"My guest tonight, the first guest in the Rant Room is a writer, dramatist and social commentator. She was brought up in the deep south of America, a childhood she describes as 'tense for a black kid.' She has written a great deal about her experiences as a child and says that, if she has a mission in life, it is to forget most of them. Carmen Jenkins, welcome to the Rant Room."
"Thank you, Catherine, it's great to be here."
"So tell us, what are you going to rant about?"
~
I first met Sally Watson at a gay journalist meeting in our fair city. I normally wouldn't go anywhere near a meeting described that way but my good friend, Rosie, told me that Sally would be there and that she reckoned we'd get on. Rosie is a close friend, occasional bed-mate and wise counsellor. So I went. It seems she had briefed Sally who made a beeline for me during the drinks reception after the meeting and embraced me and, to my slight consternation, kissed me. I knew who she was but, well, it seemed a little forward by any standards.
"Why fuck about? Rosie told me you're enjoyable and she is always right."
I mulled the word, 'enjoyable,'. "Is Rosie passing me around?"
"Shit, that came out all wrong, and, no, she's not passing you round, she meant you were great company! Foot well and truly in my mouth there, sorry."
You couldn't get mad with Sally. She was like a big puppy, full of energy and affection and I warmed to her immediately. I took a little longer, however, to get into her bed.
Sally has what Rosie calls the 'misery face.' She means she looks like she's sick of everything until she smiles when it transforms into a lively, happy countenance. Framed with mousy, quite short hair and with uneven teeth and a short neck she is not immediately appealing, despite a nice body and legs which she tends to dress in jeans and hoodies. A 'tom boy' as my mother would have described her.
My initial concerns dissipated and, over the next few weeks, I saw Sally for a beer a couple of times and grew very much to like her. She was quick-witted and amusing and clever. She ran a local radio channel and had a liking for output that challenged her audience.
She also had a penchant for sex, sex in all its lesbian varieties. "Men are great,C," she always called me C. "I actually prefer the company of men in social groups, just as long as they know it's social and ends there. I mean, they don't do the girly thing when the bill comes, 'I had this, you had that blah blah,' they talk about sport most of the time and most of them drink well." Well? "A lot, but without getting pissed." Ah.
The first time she fucked me, and that is all it was, she fucked me, I was visiting her flat over her studio for a drink and, after our second bottle of beer, she said, "You know, it's really time we fucked, darling," and took me there and then on her sofa. She'd worn a long, black T with, 'This way down' and an arrow pointing at her crotch, over faded blue jeans. The T came off to reveal large, firm breasts with dark pink nipples that were indicative of her state of arousal, not unlike my own. She pulled me to her and kissed me, hard and, without moving her mouth from mine, undressed me skilfully, demonstrating plenty of previous experience. Her hands wandered freely over my body and she sucked my tongue, held my nipples, and, finally, entered me, her fingers curling inside me.
Breaking the kiss, her fingers still busy, she entertained herself, licking and sucking my nipples. I was getting pretty worked up and she seemed to realise because she stoped, stood and peeled her jeans down, a glimpse of white panties at the crotch as they descended, revealing good, firm, shapely legs.
She straddled me and fed me her tits, pressing her cunt down on me while I sucked her nipples. Then she dismounted and sat on the sofa and spread her legs and, pulling me gently by my hair, guided me to kneel between her feet and feast on her. Wet, and slick, her cunt tasted divine. Her orgasm was a roar of delight and release, music to my ears.
My own followed shortly as I rode her thigh and kissed her, her fingers playing with my nipples.
~
It was a few weeks later that she invited me to host the Rant Room. I'd floated the idea as a possible programme format and she'd said she would think about it. It had never occurred to me she might invite me to host it. At first I resisted, having no experience of broadcasting but, well, Sally could be persuasive and, post orgasm, I am malleable.
And so, at 11pm that first night, I was hosting a 15 minute slot with Carmen Jenkins.
"I'm going," she said, "to rant about apologies."
And boy, did she?
"No matter what the perceived sin committed by any company, institution, political party or whatever, they seem to think an apology with atone for it. The Church apologises when a vicar abuses a child, a school likewise. A nation apologises for being involved in slavery and, lo and behold, it's fine?
"People claim they want an apology. But the truth is that, even if they get one, they will want more or they wont accept the apology given.
"Apologies are a waste of time and energy. Action is the only thing that makes a difference.
"The government, your government, apologises for health service failings. But, they don't DO anything. Anything, except throw more money down the same drain.
"I'm not knocking your country, merely using it as an example. Every country, with a couple of noticeable exceptions, apologises for something. Those that don't usually have a lot more to apologise for."
She continued in this vein for all of the remaining time of the programme.
I walked out of the studio, led Carmen to the hospitality room and poured us both a large brandy.
Sally burst in and hugged me. "Pour me one too." She turned to Carmen, hugged her as well and, doing her bouncy puppy routine, told her she'd been fantastic.
She kissed Carmen who seemed slightly put out if not actually appalled.
"She does that, Carmen," I said. "It's like shaking hands for her."
When Carmen had gone, Sally invited me up to her flat. It was more of a command than an invitation really. "Get that arse upstairs. I always get horny when things go well."
And I have to say she did not lie. The door of her flat closed, she pushed me hard against the wall and as her moth closed on mine, firm and intrusive, one hand massaged my breast while the other went up under my dark blue, full, leather skirt. Pulling my knickers aside she invaded me, two fingers curling firmly into me. I wasn't so much a participant as a sex object. No complaints there.
She almost dragged me to her bed and I sat down on it and watched as she undressed and then, to my intense delight, strapped on a lovely, blue, soft leather harness with a matching blue dildo dangling merrily from it.
I mentioned she is like a big puppy. Well, she fucked me like one, hands on the bed, feet on the floor and about a yard apart, she flipped my skirt up and, knowing I was well and truly wet, drove her girl-cock slowly and deliberately into me. It was the perfect length for me, because I really dislike anything banging into my cervix and this little beauty went all the way in without any contact. She held like that, her hips against my arse, before she started to rock back and forth, one hand gripping my hair, the other under me, rolling my nipple, which she had liberated from my pale blue silk blouse.
Her rhythm increased and she started to bite my neck and lick it and my ear. her hand released my hair and went under me to massage my clit and it was combination of that, the sheer animal lust and her breasts rubbing on my back that took me over the edge.
I was sated but Sally had only just got going and with a hasty rearrangement of our bodies, she prone, spread and unharnessed, I still dressed (if in disarray) with my head between her open thighs and her hand gripping my hair again she pulled me int her and whilst I needed no encouragement, she demanded I lick, nibble and suck. I did so until with a groan that started as a 'fuuuuuuuu,' growing by degrees from there, through, 'ohhhhh,' to 'yesssss,' and ultimately to a full blooded bellow accompanied by her body almost levitating us both of the bed, she flooded my face and came. It was a protracted orgasm, with perhaps three or more distinct elements and then little aftershocks as she descended from her high and I licked her clean.
As she lay recovering, I stood and started to tidy my clothes up.
"Where do you think you're going? Get those clothes off and get in to bed with me."
~
If Carmen Jenkins was a success, so too were the next few guests. One ranted about politicians who wouldn't resign when caught with their, as she put it, 'Hands in the till, or someone else's underwear. They abuse their positions and claim false expenses, they waste OUR money on foreign 'research' trips without a thought for the poor devils who have to pay their taxes. They are blatant and without shame."
The next was no celebrity but a guy who described himself as a 'normal husband, father and worker' from our city who was represented or rather misrepresented by people who had political agendas that had no relation to his needs.
The Rant Room was an amazingly popular invention. So much so that Sally wanted to make it longer but I resisted saying that it was the brevity that gave it immediacy. Contributors had to make their point quickly and marshal their facts. Sally accepted that but decided to move it to an earlier slot for more listeners to hear it.
Maraig (pronounced Mary) McAlister was a Scottish standup. I introduced her and asked her what she intended to rant about.
"Gay women like you." Before I could interject she was off and running. "See, women like you don't look gay which can be a challenge for women like me. So I want gay women to wear badges." Badges? "Aye, to make things clear. So you, for example, would wear a badge with 'G/F' meaning gay femme. I'd wear one with 'G/B' indicating gay butch." Maraig has a wicked smile and I knew this might get out of hand. "Then, I'd wear a badge of a different colour with 'G/F' on it to show I was looking for a gay femme. The different colours indicates what I am and what I am looking for. Get it?" I nodded. "There'd be badges for single, married, committed, and the whole range of different things we all want to know about someone when we're interested in her."
"What about trans women?"
"Let's not go down that rabbit hole. But lesbians like you need to advertise unless you're inclined to say, 'Hi, I'm a gay femme,' and give us dim dykes a heads up.'
Once more in the hospitality room, Maraig and I opened a bottle of Scotch (appropriate) and I poured a couple of large ones, then a third as Sally burst in, doing her untrained labrador impression.
"Great stuff, girls." Sally kissed us both and then turned to me. "Isn't Maraig just the perfect dyke?"
The perfect dyke, I thought to myself, and remembered telling Rosie she was 'dyke perfection.
I should tell you something at this point. Rosie, I think I have explained, was a determined singleton, free to be promiscuous and adventurous. I was happy with that except when I wasn't. You see the truth is that if I had ever thought about committing to someone, it was to Rosie. Val, mentioned early on in this saga and married to Jake was a fabulous friend and lover but, well, she was married and I could not see that ending, anymore than I could see myself committing to a bisexual woman. Nothing against them, but eventually they are going to want a real cock and, all too often, want me to try one too. And I was well past that.
