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Summer is officially here - tropical flash floods, thunder storms, whole towns and cities submerged by swollen rivers and I’m blowing up my airbed ready for a season of my favourite non-sexual exploit… camping!
Yes, while others are salvaging their most treasured possessions from eight inches of mud and sewage, I’m preparing to pitch my tent in a field with hundreds of like-minded individuals ready to be partially submerged at some point in eight inches of mud and sewage. Great.
I don’t know what it is about camping that ignites the average lezzie into a state of euphoria quicker than if they got an eyeful of Sam Fox’s puppies, but we bloody love it. Perhaps it’s that we finally have society’s permission to wear unflattering cargo pants with detachable legs, totter around wielding a multi-functional implement that works equally terribly as a bottle opener and a tool to remove stones out of horses’ hooves. We can be the butches we so desperately want to be in our everyday life without getting the shit kicked out of us. Instead those very same narrow minded yobs may be on the receiving end of our mirth as they struggle with their erection problems (tents I mean). We are the experts when it comes to putting up tents - having fantasized for years of working in the outdoors with our hands, it’s suddenly a reality. For those couple of wet weekends in the year, we are Grizzly Adams (with optional beard?) and we are invincible! Who cares that we’ve pitched our tent in the Caravan Club five-star site in between a luxury Hymer mobile and the public lavatories? Safely tucked up in our special offer single sleeping bag (buy one, get one free) we imagine we’re sleeping under the stars in the wilds of Scotland, or one of Scott’s intrepid Antarctic explorers. Nothing can put us off from our adventure - rain? Pah! It would take a monsoon to literally sweep the tent away for us to break into a sweat. Midges? Nah! Not with a pair of American tan tights pulled down over my baseball cap. We are so convinced of our invincibility especially when inside our tents, that we possibly forget that other people can see us if we leave our torch on, and hear us too… flatulence is not disguised by 2mm thick nylon, neither is the silhouette of a double-headed dildoid.
Lovemaking becomes more exciting in our illicit cubicle of fun, with the possibility of our muted howling reaching the Presbyterian elderly couple next door who thought it was lovely to see two ‘sisters’ bonding by sharing one tent… Oh how we laughed as we ploughed each other’s furrows in full torch-aided view of the entire campsite. Oh how we chuckled as we put match to gas bottle, having not read the safety instructions to keep all fire products six feet away from the tent. Wasn’t it a hoot eating still raw organically reared pigeon and dandelion sausages and washing the botulism down with warm piss, I mean lager…
Maybe I’m being a bit of an old cynic, camping can be fun, safe and a great way to meet other like-minded dykes. So, I’ve invested in a three-woman tent (just in case…), a luxury airbed with optional sausage shaped attachments and a multi-functional tool… otherwise known as a campervan.
Happy camping!
Sarah Schuster
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