July 16, 2013
Five Jobs You Want a Tough Lesbian Handling for You
Janet Napolitano announced her resignation as Secretary of Homeland Security
last week. While I haven't spent a great deal of time in the Great Satan
during her tenure, I always deemed my native land in good hands, in no
small part thanks to the cool competence exuded by this tough no-nonsense
lesbian. I’ve always regarded her as one of the most admirable of all Obama
Administration figures, and certainly its most exceptional lesbian.
Okay, sure, Napolitano staked out a staunch pro-cock position many years
ago, but one harbors doubts. I mean, you try winning the governorship of Arizona twice during the administration
of a Bush—any damn Bush, take your pick—as an out lesbian Democrat. If
Janet Napolitano wants to pass herself off as a sports-and-cock aficionado
who’s always up for a softball game but just too busy to squeeze in any
hetero-sex, well, God bless her.
Being Secretary of Homeland Security—not to mention her next job, president
of the whole sprawling, angsty, militantly humorless University of California
system—requires a relentless, dogged determination. In these sorts of jobs,
you need someone who’s not afraid to stick her face into the vilest of
places and keep probing, not pulling back till a satisfactory conclusion
is reached. Men, as a class, just aren’t very good at that sort of thing.
It got me to wondering, what other sorts of jobs are best left to cool
and competent lesbians? Here’s what my experience has yielded.
1. Health and Hygiene instructor
I mentioned her in passing in Summer of Marv, my memoir of college days in Mankato. One earned points in her class by marking a number of Cub Scout-like achievements, one of which was to get one’s teeth cleaned at the university clinic where future dental assistants honed their skills. I referred to them as the “Stepford Dentists” in the book, which (typically for me) is glib but quite unfair, as the young ladies there were very warm and human and friendly, never more so than when they were pummeling the top of my head with their cleavage while demonstrating proper flossing technique.
This pleasant outcome surely was never envisioned by the genial lesbian in charge of Health and Hygiene, but she lives on in my memory as both a fine educator and inadvertent enabler of my fantasy life in that barbaric pre-Internet-porn era.
Okay, this is a long walk, but in October 1974, a gay assistant professor
in the Mankato State psychology department wrote a column for the Reporter titled “Coming Out Gay.” (Link follows.) I was doing the Fall Quarter
Abroad in London at the time so it was on a two-week delay that my cohorts and I absorbed
the column and the inevitable hellfire-and-damnation backlash, as if the
whole thing were a serialized Dickens novel. In his half-page broadside
titled “Homosexuality: curse of America,” H. Harold Hartzler, professor
of mathematics, performed jowl-deep cunnilingus all over the Old Testament
to bolster his thesis. You can read it here if, in stark contrast to Beavis and Butthead, you like things that suck.* In midwinter came the news of the nonrenewal of the professor’s contract.
(The openly gay one, silly, not H. Harold Hartzler.)
As soon as I got back to the campus the following January, I went to the
Reporter office and handed in two sample columns along with an unsolicited application
to be a weekly humor columnist.
One of my pieces sought to skewer the self-outed professor’s more hysterical critics by positing the various sexual proclivities and peccadilloes of such judgmental windbags. If I recall rightly, one of them involved sex with puppets. It concluded that it would be ludicrous to fire the professor for supposed “crimes against nature” while conceding that some sort of disciplinary action might be in order for his crimes against coherent column writing.
“We can’t run this,” said the plumpish, make-up-free editor-in-chief.
I assumed she was referring to the puppetosexuality, but then she added, “Alan [the courageous but atrocious columnist] is a very sensitive man!”
It soon became clear that the editor was not a disinterested party in the
whole “gay lib” issue, and so I blushed and apologized for my indiscretion
regarding her friend. But she was quick to praise my other, more benign
sample as “something we could work with,” and thereby launched my professional
writing career. So blame her for all my drivel.. I can’t honestly say that
we hung out much, but she was a great editor who ran nearly everything
I gave her with minimal sabotage. I remember her fondly.
Here is the actual column that set off the firestorm, so you can judge for yourself whether my assessment was overly harsh
in light of the fact that this brave young man was committing career suicide
in an attempt to raise consciousness. (Click on the last page of the edition.)
Jeez, who knew that the snack bar was such a hotbed of sexual subtext? I wonder if H. Harold Hartzler spent any time there.
3. Campground handjob technician
In the summer of 1976, I spent a week driving with Peg and two other girls
from Mankato to upper New England, where we had summer jobs in different
places. Despite our slim acquaintance, Peg gave me handjobs on even-numbered
Now, springing handjobs on relative strangers is not what most people would
regard as a lesbian credential, granted, but as I speculated in Wussie: In Praise of Spineless Men (still available via Amazon Kindle for a mere $2.99!), I had been antsy
and irritable from the outset of the trip, so the three girls had powwowed
on the matter and determined that someone was going to have to administer
some soothing ministrations before I terminally harshed their collective
mellow. The other two had boyfriends, so Peg stepped up, because that’s
what competent lesbians do when the team needs them to.
She had no objections when I reciprocated the digital favors but made it clear from the get-go that she had no interest in intercourse. She had exceedingly short hair—a very Napolitanoesque style, now that I think about it—but I chalked this up to its being summer. Once we were all back in Mankato, I realized that she just liked short hair. Later, she quit school to join the Air Force.
On her last night in town, she attended a party at my house. This came as a surprise, as we had quarreled a year earlier and not spoken since. She pounded down some beers and joylessly let me play with her tits—which remain hall of famers in my memory—for old time’s sake, because that was the kind of stand-up lesbian she was.
I developed a rash on my scalp and forehead in the early Nineties, a time
that corresponded with the acceleration of hair loss, so that there was
no way to conceal the ailment short of adopting the Sikh religion. I tried
one clinic, then another, then another, dealing with hapless male "specialists"
who peered and poked at the pink bumps with the sort of wonderment that
you might expect during an autopsy of Roswell aliens. I was prescribed
a series of ointments and creams that served no purpose other than to make
the bumps glisten and sparkle under fluorescent lighting in classrooms.
This went on for over two depressing years.
Then I spotted Dr. Aoki’s sign just across the street from a major hospital. I must confess that I was surprised to learn that Dr. Aoki was a woman—and a very stocky and very loud one, at that. Her curt assessment:
She gave me the Japanese equivalent of Stridex medicated pads, which caused
the bumps to wither and fade in ten days.
That summer, after spending a bit too much time at the beach, I noticed a couple of discolorations on my face. I asked if they were precancerous.
“MIGHT BE!” she ejaculated. “WANT ME TO BURN ‘EM OFF FOR YOU?”
“Well, I don’t know. What would that ent—OW!”
Her question, it turned out, was rhetorical. While I dithered, she nimbly
dipped the tip of a wire into some liquid nitrogen and then stabbed me
in the face with this instrument, twice, freezing the two suspicious lesions—which,
I may have failed to mention, were located very near my left eye. I had
to explain a pair of hideous brown blotches for the next few days, but
the problem was solved.
The next year, I developed an odd, persistent irruption just above my kneecap. She greeted me with a wry, condescending smile. Her workdays tended to consist of one kid with eczema after another, but with me it was always something different. I liked to think of her unwinding in her favorite bar, telling the other Japanese lesbian professionals, “YOU OUGHTTA MEET THIS GODDAM GAIJIN I’VE GOT. COMES IN WITH THE GODDAMNEDEST ASSORTMENT OF SKIN PROBLEMS AND NEVER HAS A GODDAM CLUE.”
I pulled down my pants for her. She was unimpressed.
“IT’S A WART!”
I should note here that Dr. Aoki’s clinic was very small. The waiting area
seated eight and was often full. There was a small reception desk, to the
right of which lay her examining room, the door to which was always wide
open so that every patient could thoroughly grasp the exact nature of every
other patient’s complaint when she made her diagnoses in her very pronounced
idiom. In short, four housewives and their offspring were now aware that
I had a wart on some part of my body that could only be viewed with my
pants pulled down.
“Yes, I thought it might be a wart, but who ever heard of a wart on a knee?”
“YOU CAN GET A WART ANYWHERE!”
“And I thought they came in bunches, but this one is all by itself.”
“IT’S A WART, I’M TELLING YOU!! WANT ME TO BURN IT OFF FOR YOU?”
This time I was ready for her. The wart was not.
I suppose I could throw in the story of my toenail fungus, but I suspect the reader tires.
5. Spouse (hypothetically)
I’ve only ever had but the one wife, and if Mrs. Muggins ever had any lesbian
leanings, she has kept them well concealed. Lately, though, I’ve found
myself pondering the upside of a lesbian wife. And it’s pretty much all
upside, isn't it?
For one thing, you would no longer have to feel guilty about preferring
a Rolling Fella Bomber and a good porn scene. Moreover, if your wife brings home a friend and they let you watch, you can forego the porn scene. Moreover, a lesbian wife would not balk at helping me with my weekly updated ranking of the Top Ten Freshman Girls.
Which reminds me, I’m overdue on that. See you in a few weeks.
|* You will have to click on the last page and then scroll down past the lead
editorial, which charmingly begins: “To smoke or not to smoke in the classroom?
It’s a matter of common sense and common courtesy.”