Like many lesbian couples my girlfriend and I find booking the
right holiday tricky.
Many resorts are so geared towards straight couples that we feel
conspicuous - like a couple of penguins in dark glasses trying to
get into the White House Christmas party. Forget the Japanese Kanji
symbol, we may as well have 'different' tattooed on our lower
backs.
Last year instructed to "book a romantic holiday", I panicked and
delegated the task to my mum's septuagenarian travel agent. Despite
being called Les he was clueless about the needs of the Sapphic
traveller. He booked us a twin room in an uptight hotel, where we
felt it necessary to keep our poolside PDA to a minimum. I spent my
days seething behind a Patricia Cornwell at the sight of my fellow
straight guests getting it on in public with gay abandon.
This year I didn't take any chances. I booked a spot where I knew
we'd be alone. As soon as we arrive I begin extolling the virtues
of our remote location: "This is what it's all about. Just us.
Alone. This is what I call a holiday." I'm just about to nuzzle up
to my girlfriend on the sun bed, when a woman appears from out of
the bushes bellowing, "HALLO!" Instinctively we leap up, as if
we've been scalded, and separate.
Minutes later, we're standing in our shiny underwear (bikinis)
being interrogated by a very perky rep named Liz.
"So, who got lucky?" she asks enthusiastically. What? That's a
bit forward. She's clearly mistaken my red faced embarrassment with
a post-coital flush. Then she clarifies, "Who got the big bedroom?"
Oh dear. Liz isn't that forward after all. She's actually a few
steps behind.
"We're sharing that room." I accompany the statement with a hard
stare for emphasis.
My revelation does a number on Liz's well-honed rep patter and she
gets a sudden dose of verbal diarrhoea, "YES. Of course! Great!
Well why not? Share I mean. Why not share? Why wouldn't you? GREAT.
Lovely. Lovely room. Perfect for sharing. Great. Lovely."
I can see that being the meat in our bikini-clad-lesbian sandwich
is making Liz visibly uncomfortable. She can no longer hold eye
contact. When she catches my eye she immediately looks down at my
chest, then panics at the sight of my boobs, looks up, and the
whole cycle begins again. The trouble is it's contagious. When she
looks down at my chest I return her look, and then look over at
hers. My girlfriend is following our little back and forth, like a
spectator at tit tennis match.
"Well I'd better get off now." Liz directs this statement to my
breasts who decline to comment, and then disappears back through
the bushes leaving us to free to enjoy our holiday.
No Les, no Liz, just us lesbians.
Why not follow TRL on Twitter? @rubbishles
