Best. Lesbian. Week. Ever. (December 21, 2007)

HEY HEY HEY HEY — THAT’S WHAT I SAY

Last month, Karman told you about the the Australian drama Satisfaction, a show about the experiences of six female sex workers, one of whom is a lesbian.

Intrepid AfterEllen.com blogger Jamie Lynn recently moved to Australia, and she sent us the scoop on a recent episode.

I can now report that, even across the Pacific, being a lesbian prostitute does not guarantee a unique story line. The third episode of the series, which focuses on the lesbian couple, is titled "Jizz." As in the hunt for it. From turkey basting with donated sperm to rifling through the brothel’s trash for used condoms, we follow Heather (Peta Sergeant) and her girlfriend, Ally (Jesse Spence), whose quest for fertilization climaxes in this episode. So to speak.

Hmm. Must this plot plague creep across every continent? But Jamie noted that there were some bright spots in the episode, like this exchange between Heather and Eadie, the homophobic girlfriend of sperm donor Gary:

Eadie: This kid. Well, it’s gonna be a lesbian, yeah?

Heather: Well, actually, we were hoping for twins. That way, if one of them is straight, we can have it terminated.

Snarktastic! But there was also a squicky story line involving a client who likes to play Baby as well as Daddy. I don’t want to know the details. Ick factor and predictable plots aside, Jamie calls Satisfaction “sexy, funny and surprisingly moving” overall. Sign me up for a box set!

WE REALLY SHOULDN’T ENCOURAGE THEM

Out authors Ali Smith and Jeanette Winterson were recently short-listed for the Guardian‘s Bad Sex Award (thanks for the tip, katchoo!).

The British award aims to “draw attention to the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel, and to discourage it.” Now that’s what I call a worthy mission. Here are the offending passages:

From Ali Smith’s Boy Meets Girl

Was that her tongue? Was that what they meant when they said flames had tongues? I was hard all right, and then I was sinew, I was a snake, I changed stone to snake in three simple moves, stoke stake snake, then I was a tree whose branches were all budded knots, and what were those felty buds, were they antlers? were antlers really growing out of both of us? was my whole front furring over? and were we the same pelt? were our hands black shining hoofs? were we kicking? were we bitten? We were blades, were a knife that could cut through myth, were two knives thrown by a magician, were arrows fired by a god, we hit heart, we hit home, we were the tail of a fish were the reek of a cat were the beak of a bird were the feather that mastered gravity were high above every landscape then down deep in the purple haze of the heather were roamin in a gloamin in a brash unending Scottish piece of perfect jigging reeling reel can we really keep this up?

I think I just sprained something. And I have to get these felty buds and furry pelts out of the way, because Winterson is ready to blast off:

From Jeanette Winterson’s The Stone Gods

“Spike, you’re a robot, but why are you such a drop-dead gorgeous robot? I mean, is it necessary to be the most sophisticated machine ever built and to look like a movie star?”

She answers simply: “They thought I would be good for the boys on the mission.”

I am pondering the implications of this. Like a wartime pin-up? Like a live anti-depressant? Like truth is beauty, beauty truth? “How good? I mean, I’m assuming you’re not talking sexual services here.”

“What else is there to do in space for three years?”

“But inter-species sex is illegal.”


“Not on another planet it isn’t. Not in space it isn’t.” …


“So you had sex with spacemen for three years?”

“Yes. I used up three silicon-lined vaginas.”

Wait. This seems awfully familiar: Is this the screenplay for that Mass Effect scene? Regardless, I’m going to be sure to use the line “You’re a robot, but why are you such a drop-dead gorgeous robot?” the next time I go to the cantina. I’ve had my tentacled eyes on a feisty little Cardassian for a while now.

Neither Smith nor Winterson “won” the prize, though. The late Norman Mailer had that dubious honor. I bet he’d share my fervent hope that Smith and Winterson will learn a lesson from this. Fewer euphemisms and more eroticism, ladies: You’re not writing lyrics for Crutch on Exes & Ohs!

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