Better than a Chocolate dildo

There has been a hiatus between entries sotospeak. But I come bearing good news (doesn't every woman?)....Lover and I have found a new dyke pad. (As I think that might mean sanitary towel in some parts of the globe, I shall clarify, lest readers have an otherwise than intended reading experience and take my references to be applying to a shared mooncup/ hemp invention or not-tested-on-animals ethical period accessory- do they do that?)

We have found our very own lesbian apartment in the capital (Oslo... I type this for readers who are unaware yours truly resides in Norway, instead of explaining what the capital of Norway is, although for individuals who have just been enlightened as to the Oslo-Norway link, you're welcome.)

I digress, our new dyke-domicile is literally around the corner from a dildo emporium. Simply perfect as Mary Poppins would say. Not a shop, note but a dildo emporium with a great big glass window showing all their wares. A technicolor shameless, declaratory, let-it-all-hang-out or poke out sotospeak window display (the commerce that is, not the new flat). Along those streamlined lines, our life-to-be has a certain Better-than-Chocolate flavour, although despite an abundance of ice here I am not hatching any yours truly becomes nude ice-statue plans.

To celebrate signing of papers, lover and I went out to a fabulous and soon-to-be-local dyke bar to drink obscene (at least X-rated) quantities of alcohol and became a pair of dyke bar-flies. I always wondered at that expression but now think it has something to do with the swatted appearance reached eventually. Said bar is ran by a slightly intimidating woman from Seattle, rather she said "Seeaddle" to be precise. To which I employed deductive logic a la Conan Doyle and made an inspired guess at Seattle. Our favourite gay bar (indeed, the only decent one in Oslo to split hairs) is a ten minute walk from our new pad (as defined above), that's just six hundred seconds, as I pointed out pedantically to my lover. But then I have a habit of over qualifying numerical issues, in the style of, "that's half, so fifty percent, 0.5 as a decimal then." Although I am handy to have around in sales when reductions need to be calculated: I whizz around calculating deductions like Carol Vorderman from Countdown on catnip. (I am blessed with a lover who finds mathematical prowess sexy and accordingly I employ it at the drop of a hat, lest it lead to the drop of a pair of Levis.)

Apropos new flat, aside from having an enviable cornershop for emergency supplies, it has affordable rent and local second-hand bookstores (we popped into one of those yesterday "to browse" and emerged with a bakers dozen of books, ie. thirteen tomes, forevermore I shall dub this a bookworm's dozen I feel; it was 13 as we both decided that twelve was too few and fourteen too many).

The future's bright, the future's pink. The cherry on the top of the chocolate-covered nipple is that we have a balcony too. More specifically, a balcony from which- under the terms of our contract- we are "not allowed to hang/display our undergarments on a Sunday or holy day". I shall of course not do this, not wishing to start a riot tout a seule courtesy of a pair of Calvin Kleins. And nor would I be so crass as to air my laundry for all and sundry, like flags of indecency. No, I shall respect the contract and instead use our new balcony to display the many dildos we intend to buy from our corner shop.

The EX-odus

Girlfriends, I have often reflected, are like buses: you wait ages for the right one, then three come at once (if you excuse the imagery). The same can be said of exes.

I shall set the scene:
My love and I have been going out for three days, in time-honoured lesbian tradition we have moved in and are living together, and she is collecting me from work for the first time ever. My love is irresistibly sexy in bike leathers (yep she had a motorbike), I am wearing a tailored men's suit and my distinctive long black Matrix coat (this touch of éclan proves to be my undoing). Eager to make a good impression I bound onto the street dead on time having vaulted down three flights of stairs.

The road is a relatively short one before leaving the city centre- five minutes on foot max. No sooner have we set off then we encounter my ex who bounds over to chat. We part on good terms (again) and continue on our way, while I ponder the likelihood of such a chance meeting as said ex is out of her usual territory, my thoughts are interrupted by yet another ex, whom I virtually collide with. She too says hi, is introduced to my love and continues on her way. “Small world” I say to my love as we continue, who agrees that life can indeed be coincidental. That is until ten feet later when she alerts me to a tall dark woman waving manically from the other side of the street: another ex (this one usually famed for her retiring reticence has suddenly become Judy-bl**dy-Garland on a float parade. I grimace hysterically back and do the I’m busy salute wave without slowing my pace.)

I begin to calculate the probabilities of this occurring by chance, I never hitherto considered myself a grape on the proverbial vine, could this be an ambush of sorts? I decide a drink is in order for both of us- always good for paranoia. This is not bright on my part, we sneak up the requisite side alley, enter gay bar, there seated in bar as the ONLY person in the room is another ex- yet another (this one normally lives in a different city). I spin us on the spot, steer my love out by the arm and we retreat. “Another ex?” she jokes, I flash a smile nervously, by now I am calculating the best route out to get us out undetected, Mission Impossible style.

“News travels faster than on Grease with the drive in and Rizzo’s pregnancy…" I offer up erratically.
"...Not that anyone’s pregnant,” I clarify redundantly. Cool has deserted me and I am beginning to babble, anything to drown out my love’s inner dialogue, she is visibly moving her fingers one at a time. My mobile rings, I seize it, grateful for a momentary distraction, up pops a former lover’s name. Call divert, city divert selected.

We reach the perimeter of the pedestrianised city centre at high velocity- I am avoiding the tree-lined pedestrianised avenue in favour of roadside pavement. I am striding as I never have before, and already breathing a sigh of relief, “Fancy seeing ALL of them like that!” I say, hoping I hadn’t overdone the otherwise subtle stress on "all". I am interrupted by a little dinging sound, as a cyclist veers in, “Hey!” chimes my cheery gardener ex, “Fancy seeing you here. What are the odds?” I warily survey my love- she has run out of fingers on the one hand, “You’d be surprised.”

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