt, have already experienced the odium of odious Christians. I’m not talking death threats and hell fire. I wanted to tell you about another peculiar ill.
I know, Lindsay, you are used by now to scrutiny. But I wanted to prepare you for study of a more brutal order. Of course, it’s possible that the folks at CAA engineered your sexual infraction. But, even so, you are now irredeemably tainted.
From now until the cessation of your womanhood, you will be trained with the most pornographic lens.
Of course, some women already know this and turn it to their fleeting benefit. Viz. that awful song currently on the radio about a girl pashing a girl; possibly The Veronicas; those sexhibitionist youngsters who can be found on any Friday night after a Bacardi Breezer or ten fingering their best mate on the dance floor in pursuit of male consideration.
Whenever anyone thinks of you, they will only be thinking: sex, sex, sex.
While it might seem tolerable now, this eventually becomes exhausting. Certainly, you might be flattered on the initial fifty occasions you are told by a gentleman, “I find what you two do very erotic.” You may even ask him to watch. On the fifty first, however, it might start sounding a little tired. Particularly if you and that young DJ are simply trying to buy a new Prius or similar.
“Can you explain the hybrid model to me?”
“I find what you two do very erotic.”
The enticing possibility of three ways aside, this whole thing gets very tiresome. I’m not half as hot as you and I’m twice as old. Yet, I’ve been dealing with it for years. A great many people will look at you. And all they are thinking is: vagina.
You will always be seen through the grubby lattice of girl-on-girl action. For this is how nearly everyone thinks of even tolerably attractive tribades: continually tangled in each others’ muffs.