12/27/09-by Bridgette P. LaVictoire
Sometime ago, I began a vampire story. This story is one that I have long wanted to finish. This is the beginning of it. I hope to write more in the coming weeks and months. I hope that you, the reader, enjoys. The story is PG-13 in nature and contains sexual themes, strong language and violence.

Near Essex, Devonshire, England
April 1863

Her name was Catherine.

Hear heart pounded in her chest. Night was falling fast upon her. The moisture in her mouth had long ago evaporated into the chilling sky. Beads of sweat ran in rivulets down her brow, stinging her eyes. She could hear the clatter of hooves on the gravel road leading to the estate.

Her simple, blood red, house dress caught the moister in the grass from the rain earlier in the day, soaking upward. Her boots scuffed up dirt as she made her way quickly toward the old barn that lay near the boarder of the estate. Her raven wing hair was tied up in a bun to stop it from becoming tangled in the near naked branches that grew not far from the farm.

Her breath was ragged.

Finally, she stumbled into the barn, chest heaving; brow and hair damp with perspiration. A candle burned in a small basin. She caught sight of her objective.

Rebeca sat demurely on a bale of hay. Her feet dangled a little. Her face brightened when she was who it was who had come into the barn. Becca jumped down and ran to her lover. The embrace was enough to cause the inevitable cascade that saw them consummate their love one more time.

As their passions slowly dwindled, they lay and said and did nothing. There was no need to, not now, not ever. They were encompassed in one perfect moment. One perfect time.

The door to the barn slammed open. The whole building seemed to shake from the impact. In the door, Joseph Lawrence stood framed by the darkness. His eyes filled with insane rage at the sight of his daughter lying there, her fingers and mouth sullied by contact with another woman. With great thudding strides, Joseph stamped toward his daughter and her lover. Catherine tried to sink back into the straw. Becca stood. Her nakedness did nothing to distract Joseph from his goal- his daughter. With one massive hand, he slammed Becca out of the way, and picked up his daughter by her mane of dark hair.

“Get your hands off of her, you bastard!” Becca screamed and jumped upon him. She scratched at his eyes and face. He dropped his hold on Catherine, and backhanded Becca again. Now his anger was fixed upon her. Becca stood again, swaying slightly. Without thinking, he grabbed one of the scythes from the beams.

Now his eyes were filled with cold fire. Hatred and anger swelled up in them. She scrambled back, but it was not enough. He mutter under his breath about her soiling his daughter. With a swing, the scythe arced through the air. It had the strength and emotion to carry it through her neck completely, but at the last moment, she tried to duck back. Blood poured through the wound and down her body. Catherine rushed to her fallen lover, but was only able to watch the life drain from her. In one last act of defiance, she laid a kiss upon Becca’s cooling lips. The act stained her lips with blood.

Joseph grabbed her shoulder hard enough to leave bruises upon her skin and yanked her from her lover. When Catherine looked up once more, her eyes were blank and dead…

11/16/09 – by Isabell James

Jo and I needed to let loose.  Hence, Friday was “Girl’s Night Out.”  In my pre-Navy existence, this would have consisted of our beautiful lesbian friends and a hot ‘girl’ party in the city.  Jo and I would slow dance, kiss, and walk home, hand in hand.  While we can no longer be publically affectionate, we still get giddy drunk and love dancing with our new girlfriends.  For Friday’s festivities, we chose a Cougar hot spot, as our friend Candy is a recent (hot) divorcee.  I love any reason to put on my favorite dress and paint on smoky eye makeup (yes, I am what you may call a lipstick lesbian.)  Jo, typically cozy in her kicks, broke out heels for this rare night out.

The best thing you’ve ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously, it’s only life after all…

The evening began fabulously.  We snapped photos, danced to the live band and sang loudly. Grabbing a drink and cooling down at the bar, I was approached.  Tall, blond, chubby and not so handsome, he asked, “Can I buy you a drink?”
This is certainly not the first time I’ve been hit on by a man.  But it was the first time I could not respond with my usual, “I don’t think my girlfriend would like that.”  I suppose I could have said boyfriend, but I just said “No thank you.”

I am so proud of who I am and who I am with.  Moments like this,  blatant  denial of who we are, make me want to cry.  I suddenly longed for my lesbian haven.

Well darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable
And lightness has a call that’s hard to hear…

My sad darkness started to close in around me and then the night got worse.  Lightness was farther and farther away.  Our friend Rose, single, straight and very sexy, was approached by a man with a buzz cut.   As I walked up from the bathroom, Jo sharply whispered, “He’s military, don’t touch me.” I hadn’t touched her once the entire night, but that didn’t matter. Her fear had kicked in and punched me in the gut.

I wrap my fear around me like a blanket
I sailed my ship of safety till I sank it…

As Rose danced with Buzz cut, my head began pounding.  I stopped ordering cocktails and began tearing up, sitting there listening to “Livin’ on a Prayer.” Regardless of our night OUT, we always have to be IN.

I stopped by the bar at 3 a.m.
To seek solace in a bottle or possibly a friend…

There is no solace in this gay Navy world, just constant reminders of the fact that we can no longer be true to who we are.  This will never be even CLOSE to fine.

I woke up with a headache like my head against a board
Twice as cloudy as I’d been the night before…

As I drove to get coffee and bagels on Saturday morning, “Closer to Fine” by the Indigo Girls came on the radio (hence, the italic song reference throughout this post.)  Oddly, I immediately felt peace.  Jo and I may feel isolated in this new world without our lesbian network, but you are out there.  Just when I seem to lose sight of the community we were so actively a part of, an iconic lesbian duo streams through the radio and pulls me out of my own trenches. Perhaps we’ll be fine after all.

**Dish of the day is the story of Joana Lane, a chef and the owner of a small restaurant inherited from her mother, who writes in a very spirited way about her love affairs and sexual adventures in a cookery book/diary.

Date: Nov 19th 2007

Dish of the day: French onion soup

Reminder of the day: God counts women’s tears. (Cabala)

Pierre came to work with my mother as soon as the she opened the restaurant. The only French thing he had was the name. He’s always been the father I never met and a really loyal friend. I could always stand by him. He was the first person to whom I told I liked women and he loved me and supported me all the time. Well, later he gave me this horrible nickname Helena-Cippola (Helena-onion), because, as he himself used to repeat, I made women cry. He obviously didn’t have any details of what I did to them in bed – he’d give me a different nickname if he knew.

It’s true I made them cry. Not on purpose, no. But I never met a girl I’d like to make breakfast to. They couldn’t understand it. They loved me the whole night and hated me by the morning. Some crazy girls would keep calling for days, go to the restaurant and break some plates, burst out crying. Pierre was the one comfort them. He’d explain I am the way I am, that I like experimenting both inside and outside the restaurant, that I was always trying to unveil the secrets of dishes, and I like the taste of everything. “It’s not easy to find something you’ll never get tired of eating”, he’d say. “Helena couldn’t survive the sucession of ordinary days. Please, forgive her.” He would turn me into this beautiful cookery poem and I wouldn’t feel that bad at all. So before leaving, Pierre would offer them the opportunity to warm their hearts with some onion soup – the last good memory they would have of me. But why the hell do women cry so much?! It doesn’t have anything to do with onions to me…

French onion soup

Ingredients

• 6 tablespoons butter
• 8 medium size onions, sliced thinly
• 4 thyme sprigs, leaves stripped
• 1/2 cup sherry
• 4 cups brown chicken stock
• 2 cups veal stock
• Salt and freshly ground black pepper
• French bread croutons
• 2 cups grated Gruyere cheese

Directions

In a large saucepan or Dutch oven, add butter and melt over medium heat. Add the onions and lower the heat to medium low. Add the thyme leaves and cook, stirring frequently, until the onions start to turn golden brown, about 25 minutes. Add the sherry and cook until the sherry is almost completely evaporated and the onions are brown, about 15 minutes.

Add the stocks and bring to a boil. Lower the heat to a simmer and simmer for 30 minutes. Season, to taste, with salt and pepper.

Preheat the oven to 450 degrees F.

Ladle the soup into 8 oven-proof soup bowls. Place the soup bowls on a sheet pan. Place the croutons on top of the soup, to cover. Top each bowl with 1/2 cup grated cheese. Place in the oven and cook until the cheese is golden brown and bubbly, about 10 minutes.

Lezzie is half-closeted Brazilian Philosophy High School teacher writing on everything she has the opportunity to read, listen to and see (as a good Gemini).You can find out more about here by checking her profile at http://lezgetreal.ning.com/profile/Boudecca.

**Dish of the day is the story of Joana Lane, a chef and the owner of a small restaurant inherited from her mother, who writes in a very spirited way about her love affairs and sexual adventures in a cookery book/diary

Date: Oct 18th 2007

Dish of the Day: Spicy memories

Reminder of the day: You should never forget who you are and where you come from.

Let me tell you a little about Lapis, my mother’s restaurant. Many lesbian women come to the place everyday for breakfast, sometimes for lunch but mainly for the ‘happy hour’. There’s this lesbian community center across from the restaurant and you can always see them around. They organize events and stuff all over the State. I wanted to join them once, but mom wouldn’t let me, obviously. At the time, she thought I was just annoyed by the problems I was facing with my date with Jon who worked at the flower shop around the corner – she had no idea he was gay and I had been sleeping with his daughter, Beth, for six months then and we were even considering moving in together. She was as hot as red pepper – and you know it’s really good for health, don’t you? The problem is that many people do not appreciate eating it for long periods – including me. Spicy food may put you in trouble – and so do ’spicy’ women.

So, Lapis has always been lesbian territory downtown, mom was best friends with many women and she never cared about what the other customers would say. “If you can’t eat with them, then you’d better eat in another place”, she used to say everytime anyone tried say anything against them.

My first-time woman was really close to my mother. Her name was Anita, she was an Italian teacher and worked two blocks away from Lapis. She generally ordered black coffee, toasts and strawberry jam. When she was done with breakfast, she’d go to the restroom to put on some make up with a little help from me. One of these days, I followed her as usual, and she locked me inside. I felt like fainting when she started to unbutton her white linen blouse, breast popping out of it.

“If you don’t want, I can get dressed.” – She said.

“I’m sorry Anita, but I’m not a… – I tried.

“A lesbian? You’re not a lesbian? – She laughed and I almost felt a bit angry about it.  “Oh, poor child, I see the way you follow me everywhere with the eyes… but if you say you’re not, I think a test wouldn’t hurt, would it?” – And it was then that she started to touch herself in such a way that I couldn’t breath properly. For a second I say I thought my heart had officially stopped and I was dead. But I wasn’t, fortunately!!! I would be, if my mother caught us there, though. Ok, I have something to confess: I had seen some x-rated movies with girls perfoming pretty convincing sexual intercourse before, out of curiosity… and it was thanks to these movies that I knew exactly what to do when the opportunity arrived. And people say you can’t learn anything from porn! How come you can’t?

Spicy Jalapeño Salsa

Lezzie is half-closeted Brazilian Philosophy High School teacher writing on everything she has the opportunity to read, listen to and see (as a good Gemini).You can find out more about here by checking her profile at http://lezgetreal.ning.com/profile/Boudecca.

**Dish of the day is the story of Joana Lane, a chef and the owner of a small restaurant inherited from her mother, who writes in a very spirited way about her love affairs and sexual adventures in a cookery book/diary.

Date: Oct 10th 2007

Dish of the day: Chicken salad pita sandwich

Reminder of the day: Big changes start from small opportunities

Dear cookery book,

Today a customer asked to see me right after she finished her meal and my legs wouldn’t stop trembling. Had I possibly disappointed on of my mother’s customers?! How could that have happened?

When I reached her table (the one on the left to the entrance), I couldn’t look her in the eyes.  She is around 35 I guess, she has hazel eyes and short chocolate-brown hair. There was something ‘royal’ in the way she was sitting. Gosh, she is beautiful. A lot more than Melissa, or Lisa or Chris. And I’d get an earful for flirting with “customers I wish where lesbian” again  if mom were still alive…

She was talking to someone on the phone and she hipnotized me right there. I found myself wishing she could see me in that fabulous dress I had bought as a gift to myself the previous week. I’d get a manicure, get my nails clean and trimmed – she would be impressed, but reality was that I had that stupid uniform on. Damn it!

As soon as her eyes met mine, she said goodbye to the person on the other end opening up a smile that almost melted me down. I was still trying to find a way to stand in front of her when she started:

“You’re way too young to be such a terrific chef! What College have you gone to?” – I admit I had stopped eating Pierre’s lemon trifles to avoid putting on more weight, and I had also started running through the neighborhood park for an hour and a half every single morning to lose each pound I’d gained since my mother’s funeral and I was pretty happy with the result of 28 non-drinking-or-smoking years, going to bed as early as possible, eating healthy and putting magical face creams on, so I replied:

“It’s very kind of you ma’am. I’m not so young as I look, and I’ve learned everything I know with my mother, ma’am…”

“Ah, please, let’s forget about formalities;” – She interrupted me.  ” Just call me Helena. Can I see your hands? I’m crazy about chef’s hands.” – For God’s sake, why didn’t she say feet, ankle, elbow, knee, tummy??? My hands have always been hideous! I hated them since I was a teenager! I’ve always felt as if they didn’t really belong to me. It was impossible to control them, I would drop things whenever I was nervous or anxious, besides burning myself in the kitchen all the time. But her hands fast grabbed mine, and she touched them as if they were something really precious.

“Simply beautiful.” – She said. I collected my hands and couldn’t think of anything else to say. In addition to that, I had forgotten her name.

“What’s your name again?” – I asked sounding extremely stupid.

“It’s Helena. Helena Stephens. And you’re Joana, isn’t it?”

“Joana Lane. Were you friends with my mother?  This restaurant belonged to her. She passed away 2 years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, dear. I didn’t know her, but she must have been an impressive woman, judging by this charming restaurant… not to mention the chef.” – I felt my cheeks burn and she went on:

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Jo.” – She could totally read me. I was pretty happy with the signs she was a lesbian, though. Plus, she was comfortable enough to call me by a nickname.

“I’ll be back, if you don’t mind.” – she said.

“Our customers are always invited to return. It’ll be a pleasure to have you back.”

“You bet it will. Thanks for your attention, Joana Lane.” –  She said with a grin.

“ Don’t mention it, ma’dam.” – I finished, turning back to the kitchen, sure I couldn’t feel my legs and under the impression she was following me with the eyes. I had to resist the temptation of giving a last  look at her – dumb decision. I didn’t stop thinking of her. I tried hard putting her image at the back of my mind and managed to get to end of the day with nothing but a few small cuts and a burnt apron.

Chicken salad pita sandwich

Ingredients

4 c cooked chicken
8 pita pockets
1/2 c nonfat vanilla yogurt
1/2 c lowfat mayonnaise
1/4 c green onion, chopped
1/2 c carrot, shredded
6 oz crushed pineapple
1/4 c raisins
1/2 t cumin
1/2 t curry powder
1/4 t cayenne powder
*salt and pepper to taste
1 clove garlic (optional)

Instructions

Combine all ingredients in a bowl. Season to taste; add more or less of yogurt/mayonnaise according to taste. Stuff into the pockets of the pita bread. Garnish with grapes. Serve with nonfat or lowfat milk or your favorite fruit juice. Serves 8.

Calories: 436. Carbohydrate: 45g. Cholesterol: 101mg. Sodum: 457mg. Dietary Fiber: 1g. Protein: 37g. Fat: 9g. [%Calories from Protein-34, Carb-47, Fat-19]

Lezzie is half-closeted Brazilian Philosophy High School teacher writing on everything she has the opportunity to read, listen to and see (as a good Gemini).You can find out more about here by checking her profile at http://lezgetreal.ning.com/profile/Boudecca.

glanced at a mirror and turned away suddenly?
wondering what it is that’s wrong with you
than you ask yourself
is it my hips? than you glance quickly back at the mirror
is it my face? you smile into the mirror than quickly sadden
my arms? you poke at them moving them around
am I not pretty enough? you touch your face well letting your hand fall gracefully
than you take off your shirt..
all the while wondering.. maybe you found the problem
is it because of this?
as you pull at imaginary fat that you think is there
as you suck in ribs and bones are sticking out
than you take your pants off
back to wondering…
is it because my legs look weird?
you glance at your legs only to turn away in disgust
or is it because of this
you stroke the scar where you cut yourself because of him
you stand there staring at yourself in the mirror
picking at every little thing in your brain
“my hips are to fat my legs are to knobby its my stomach it sticks out my arms are too skinny my hairs to short my hands aren’t right my feet look like flippers..”
as you the list goes on and on…
you cant take it anymore you drop to the floor
tears form in your eyes
you try to tell yourself
you look beautiful
your prettier than half the girls out there
but than you stop complementing yourself
you try to tell yourself to stop liying to yourself
that you need to lose a few pounds
between sobs you mention a new wardrobe
you cant take it anymore
you smash the mirror
crumble into an even smaller ball
and just sit there
crying
looking at the broken glass
wondering
does it get easier
will i ever love myself?
well i ever think I’m pretty…

Kayla Tate is a 19 year old high school graduate looking to attend Winnipeg Technical for Carpentry. She loves sports,being out doors and is happily dating. Kayla had a 19 year old mid-life crisis and decided that her voice needs to be heard, so she writes to help the LGBT community.

when someone takes their own life,

you feel powerless.

there is nothing you can do.

there is nothing you could have done.

there is nothing you would want to do now.

there is nothing you wouldn’t have done.

now what? just move on? it’s okay?

no, no it’s not ok.

something has to be done…

i just don’t know what.

what i DO know…

is that

I

am

absolutely

…

devastated.

]]> http://lezgetreal.com/?feed=rss2&p=7864 0 http://lezgetreal.com/?p=5909 http://lezgetreal.com/?p=5909#comments Sun, 22 Mar 2009 01:00:00 +0000 kaylatate http://lezgetreal.com/?p=5909

your eyes are lingering on mine
once our eyes meet
time stops..
nothing else exists in that moment
of time
nothing…
you can feel the tension
taste the sweetness
the love floats in the air
we touch hands
but only for a moment..
for the shock is too powerful
to great a love we have
a love so great
its intoxicating
your my own brand of drugs
I can never get enough of you
your touch
your smell
every time I’m near you..
I get butterflies..
your my one
my only
my world
girl
I love you

**Thanks to my lovely girlfriend who inspired me to write this poem amongst others.

Kayla Tate is a 19 year old high school graduate looking to attend Winnipeg Technical for Carpentry. She loves sports,being out doors and is happily dating. Kayla had a 19 year old mid-life crisis and decided that her voice needs to be heard, so she writes to help the LGBT community.

]]> http://lezgetreal.com/?feed=rss2&p=5909 1 http://lezgetreal.com/?p=414 http://lezgetreal.com/?p=414#comments Fri, 21 Nov 2008 13:00:00 +0000 Lezgetreal http://lezgetreal.com/?p=414

Are you all so selfish, so indifferent, too apathetic to care?
No bother to wonder if you are all there.
I would trade everything for meaning, a simple chance to be seen
without the label of Judgment.
I guess I was wrong to perceive that such an existence was possible.
I found Life on the edge of a puzzle, and upon the edge I read my name.
But the rules are always changing in this game!
Must I search until I dig my grave? I fought for life on the edge of a cliff
and peered into the belly of Bliss.
They warned me it would come to this: the end of all meaning
through madness.
What could I believe? What could I see?
But the Perception of Reason masquerading as Myth.

(c) Copyright 2008 Nicole Terry
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

You can find out more about Nicole Terry at www.NicoleTerryCreates.com.

Things have been tough

You know that’s true

Yet even the tough times

Can’t stop me and you

We are deeper than most

The hurts are deep too

But no matter what

It’s always only you

You’re the one I fight for

The one that I love

So no matter what girl

There will always be “us”

How proper must I seem to these peers of mine,

dressed in silk and lace,

my head held high,

chin and back held straight

my verdant blue eyes

miss not an overture

from these pompous powdered peahens

in their purple or green silk,

nothing matters to them,

I walk lady-like

and dance with the men,

I feel no passion for it,

or for them,

in their miserable dream,

an illusion of mirrors,

holding no truth,

how I abhor this and them

This pretense of society,

this sleight of hand,

Lady above spare me this,

it is all worthless,

meaningless, empty,

and I am lonely,

outside of them.

so… we may wed
enter the institution they said
what a wonder to have the choice
stand tall stand proud have a voice

no on 8 is the word
raise up and we will be heard
rights granted may be
couples happy, gay, and full of glee

but wait resist the haste
to jump in and bind at such a pace
oooh how times they have changed
remembering the gamble that was once waged

Baby Baby i Love you, i would sing
right down to providing a ring
i will mary you, i would
i would marry you, if i could

now possible i’m not so sure i would
valid too is the pain of divorce
a failed love unable to force
life’s pressures will test the truth

is it marriage you want to pursue
take time and have thought
I DO or I DO Not

Rejoice we have the Choice!!!!!!

Butterfly1Love is a single lesbian living in L.A.

Healing From The Disappointment

time seems slowed

tension within will not fade

tears remain easily ready to fall

hope has taken the toll

love and happiness having no home

the disappointment cuts deep

rewards unable to reap

the first, second, and third time left broken

a lesson that should have been learned

the last was a final chance

failure again was all that was earned

drawn in by a wanting belief

she led me to believe

reluctance was not strong enough

the heart said yes

pride said no

weakened only to be put down

losing everything else around

he is with them now

in their life they have made a home

all this woman could not hold

healing is in progress

yet the disappointment continues to grow

paralyzed & engulfed in a lonely stillness

a place were no one will touch

yet needing so much just to be touched

never in love again will there be a trust

Butterfly1Love is a single lesbian living in L.A.

That Spark

there exists this spark

a random moment
where our eyes will not part

some say it’s love

some say it is pure magnetism

we all agree that it exists

yet to pinpoint it is futile

flirtatious women
know how to monopolize on it

shy women
run away in fear of it

strong women
absorb it vibrantly

weak women submit

patient women fan the fire

caring women build a desire

a woman’s mood
may vary yet ignite

strong emotions intertwined
with heat & passion

wanting touches
& caressing smiles

wanting to keep her close
& standing near

come with me
that moment is here

feel it, I feel it, we feel it

wow

North Carolina I love you, you’re my family, my home, but from your cold winter shores this girl needs to roam,

Please let me surf some waves, that just aren’t so cold, in an island pipeline were I can look bold,

Let me sit on a beach with trade winds blowing, on the warm white sands in the sun glowing,

Let me go to a land of lai’s and of Poi and if I get lucky find a cute little tom boi,

Let me dance the meringue, drink the sweet drinks and never care what anyone thinks,

Let me be in caught in the passion of the tropical night and know in my heart this is just right,

Let me wake from a slumber of romantic dreams, and not rush off to two year olds screams,

Let me pack my bikini, my board and my shades and go to this place where surfer girl dreams are made.