Welcome to Halloween’s very special, very spooky edition of Sugar Walls! We know after all these months of reading our smart, sexy, inspiring posts on the riveting details of lesbian life, you’re like Damn, bitches, what could possibly be bone-chilling about dykes? Well, we’ll tell you.


It is not all lovemaking in perfect thunderstorms, perfectly glossed lips caressing chocolate-covered strawberries or warm milk dribbling down silky thighs in Leztopia. Sometimes it is a dark, muddy swamp pitched into a heavy black night that seems unending. Sometimes even though you can see the glow of the fire your friends are sitting around safely, they don’t even know that your doomed ass is gone, and they certainly can’t hear the sounds of your panicked thrashing, your woe, your cries for help. All while your evil, psychotic ex licks her gleaming chops and raises the dagger over your cursed flesh.

Alright, alright. Don’t take our word for it, read on for real life, terrifying Tales of the Ex from your resident BCP lezzies, after the jump!


“I wonder why it seems to me like all of my exes are crazy and then when I actually try to sit down to write about them I can’t actually think of one particularly crazy thing. All the crazy begins to blur into one big jumbled disaster. I could talk about the girl I met at a Nick Carter/Backstreet Boys hotel party (that should have been a warning sign). She seemed down to earth, accessible, hot and just generally amazing…3 months later the ‘relationship’ spun off the hinges when I found out she slept with a relatively high profile male celebrity who apparently, like me, likes his girls verging on the more masculine end of the spectrum…

It happens. Unfortunately, so does herpes, which thankfully I am free of.

Another particularly crazy ex was so intense that when I finally called it off she spent three full weeks following me home from work till I finally threatened to call the police. She still texts me once a week. I mean, really?! I’m a great gal, but not THAT great…

Then of course there’s the general insanity I’ve associated with dating women, an insanity I sometimes see in myself and need to push down so it doesn’t boil over. The midlife crises that happen not in midlife, the jealousy, the constant need to talk about EVERYTHING over and over again ad nauseam…sigh. If that constitutes insanity, then perhaps I’m guilty. On that note, though, I assure you I’ll never sleep with a male pop star and I most definitely won’t follow you home every night…unless you ask really nicely.



You know how the bad guy never dies in horror movies even after being strangled, shot, pinned under a metric ton of metal, thrown into a vat of acid, and then blasted with a flamethrower? Yup. That’s my last ex. Except instead of being stabby she was needy and whiny and nutty. Maybe she was stabby, too, I can never tell these things. Like Pumpkinhead and Jack Frost, she seemed to prefer striking near the holidays, possibly to maximize the impact of her douchebaggery. She’d call my work and cell numbers, leave long, rambly messages, many of which I simply deleted after a few seconds. Crying, pleading, slobbery messages.

Once she drunkenly sang into my work VM for I don’t know how long, but it filled my Inbox because when I returned to work I had an email from the VM system asking me to make space. Again, delete! Her lengthy emails were answered with a terse “I am sorry, but I can’t help you. Please stop contacting me.” Mind you, this was well over 2-3 years after she and I had broken up. YEARS. She had moved to Canada, then to New York, then to L.A. and back to the Bay Area. She called from everywhere. She called and e-mailed even while she was supposedly in new relationships! She even cyberstalked Skinny!! She would not, however, email back when it was an important matter, like SELLING THE GODDAMN TIMESHARE! Skinny and I occasionally run into her while we’re out being the gay, and she’s always a hilarious hot tranny mess. Thankfully, she’s stopped trying to talk to us. She’s finally stopped calling and emailing, too (well, she’s been blocked, so who knows?), but every now and again it is good to look over your shoulder to make sure no creepy-crazy is following you.



My very first girlfriend was a Texan. Born and raised just outside of Houston, she had all the charm of the Southern women we know and love and about ten million times the capacity for deceit, manipulation and control. I tried to leave her many times, for many reasons. Here is where it gets downright EXORCIST and shit:

At first, when I tried to leave, she flew into the kitchen, clutching an extremely sharp butcher knife to her chest. I watched bewildered as she ran into the bathroom, slammed and locked the door then turned on the shower as hot as it could possibly go, and wailed inconsolably at the top of her lungs. I paced outside, I slid to the floor and sat there with my face in my hands, I pounded on the bathroom door inside of my apartment, which had apparently become a white padded cell of my very own. Finally, I kicked the goddamn door down and dragged her naked, raggedy ass out of there, hurling the knife 20 feet across the living room floor, and then I went and hyperventilated from my 3rd floor window for the first time in my life.

Another time I tried to leave, she threw half my belongings out of the window into a fenced off field to the hillside below, and then she lured me back into the bathroom by threatening to destroy important original documents unless I changed my mind. When I said I didn’t care and she tore the docs into tiny, sad little pieces and still I hadn’t budged, she took a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the cabinet and chugged half of it until I wrestled it away from her, but by then it was too late. I spent the whole day at the ER, hoping she hadn’t succeeded in killing herself. Then, there were the times she filled her pockets with lethal combinations of pills and booze and I’d block the door with my body until dawn came and went. Or the times we sped down a freeway with the rain coming down in sheets, me with one hand on the wheel and the other with a death grip on her collar, because she had opened the passenger door at 80 mph and was heaving her body out of it.

The last time was after we’d broken up. I came home the morning after some random indiscretion my newly single life afforded me and there she was, waiting inside of my apartment. I can’t remember how she got there, or why I didn’t turn around and leave immediately. I refused to dignify her questions with answers and she was clearly not in her right mind, having finally, I suppose, grasped that I was 100% honest-to-God done with her, and something dark and hollow crept into her eyes. Her voice changed. The air in the room went all flat. I tried to get her out but she lunged at me, knocking me over and we both fell to the ground. Her hands went immediately for my throat, doing their best to actually choke me, to really, actually choke a person by force in all seriousness, for harm’s sake alone. I couldn’t breathe and I had no idea who the fuck I was dealing with anymore, but the adrenaline kicked in and I fought her off, even though she was much stronger than me. I ran to my car and managed to drive about 10 blocks before I realized I was shaking too hard to drive safely, so I pulled over and tried to breathe like a normal person.

I made sure nothing like that ever happened again, obviously. In retrospect, I should have just let the stupid bitch off herself. Honestly. But I was young and stupid and I also didn’t want her blood on my hands for the rest of my life.

Yes, it isn’t always kittens and sunshine in Leztopia, as you can see. Pat Benatar sings that love is a battlefield but sometimes, when the full moon is out and evil slips quietly beneath your sheets, for some lesbians, love is a lot more like an old horror movie. We hope you enjoyed our creepy stories and hope that everyone has a safe and Happy Halloween!

*Contributed by BritneyCandaWhore, SkinnyBoneJones and The Dashing M*