Behind GeeGee's Curtain: The Race Card

Anyone who knows me knows that I’m about as racist as I am homophobic and I haven’t been called ‘Superlettiebag’ and ‘Superfaghag’ for nothing.  I’m just fed-up, or as we say here in Gauteng – Gatvol!  I was standing at the till in the supermarket a few days ago and a black man behind me in the queue asked me if I would pay for his groceries.  I’ve done it before when I felt someone needed my help so I glanced down at the contents of his trolley and it was full of luxury items.  Not basic necessities like bread, milk, maize meal and tins of food but rather massive slabs of chocolate, ice-cream, t-bone steaks and so on.  I thought he was joking so I just looked at him and smiled politely so he says to me that he’s serious.  I think the disbelief at the bloody cheek of it was written all over my face because that’s when he called me a racist.  Without me saying a single word I was called a racist.  Asshole.  I thought to myself that he’s a very lucky man because if the incident had happened while the tumour I named Irene was still lodged in my brain it would have ended very badly for him.  Irene didn’t take shit and lost her temper spectacularly when she was fucked with.  Sometimes I miss her.

 

That brought to mind 2 things that happened while Irene was still very much alive and well.  The first was right here in my own back yard.  I’m ashamed (ok, not really ashamed – I just thought I’d put it out there to see how it sits) to say that morning I was a poster child for the saying ‘You can take the girl out of the hood...’  I was sitting minding my own business and having my first cuppa of the day (never a good time to mess with my ass) when all hell broke loose outside.  My elderly Golden Retriever Daisy was going absolutely apeshit and she’s a friendly muttley who loves everyone on sight, so it was strange enough for me to go to the window to investigate.  Our lovely neighbours are the Embassy from some God-forsaken African country.  I won’t mention which one but suffice to say it’s one that hangs gay people for the ‘heinous crime’ of loving someone of the same sex.  Anyway, one of the kids that live there was standing on the wall throwing stones at my dog.

"Hey! Stop that!" *through the window in my sternest voice*

He has the nerve to throw another rock, waggle his bum at me and stick his tongue out!  Well.  Clearly that was me!  Before I knew it I was outside in my robe, pyjamas and slippers trying to climb the 7 foot dividing wall. All I was focused on was getting my hands on that little shit and showing him what a crazy ass white bitch is capable of first thing in the morning if you mess with her muttleys.  I don't know what would have happened if my son hadn't come outside to see what the commotion was about and pulled me off the wall...  I don't even want to think of the image Shadrack now has in his head of his madam being held off the floor by her son, arms and legs flailing in her pink pj's and fluffy slippers.  Said neighbours have branded me a racist.  Assholes.  I would have reacted exactly the same if the child was white, a naughty child is a naughty child, no matter what colour.

 

 

 

The second erm... incident was while I was walking our dogs in the park around the corner with our dog psychologist. Don’t judge – I was trying to integrate my beloved late Doberman Samson with our smaller dogs and finally end the apartheid in our household.  There are massive signs everywhere telling people to keep their dogs on the leash but suddenly this ugly ass dog that looked like a hyena (in retrospect I think it might very well have been) appeared out of nowhere and was trying to bite Daisy.  She’s a gentle soul who wouldn’t hurt a fly and this bloody beast is nipping at her flanks and legs, my poor girl looked terrified.  Two black women wearing black t-shirts with white clenched fists on them come strolling over the rise and shout for us to leave their dog alone.

 

 

"We're not touching your dog, please put it on a leash" *politely*

"We don't have to do it just because you say so..."

WTF???? Huh?

"It's the law, read the signs" *doing my best to keep cool in front of the dog psychologist*

"You white bitches can't tell us what to do, we're diplomats..."

OMG....

Clearly that was me and all previous thoughts of decorum flew right out of my head without so much as a backward glance.  I made such a scene that two old white men who were there in a bakkie full of black construction workers came running. I could just picture the headline: 

Housewife and Dog Psychologist Start Race Riot on the Ridge

It got ugly, really ugly and I got nervous when I realised us whiteys were outnumbered 4 – 30 but my temper had total control over me by then.  At one point the dog lady was holding me back because all I could see was red and I wanted to smack the sanctimonious smirk off that bloody woman's face Oh. So. Badly.  Next thing she was right in my face, spittle flying, shouting that we tortured black people!  Me!?!  I've never tortured anyone or anything in my life but at that point I would’ve been more than happy to start with her.  Things only ended when I told them that one signal from me and Samson would rip all their throats out, starting with their ‘dog’. Gawd, one would think that one could walk one's dogs in peace...  The pure venom and undiluted hatred in that woman’s eyes was something else – I’m pretty sure if she had a gun on her she would have shot me, a perfect stranger.  Asshole.

 

I like living on the Ridge, but these bloody diplomats really get to me. We pay to live here yet they act like they own the whole neighbourhood, happily living the high life off their countries' gravy trains while their fellow countrymen starve to death.  Assholes.  Oh, and while on the subject of gravy trains - since Missus Z No. 5 has moved into the street our electricity bill has gone up by loads, funny that...  Asshole.  I'm not a racist, but days like that, when I'm exposed to reverse racism at its ugliest, I tend to waiver in my beliefs. My generation had no part of apartheid yet we get punished for it every day.  Growing up the first I ever knew racism even existed was when my mother’s best friend Jubi, her husband Josef and their kids would come over to visit and the neighbours wanted nothing to do with us because of it.  When I asked my friends why they weren’t allowed to come over anymore they told me it was because we had coloured people visiting at our house and their parents didn’t want them to play with me anymore because they saw me playing with coloured children.  Fucking assholes.

 

 

I don’t care whether you’re black, blue, green or pink but if you’re an asshole you’re a fucking asshole.  I’m sick to death of being accused of being a racist and keeping my mouth shut, walking on eggshells around black people with chips on their shoulders in case I offend them.  An old friend of mine often rants and raves about the state of affairs in this country – to the point where we tease him that he’s sounding more like a Right Wing AWB leader by the day.  I’m sure old Eugene Terreblanche would turn in his grave if he knew a coloured man was being compared to him!  Can’t help having a bit of a giggle at that...  Ah well, he was an embarrassment anyway – I mean, apart from all the shit the damn fool spoke, the fucker fell off his horse.  Walking in a parade...  And he called himself a Boer?  Perfect example of what I mean by Asshole.

Last year at Pride when I went undercover as a lesbian my Gentledyke and I were asked by a black man whether he could watch us have sex and he kept pestering us for ages, making a complete nuisance of himself.  He got more inappropriate as the hours went by, completely spoiling our day.  If he was white he would’ve had his ass kicked into the next century by the men who were with us but because he was black he got away with it.  Asshole.  And don’t even get me started on the black women in the parking lot of our local supermarket.  Driving massive 4x4’s they can barely see over the steering wheels of – but if they have diplomatic plates you can be sure that bitch is going to either scrape your car or drive over your foot and beware if you so much as say a single word about it, then you’re a racist.  Assholes.  If I did the same thing accidently?  Then I’d be called a racist.  You just can’t win. 

 

 

I have often partied and had great fun with people of all races in our Rainbow Nation but I don’t walk around talking about my black friends.  I don’t talk about my white friends either.  Friends are friends, no matter what colour they are.  So I don’t sit down with Precious for a cuppa and a natter – I had a white maid in Spain and I didn’t socialise with her either, as one does when someone is part of your household staff, but I wasn’t accused of being prejudiced because of that.  Besides, Precious is completely uneducated and comes from a small Xhosa village in the Eastern Cape and communicating with her can be a bit of a challenge.  I had no idea until friends from the UK came to stay and they asked me what language we speak to each other, apparently it sounds like a strange form of Pidgin English.

If there was a word for someone who can’t tolerate assholes I wouldn’t mind being called that at all.  An assholist perhaps? But being called a racist?  Yes, I do fucking mind thankyouverymuch...

 

Time for a voddie shot methinks, I'm all worked up all over again.

 

*clink!*

GeeGee xx

Profits vs People

 

They say that the LGBTI Pride Parade is like Christmas for the gays. It’s the one day a year that everyone looks forward to, the day you spend weeks, if not months, planning your outfit, what you’re doing afterwards, and who you’re mincing with. You look forward to seeing all the colourful floats, what the cute stalls have on display and which eccentric outfits the kweens, bears and fairies will be wearing on the day. You make sure the batteries for your camera and phone are fully charged so you can look back at the day that was and reminisce about the fun you had.

 

I have attended the local Pride parade every year for exactly half my life, and the ones with the fondest memories, I have to admit, were the ones much earlier on in my life. Pride was always something I looked forward to and prepared for and I always felt inspired after attending the event.

 

Seeing the entire gay community standing together for a mutual cause, marching through the streets with a purpose, seeing the public wave and hoot as we pass, our straight friends and family walking alongside us in support, the kweens flinging insults and high heels at the happy clappy homophobes at the side of the road, and most importantly, being free to express yourself, your individuality and not just your sexuality is what Pride is and should be all about.

 

That was then…

 

In recent years there has been quite a lot of complaints and blogposts directed at the downward spiral pride parades all across the country are taking. And this should be cause for alarm to those who organise these get-togethers, but I don’t think this is sinking in just yet. Myself, and many others believe this is due to certain role players making the mistake of putting Profits over the pink People.

 

In the past I have driven and been on 4 floats, once on a motorcycle, I have walked with 5 charity organisations, walked for a cause twice and managed stalls on 2 occasions as well. In some years gone by, float and stall operators had to rock up for a meeting, pay a nominal admin fee, stick to the rules and Bob’s your auntie, you’re good to go! Ever wonder why there aren’t so many colourful floats and as many exciting stalls around? Why ten ton flatbeds decorated in the fabulous rainbow flag have been replaced by convertables and bakkies? Why the stalls with the cheap trinkets and memorable memorabilia disappeared and have been replaced by overpriced junk you know you’ll never use again? Let’s take a look:

 

To have a float in the Jo’burg parade, you’re looking at up to 1500 bucks per float. The Durban parade up to and R1200 and the Mother City R50 to R250. Stalls in Jo’burg range between R450 and R1035 and Cape town between R300 and R1000. There’s also the issue of the method of payment for these events and the so-called Pink Money they use as currency, which is non-refundable!

 

Then there’s the issue of refreshments on the day. We used to be able to take our own picnic baskets and refreshments, but at recent events, even bottled water has been confiscated at the gates. I distinctly remember standing in a queue for an hour and a half for Pink money at last year’s Pride, only to then stand in a two hour queue for a drink (that cost about twice as much as I would have paid at my local pub even now, a year later), and then not having enough energy to stand in another mile long queue for something to eat. The drinks vendor also did not stock what we preferred to drink so what’s the point? Look, I totally get why they would ban bringing in booze so they could sell their own, but why not let people bring in their own soft drinks, water and snacks?

 

So if people pay to operate stalls and floats, pay overwhelming amounts of money for food and booze and spend money to buy a currency they cannot get a refund on for essentially nothing and the organisers get cash from advertising packages and corporate sponsors, as well as sponsorship from service providers and artists, not to mention the rent-a-crowd they brought in by the busloads last year, it looks like Gay Pride has turned into another cog in the money making machine.

 

There are those that argue that money is needed for the organisation and smooth running of the event, which is essential, but with the massive media coverage AND turnout Pride gets every year, sponsorships and advertising shouldn’t be that hard to come by and if insufficient funds are raised through advertising and sponsorship, organisers should really look into firing their PRO’s and marketing managers. The other argument is that they need to pay artists due to perform on the day. When I spoke to a very well-known female artist that performed at Pride a few years ago, she told me that she performed for free and that it was a tremendous honour to perform at the event. Other artists have told me that they’ve done the same in order to get exposure. And to be quite honest, apart from the artist I just mentioned, I don’t think I watched anyone else perform at Pride in the 15 years I’ve attended and no one I know has either. So why pay a so-called fortune for something no one really cares about?

 

Today I was told that apart from everything one has to pay for at Pride, the NMB Pride is charging an entrance fee to this year’s event and this has created a massive storm for the gay community in PE and no doubt it will cause many to boycott the event. For smaller cities, with their Pride parades still being in its infancy, this is definitely a step in the wrong direction. Pride is about people, not profits. About being free to be who and what you are or who you support and not about how deep organisers can dive into your pockets.

 

My point is this: Pride is turning into yet platform for the exploitation of the gay community. Some of my family members used to attend Pride with paper bags over their heads in fear of persecution way back when, and back in the day, some of my drag queen friends were jailed for wearing a disguise in public. They didn’t do that so someone could come along and make a quick buck off our community!

 

 

Lizzy the Lezzie - Lesbian addict

Poetry from the heart - Die Brandweervrou

ENDLESS SUMMER

DELIA

 
SLUTICIA

LEE

NINJA

LIZZY THE LEGEND

 

 

MINXY

 

 

SIMISTRY

AND INTRODUCING...TINKLE

THE MODERN L CREW:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CREW:

MODELS:
SIMISTRY
DELIA
SLUTICIA
LEE
NINJA
LIZZ
MINXY

CREATIVE:
PHOTOGRAPHY: TIHAN & MISS JONES
CONCEPT, LAYOUT & DESIGN: ILSE & MISS JONES

SHOT ON LOCATION AT MOUNT AMANZI

THIS SHOOT WAS BROUGHT TO YOU BY:
PINK ICE PROMOTIONS, DESIGN & BEAUTY
GAVIN: 082 764 2381
NICKY: 083 561 1225

Enjoy the silence

 

We don't talk out of the house! That was dad's words. Everytime she did this while we were growing up. Every time she used to take us in her car, or on a train, or even on foot. Every time we went to school exhausted, dirty, homework not done. Every time we were reprimanded by teachers for being absent, being late or being lethargic in class. We don't talk out of the house. I wonder if they ever bought the vague excuses of a ten year old? To them, all I was, was the naughty, disobedient kid with the silver spoon. I did ok I suppose, I got by. But sometimes I wonder what I would have become had I not been a parental child, being a mother not only to my younger siblings, but to my mother as well.

My childhood memories are filled with images I'd rather forget. Thinking about it brings on feelings of terror, sadness and a feeling of total and utter hopelessness. I had no one looking out for me really. Educators? No. I wasn't allowed to tell. Friends? No. I wasn't allowed to tell. Parents? Please, I was the parent. There was always my grandma's house. The only place in the world I felt safe because I knew she wouldn't let her near us in that state. It also helped that my army of aunts were there most of the time as well, and one thing about our family, say what you want about them, but they protected us kids like a pack of wolves.

As a child, I remember my mother smelling like beer, passed out or vomitting, being aggressive...I was afraid of her, scared and helpless. I remember dodgy motel rooms, train stations, franticly looking for a phonebooth to call my dad, dirty houses in the wrong parts of town where so-called extended "family" stayed, I remember doing my best not to cry...not when I was in these situations and certainly not at school when I was yelled at for being tardy. I couldn't help it though, when we eventually found our way home and mom got a few smacks for doing it again. But we don't talk out of the house...

I remember broken glass, the smell of petrol, tyres and an over revved clutch. I remember waking up with a dashboard on my lap and a tree between my legs. I remember cutting my foot on the debris in the road after she skipped the red light and being the only reason why they didn't put her in jail. But we don't talk out of the house...

The memories didn't fade but the fear grew. It still haunts me to this day, as nothing's gotten better. Sometimes I think it's getting worse. The only difference is the mechanical death trap she doesn't have any more and the last ounce of self respect she might have had is long gone with it.

Yes, I'm older now, and I can still look out for myself, but I've gotten to a point where I just can't be the passenger on her ride of destruction any more. I cannot clean up her messes any more, I cannot be her parent any more. I cannot sacrifice my health, my emotional well-being, my home, my hopes of one day having my own family or my sanity any more and I cannot live in the shadow of a family's denial anymore. I just can't. I'm done!

So there, I've done it...I spoke out of the house and I broke the silence. I know this is going to create a storm in a teacup in my little realm, but I guess everyone has their limits, even me, and I think it's about time...For those who choose to judge me, go ahead, feel free, you're welcome to take my problems!

Guest Writer: “Love & other Drugs”

LOVE:

Noun: An intense feeling of deep affection: "their love for their country".

Verb: Feel a deep romantic or sexual attachment to (someone): "do you love me?”

Synonyms: Noun. affection - fondness - darling - passion Verb. like - be fond of - fancy - adore

“Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.” Aristotle

I’ve always been a fan of love. Romantic love, friendship love, passionate love, love for material things, making love – You name it. Growing older I had my highs and lows, been on top of the world, got my heart shattered into a million little pieces, broke some hearts along the way, patched it up again, learning all the little facets of love. I can with all honesty say it’s been one hell of a ride
!
For a while I vowed to never fall in love again. I did not want the drama and the bullshit and the headaches and clichés and everything that accompanied love in general, I did not want it. The clichés made me sick to my stomach, the adorable couples on Facebook had me cringing and I did not understand why people would willingly walk into a death-trap, smiling, like a goat high on bath salts. I labelled them stupid, idiotic, weaklings…

So, a while ago, high on my egotistical power trip of anti-love ruling my little fucked up reality and gloating in my ignorance, I met a girl. Yes, I met the girl that turned it all around for me.

Now, a couple of months later, happy as can be with Miss Magical – I get it. I totally get it. I get the soppy love songs, the Hollywood clichés, the sweet nothings… I was the idiot.
 
I once had to write an essay on “What is Love”. Boy oh boy did I fuck that up. Knowing what I know now it’s not all moonlight and roses. Far from it. You want to know what true love is?
It’s when you look at her and you see a reflection of your own soul. You can feel what she feels even if you are separated by distance. It’s when you are totally hooked on her and it stays that way. You feel comfortable around each other. It’s when you can fight like you're married, and by that I mean tell her to fuck-off and even throw the kitchen sink at each other, going the whole nine yards but still stick around. Love is war. It’s when you can talk for hours like best friends, the topic is irrelevant, just talk and laugh and have the best time ever. Love is when all the lust calms down and you can still flirt like first loves and actually bloom from it. Love is craving for your partner like a deranged hooker craves for crack. Love is a million little things coming together; I can go on for hours and annoy anyone willing to listen.
 
For you ladies out there wanting to give up on your quest for love, don’t; miracles happen when you least expect it. Nurture it, fight for it, give your all and love your lady like nothing else matters… She’s worth it.
 
Thank you van Raay, I love you.

Separation anxiety...

Today I was supposed to post the second part of the “Who’s in my bed” photoshoot. But I’m running seriously low on sleep, motivation and time and I don’t want to deliver an inferior product to our loyal followers, so I decided to write this article instead…

So the past few days, my better half was on a business trip on the other side of the country. No biggie right? Wrong! To me, maybe to both of us, this was the worst kind of torture any human being could ever be subjected to, and with good reasons.

The first reason why I say this, is because since we started dating, we hadn’t until now, spent a single day apart. We love spending time together, whether we’re out and about at clubs, visiting friends, eating out, going to family, we always do these things together. Occasionally we’ll also meet up for lunch during the week or she’ll pop into my office in between seeing clients or on her way back to her office and when we can, we travel to work in one vehicle just to squeeze in an extra hour or so in each other’s company. So when she broke the news, we were both seriously unimpressed.

So the trip starts. We arrive at OR Tambo international airport before the crack of dawn, literally minutes before check-in closes and as Murphy would have it, the queue at the check-in counter is a mile and a half long. Needless to say, there wasn’t time for a proper goodbye as she had to rush through the gates to board the plane.

From there things seemed to be going ok, as the first half of her trip went relatively smoothly and she was on her way to her second destination, a four hour drive away. This is where things really started heading south. Her hotel was in the sticks and even though it’s part of a large chain of overpriced hotels, by the sound of things, I wouldn’t even let my dog stay there. No hot water to take a shower, bad food, and bedlinen that gave her a rash was only the beginning. And, being in the middle of nowhere, she had virtually no cellular reception, which meant we couldn’t even say goodnight.

The next day, it just got worse. What was supposed to be an overnight stay, turned in to 3 solid days of hell. Her boss had called and told her the client wanted her back at destination 1 and she must cancel her flight back home that night, immediately. This meant another 4 hour drive in a rental car with a loose, clanking exhaust, another day 1200km away from home and another night sleeping alone.

Back in Jo’burg, all the stress my wifey was going through, started to take it’s toll on me. Mentally, physically and emotionally. She was in a strange place she did not know, she only packed for one night, and no provisions were made for an extended stay and the fact that I could do nothing to make things better for her and hearing her voice tremble as she broke down crying drove me insane. I had never felt so powerless in my life. I also couldn’t sleep, from the day before she left until the evening she got back, and I didn’t have much of an appetite. I also felt physically ill, headaches and nausea reigned supreme, and I missed her. A lot. To the point where I drove my bestie mad!

Then, the inevitable happened…sheer frustration, lack of sleep and pining for the woman I love, resulted in a fight. Something neither of us needed at that point, but as human beings we always seem to take our heartache out on the people closest to us. This made things even worse because how are we supposed to have a decent conversation and a “I’m sorry” hug when we’re so far apart? And I’m sorry, but a phonecall or text message just doesn’t cut it!

The next day she did what needed to be done and waited at the airport for the first available flight back home. The first flight back home, as our luck would have it, was the last flight of the day, at 8pm, which meant she would land back on familiar turf around 10pm. She spent a total of 6 hours at the airport just wanting to come home. A kind old man even offered to swap tickets with her as he was on an earlier flight, but the airline refused.

Disaster struck one final time. She was robbed at the airport as well and her purse, with all her cards and identification documents was taken and it was more than likely that she wouldn’t be able to board. Luckily airport security caught the thieves in the bathroom as they were going through their snatchings and almost all of wifey’s belongings were recovered along with the possessions of 3 other ladies. They didn’t want to return it at first because they wanted to use it as evidence against the criminals, who are believed to be members of a gang.

Now time was running out, and there was a chance that she might miss her check-in time again. But she was escourted by security, through the gates onto the plane and she was finally heading home. But not before getting into an altercation with an air hostess over what luggage she’s allowed to carry on board.

Finally back on home soil, things started getting better. Even though she looked like a neglected orphan, eyes swollen from crying at the sheer trauma of the trip when I picked her up, we were beyond ecstatic to see each other and before either of us could get a word out, I was bombarded with kisses and cuddles and at that point, if I didn’t have ears, my smile would have gone right around my head. I was overjoyed to have her back in my arms, back in our home and back where she feels comfortable and safe and I can honestly say that there’s no better feeling in this world than your soulmate falling asleep and waking up in your arms.

You know, Murphy is a sad son-of-a-bitch…as it happens she might need to fly back tonight and in a few weeks it’s my turn as I’m headed off on a business trip of my own. I nearly didn’t survive it this time around, I doubt I will next time…

(I listened to this song whenever I missed my wifey and it seems to have helped, I love it and thought it suited the situation perfectly!)