Here I am in Tory Town amongst a pack of retired social worker dykes and hippy peace freak lesbians from Lesbos. I am bog-black Irish, a wide hipped farmer from the poorest croft in our parish. I fell in love with a girl when I was a girl. I’ve played around with green eyed capricorns for twenty years.
I make potions from the plants we sow and grow. Silently mixing oils, stirring salts, melting vitamins. In the tiny shafts of permitted light we catch the glint or gleam of chia seed oil to admire her purity and smooth viscosity. I collect little bottles and jars to better display sea buckthorn’s deep orange heart. I have a sideboard full of lovely packaging; ribbons, tissue paper, delicate boxes. We send gifts to friends, my daughter and I. It is somehow our culture to always give, with love and only love.
You have to feel love from somewhere in order to give love. Not the kissy kissy movie allusion, but kindness straight from the heart of another. We cannot conjure up compassion, we either live our lives in an eternal journey to be kinder ever kinder, or we exist on this planet only to gain what we can, where we can.
Tory Town is all about the gain. The gain of land and boats and light and air and water. Land grabbing second homers live here 2 weeks a year. The remainder of the year the place is all but deserted. Only lonely old men and retired lesbians keep the shop going through the winter and spring. I make lubricants for them. To aid their sex lives. I mix gels with oils for gliding on liquid gossamer.
The builders, joiners, tree surgeons and sparkies park up anywhere at 8am. JCB’s can start anytime, any day. No one lives here but the forgotten. The owners have tradesmen perfect their properties from October to May. At any given moment there may be up to five or six pneumatic drills, saws or hammers chorusing and bouncing off the rooftops. It’s all about the grandiose design and the location.
My mother didn’t bond with me and so I went to Mother Earth. I lay in her and trusted her. Always, as far back as I can recall. At home I was invisible, so i spoke to trees and birds. I could walk silently through a wood to touch a bunny when I was ten. I could rescue birds from the jaws of the cat, or shackled horses from tinkers. I rescued myself, as a child, because I trusted our planet. I always felt such love from the soil, sea or rocks that I could not feel at home.
The first time the tree gave me her sweet sap, just because I said please, I was ten years old and hiding underground. The rain covered the concrete floor of the bomb shelter and I sat like Oor Wullie on a bucket in the middle with the cat in my arms. I was scared I would drown and I prayed the rosary. A voice deep inside me spoke and said to trust. just that. Trust. I said yes to the voice and I was told to go to a tree in a certain field to ask for nectar. When the rain stopped I went to the field after the top field, where the Mass Rock was, at the top of Melancholy Lane. I hugged the tree and the old lady in the Council House opposite saw me. I was known as the queer one, even then. I ran my mouth over her hard bark. I licked into the grain of her trunk. She gave me her juice. I could never tell me ma I was a tree licker or that tree sap was sweeter than her.
I’ll be forty next month and my daughter will be ten. We have been disowned by all family because of me, my queerness and awful truths. I have no other way of getting the fuck out of Tory Town other than selling the finest face oils, salt exfoliators and lubricants.
I can’t keep inviting the women here to the house to buy lube. It’s getting way too dodgy. One or three have fallen in love with me and have caused no end of problems for us, but, that’s another day’s gossip….
So, here I am coming out as a witch from a long line of witches from the bogs of Donegal. I have to go on line with this even though I really really don’t want to but I am gonna require an ETSY shop, PayPal and tons of advice. I know it’s a rather niche market, but if you happen to know anyone who needs lube, please pass on my details. I like to be safe, so it’s best to use the contact form on the wordpress site for all queries. It doesn’t sound terribly sensible to offer your home number to the world when you sell sex lube.
During the summer I made a wee stall for the garden so that the rich holiday house owners would stop and buy may wares. It was cutesy country cottage old world honesty box chocolate box twee. I painted a chair yellow, made some signs, packaged the concoctions and sat for hours getting nothing but a tan. Not one of those rich tossers stopped to toss a coin or a glance my way.