RIP Bettie

Yesterday Bettie Page died. Yes, that Bettie Page. Miss Pinup of the World, dominatrix extraordinaire, willing camera model, who was up for anything. Sensuality poured into pretty bathing suits and lingerie, if any at all. The lady who paved the way for the sexual revolution of the roaring sixties. Also one of Hefner's first playmates. In her later years, Ms Page turned to God, becoming a Baptist missionary to redeem her sins (?). Honey, you didn't need to that. Our love was lifting your free spirit higher the whole time and you never even noticed.





For more reminders of her exotic beauty, click here (NSFW obviously).
And since we're heading into Christmas, I thought it would only be fitting to end with this pic:


Right back at ya, Bettie!

Mylene... ah, Mylene...

It's been a while since I've posted here. So why not start up again with some French music? I've been off and on into Mylene Farmer's music since I was 13. Yes, that's how old I am. Coincidentally, she's a redhead. I'm really beginning to sense a pattern here.

But her clips... Pourvu qu'elles soient douces, Libertine, Sans contrefaçon, etc. Elegantly choreographed, nudity, transgender, crossgender, everything gender.

So why shouldn't you enjoy her latest offering?

Dégéneration is its name. The clip is NSFW. But you knew that already, didn't you?

If only Sarah Palin could see this from her house...

I know, it's not a woman, but you gotta commend this pretty lad for his efforts, at -17°C no less, in a bathing suit, in Alaska. For once, it took a stronger man ;-)

Wear condoms already

Yet another year has passed and yet more people have contracted HIV. Sadly, nothing has changed. There is still no cure. There are still people who believe that they will live forever barebacking. There are still women and men in countries all over the world who contract HIV unwittingly because their partners are not using condoms.

So: be responsible and wear condoms already so we can put an end to this shame.

1 December: World Aids Day. We will remember.

This just in from the Chaiken: a new promo for the L Word season 6

I have watched this promo and all I can see is the cast basically trying to raise our enthusiasm about something not worth enthusing about. Maybe it's because I have already read all the spoilers and know where this season is going. Maybe it's the bearded she-man. Who can tell?

The good news: Alexandra Hedison is back. Yay. More Helena. But alas, more of another couple, which I, quite honestly, find cringeworthy. Oh well, only 40+ days to go until we all have to grit our teeth and bear it. And then curtain time.

Enjoy.

University

She looked over at the graduate student, who would be working in her office for the next three Wednesdays, and whom she was helping with her research.
There was something Roman about her profile, as if she’d walked straight out of an Italian Renaissance painting. Her dark hair was pulled back, her pale skin contrasted her brown eyes and the dark arched eyebrows. Like herself, this girl wore black. Strictly black. The only colour in her face came from the red lipstick, which emphasized her luscious lips.
The sun broke through the clouds and lit the office briefly.
She looked down again at the book that she was reading for her doctoral thesis and reminded herself to concentrate.
“Would you mind if I ask you something?”. Her alto broke the silence. "Fire ahead", she said and listened intently as they discussed the author's life and how it affected her views on women in her work. She noticed the furrow in her brow as she talked and thought and tried to remember how she herself had sat in this office and asked similar earnest questions.
As they continued to talk, she stood up and walked over to the side table, where she always kept a thermos with coffee. She gestured with her cup, questioning her with raised eyebrows on whether she too wanted some coffee.
The young girl stood up, rather too swiftly, and it took her by surprise. She almost spilled her coffee. "Careful", said the young student, as she steadied her hand. She felt the rush of blood, as their hands met, and the warmth of her skin permeated hers.
And in a rush, she imagined grabbing her wrist, pulling her close, and getting a taste of that mouth, those lips, oh those full-blooded red lips. Her mind's eye visualized them kissing, and she felt weak at the knees. She would kiss her in the neck, under her ears, along her clavicle. She would unbutton the cardigan, lift the t-shirt; she had already glimpsed the burgundy straps of the bra beneath. She would liberate her breasts from their restraint, and giddily she imagined kissing the nipples, alternately, lapping them into an aroused state, tugging gently at them with her teeth.
She had this vision of drawing her close, shoving the papers off her desk, hoisting her buttocks onto the table and unbuttoning her fly. Of her hand, intuitively finding its way into the graduate’s panties, and discovering the moistness inside. Of rubbing her clit with the tips of her fingers, of cupping her in her hand and gently nudging inside. Of watching the young girl writhe in ecstasy, as she touched her everywhere. Of kissing that mouth, as it begged for more. Of hearing her pant as she worked her towards an orgasm. Of feeling her go limp in her arms. Of kissing her gently, and whispering her name.
“Are you all right?”, the student said, brusquely awakening her from her reverie. “Yes", she smiled, rather flushed and she poured her a cup of coffee.

The L Word Season 6: somebody up there must hate us

Soooooo, somebody out there has already watched a few episodes of the new season (and posted frame grabs) and oh boy, however they are going to turn this train wreck into something watchable is too much of a challenge for my elementary intelligence.

What can I say? It's as if someone decided to read every L Word forum out there, take all the suggestions that were nixed by loyal followers and thrust them all into this last season.

Season six = season sux. Royally. But as usual, we will all watch it.

A first glimpse at season 6

Well, what do we make of this? It would seem that the truth is already out there? Be honest, when they said woman in the swimmingpool, didn't you all immediately think Jenny?

And while I'm at it, hello Xena, you warrior princess, you... wait, you're a cop now. That's hot.

ETA: I know now who dies. Well, well, well...

Another Venus...

Well, hummunah hummunah, Kim Cattrall. It's all in the name of art, of course, as the leggy 52-year old adores sixteenth-century Italian master Tiziano Veccelli and decided to strip down in a bid to keep two of Titian's works in Britain. The Duke of Sutherland is probably feeling the effects of the current credit crunch and has offered them to the National Galleries of Scotland for a paltry 50 million GBP.

Below is the eight wonder of the world in question:
Would you consider losing your clothes for this? If it got me some one-on-one time with Ms. Cattrall (remember: this is the woman who write Satisfaction, the art of the female orgasm), I would have to think about it.

L Word: the new season

This posted by Chiara S. at afterellen.com in response to a post by Grace Chu about the L Word poster for season 6.

What's with the Angelina love?

I'm sorry, I just don't get it.
Or maybe I'm conditioned by the fact that my SO has seen her up close and personal on several occasions and gave less than stellar reviews about her looks and general politeness.
Apparently, she even gives Nicole Richie pre-baby Harlow a run for her money.

Anyway, let's all just give her that sainthood now and then maybe she can just disappear, like the Wicked Witch of West, in a puff of smoke. We all get it, Angelina, you are our next Saviour come to earth to cleanse our filthy souls... yawn.

That dress...

Madge, honey, I don't care if you're the next poster child for LVMH and you can all screech, yes, but it's Vuitton, darling! Where I come from, *this* is known as astroturf.

Now go talk to Stella dearest and see if she can loan you something less Christmas-tree like... Really...

Continuing our scarlet(t) theme for tonight...

Something else to dream about: Dita von Teese engages Scarlett Johansson... in a dance and then some. Who would have thought that little Scarlett of the Horse Whisperer would become such delectable fare for our eyes. As for Dita, she is always perfect.

Hello boys (and girls)!

For once, I have nothing to add. The photo speaks for itself.

Nuns

Yes, me dears, Elena did go to catholic school with nuns for teachers.
Did we have naughty fantasies about what went on under their frocks? Not really, as they were old crones, of the mousy sanctimonious grey-haired variety and lacked the designer finesse of a full habit. But honeys, give me the nun at 1.45 in the following trailer any time... my fantasy will be working overtime tonight! Now, where can I get me some angel wings?

Doh!

Some days I must be the stupidest chick on the face of this earth.
Looking at a photo of la Lohan, and reflecting on her latest comments about not being a lesbian, but maybe living la vida loca as a teensy bit of a bisexual, I had a sense of déjà vu. Remember the episode of the L Word in which Tina and the agent are arguing over the future of Nikki's career? And then and there it came to me...



Remind me to drink less coffee as tea seems to have a mind-bending effect on me!

Beavers... and Duffy?

Someone in Duffy's management must have been on drugs when they sanctioned the use of her song 'Mercy' for the Kotex ad below. As for the ad itself, well, yeah, I can totally relate to nail polish for my pet beaver... Devised by the same team who created the immortal catchphrase "Have a happy period"?



On a side note, beaver is apparently the 11th most used word in Oz for 'down south' or a girl's va-jay-jay... Any ideas on the top ten? Feel free to share them in the comments section.

Jodie Marsh? Really?

WTF? Somebody please tell me, when did Ms Jodie - I was on an MTV reality show looking for a hubbie only nanonseconds ago - go fauxmosexual? I really did a double take. Was it only a few months ago that this chick was walking around in less than nothing with a male escort on her arm?

Well, dearies, it would seem that La Marsh, who is known largely for her even larger assets which she bares as much as possible on any occasion, has taken to dating her celebrity scissorhands, Nina. The new couple has known one another for more than 12 years. Apparently, everything snipped into place, after Nina gave her a shorter bob.

Thinking of my own hairdresser: don't you be trying any voodoo on me now next time I come in for a dry chop!

Why, Martina?

News comes flying from across the pond that Martina Navratilova is participating in the UK version of 'I'm a celebrity... get me out of here!', for which filming is about to start somewhere in an Australian jungle.

Promo pic for the show, see left: you can tell that she is just so looking forward to this bucket of fun. Imagine being stuck in the jungle with a bunch of bimbettes, George Takei, Robert Kilroy-Smith and Esther Rantzen. Wonder if she'll impose her Smartina regimen on the other participants. Boot camp boss Martina... with Lt Sulu in tow.
I'll admit that the idea does turn me on just a little bit.

Martina has reportedly been paid GBP 30,000 to join the show and has already said that she will have her two cents' to share with the UK audience on Prop H8.

I sense me a bit of Crocodile Dundee in the works. Keep your eyes peeled on boobtube in the next few weeks.

Cougar!

There's been much to do about Madonna's 50-year old butt in a leotard, but here is Grace Jones last week on Later with Jools Holland at 60.
I think the images pretty much speak for themselves. We should all be so lucky. Work that booty, lady!

L Word teaser/trailer for season 6: somebody direct me to the lighting guy?

The kind people at Showtime have aired a trailer on their website featuring the L-Word damsels. Well, somebody in the lighting department must have been a teensy weensy bit peeved, because that lighting is downright unfriendly. Everyone looks like they could do with a heavy dose of filler, and some free Botox thrown in for free.

Not that I dispute the fact that these women should have wrinkles; au contraire, but let's face it, they have spent five seasons feeding us a glorious image only to kill it in one fell swoop. The general atmosphere of the clip was delectable, but the lighting person should be ambushed.



with some slowmo thrown in for extra effect!

Going for gold

Well, next year proves to be an interesting year movie-wise. First the re-male of Otto e Mezzo and now this is followed by the announcement that Charlize Theron returns to the screen once more as a woman loving another woman, with a twist that is.

'The Danish Girl', directed by Anand Tucker tells the rather interesting tale of the first transsexual, Danish artist Einar Wegener. It would seem their marriage veered off kilter after Einer, to be played by Nicole Kidman, stood in for a female model that Greta Wegener (played by Theron) was set to paint. Once the art world discovered their art, Greta encouraged her husband to continue adopting female guise (I'm having visions of Sex and the City here, remember Charlotte and the sock?). But the game took a more serious turn once Einer discovered his inner femme, which eventually led to the landmark transsexual operation of 1931!

Hmmm, my two cents' worth: now that Cate Blanchett played Bob Dylan, everybody's queuing to play a man. Of course, the twist is quite interesting: a woman that plays a man that plays a woman... I'm expecting Julie Andrews in Victor Victoria garb next.

And the contrast between Theron and Kidman couldn't be greater: the warmth of real gold (Theron) compared with fool's gold (Kidman). But then she's never really been my favourite actress.


We'll keep our eyes peeled and hopefully they can make an interesting and realistic movie. I'm still having nightmares about Max in the L Word...

In the city

She walks through the narrow street, her heels navigating the cobble stones with some difficulty. The yellow glow of the street lights is softened by the evening fog, which had snaked its way into the city from the river. She feels the cold wind up her skirt, and shivers inadvertently, as she is wearing no panties. Her garter belt hugs her hips snugly and her nipples strain against the material of her bra.

She looks at her watch and realises she is, as usual, late. It has always been her prerogative in life. She walks on, faster now, towards the arch, leading into the oldest district of the city. Suddenly, a hand shoots out from the darkness, grabs her arm, and reels her in.

She looks into her blue eyes, as she feels her mouth covering hers with urgent kisses, her warm tongue penetrating her lips. She is thrust against the old brick wall, her lover's mouth hungrily at her neck, sliding down, as she hurriedly undoes her blouse. She rests her hand on her blond long hair and arches her back as her lover releases her breasts from the cups of her black lace bra. The autumn chill caresses her nipples, and she gasps as her lover's tongue sweeps across her right nipple, flicking it insistently. She is aroused, by the cold, by the silence and the darkness surrounding them, the way the bricks chafe her back, the warmth of her lover's body pressing against her, the heat of their love. She starts to moan as her lover's mouth tugs slightly on her nipples, sucking and nibbling on them playfully.

Her lover's head comes up again and they kiss hungrily, knowing that they need to move fast now, in case of passers-by.

Her lover sweeps up her right leg, wrapping it around her hip; her lover's free then hand travels up the wrap skirt, up her thigh, her excitement evident in her every move.

Her lover's fingers spread her engorged pussy, and two fingers push roughly inside, as she gasps. She grinds her hips towards them and back into the wall, pumping faster down onto her hand, moaning hungrily, while enjoying her kisses.

She is about to come, when her lover removes her hand, and kneels down in front of her. She grabs her hair, knowing what is about to come next. Her lover plunges her tongue deep into her pussy, probing, licking, lapping. Her lover's tongue slides up and down her clit, her fingers fucking her wetness.

By now she is ready to explode, and she comes, the intenseness throbbing throughout her body, exhilarating her senses.

The city's silence is broken by her long gasp.

I *do* prefer girls...

which is why this blog was created.

Its content will be restricted to womanhood, bringing an ode to women the way I like them, the way I see them, the way I perceive them.

Expect the odd erotica here and there, entertainment news on women, aspects of my life as a woman who loves a woman, and more.

I am Elena, and I prefer women.

Wowzah! Weekend gorgeousness!

Bring on 2009, I say. Rob Marshall is remaking Fellini's Otto e mezzo (why fix it if it ain't broke?) as a multi-star vehicle, headed by the ever interesting Daniel Day-Lewis. But, who cares about all that, check out the cast of de-lovelies that has been assembled as his lady entourage instead.

Of course, the showstopper for me has to be Sophia (I owe it all to pasta) Loren. I've always had a penchant for this Napolitana, from my early childhood. Judi Dench brings some silver foxiness and brains to the cocktail, and Penelope Cruz: can you say serious eye candy factor?
I'm not too fond of Nicole Kidman myself (but my lover thinks she's fierce), and was a bit surprised to see that she of the lovely lady lumps is now carving out an acting career for herself. The other damsels are Marion "Edith" Cotillard and Kate Hudson, who I find insanely boring. Her mother did zany better.

A gentle reminder that the original, filmed in 1963, featured Claudia Cardinale (cue some panting on my behalf) and Anouk Aimée (drool).

Re-reading this post, I am slightly bemused. Usually I reserve all this enthusiasm for redheads. What is the matter with me?

Here is a little clip from Otto e mezzo. Isn't Italian sexy? Mi piace moltissimo.

Callica

As the Interweb buzzes away about the ouster of Erica Hahn, aka Brooke Smith, from Grey's Anatomy, I thought it would be good to remind ourselves of the brief lesbian affair that has been developing in front of our eyes...



Unfortunately, the powers that be decided that the chemistry was lacking - or was it the pressure from the same Mormon idiot killjoys, who rained on the gay parade in California?

We can only hope, as the L Word finally draws to a close and there is chatter about a spin-off with Leisha Hailey and even a movie, that another TV channel is brave enough to step up to the plate and acknowledge the fact of a whole gay demographic interested in seeing their own lives represented on screen.

Satisfied

The light streams in through the open windows, caressing her skin, which feels warm to her own touch. Her body is aroused by the warmth of the sun and the sexy frangipani smell of her suntan oil.

She runs her hand over her breast, teasing her nipple. She moans softly and her other hand glides down to her right thigh, which she scratches. Her back automatically arches as her fingers tease her warm, wet clit.

She quickly slides in a finger, then two, and catches her breath, seeking some relief. The palm of her hand rubs her clit, as she slowly starts to rock her hips.
She feels the warmth spreading through her body, the same warmth that flushes the skin of her cheeks, as she whimpers, eyes closed. She needs the release...

The way...

He searched her face as she answered his question. Why a woman? What was the attraction? As she tried to formulate the answer, her thoughts rambled on, re-exploring all the women she had known and knew in her life, their lips, their eyes, the tone of their voice, the way their collarbone is sometimes revealed as a shirt falls open, how they inhale smoke from a cigarette or lift a glass, how they smooth the wrinkles in their skirt when they stand up, the way they curl their hair around their finger, how they swing their hips provocatively when dancing, the softness of their breasts, the warmth of their body when you explore them inside, the way they kiss...

And her answer was a knowing smile.

Temptation

There is nothing worse than being subjected to the object of her desire day after day.

In her mind, she leads her astray. She dreams of her green gold-flecked eyes, with the dark grey ring around them. Her lips kiss the freckles on her face. She watches her hands as she gestures while talking, as they move across the paper in front of her. She wants to run her fingers across her tan skin.

She enjoys seeing the autumn colours she wears, the greys, the rusty browns, the green and blue hues. She loves the fact that she wears glasses.

Her eyes travel along her curves, while she tries to discover what lies beneath.

And she admonishes herself for being the dream predator, making superhuman efforts to remain professional first and foremost.

Waist

There's something wonderful about being able to snake one's hand and arm around another woman's waist, especially when it is as winsome as this one... But even more magical is the sensation of running one's hand down her buttocks, of those buttocks straddling you, while you pin back her wrists... Wonder if she's a redhead... mmmm.

Man Ray

Such a beautiful photo.

Chignon

She remembers that first moment, when she saw that blonde halo of hair travelling through the playground. The chignon was constructed in a free-flowing but complex manner and she fell in love there and then at the age of fourteen.

Interestingly enough, there were not blue eyes in the face, but hazel ones, which twinkled with a sense of humour. A slightly tilted nose made her look younger and she had small, but lovely rose mouth.

She aspired to be fifteen, so the mysterious French lady would become her form teacher. She waited impatiently for a whole year and then came that glorious first day of September. The trepidation, the reshuffling of papers on her desk, as she waited for that first French less of the year to start and the object of her infatuation to make her entrance.

Did she fall in love all over again? Yes, she did. It was a pure love, for at the time, she could hardly surmise that two women might love one another in any other way than the one she experienced.

She craved a look, a word, a compliment, a note in purple ink on her "devoirs". She waited impatiently for lessons to finish and French lessons to start. She loathed the school holidays where they were separated. One day, she deliberately delayed the packing of her schoolbag, only to be surprised as her "Lily" struck up a conversation with her. She received the key to the French library. Soon she was devouring the books under her expert guidance. From La Chartreuse de Parme, to Madame Bovary, from Le Rouge et le Noir to Dangerous Liaisons. Once she finished Madame de Merteuil's rise and fall in society, she determined that she too would conquer. Little could she have guessed...

Bath

She pensively studies her foot resting on the tap, while she lays there submerged in the soothing water and makes a mental note that she needs to book an appointment for a mani-pedi. The sea lavender oil is working wonders for her head, which feels heavy.

She lifts the sponge and leaves a trail of water across her torso, ending between her breasts. In just a few minutes, she will drain some of the water, and add some more hot water, thus maintaining the temperature of the bath just so. Just how she likes it. The sun still has to rise outside, but she chose to wake up early for a moment to herself.

The door to the bathroom opens. Her beloved, smiling, walks in, moving straight to where the tub is. She sits down gently on the step and looks her in the eye. She holds out her hand for the sponge, and she somewhat reluctantly relinquishes it.

Her beloved submerges the sponge in the hot water, and proceeds to rub it across her shoulder, trailing her collarbone, down to where her breasts meet. She lets go of the sponge, cups her hand and then lets the water slips through her fingers on her right nipple. The sensation is warm and pleasant. Her beloved twirls one of her curls around her fingers and then tucks it away behind her ear. She caresses her cheek.

She sighs contentedly.



Her beloved then proceeds to place her hand between her two breasts. Her thumb starts flicking her right nipple insistantly; she smiles that mischievous smile.

She looks up at her, right eyebrow raised teasingly, then languidly lifts one leg out of the bath, over the edge, implicitly begging her to pay some attention to her lower lips and the arousal within.

Her beloved smiles a knowing smile and nods imperceptibly.

Her hand travels down, over her soft belly to her mound, covering it, kneading it gently.

She arches her back sinuously, hoping the water will cool the insistent calls inside but is surprised to find that this is not the case. Her lover's thumb finds her clit and she is surprised to find how much she needed this.

She groans hungrily as a finger slips inside, relishing the throbbing heat inside. She lifts her other leg on the edge of the bath and meets her lover's hand halfway.

Her eyelids are hooded, as she slowly retreats within, focusing on one, no two fingers inside of her, exploring the warm wetness and relishing every second of it.
Her hips start to gently dance in a rocking motion in the water as she arches her back in tune with her lover's movements. Her mouth is open; she is focused on the pleasure she receives. The need to orgasm has overtaken her mind. She lusts after the release, the wave that ripples, from her feet to her head and back, leaving her exhausted but happy time and again.

She raises her hand, and runs her nails down her own skin in frustration as she keeps up the rocking movement. Her fingers tug at her own nipples. She wants to come so badly. Her lover's hand continues to dictate her every movement, her every sensation.

Small shudders overtake her; her body loses every idea of sanity it ever had and surrenders to the capable hands of her beloved. She comes. And then, as she lies there spent, she opens her eyes, and looks up into the eyes of her soul. She is loved.

Lakme

Hand

Have I ever mentioned how I love to look at your hands? I enjoy caressing their shape with my eyes, running along every line and freckle, defining the shape of your nails with them, imagining what they could do to me.

Have I ever mentioned that I am lost in thoughts during the day, when I am on my own, and I think of your hands?

I imagine them travelling across my body, tugging at my hair, tousling it, your index finger lounging lazily past my eyebrows, on my cheekbones, hesitating on my lips, continuing their travels down my chin and neck, to that soft place where my breasts meet. They discover the curve, and suddenly your hand gently weighs my breast, the thumb accidentally crossing my nipple, which is instantly aroused.

I sigh out loud contentedly. My body hums to your tune. Gently but persistently your hand continues its discovery. Down my torso, and to my hips, testing my hipbone slightly, caressing my belly, and waits.

I feel you and I want you to go on. It's all I can do not to express this need, as I arch my back. The blood is singing in my ears, my body tingles and in between my legs all is moist and ready. And you haven't even begun to touch me.

I feel your hot breath on my lips. I look into your eyes drunkenly, submissively, wantonly. I lick my lips which are aching for a kiss. Bite them in frustration. But I know better than to ask. I wait.

Your hand travels to my lower lips, explores my soft insides; a finger teases. It is the best feeling in the world and my whole body encloses around your finger, a lifeline to my core, strumming to a song of love. I want more; I wait for that second finger; and the third; until you fill me with your love.

Your body moves across me and I feel your soft breasts brush my skin, and my hand reaches for your nipples. I caress them insistently and enjoy their arousal. Your other hand tugs my hair back. And I know what comes next as you rub me insistently, dividing your attention. My hips start meeting your hand halfway and I am half mad with desire. A ripple starts working its way up from somewhere deep inside me, a gentle wave at first, growing into a rumbling crescendo and all I can think about is your hands, on me, inside of me.

I come up gasping for air and shudder, with your one hand still inside of me while the other cradles my neck. I feel like a string instrument that is being played by a maestro. I moan gently as your fingers start to strum again.

I love to look at your hands and imagine what they might do to me.

First encounter

You stepped into my consciousness somewhere in January. All of a sudden, you were there. And I turned to your bubbly corner of the chat more often, looking for laughs, sharing a giggle here and there and discovering an affinity.

By February we had become inseparable. Increasingly, we spent more and more time in private chat, detecting that we had much more in common than we thought.

In March, you sent me your first real letter, written with a fountain pen, no less. A whole book arrived in my mailbox, with that first photo of a tiny blonde, with red lipstick and Doc Martens. I wondered what it would feel like to hear you talk as I read through your missive and discovered that you were a mermaid at heart.

Sometime during that month I managed to draft my own letter and so I started out in search of the perfect hand-crafted book for my paper lover. I searched high and low for my Mont Blanc fountain pen and growled in frustration when the nib got stuck in the paper. I took a photo of myself in the days where you had to wait for a photo to be developed and debated on whether I would send it or not.

Then I discovered that the cyber cafe, where I was spending my nights by then, had a webcam. I sent you a photo on the webcam and bought my first telephone card in April. I held my breath as I dialled your number and exhaled when I heard your voice. Oh, the sweet rush of blood to my face as I blushed in front of the invisible object of my affection. I craved to hear more.

One day, as I walked out of the office where I worked, I realised that airline tickets were going cheap. Especially to your side of google earth. So, during one of our nightly conversations, I worked up the gumption to suggest that I might pay you a visit. Silence. And a tentative yes. Next day I was waiting in front of the travel agent’s door.

By May, I was nauseous. And living la vida loca. Dancing on tables. Sleeping around. Thriving on a diet of Lagavulin. The night before I left, I slept with a woman who had been chasing me for seven months. I fell down the stairs and sprained my ankle. The taxi driver ended up having to open the windows because I reeked of alcohol. I remember the long, long walk from terminal to terminal in Schiphol. The KLM crew kindly provided me with an ice pack and lots of water.

I made it through immigration in spite of the alcohol content of my breath. I limped to the baggage hall and struggled past the glass door in arrivals. You jumped right at me and said hello, and I growled ‘get me out of here’ right back at you. I thought your lipstick was too bright.

I crashed on your couch for three days – after huffily noting that there was only one bed but three swimming pools (!) at your compound. You brought me a flower that resembled a frangipani. For all of those days, we danced around one another wearily, as you proceeded to dismantle my defences one by one. On the third day, you unwittingly bought me my favourite wine and did your best Kate Hepburn imitation. It was the sexiest thing I had ever heard and I knew then and there that there was no way back. My first encounter was my last. My new life had started.