“Immaculate Cheshire Ladies,” “Divorced Mums, Thirty-nine,” and “Romantic” and “Bubbly” forty-five-year-old females looking for “Fun Times.” No, “Sparky” was OK, I reflected as I went up to the Ladies Pond in Hampstead to seek refuge from the blistering heat. “Sparky” might just do the trick, I thought to myself optimistically as I walked down Millfield Lane, NO MEN BEYOND THIS POINT announced the municipal sign sternly, and in the distance I could hear the familiar, soprano chatter of 150 women. I love the Ladies Pond. It’s wonderful being able to swim in the open air, free from the prying eyes of men, totally calm and relaxed—though I must say my new high-leg Liza Bruce swimsuit with the cunning underwiring, subtly padded cups and eye-catching scallop trim is extremely flattering, and I do sometimes think it’s completely wasted in an all-female environment. However, the main thing is not to pose, but to swim. To gently lap the large, reed-fringed pond, where feathery willows bend their boughs to the cool, dark water. To commune with the coots and moorhens which bob about in its reedy shallows; or to admire the grace and beauty of the terns as they swoop and dive for fish. But sometimes, when I’m sitting there on the lawn afterward, gently drying off in the warmth of the sun, I wonder p. 78 about myself. I really do. I mean it’s so Sapphic! Lesbians everywhere! Lesbians young and lesbians d’un certain âge; lesbians pretty, and lesbians physiognomically challenged. Lesbians thin and lesbians fat; lesbians swimming gently round the treelined lake, or disporting themselves in the late summer sunshine. And there I was, sitting on the grass, reading my “Sparky, kind-hearted girl” ad again and feeling pretty pleased with it actually, while discreetly surveying beneath lowered eyelids several hundred-weight of near-naked female flesh and wondering, just wondering, whether I found it even vaguely erotic, when this attractive, dark-haired girl came up to me, bold as brass, and put her towel down next to mine.
“Hello,” she said with a warm smile.
“Hello.” Excuse me. Do we know each other?
“Mind if I join you?” My God—a pick-up! My Sappho-meter went wild.
“Er, yes, do,” I said, pulling up the strap of my swimsuit and quickly adjusting my bosom. I discreetly surveyed her from behind my sunglasses as she removed a bottle of Ambre Solaire from her basket and began rubbing the sun lotion onto her legs. She was clearly a “lipstick” lesbian, I decided. The glamorous kind. Her nose and eyebrows were unpunctured by metal studs. She had no tattoos, no Doc Martens, and she did not sport the usual Velcro hairstyle. In fact she was very feminine with a slim figure, lightly made-up eyes and shining, mahogany-colored hair which fell in gentle layers down her back.
“My name’s Kate,” she said, with a smile. “Kate Spero.”
“Tiffany,” I said, “Tiffany Trott.”
“Are you single?” she asked, nodding at my copy of The Rules: Time-Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right.
“Yes.”
“So am I. Isn’t it a bore? I’m looking for TSS.”
“TSS?”
“That Special Someone.”
p. 79 “Oh. Well . . . good luck. Er—are you looking here?” I asked, casting my eyes around.
“Oh good God, no! I’m not gay,” she explained, with a burst of surprised laughter. Oh. Got that wrong then. “No, I’m looking for a man ,” she added matter-of-factly. “But I just can’t find one anywhere .” And then she said, “Do you know, I never thought I’d get to thirty-seven and still be single.” And that was really, really amazing because that’s exactly what I say out loud to myself several times every day.
“I know,” I said. “Isn’t it a drag?” And then we immediately told each other all about our past unhappy relationships since about—ooh, 1978 or so—revealing them as children proudly display their scars, though I decided not to tell
“Hello,” she said with a warm smile.
“Hello.” Excuse me. Do we know each other?
“Mind if I join you?” My God—a pick-up! My Sappho-meter went wild.
“Er, yes, do,” I said, pulling up the strap of my swimsuit and quickly adjusting my bosom. I discreetly surveyed her from behind my sunglasses as she removed a bottle of Ambre Solaire from her basket and began rubbing the sun lotion onto her legs. She was clearly a “lipstick” lesbian, I decided. The glamorous kind. Her nose and eyebrows were unpunctured by metal studs. She had no tattoos, no Doc Martens, and she did not sport the usual Velcro hairstyle. In fact she was very feminine with a slim figure, lightly made-up eyes and shining, mahogany-colored hair which fell in gentle layers down her back.
“My name’s Kate,” she said, with a smile. “Kate Spero.”
“Tiffany,” I said, “Tiffany Trott.”
“Are you single?” she asked, nodding at my copy of The Rules: Time-Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right.
“Yes.”
“So am I. Isn’t it a bore? I’m looking for TSS.”
“TSS?”
“That Special Someone.”
p. 79 “Oh. Well . . . good luck. Er—are you looking here?” I asked, casting my eyes around.
“Oh good God, no! I’m not gay,” she explained, with a burst of surprised laughter. Oh. Got that wrong then. “No, I’m looking for a man ,” she added matter-of-factly. “But I just can’t find one anywhere .” And then she said, “Do you know, I never thought I’d get to thirty-seven and still be single.” And that was really, really amazing because that’s exactly what I say out loud to myself several times every day.
“I know,” I said. “Isn’t it a drag?” And then we immediately told each other all about our past unhappy relationships since about—ooh, 1978 or so—revealing them as children proudly display their scars, though I decided not to tell
Similar Books
