Dear James, Love Pussy

Quote :

The following letters are part of a hitherto unknown correspondence, between a certain Secret Agent and Priscilla May Galore, written while she was serving her debt to society in Sing Sing, Ossining, NY, and for many years after she was free.

At the end of Goldfinger, after a passionate romp in a boat (in the movie it’s a desert island), Pussy Galore is incarcerated in the notorious high-security prison at Sing Sing for her part in Operation Grand Slam. JB continues his peripatetic life as a secret agent.

Pussy Galore is never mentioned in the JB oeuvre again. But it is clear from the book that of all Bond’s girls, this violet-eyed lesbian occupied a special place in the secret agent’s affections and the author’s. (It has been suggested that PG is based on a woman with whom the author had an affair). In a spirit of literary high jinks, we have continued the love-affair between these two high-octane characters and a fictional correspondence between Pussy Galore and the notorious secret agent.

For those familiar with the next five stories JB refers to them in chronology in his letters to Sing Sing. For instance, a letter written from the Gritti Palace in Venice draws on the plot of the story, “ Risico” and a postcard from the Kozee Motor Court near Montreal in Vermont, is referred to in For Your Eyes Only. Several of JB’s letters are written from The Special Forces Club, in Knightsbridge, where one of the author’s is a member.

The following are letters found in Ms. Galore’s old pilot’s bag in the attic of her house on Martinique and in accordance with her last will and testament are being published anonymously to reveal the most intimate details of JB's affection for the infamous lavender-eyed lesbian.

http://www.amazon.com/Dear-James-Love-Pussy-ebook/dp/B002CGT0FQ

Piece written by the author in The Guardian.

Quote :

'I spent 18 years going out with women. Now I'm in love with a man'

For almost two decades, Heather Dune Macadam was a signed-up member of the lesbian elite. Then, over a glass of wine in the Welsh hills, the American writer fell for a British man. Here, she describes her journey of sexual discovery

I am a recovering lipstick lesbian - that's not to say I've stopped wearing lipstick; it simply means I've stopped kissing girls. That's right - at the peak of the lesbian fad, when you can't turn on the telly without finding Bad Girls or the The L Word - I have left the ranks of my former sisterhood and betrayed them. After 18 years of being in relationships with women, why have I returned to, as my boyfriend likes to tease, 'the true faith' - heterosexuality?

The answer confuses me. In fact, it confuses most people. I hear from the gay gossip mill that many of the lesbian elite, including my ex - who left me for a 27-year-old - have been saying I was never actually gay. Funny, my girlfriends never said that in bed! What does that do to my nomination for a Lambda Literary Award and my commentaries on gay marriage for NPR's All Things Considered?

My mother compares lesbianism with my other phase - vegetarianism, which lasted over a decade too. You know, bounced over to heterosexuality to see if women were faring any better than 18 years ago, when I got fed up with the straight scene and men in general. Perhaps I should have just given up on the man who broke my heart, but instead I tossed out the whole gender and developed an appreciation for girls. All I know is that as a former vegetarian, I discovered my body craves steak. As a former lesbian, I have discovered similar cravings. At the same time, I'm really glad I didn't spend the last 18 years living a 'traditional' life. I had a terrible track record with men when I finally decided to give them up for Lent. Becoming a lesbian was a logical decision - men are only 50 per cent of the population, so why limit myself? I left the straight world behind and discovered that I could have much healthier relationships with women. The sex was good too. Of course, as I found out, there's not a whole lot of difference between men and women in the heart-breaking department.

The confusion comes from people wondering how I can go from sex with men to sex with women, without pause or ponder? It's not difficult. I know the mystery is what girls do in bed; let's just say we do everything everyone else does, we just do it longer. Women are always ready to pop, if you know what buttons to press. Maybe I got fed up with men because none knew how to press the right buttons. Granted, I didn't know much about my buttons before I became a lesbian, but that's what's great about being gay. Women know about women, and everything your mother wouldn't tell you, your girlfriend will.

So why would I leave the Isle of Lesbos for the Promised Land of pecs? I mean women are soft and cuddly; they understand all about PMT. Men are hard; they cringe when you get that glazed PMT gaze and make plans to go on holiday with the lads. They don't say things like, 'Did you take your Primrose Oil?' Kissing a man who hasn't shaved is like kissing a Brillo pad. Most do not realise that women don't need an intermission - we are the second and third act, the standing ovation and the curtain call, trembling in the wings afterward.

However, there are things about men that a lesbian like me is learning to appreciate. For instance, I'm the only one in the house with PMT - thank God! And I'm the only one in bed having layer upon layer of pleasure. Women are exhausting! It's also a relief to be sassy and not hurt his feelings - he likes my acerbic wit, while I always seemed to be ruffling my ex's feathers. He also cooks.

The man who seduced me ... or who I seduced - we're still debating this issue - is British. That made a difference. He can quote Shakespeare and Monty Python and has that sexy accent too. British men seem to be more sensitive than American men; they can discuss things other than football (except during the World Cup, the Champions League, the FA Cup ...). And when I was going through a rough patch, he helped me through it. As a writer too, he offered me a refuge through weekly emails discussing everything from the lambing season to his broken heart.

It had been a lifelong dream of mine to attend the Hay-on-Wye Literary Festival and, in the midst of my divorce (no, we weren't really married because in the Land of the Free gays still can't marry), the man I would eventually seduce invited me to Hay 'for tea'. It was not a come-on. How could it be? I was gay ... or was I?

Tea in Wales sounded like an excellent idea; though I admit I was more interested in a properly poured Guinness. Anyway, I put in a travel requisition to the college where I teach creative writing and the next thing I knew I was being sent to Hay-on-Wye for professional development.

'You can pick up girls and I can pick up girls,' James suggested in his email. Personally, I couldn't wait to be developed, professionally.

An unshaven James, dressed as casually as any American, picked me up in Abergavenny, and an hour later, we were sitting outside his cottage, having a glass of wine and talking about our divorces, just like we had been talking about them through emails for the past few months. The demise of our 14-year relationships and former lives hung heavy in the warm spring air, but the anticipation of new possibilities lingered on the breeze.

The next day the festival began and I found myself swept up in Hay fever. I felt like I had been living outside my body for months, but surrounded by book lovers, authors and Pimm's, I felt fully present and accounted for. I hadn't laughed in months and now I couldn't stop. I met wonderful people in the pubs and queues; I felt intoxicated by the mere presence of my host.

After my ex left me I thought I should try men again, and James was the perfect guinea pig. He knew my story, so if it was a miserable experience he wouldn't take it personally, and we could laugh it off and still be friends. Still, I hadn't made up my mind, so I maintained professional distance. I mean, I couldn't very well stand in the green room talking with Stephen Fry about gay marriage and think about shagging James? Could I? But I was! What the hell was going on? I hadn't been attracted to men for years. OK, I've always had a thing for biceps, but women can have good biceps too, well ... almost as good.

That first weekend was a whirr. We partied, asked impertinent questions of other writers and had a grand time. Finally, we ended up at the Guardian party, chatting with editors and drinking cheap champagne. There was an after-hours party at Whitney Court, but James couldn't find any girls to pick up and neither could I. It was late or early, depending on how you turn the world. The sky shifted from black to indigo as we sped through the lanes back to his cottage. Madeleine Peyroux sang 'Dance Me to the End of Love'. In the living room, we kissed like friends who want to be naughty. Birds started to chirp.

'You're not going to get weird on me, are you?' he asked.

'I wasn't planning on it, are you?' I quipped. We write good dialogue.

For the next week the pre-coital line seemed to be, 'Not those damn birds again!' I don't think either of us had stayed up so late for so many consecutive nights in years. We danced to Elvis Costello, Jools Holland. Neither James nor I had danced in years. That was when things started to shift. Instead of wondering what I was doing with a man, I started wondering why I had spent 14 years with someone who didn't like to dance, party, socialise ... the list went on.

After I returned home, our relationship seemed to take a more literary bent (pun intended). We began to correspond as the fictitious characters out of an Ian Fleming novel. No, James is not really his name, but it seemed an appropriate response when he said, 'You're quite a girl, Pussy' with the same long accent on the 'u' that Sean Connery made so famous. We have quite a lot in common too. I know what he likes in women - lots of them. He's been very honest about his penchant for the ladies (which is why he was an especially good candidate for my experiment).

'Don't be surprised if you call some day and a woman answers the phone,' he warned me.

'Don't be surprised if you call me and a woman answers the phone too.'

I had thought that Hay-on-Wye would be like Las Vegas - what you do there stays there. It was safe and far away from my 'real' life. I didn't want a relationship or anything else complicated, and I certainly didn't want to have to go home and inform the lesbian community that I was no longer a member of America's disenfranchised class. The thing is, I went back to Hay twice more last year. And at quiz night in Hay this past December, we won Golden Tickets to this year's festival. England has gotten under my skin and despite Pussy Galore's 'imperviousness' this James has gotten under my skin, as well. He has a prose style to make any literary lesbian swoon.

Is it others who feel the need to define me or me who feels the need to define myself? My real friends - gay and straight, alike - are happy I'm happy. They don't care what or whom I do, as long as I'm enjoying my life. They're just glad I'm not calling up sobbing any more.

Did I realise that women can break my heart just as easily as men, and decide to widen the playing field to include everyone, or is it more important who a person is on the inside than their gender? Maybe it was all those bloody bookshops in Hay that made me swoon. But I think it was more than that because I'm still swooning. Maybe I really like men. Maybe I just like James.

Gay or straight or bi, does it really matter? OK, he's told me I'd better not leave him for a woman, which from a womaniser is pretty funny. The next time we walked the hallowed streets of Hay-on-Wye I was silently commemorating one year of not getting weird on each other.

'Poosy, you're quite a girl.' He teased me the morning after a book party.

'Oh James ...' I sighed.

From across the pillows and tangled sheets, he looked at me and asked, 'So why were you gay?'

I sipped my tea and pondered my life's choices. 'It seemed a good idea at the time ...'

· Heather Dune Macadam, the author of two books, is working on her third, Dear James, Love Pussy. James, aka Simon Worrall, is the author of The Poet and the Murderer

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2006/jun/11/familyandrelationships2

This sounds like a fun read, although the author does read like a bit of a loon. More Bond lit though, so I'll read it.

And I just happen to have got a Kindle for Christmas too.

Pussy Galore a special place in the agent and author's affections?

Bullshit. A special place in the public's imagination after the movie version thanks to Blackman's portrayal and her ridiculous name, maybe.

But a special place in Bond's heart? She's not even the main girl for the majority of the novel. Her turn is the twist ending. She's never mentioned again in Fleming's canon afterwards.

Vesper, a special place? Yes. Tracy, a special place? Hell, you better believe it. Pussy? Bullshit.

She's simply the best known (by name) of the Bond girls. Better to sell a book with.

Fairbairn-Sykes wrote:

Pussy Galore a special place in the agent and author's affections?

Bullshit. A special place in the public's imagination after the movie version thanks to Blackman's portrayal and her ridiculous name, maybe.

But a special place in Bond's heart? She's not even the main girl for the majority of the novel. Her turn is the twist ending. She's never mentioned again in Fleming's canon afterwards.

Vesper, a special place? Yes. Tracy, a special place? Hell, you better believe it. Pussy? Bullshit.

She's simply the best known (by name) of the Bond girls. Better to sell a book with.

All true.

But hey, it didn't stop Weinberg getting A TRILOGY of books out of as irrelevant Fleming character as Moneypenny! Where was the demand for those???

And that was thanks to what - vague memories of Lois Maxwell? Samantha Bond's then-current portrayal of 'Penny as a hard-faced vicious man-hating (but really Bond-obsessed) woman????

Or was it just Weinberg's attempt to insert 2000s crypto-feminism into Flemings' world? And make a few bob as well.

Weinberg didn't do it all on her own - IFP approved the pitch, and the purpose of publishing is after all to make a few bob.

Yeah, that's the thing about Moneypenny. That whole thing took off because Connery and Maxwell had fantastic chemistry (and Maibaum decided to condense M's secretary and Bond's into one character). It never really worked after the two of them.

That cover on Amazon is fantastic.

It's good to see that Microsoft Paint's still being used.

Fairbairn-Sykes wrote:

Pussy Galore a special place in the agent and author's affections?

Bullshit. A special place in the public's imagination after the movie version thanks to Blackman's portrayal and her ridiculous name, maybe.

But a special place in Bond's heart? She's not even the main girl for the majority of the novel. Her turn is the twist ending. She's never mentioned again in Fleming's canon afterwards.

Vesper, a special place? Yes. Tracy, a special place? Hell, you better believe it. Pussy? Bullshit.

She's simply the best known (by name) of the Bond girls. Better to sell a book with.

The author here though, is clearly motivated by Pussy's leaving the Island of Lesbo. The author underwent the same transformation The subject intrigues her. Damn, it also intrigues all red-blooded males; the turning of the hot lesbian. Pussy is her kind of Bond-girl. The author relates to Pussy, in more ways than one.

Mind you, this whole exchange of Bond-and-Pussy letters could really "suck."

As for Weinberg, I liked those 3 books. I thought Bond was portrayed well (certainly a lot better than he was by Deaver) Weinberg did a decent job, not only spinning her very readable yarn, but also in working with the Fleming continuity post OHMSS.

AMC Hornet wrote:

Weinberg didn't do it all on her own - IFP approved the pitch, and the purpose of publishing is after all to make a few bob.

One wonders if it DID make a few bob, though?. Wasn't onlt the first one released in hardback in the USA?

Essentially, the illogicality of the project and total lack of demand for it meant it was doomed. Obviously, neither Weinberg nor IFP realised this in their clamour to publish.

I do agree, however, there is a quality of writing and recreation of Fleming's world absent from most other continuations.

MP Diaries was a bit of an odd duck in that, yes what really was the demand? Female Bond fans and hardcore Bond-lit fans? I fit hardcore, so I bought all three books, but beyond hardcore completists - who was it that bought these books, or was even curious about them? Maybe they targeted the chick-lit market and had some success there. I don't know. I've got the first two in paperback, as I came late to the series, but the third I bought new in hardcover. All three, I'm sure were available here (Canada) in hardcover.

tiffanywint wrote:

MP Diaries was a bit of an odd duck in that, yes what really was the demand? Female Bond fans and hardcore Bond-lit fans? I fit hardcore, so I bought all three books, but beyond hardcore completists - who was it that bought these books, or was even curious about them? .

I bought all three in UK hardback as a Fleming nutter completist as soon as they were released, chased down the two mags with the short stories in. ( Even engaged Weinberg in posts over on CBN at the time about her mistakes with Fleming chronogology; she confessed on correcting her drafts she had forgot that she hadn't fitted her dates to Fleming and therefore ran contradictory to the MAN). Good writing aside, do I have any intention of reading them again? No.

David Schofield wrote:

Even engaged Weinberg in posts over on CBN at the time about her mistakes with Fleming chronogology; she confessed on correcting her drafts she had forgot that she hadn't fitted her dates to Fleming and therefore ran contradictory to the MAN)

She'd love that, getting the fan "know-it-all" treatment. I didn't notice her mistakes. It all seemed to fit OK, but I haven't read the Fleming originals for a long while. I spend too much time watching the movies over-and-over-again, and reading books about Bond. Never seem to find time for the re-reads. I'm not likely to re-read the MP Diaries though.

Will have to check out these new Pussy Diaries. Probably overdue for some good lesbo-lit. Good to be well-rounded. ;)