Separatist communities for Women, Wimmin, Womon, or Wymyn -- whatever the non-misogynist spelling is -- are hiding in matriarchal meadows in rural America.

These "No Man's Lands" -- for lesbians who seek estrangement from the testicular gender -- aren't listed on Triple-A maps or Yahoo, and Amazon.com offers no guidebooks, despite its suggestive name.

In the Cascades, there's an Oregon Women's Land Trust where gal-pals have been squatting since the 1970's. Liberated lumberjackies farm, fish and fondle in the fertile valleys -- they leave only when they're forced to buy products from the penile patriarchy.

On the opposite coast there's Northwoods Womyn's Land, coyly cradled like a clitoris between two of the beautiful Finger Lakes, near Ithaca, New York. I heard wild tales about this Sapphic oasis from a bisexual bedmate of mine named Sunflower, who lived there for six months after her marriage (to a man, ick!) fell apart.

"Let's look at my scrapbook," Sunflower suggested once after we made hot-clove-oil Kama Sutra love.

Inside a huge book that had vaginal chalk drawings on the cover were 90-100 Polaroids that depicted details of her interesting sojourn at Northwoods.

"Yikes!" I exclaimed. "Scary signs!"

The first page had five photos of warning placards that were posted by the barbed wire fence that circled the dyke domain. The signs said, "WIMMIN ONLY: DICKS WILL BE SHOT!" and "RAPIST TRESPASSERS WILL BE CASTRATED."

"A border war?" I marveled. "Between the Balls and the Uteri?"

"Cornell fratbrats harassed us," Sunflower muttered. "One of our bravest guard dogs was shot, by an unknown prick. We definitely aimed to kill intruders -- like my abusive ex-husband, who kept trying to retrieve me. But did we ever terminate a man? I'm not saying..."

The next three pages were snapshots of the rustic huts, tree houses, and log cabins that the Northwoods wimmin dwelt in.

"We constructed these without nails or screws," Sunflower noted, "Violent penetration was taboo."

I admired the gentle tongue-and-groove fittings.

"Here are some of my lovers," Sunflower cooed nostalgically, as she flipped the page. "Sage, Rosemary, Brigid, Rhiannon, Crazy Crone, Selene, Irish Isis, Dancing Tree..."

The Polaroids she pointed at were not of wimmin's faces, but of their naked, open pussies. I was gazing at two pages of split, wet beavers.

"You remember all their vaginas, by name?" I marveled.

"Every womyn's personality is revealed there," she smiled. "Look! Here's Jasmine! A wise witch, with a wicked sense of humor! Can't you tell?"

Staring at the red bush before me, with its gray wrinkled labia, I had to admit -- no, I couldn't.

"You slept with all these wimmin?" I asked. "Weren't they jealous?"

"Monogamy is a patriarchal disease," Sunflower laughed, gaily. "We squelched possessiveness with goddess orgies."

The next page depicted wimmin's faces and physiques -- dozens of smiling long-haired gals wearing overalls or swimming nude in the region's famous gorges.

"Cute," I sighed. "I wish I lived there -- I'd be the only dick around."

"We had dozens of dicks," Sunflower corrected me. "The wonderful dogs."

Turning the page, she revealed twenty Polaroids of happy canines.

"This is Nanook the Malamute, that's Tonto, this is Galahad, Romeo, Boris, Fluffy, Casanova..."

The dogs were large beasts: Airedales, Rottweilers, Great Danes, Saint Bernards. Flower garlands and beaded jewelry circled their necks -- these pooches were princes.

"Xavier had a wonderful tongue," Sunflower giggled, pointing at a Golden Labrador. "All the wimmin wanted him."

"What?!" I asked, startled. "The wimmin kissed him?"

"Dogs are much better lovers than men," Sunflower reprimanded me. "They're patient, enthusiastic, obedient. Their tongues are long and agile; they slide all the way up our pussies. And their penises are self-lubricated, because they retract into wet sheaths."

I stared at the dog photos, amazed and resentful.

"But they can only do it doggie style," I argued vindictively.

"That's a myth," she corrected me. "Dogs appreciate eye contact more than male humans."

I averted my own glance when I heard this.

"Dogs aren't jealous, either," Sunflower continued. "They shared their mistresses freely with each other."

I was getting hard now, hearing about the hound-humping and caninilingus. But Sunflower wasn't interested.

"I miss my sisters," she sniffled. "And the land, and my four-footed friends."

Three days later, she moved back to Dyke-and-Dog Utopia. I haven't heard from her since.

Jerry Monsanto teaches dulcimer lessons in Western Pennsylvania.