It's been a while since I've proposed lesbian llama farming to my wonderful women friends as an alternative to our present lives as guardians for idiot-ass men, but my proposal of marriage to MantraMine yesterday made me think of it again, and I thought it might be fun to elaborate on my vision for my lesbian llama farm.
I'm thinking we need 10-20 wonderful women...I will select them through a careful review process involving their blogs, their undergraduate poetry manuscripts, and their ability to help me analyze my repetitive problems on the telephone again and again and again for hours. Once the finest fillies have been selected for my stable, we will move to the mountains...Colorado or Carolina...I don't care, but I must admit that I have a preference for states that have two words in their name, and also for states with interesting shapes...and since this fantasy is mine, I'll go ahead and declare that the lesbian llama farm will be in West Virginia.
There will be hardwood floors, my ladies, and soy milk flowing freely from the faucets. We will live off pure soy milk and love and the sweet soft fuzz of our llama friends. We will have babies and nurse them and wear hippy dresses all year long. We'll build fires when it's cold, and when it's hot, we'll sleep on floating bamboo palettes in the lake that we use as our water supply, which feeds our organic and vegan garden. We do not want for anything. We are tan, beautiful, surrounded by cats and pit bulls and llamas and babies, and everyone is fed, clean, smelling of patchouli and goodness. Hell, we might even have dreadlocks.
About 5 miles away, we will keep our idiot-ass men chained to beds. They will have an endless supply of pornography or heroin or bourbon or whatever it is that your idiot-ass man uses to be an idiot. This will make them forget that they are chained to beds. Periodically, when we tire of our blissful sapphic existence or have the urge to procreate, we will descend, goddess-like, from our mountaintop abode, to fuck their brains out, unchain them, clean them up, love them, scold them for abusing themselves, take them to dinner and praise the beauty of their eyelashes, until they start punching walls or asking for money. Then we will chain them back up, plug in their morphine drips or whatever it is, and leave them to fester in their shit buckets. Cum-filled, wise, and gracious, we'll go back to the llamas.
There will be one telephone, and there will be one person responsible for guarding the telephone at all times. If our addict-men decide to pretend that they're going to get their shit together, for real this time, they mean it so much, they love us and can't be without us, we'll let them ascend the mountain and consult with us, briefly, like sibylls. They will accept our wise instruction and go away like lambs to rehab or meetings or their mothers or whatever it is we think they need to act right.
From living in the land of sweet llama lovin', we will finally gather our collective strength and gain the power we've all longed for: the power to FIX. We might even have magic wands. We will wave our wands, and glitter will fly everywhere, and we will say, "You Must Stop Acting Like An Ass. Come Live With Me, And Be My Love, And Stop Injecting Yourself With Black Tar Heroin And/Or Lying On The Couch Nekkid Feeling Sorry For Yourself. Go To Meetings. I Will Fellate You And Buy You Things If You Just Act Right, You Horrible Man." And they will be so bedazzled by our wands and wisdom and beauty and magical pussies that finally, finally, their ears and minds will open, and they will hear us, and what we want will become real and true.