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What’s that smell? 7 deadly signs in your lesbian bod… I mean, bed.

October 1, 2011

♦ You’re only motivated to shave if a doctor’s appointment is approaching.

♦ Masturbation is strictly a means of survival, and your mind is blank while it occurs  (if your partner pops up, you ask her to kindly stop spying on you).

♦ You discuss bowel movements, regularly.

♦ Drinking heavily in order to increase your chances of sex (and then failing to do so when you can’t keep your head up).

♦ You’re tired. You will try again tomorrow. Maybe.

♦ When a sex scene in a movie comes on you suddenly have to use the bathroom in order to avoid the awkwardness.

♦ When a random straight person asks you how lesbians have sex, you become confused and tell them to watch The L Word.


Wo-man Up!

September 10, 2011

I had an epiphany; a throw your jazz hands up and rattle your head kind of epiphany. Ready? Women are not men.

My epiphany occurred during a disappointing bout of boring sex. Now before you get your boy shorts in a twist, let me explain. Midway through the overly rhythmic and creaky lesbian sex, I had the unfortunate thought of a man. I thought, “yuck. this is like having sex with a man”. Afterwords, I realized how ironic the situation was. So often lesbians compare themselves to men; in the bedroom, in the office, even in Home Depot. If your more femme counterpart is comparing you to a man, please use this as a reference; it is never a good thing.

When did the word “man” replace the word “confidence” in the lesbian community? There is no giving it to her like a man. We want lesbians, giving it to us like they will die without it. If you had a penis, we wouldn’t suddenly ride you into tomorrow. Apparently it’s a convenience issue. I’ve come across the concept that if a woman had a penis her work load would decrease, while her pleasure load erupts; she would automatically be aroused and ready to penetrate all while her partner is bouncing, clapping and screeching “put it in! put it in!”. We can conclude that hetero-sex appears easy (minus the vomiting), but it is not better. It’s boring enough for the bible for God’s sake.

If you find yourself fantasizing about having a penis (and not in a fun role-playing manner), what you are actually wanting is the confidence and passion to make love with ease upon command. There is nothing more gratifying than two women together … or even watching a hot chick on a ladder. If your girl labels herself bisexual, trust me, there is no grande gesture a man can present in order to steal her away. You can make her feel hotter, safer, and stimulated in a worldly fashion. Once you give up on her, stop taking emotional care of her, and get lazy in the sack, well then it’s fair game in her world. Not to worry, you have the home team advantage.

BOUND Magazine articles (Avalon Media, now the publishers of Curve)

August 18, 2011

JealousShe by Sandi Esposito


My favorite published article to date!

BOUND_008_sandi 2-1     BOUND_008_sandi 3-1

BOUND Magazine

Into the Dirty Thirty

August 13, 2011

It began as a modest intention. I’m turning thirty, and am required to host some kind of gathering in order to receive the gifts I so obviously deserve. I’m considering noting “if you aren’t present, send one” on the invitations. Yes, an invite that could possibly cause a paper cut. Facebook invites result in my constant hounding of people, questioning why they haven’t clicked a fucking button assuring the birthday girl of their attendance. I figure if I send something glittery in the mail, my request will be taken seriously enough for a reply. This thought led to a glitter party theme. The femme guests can break out a pair of trendy glitter stilettos and a clever boy can impersonate Maria Carey. Their partners will have to find a pair of decked out Nikes. If I approve of your attire a sudden gaylicious glitter dousing will occur.

Agnes was quick to jump on my bandwagon of insanity. She too likes a dramatic approach to getting friends drunk. Our future wedding is sure to consist of brides in white scuba gear arriving on dolphins. She has been researching the mechanics of a champagne tower. I will never forget when she turned to face me and said “I have always wanted a champagne tower………..for you”. Adorable, Agnes and I are very alike in some ways. We have spent the week booking a suite in the casino hotel, imagining the same day spa trip that will transform us into Shane and Carmen, and constructing hand-made invitations to send to our gorgeous and wealthy best friends. The only people sure to attend are my parents.


Future Generations Can’t Find Your Tweet in the Attic

August 2, 2011

After having the most amazing two days off, I rushed home to tweet the sounds of the beach and blog the chaos of Ikea. I have always been a social person; I have always been a writer. However, only my career goals drove me to logging hours on the computer in order to network and share my great wisdom with others (lesbians specifically of course). I’m not a freak, I was sucked into Facebook years ago and it’s my mains means of staying in touch. The immediacy and brief-ness of Twitter is new to me however and I’m having a lot of trouble adjusting. Social media are a very exciting way to share ideas, insight and experiences; it is a way for any community to stay connected. Like media forms have a tendency to do though, it can turn boring, commercialised and socially pointless very quickly (or slowly).

Yesterday Agnes and I went to the beach and had an entire day free of arguments, financial worries or family/friend drama. It was just the two of us again, on the road, in the sand, and stuffing our faces full of barbecued tofu. I have a really corny tradition of collecting only the swirliest of sea shells every time we go to the beach (and have done it since our first summer together). As she handed me shells I grew thankful that I still had the glass jar containing the previous years’ findings. I made sure to remember the details of the day for my blog. Then, I realized I wanted to remember this day forever. I am going to print the pictures out and take the actual time to place them in a physical album opposed to the digital sea of virtual collections that diminish over time.

This is what is amazing about old media and print. It may not be a tool of expression that can be used by all, but that’s part of its beauty. One needs dedication, drive, and a committed love to their ideas in order to be published, or on the air. Print seems the most beautiful to me at the moment, because any one of my articles in BOUND or Curve can be picked up in the future, taken out of a box and dusted off, even if my internet is down. Borders is going out of business and I found a gorgeous huge album of some sort (it’s not sticky, you can write on the pages, sketch pictures, and glue photos… but it’s not a scrap-book). I can make the book into whatever I want. Sure, I have logged onto all my accounts since arriving home, but only to remind you to develop a picture of your girlfriend and write in your Journal. Work on finding and preserving one representation of who you are that doesn’t include the internet and that will be physically present forever.

Can an old dog learn new tricks?

July 31, 2011

When the question is approached literally, I am a firm believer. I have been working in animal shelters for about five years now and have personally seen very old dogs suddenly dumped by their owners (some just depressed because of the situation, some beaten, some blind, deaf or worse). Over and over again these forgotten animals are placed into new homes in which they thrive even more so than in the original. Yet most adopters think they must “mold” their dog from the time of puppyhood. I have noticed the Pit Bull’s particular ability to overcome abuse and neglect  (research some of the Michael Vick’s cases, who are now rehabilitated). In my opinion the Pit Bull mix is the most forgiving “breed”; willing to forgive, even if they never forget. The most loyal of dogs, they will do whatever their owner tells them (eventually) and this is why they are chosen by crappy owners to do crappy things. So, all in all, as we approach this question, the answer always depends on the person.

After being with my girlfriend for two years it was time to introduce her to my grandparents. I was not only terrified, but did a great job in convincing her she should be. “Just ignore my grandfather. He’s a racist, a homophobe and will say horrible things to you. We are used to it, it’s no big deal”. I have a big Irish/Italian family and they would all be in attendance for my official coming out. I love my father’s family and was surrounded by them growing up. That being said, it was mostly my mother’s side that instilled in me the power of tolerance, acceptance and a love for activism. I was excited about seeing the family, as they migrated to North Carolina five years ago (I am a coastal snob). Yet the little voice inside of me  kept repeating “they are not going to look at you as their first grandchild anymore… they will not accept this, as they don’t accept others… and they are going to hate you”.

Older than ever, my grandparents welcomed Agnes and I with open arms. They were so excited to see me, and accepted her almost immediately; they were interested in our lives, in who she was, and who I had become. I had underestimated them due to my previous experiences. I do that all the time, in every aspect of my life. As I continue to grow up I urge myself to overestimate people, or at least just estimate them. Younger generations can actually change the outlook of those older. I never thought I’d see the day my father raised a bi-racial baby, but my brother brought his child home two years ago and my parents now raise a two year old girl named Blanca Skye. Maybe in the future my grandfather will defend same sex couples during a senior center gathering, because somebody he loved forced him to see the light. Hiding who we are out of fear is never the answer… because if we present ourselves to those who loves us, they might actually change their minds (because minds work at any age).

Fry me up some eggs, will ya babe?

July 24, 2011
Wife. I’ve grown to really hate the word. I don’t care for houses, or kids. I don’t care for budgeting or cleaning. I just care. I fall in love with a person. Then, once I become emotionally and financially tied to the person beyond comprehension, filling the home with countless dependant companion pets, I fall out of love with the situation.
Our generation is very confused, through no fault of our own. We were raised on romantic comedies and Sex and the City. Sex and the City is supposed to be able minded single gals who don’t need partners and are rich and happy all on their own. The clothes and hip apartments plant that seed in our head, only to cover it with the soil of the real truth; you are nothing without love. The love of your friends won’t do, and the love of your family is only a close second. There must be some truth to the latter, as mammals have been partnering up for life… well, since the beginning of life.
Like so many of us, I have not been single since my sophomore year of college. I am embarking on my 30th birthday in a mentally draining state of confusion. I have been with my partner for about two and a half years now, living together for two. She is slightly younger than me and much more mature (although no more sane). She wants to build a better more secure life together, really get our adult heads on straight. I already feel settled down. I am monogamous, I work, and I don’t let the bills go overdue (too often). Yet, I really want to put on the skimpy black dress (preferably one that Sarah Jessica Parker would wear) and go out on the town more often than not. Am I an alcoholic, or a stifled socialite?
I’m also the type of woman who hates the word partner. I prefer to have a lover. A committed and steady lover, a generous lover, a lover who is my best friend. Once a partnership exists it’s difficult to go on a date. It becomes dinner. That’s another word I hate; dinner. Screw dinner, let’s eat and laugh. Then, I want to argue about who is going to let who pay. The person who received a free dinner gets to perform sexual favors later in the night. Is this scenario possible after three years together? I’m not sure, and I almost through my entire bed, frame and all, out on the curb last night. Along with the same stupid frying pan we have made hundreds of meals on.
Wives even get spoken to differently. In fact, they get spoken to. Girlfriends get spoken about. When I was a girlfriend I don’t recall hearing the word fuck directed at me, unless it was in the bedroom. Now here is the confusing part, do I successfully speak to my partner like a girlfriend opposed to a wife? I try, I was raised to treat others blah blah blah. Sometimes I think I’ve lost hope. That I will just stick to this bed, this frying pan, and these God damn freaking eggs.