It's that time again, here at Creampuff Revolution. That's right - it's EMBARRASSING LESBIAN POETRY TIME. In honour of spring's inexorable progress and the memories of young lust it brings, today I'll be sharing a piece of rhyming confession that I performed at Cheap Queers last June. If it makes even one of you feel like less of a freak in the sack, then my work here is done.
Your Love Gives Me A Rash
By Creampuff
For some it takes time, but for some, we are quick
To note that we just do not care for the dick.
And that mainly with chicks we would fain spend our time,
For their charms, they are many, and their lips are sublime.
But pursuing this lust, not much time had I spent,
Unlike SOME of my friends, whose stories all went:
“We fucked in the shower after volleyball practice!”
Or began with “So I’m there going down on this actress”
Their stories, in truth, were all quite delicious,
But every last tale told involved . . . skinny bitches.
A woman of substance is what I desired.
There was one in my film class I’d seen and admired,
But my prospects seemed bleak, for the damsel in question
Oft fixed me with a glare that betrayed indigestion.
Little did I know ‘twas her way of flirting!
And not too much later, I found myself blurting
Inanities like “Hi!”
Surprisingly, this did not win me her heart.
But a few weekends later, it gave me a start
When I went to the bar and saw she was there,
All tattoos and piercings and crazy spiked hair.
She crossed to my corner and began to make clear
Her intentions, she whispered them into my ear.
The suggestions she made seemed kind of obscene
(I can’t tell you her name, but it RHYMES with “Bhristine”)
She bowed low and she pressed her lips to my hand,
And that marks the point when the blushing began.
See, for all of my talk, I was new at this game.
I won’t bore you with details, it’s really just lame,
But my lack of experience had made me quite shy.
And though I’d had one fling, or two, with “the guys”,
I’d been saving myself, see, for just the right gal
And had only discussed lesbo sex, with my pals
My one friend Deanna, she summed it up right,
When I spoke of my nervousness, shyness and plight:
“Being straight is a breeze, ‘cause with guys, you can bluff
But with GIRLS,” she said wisely, “YOU have to DO stuff.”
I considered these words as Bhristine turned her key
And opened the door of her res room for me.
Some music was playing – “You like Roz Basmerta?”
“I wouldn’t know”, I said, “I’m from Alberta.”
The kissing came next, it was really quite nice,
And Bhristine had her overalls off in a trice,
I could feel the heat rising, my face in full flush,
Bhristine was flushed too but that’s ‘cause she’s a lush,
My blush gained in strength; I feared it might consume
My face and my ears and poor Bhristine’s res room.
Bhristine pulled the neck of my shirt open wide,
Then took in my chest and said “Hey – are those HIVES?”
I looked down at my chest and I saw she was right.
There were hives standing out from my skin, red and bright.
"Maybe you’re allergic to peanuts”, she said,
"I had some for lunch, here, sit down on the bed,
Is there anything that I should get for you then,
Like a doctor to call or your own epi-pen?”
"No, no”, I said, “it’ll be gone in a flash,
It’s just I think you’re hot . . . and that gives me a rash.”
It took me a fairly long time to convince her
These hives were a compliment, nothing should hinder
This magical night. Though I was terribly sorry
To have freaked her out thus, it was all hunky dory.
The rash was ignited by our passion’s fire
They weren’t hives of distress, these were hives of desire.
On that wonderful night, booze had played quite a part.
And it never takes much to pry my knees apart (If you know what I mean)
Bhristine carried on, to the floor we did slide and
Over my skin spread a warm glow of . . . pride.
For my first time, I feel I performed fairly well,
And as far as I know, no cruel tales did SHE tell
Of my strange and disfigured expression of lust.
And for every tryst after, that rash was a must.
And so, we have come to the end of my tale.
I wish that in telling it, I’d remained pale,
But I’m probably blushing right now, as I speak,
For to cure this affliction, I’ve found no technique.
Be it true love or mere lust, crush or mash,
You can read how I feel by the glow of my rash.
