Gość: Michelle
IP: *.mons.skynet.be
02.08.01, 19:18
http://www.onourbacksmag.com
The first time I ever went to Michigan it was with the intention of sneaking
into the Womyn''s Music Festival and camping in the Twilight Zone, the
contested, controversial forest of perverted freak-wimmin whose taste in sex
triggered the festival''s more stereotypical attendees. I was with my best
friend Tux and her new girlfriend with a nickname that meant pussy in some
Eastern European tongue. I was with my other best friend Ziggy, whose tent I
would share. We would camp alongside a bunch of Ziggy''s pro-camper friends from
the Midwest, girls who had many advanced camping accessories, like waterproof
Patagonia spice racks and such, and would therefore compensate for all that
Ziggy and I did not bring into the woods. In my enormous army surplus backpack
which was tangled like a bad bondage outfit with mysterious olive green straps
and metal buckles looping everywherewas my sleeping bag, some cut-off shorts
and flowery dresses, the biggest bottle of Jim Beam I could find, and a
waterproof bag holding tarot cards and cigarettes.
Ziggy and I pitched the tent, and a few hours later Tux and Pussy came
traipsing across the green with their legs all shredded and criss-crossed with
the scabs from all the thorny brambles that they hiked through to sneak onto
the land. I was glad I just coughed up the money at the gate, because those
legs looked like they needed more help than the organic salve and tea tinctures
the festival provided to the occasionally wounded. I went to the festival
because I''d never been to it before, Team Dresch was going to play, and all
those girls were driving out in a van. I had no girlfriend but was sort of
messing around with this one girl who would be there, and even though she was a
playa and maybe wouldn''t be able to fit me into her sex schedule, I figured
what the hell, I''d be surrounded by thousands of lesbians and probably
something else would come through.
Each morning the entire Twilight Zone was awakened by a woman we came to refer
to as "The Rooster." She and her lady were obviously on some sort of regular
fuck-schedule, and at about eight in the morning her loud, braying sex-shrieks
would chime across the land like breathy cock-a-doodle-do''s. Everyone sort of
lay still in their sleeping bags, quietly marveling at her pitch and range, and
when it reached its crescendo and wound back down it would be time to rise and
reflect upon the previous night''s wonders. How wandering into the trees for a
place to piss, I''d stumbled upon a woman bound to a tree, and was quickly
herded away by a trio of extremely serious women in leather caps. How a small
mass of ladies had gathered to perform a raunchy live sex show right outside
our tents.
Now the morning light gleamed upon the shucked gloves and condoms that lay
amidst the beer cans and whiskey bottles; the great outdoors now smelled like
last call at the worst dive bar in the world. Ziggy and I talked about how we
couldn''t keep nice things, not even nature, and stuck our heads into Tux''s tent
to make sure that she hadn''t choked on her puke in her sleep, and she hadn''t.
There it all was, a disgusting, chunky puddle by her head.
That night was Stations of the Cross, the big SM installation trail that really
illuminated how enragingly uptight and sterile SM culture could be. You were
only allowed along the trail if you''d gone to the proper workshop and gotten a
card. A workshop we were all much too hungover to attend but what the fuck
anyway, the whole shebang was happening right across the path from our camp
site, in our hood, and we would not be denied entrance for lack of a goddamn
card. Irritated that attendees were told not to drink before attending, Tux and
I swigged from the bottle of Jim Beam I kept belted to my hip like, I imagined,
a pioneer, and bypassed the long line of curious women patiently waiting to be
admitted into the first station. Marching obnoxiously through some tall weeds,
we found a lady hanging naked from a tree, looking perhaps asleep or deeply
bored, while an equally disinterested lady swung a flogger at her in a
deadening, hypnotic rhythm. The flogger noticed me and Tux, yelled at us for
skipping ahead of the line and viewing the installations out of order, demanded
to see our cards, then booted us off her little patch of paradise.
We skipped away gleefully. We had wanted to be oppressed by humorless SM
lesbians, and now that we''d suceeded, we were free to dredge up new bratty
exploits. I found my playa and as it happened she had a spare moment to fuck me
in some bushes, bushes I hoped were not the same ones I''d been pissing in all
week. I brought the playa back to the tent I was sharing with Ziggy, who had
also brought home a trick, and the four of us wiggled into the two-person tent
and fucked around and someone had a knife, which made a terrible, accidental
slit in the side of the tentwhich was not Ziggy''s but borrowed from a friend.
All night the Midwestern skies dumped an awesome amount of rain upon our tents,
and I awoke in the morning to the sound of a stranger getting thoroughly
fucked, my face in a muddy puddle of cold rainwater, eager to begin another day
in nature.
