There is no part of my body that better acts as a go-directly-to-“go” beacon than my neck. A pair of lips and some teeth and tongue on it just sends me into the stratosphere.

I’ve kept my hair short for three or four years now, and I’m hesitant to grow it any longer than my jawline for the sheer fact that I love having it easily accessible by the men in my life. I melt when it receives their attention, and I’ve seldom met a man I can’t melt when I give his neck a little of my own attention.

The neck is chock full of nerve endings, and it’s one of the tenderest parts of our bodies. Personally, one of my favourite ambushes is approaching the object of my affections from behind and dragging my teeth over his neck as I suck and nibble and flat-out bite my way across it. Maybe it’s a throwback to my teenaged Anne Rice addiction. I don’t know.

If I had to choose a supernatural creature I’d most like to run into in a dark alley, hands down it’d be Dracula. Preferably Lestat, though. I’d be sure to have a low-cut blouse and plenty of neck access available for the Count. Have at me, I’d plead. The sunrise is hours and hours away, I’d promise.

Lips, teeth, and tongue all push different buttons on a neck. From the nape to the jawline, every area of the neck reacts a little differently. Me, I don’t like anyone to focus on one area. Be an explorer. Visit all of me, you know? I’m sure I’m not the only person who’d like a lover to take out a Eurail traveller’s pass on my neck, shoulders, and ears. Hell, revisit as often as you like. I’ll issue you an all-access pass, if only you promise you’ll explore every nook and cranny.

Wow. I feel impossibly single right now. Me and my lonely neck. Fortunately, it’s All Soul’s Night and my chances of a supernatural visit are a smidge higher than they might normally be.

Where’s a Transylvanian count when a girl needs one, hmm?

Happy All Soul’s Night, friends. Photo is from a Berlin play, Tanz Der Vampire.

Do NOT floss or brush your teeth before performing oral sex. If your gums bleed, it can really increase risk of transmission/infection. Do not re-use anyone’s dental floss. Do not share toothbrushes. Do not share razors. Seriously. But before you get paranoid, read this list of how you cannot get HIV/AIDS, all right? Folks with either do not deserve to be shunned or treated like outcasts. Blood tranfer’s the only way to get this.

I’m off to enjoy one of Vancouver’s best annual events, the Parade of Lost Souls. Halloween… Shpooky! Have a very scary weekend, boys and girls.

Being on the verge of the dating game once again, I know important chats loom. Not just the happy-happy topics like what flavour of ice cream is agreed upon or whether taking it from behind’s an indulgence that’s approved of, but that of testing and diseases.

It’s not really a fun topic to think about, if you’re not an open person, but it’s an important conversation to have, and is important to have before you go knocking knees together.

I haven’t had sex since my last test and I know I’m as clean as can be. I was nervous before I got the results, because shit happens and you just never know, but I was elated afterwards. My doctor, because I live in an area with a lot of Asians and other high-risk hepatitis-B factors, encouraged me to get inoculated. I hate needles but decided I would. Didn’t hurt a bit. Better safe than sorry, right? I go for the third part of the inoculation right around Christmas. What better gift for myself than the gift of self-preservation?

And “better safe than sorry” is something that’s ingrained in me as deep as can be now. In this past year, a friend of my best friend’s found out he was HIV positive. Worse than that, he was able to pinpoint, down to the night, when it happened. Some drinks, some passion. Some real fucking ignorance. And, then, news that has profoundly shaped his life. And I think there’s a little part inside of him that really, really hates himself now. I can understand why.

Despite that, he’s lucky. He’s a healthy, athletic, food-conscious guy who got tested regularly and was diagnosed early. His odds are far higher than they’d be if the virus was left out of check for a longer period, and because he’s been a health nut for years. That’s how that game works.

One night, and a lifetime to pay for it.

The thing that strikes me the most about a horrific thing like HIV or AIDS is that it’s almost entirely preventable. Through your actions, you can ensure that you are very likely to never, ever contract it.

And what horrifies me is that, for some insane fucking reason, ignorance (and infections) of HIV/AIDS are on the rise. HALF of all new infections are in youths under 25. Young, immortal? Think again.

If you’re one of these people who thinks there’s a cure, then get your head out of your ass, because there’s not. It’s no longer a death sentence, but that’s only the case when you exercise, eat well, and take the meds. The medications, I hear, are no picnic. And, also, you gotta be lucky.

The virus is not the same in everyone. It is a living, breathing thing, and like all evolutionary beings, it can – and will – adapt to new and different environments. Some people will be to HIV like a match is to a stick of dynamite. You really think you’re invulnerable? Go ahead. Roll that dice. But every risk you take, you subject another to, and, that, you have no right to do.

There’s that old cliché – no glove, no love. If it’s a casual relationship or early in a new relationship or if you even for a moment suspect your lover’s cheating on you, and there’s no condom, there should be no encounter. Period.

I hate condoms. I do. I haven’t tried the new generation of condoms yet, I’ve always done the latex thing, so maybe they’re better. But I’m not the only girl who’s seen a mighty penis deflate because a condom wrapper was a finicky bitch. And, sure, that sucks. Such is life.

The thing is, though, that there are moments and moments can be a powerful thing. I’m sure I’m also not the only girl who’s thrown caution to the wind for an incredible fuck without protection, but that was then, and this is now.

And I know, it’s really fucking hard to deal with someone who’s intent on having sex without a condom. You have to stand your ground. Don’t compromise. No really does mean no. Unfortunately, too many women believe their partners will become uninterested, leave them, or will physically abuse them if they insist on condoms. I really don’t know what to say to these women, but, if you’re one, you have to ask yourself whether that risk is better or worse than the potential of coming down with a disease that’s hard and expensive to fight, and more likely to end in premature death than not.

And far be it for me to agree with the religious right about anything, but let’s say instead that I’m agreeing with, oh, say, Las Vegas oddsmakers, okay? Abstinence is the only guarantee. If you have sex, you’re opening yourself up to the chance of contracting not only HIV or AIDS, but other things that condoms can’t protect you from, like herpes and Chlamydia. (And one in five people has herpes, which is incurable.) Not having sex, well, you haven’t rolled the dice, you’re not even in the game. You’re safe. That’s a fact. Not very fun, but it’s a fact.

Some quick facts, all right? And don’t think it even comes close to ending here.

• AIDS is now the leading cause of death among African-American women aged 25-34, and the 6th leading cause of death for all women in that same age group.
• AIDS has now killed more people than the Black Death/Plague ever did.
• Heterosexual sex is the cause of 78% of all those new cases of HIV/AIDS. (The rest were largely IV drug use.)
• More than 15% of the cases of female diagnoses of HIV/AIDS are between 15-24.
• 47% of those afflicted in North America are African-American.
• 40,000 people contract HIV daily. Half are under 25.
• More than 1 million Americans are living with it as I type.
• More than a QUARTER MILLION Americans ARE infected, and DON’T know it. (You gotta ask yourself: Are you one? Your partner?)
• Nearly 40 million people in the world are living with AIDS/HIV right now.
• More than 4.1 million people were diagnosed last year internationally.
• Nearly 3 million died from AIDS last year.
• Experts predict more than 60 million will have died from AIDS by 2015, if not more.
• AIDS is just beginning to erupt in China, India, and Russia, and the future there looks dire.
• In 2003, more than 40% of Chinese nationals could not name a single way to prevent AIDS.
• Nearly 70% of young women in developing world do not know a single means of AIDS prevention. Gotta wonder, how blissful is that ignorance anyhow?

Now. Do you really wanna be a statistic? Put the fucking condom on. This isn’t just a disease. It’s a pandemic. It’s the new normal. Put the condom on, and then have yourself a little fun. (And, from personal exp
erience, I know that if you’re having trouble keeping the condom on, a cock ring’s the way to go, and darned good fun, too, to boot. Just a thought.)

(My facts have been taken from both the cdc.gov, unaids.org, who.org, and youth.aids2006.org as well as from this excellent page of information and resources at the New Scientist Magazine’s site. The graphic is from CBC.ca.)

I’m always talking about how important communication is.

I always hear from women who are complaining that their lovers don’t do what they like, or from men who wish they knew what their women want. It goes both ways. I think the biggest problem tends to be, though, that a lot of women feel really uncomfortable talking about sex in basic, blunt ways. Said it before, and I’ll say it again. I know it’s the case because I, too, used to feel all dirty inside when I said things like “sex” and “orgasm” and
“erection.” But lookit me now, ma! Sex! Orgasm! Erection!

I was asked yesterday by Fran from Ireland whether or not I find myself being perceived as being slutty merely for the fact that I write about sex. I answered that no, I don’t tend to find that. I’m sure it happens, though. A lot of men, however, seem to really appreciate the fact that I’m sexually aware of what and how I like sex to be.

I have conversations with my lovers. They know what I like. I’m not afraid to interject in the middle of some steamy session and say what I want. (Naturally, it needs to be said rather sexily or it can deflate a mood pretty fucking fast, too. Emphasis on “deflate.”) But the conversations often happen long before I wind up under the covers… or on the floor, or in the back seat.

There’s a world of difference, I think, in my writing matter-of-factly about sex compared to, say, someone writing about dripping hard cocks and getting fucked silly in the backroom of a party. Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those, of course. Heh. But the same thing goes in conversation.

You can talk about a movie? You can talk about sex.

I ran into a quote today that is more about life in general, but that I find to be profoundly apt when it comes to talking about sex, something I think every sexually timid person needs to hear. It goes like this:

Be who you are
and say what you feel
because those who mind
don’t matter
and those who matter
don’t mind.

To that end, I once had a letter that I spoke of on the old bloggie, from a Marine whose wife had been writing him all during his service in Iraq. Maybe he still reads this. (Say hi, if you do! You promised you would.) Somehow, some way, despite all those thousands of miles between them, being apart brought them closer together. They had to actually really say things now because all they had were words. She was writing him letters and they started getting into the topics of sex. Along the way, she found the courage to tell him that she was having rape fantasies with him being her attacker, and she wanted to know if they’d be able to bring them to fruition when his tour finally ended. He felt touched that she trusted him enough to finally admit this thing that was wracking her with guilt. He was worried about how to pull it off, because he really wanted to make it happen in a way that would be worth the wait.

And I hear that from most men who finally have partners who trust them with their innermost fantasies. They’re proud that they’ve been entrusted with this and they want to do it justice. Or so has been my experience both through correspondence re: this blog, and in real life with my own lovers.

It’s like I said yesterday in my writing about suicide. Some secrets aren’t made for keeping. What you want to experience will never, ever happen if you don’t have the courage to speak of it. Sure, it’s hard. But it gets easier. And the more you do it, the more you won’t need to say in the future.

I swear, I’d give a money-back guarantee if your communication about sex improves, and your sex life does not. The two go hand in hand. Talking = Better Orgasms. It’s about as remedial as math gets.

Sex is the only time we get to be who we really are. Our soft underbellies get exposed and our animalistic interiors come out to play. It’s supposed to be that way. What the hell are you ashamed of? Come out, come out, wherever you are, and indeed – be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter won’t mind.

(It turns out it’s none other than that sage bard, Dr. Seuss, who wrote the above quote.)

A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…

My mother attempted suicide.

I’ve never written about this, and I would have liked to delve into it in a more literary way, but this is merely a public service announcement. I’m scared of going too into the moment. Even now, all these years later, even with her dead (from cancer) for seven years, it still hurts in places I’m not sure light will ever, ever find.

It’s a very long story about a 16-year-old girl who had a nice day out with a nice boy she liked and who got a kiss and came home happy. I had had a fight with her earlier in the day over something stupid – I was at a girl’s house whom she did not like in the least, and she tore a strip out of me on the phone when she knew I was over there.

For the first time ever, I didn’t run right home and try to make up with her. Instead, I spent the whole day walking all around town with this guy I so liked. Inevitably, I returned home. The blow-out fight occurred, and instead of my being the peacemaker I’ve always been, I said, “Fuck it. She’s out of control.” And then I played on the computer for an hour or two.

She barked at me to bring her some sherry. Obediently, I did. And then I went off and did my thing. I was pretty pissed, but after about a half-hour or so, I decided I couldn’t ignore the fight and resolved that I’d go in and smooth things over and explain to her what really happened, if she’d only get a grip and finally listen.

I opened the door to her bedroom to find her seated cross-legged at the head of her bed with a hand full of her sleeping pills and the bottle of sherry in the other. She shoved them into her mouth, not seeing me. I leapt across the room and belted her across the face, sending the pills flying. She was stunned. I grabbed the booze from her and started picking up the pills, and that’s the last thing I remember of that day. All I remember now are the emotions that found me then and dug a deep, deep hold on me in the months and years to come.

I told no one in my life. I kept that dark secret for far, far too long.

The thing about suicide is that there’s a real stigma. There’s a lot of shame, as if you’re some kind of damaged product because you couldn’t hack it in the real world. How much of that is societal versus internal is really debatable, depending on who you are and where you are.

As a bystander, a family member or friend, as someone who loves them, you feel the need to protect them by keeping the secret. God forbid shame come upon them. If keeping that secret means they don’t have to deal with shame on top of the horrible depression that drove them to that, then by god, that’s what you’ll do. Right?

Wrong. Don’t. I did. I hurt every goddamned day as a 17-year-old. It was more than two years before I stopped wondering. “Where the hell is she? She’s supposed to be home. There’s no note. Did she drive the car into a telephone pole? Jump off a bridge?”

I’d panic daily. That’s what we do when we’re scared for the welfare of a loved one. If you’re involved with someone delving deeper into depression, if you know someone is suicidal, that’s not a burden you need to carry alone, especially if you’re feeling overwhelmed by it all. There are crisis lines. They provide a world of help when you think there’s no place else to turn. Me, that’s the only place I turned. They told me to talk to her doctor, and I wish I had. I didn’t.

It would be two years later, when violent rage overtook my mother for no good reason, and she hurled this heavy metal block at my head, missing me by an inch. The wall was cracked open where it hit. I can’t imagine what it would’ve done to me had it hit me.

Being a well-read girl, though, I had heard about this drug called Halcyon, and I finally realized my mother was having a chemical reaction to her sleeping pill. I confronted her, we threw the drugs out, and while she’d battle depression until her death, it never again got out of control like that.

The only time we ever discussed that attempt of hers was about nine years after it happened, in the weeks leading up to her death. I’d just taken a three-week long road trip solo through the western US and got a lot of thinking and writing done. At the time, we didn’t know her death was imminent. I told her how much it’d fucked me up and for how long, and how I discovered I was still angry that she’d used me in that way, and told her so.

Her response? She apologized, but said she remembered nothing. Not a thing. Most of those two years were lost in a fog.

I guess my point is two-fold. One, don’t assume that someone has meant to bring anguish to you through their selfish actions. Sometimes, they’re just in such a disconnect that they don’t know any better. Sometimes, forgiving needs to happen on your part. (But if they’re hurting you repeatedly, or physically, you need to seriously consider walking. She had two events, and that was all. Between those, we had a good life together.) Two, you cannot expect to carry burdens alone. Some secrets are not made for keeping. Reach out to friends, and if you feel you can’t, use the crisis line. Had I done so, my mother wouldn’t have gotten violent when I was 18.

But we live and we learn, and sometimes we’re just lucky enough to hear about someone else’s experiences before we have to endure them ourselves. Learn from mine. Don’t be alone when you don’t need to be.

ADDENDUMS:
1. Crisis lines are found in almost every city of every province in Canada, and I would assume the same to be true for the US and many other forward-thinking countries.

2. I now never, ever let an argument fester. I never, ever go to bed angry. I talk through everything. Time heals all wounds? Conversation’s a pretty good start, too. You never know when someone’s tether’s gonna come undone.

3. I cannot recommend William Styron’s brilliant book Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness enough. In it he chronicles his chemically-induced descent into suicidal tendencies. I think it should be mandatory reading for anyone confronted with depression — theirs or a loved one’s.

I’m thrilled to announce that I’ve just gotten a glowing review from the incredible Jane’s Guide. I feel like a proud mama! Woot!

They said:

This journal is sort of a combination of personal diary entries and how-to articles related to sex. Steff is a confident woman that approaches sexuality in a pragmatic and mature fashion, but doesn’t let that lead to a lot of stuffy language. Some of the most worthwhile advice I’ve ever seen about being a good lover is here, “Being a good lover is: A) Knowing what you like, dislike, and love. B) Knowing how to express your needs. C) Being open-minded without compromising yourself, whatever that might mean for you. D) Not judging your lover’s desires, but being true to yourself so you’re not going to resent them after the fact.” Great advice! She has many other articles with titles like “Kissing: Oh So Telling” and “Bondage for Beginners”. I recommend this one wholeheartedly! – Vamp

This has been a great start to my day!!

Now, if you’re coming here by way of Jane’s and Vamp, please note that I’m just in transition and all my postings (except the “lesser” archives) are getting transferred to their new home at my new site — www.smutandsteff.com. This site’s going nowhere, though. Please add S&S to your bookmarks as that’s where all my new postings will be showing up.

Also, I’ll soon be launching a new podcast, too. So keep an eye out for that.

Tee hee… I’m a happy girl. I’ve been trying to get Jane’s to review me for a while. Thanks, Vamp!

(Okay, a disclaimer. I will NOT be posting the private info of anyone who has contacted me through Craigslist. Everyone will remain anonymous. I will, however, air certain message contents if it illustrates a point, such as: There are people who say mean and crass things for the hell of it. One might wonder why I feel such things need to be illustrated, but the fact of the matter is, e-dating scares a lot of people, and one or two bad apples may turn that person off the e-dating for good — and may well mean they remain single and lonely. And THAT would suck. So, for all those out there with skin not so thick as mine, this is a post for you, all right?)

It’s nice to think that we have this big, shiny world filled with rules and manners and protocol, but the reality is, they’re all guidelines, and it’s a choice as to whether or not you want to join the party of good, decent folk. Sadly, some opt out of that party.

E-dating’s kinda like dating on steroids. Bigger, better, faster, and able to smother you in a blinding second. It’s even worse if you’re female.

I haven’t been inundated with responses to my ad, I’ve had about 60 responses in about 36 hours, but this time I had the smarts to post on the weekend, and by the time the workday rolls around and office slackers everywhere are looking for time to kill on Craigslist, my posting’ll be buried down low. Not quite as fresh of meat, so to speak.

And that’s just fine with me. Fact is, a lot of guys seem to have form letters they send in response, and you know it’s the case because they say NOTHING about your ad. Ignore those. Then there’re the bright guys who send a “You’re interesting” note with two lines and a phone number. And there are the ones who don’t include photos, even when it’s bluntly stated I won’t respond without one. There’s a lot of crap to wade through, is what I’m trying to say.

I find this whole thing rather overwhelming. The trouble is, you need to believe you’re everything you’ve said you are. I do, kinda, but I also remember all the voices in the back of my mind from the folks who decided to opt out of the party, and that’s the part that makes it so much harder.

Let’s put it bluntly. There are some real bastards out there in the world, people who are petty, or have the wrong intentions, or just have chips on their shoulder that make ‘em lash out.

Me, I’m a good gal. One of the nice bunch. I say what I mean, mean what I say, and try to be as nice as I’m able. I’ve been trying to send nice rejection letters out, since there are men who’ll never fit my mold. Most guys are really cool and take it well and wish me all the best. Hence the saying “Take it like a man”, you know?

But assholes abound, nonetheless. Let me give you just a few examples of the ones I’ve encountered. But, here, if you haven’t read the comment and don’t know where my ad is, why don’t you go ahead and read it, then? Click here. In it, I mention I blog, but since Craigslist won’t allow URLs, I had to be coy about where my blog is, et al, by way of giving my Scribe handle and telling ‘em to Google it.

The first notable dick was a guy who took time out of his clearly busy, involved life, to let me know I’m a legend in my own mind (my mind appreciates the notice since it appears to have missed that memo) and that a search of my name yielded just three or four hits. Yeah. Okay. (Google tells me it’s just under a thousand, not a huge number, but still cool.) Whatever. I didn’t claim I was Hemingway or some brilliant writer. Instead, I’m a chick chasing a dream. Some people clearly take issue with such naïve pursuits.

Then there’s this guy, “You seem to know how to write, creative and such, but than you focus on Partner in crime,………. what the heck does that really mean, is that just a loss for words, but you being the writer, must be a writers block. To me that means, lazy, no thought, non creatative and so on.”

I decided to leave his shitty grammar in because I feel like being petty. “Partner in crime,” Mr. Brilliant, means someone I plan to do a whole lotta-lotta sinning with. Lock the doors, turn off the phones, close the windows, call the coppers, ‘cos something nasty’s gonna go down.

Then there’s the guy that sent a few coy one-liners, including after I sent my photo, who I then politely told I was uninterested in because he didn’t know how to volunteer information. So, he responds, “All you have to do is ask, Kittycat.” Well. I don’t want to have to ask. I like a man who can express thought unprovoked. Naïve? No. I’ve dated them before. Functioning braincells, operational voiceboxes, powers of articulation. You know. The expressive man is not the Loch Ness Monster; he does truly exist. So, I said so kindly, at which point he said, “No skin off my ass. I lost interest when I saw your pictures.” Oh, that’s why you persisted in sending more responses? Right.

So, the moral of the story. If you post a public ad, develop a thick skin. There are jerks who will treat you badly. I, wisely or otherwise, posted a public ad that connects to something with my name attached – this blog. I’m trying to take the high road and respond to everyone politely ‘cos the last thing I need is someone spreading rumours that I’m a complete cunt. I recommend staying anonymous, if you can. I’ve done this publically before, and I’ll do so again. If I get a few extra hits, then that’s just spiffy.

But, in the midst of the dicks are some guys who offer a lot of promise. It’ll be hard figuring out into whose baskets to drop my eggs, but we’ll see how it turns out. I’m going slower this time. Last time, I cut off the competition on day two when a sort-of face from the past emerged. Ironically, if it’d been just two weeks later, he’d have shattered his leg and we’d never have met. There are some good aspects to that – I might’ve had an easier time of it at times and so forth, but I don’t know that I’d change anything that happened. I’d have gone through less hardship had we just been friends, but I’d have missed out on some good stuff, too.

So, now I’m going to take my time and see how things progress. I wish it were a little simpler, and wish I could be the heartless cunt that doesn’t let guys down gently, if at all, but I’m not. So, I’ll probably still get some more hate mail. I could be a total bitch and post them publically for all y’all just to get you rallying around me, but that’s beneath me, as I indeed travel the high road.

It was suggested that I might want to write about the Dove Campaign for Real Beauty.

I’ve thought about it off and on for a while. The phrase “It’s not personal, it’s business” keeps ringing in my head, though, because this, baby, is business.

First, the campaign is brilliant. I relate to a lot of what it suggests about the media and the false ideal of beauty – how beauty is really a thing made these days and not a thing born. It’s an industry, beauty, but so too is advertising.

While I applaud the campaign, and I do rally behind its message, and I do think it’s high time someone said something, I won’t for a second pretend I can’t see some of the hypocrisy of just who’s being the messenger in this scenario.

Dove, a very nice soap indeed, is a Unilever brand. More than 150 million times a day, Unilever’s website states, someone somewhere in more than 150 countries internationally reaches for a Unilever-brand product.

They have a very big network of products – from Dove to Axe Body Spray to pharmaceuticals. They’re a very powerful player in the game of global industry. If their campaign for Real Beauty is serious, if they follow through and begin some kind of movement, then that’s wonderful. But they’re selling us Breyers Ice Cream and then marketing Slim Fast to us to take that ice cream off again. Some of their products have great mandates. Some, however, are perpetuating the very problem they’re pointing a finger at, like Axe Body Spray. If anyone ever used sex and idealized beauty as a sales tool, it’s the folks at Axe.

So, then, knowing full well who’s doing the talking (and, let’s face it, it could be worse) and all that preamble, let’s talk about the message.

It’s about time someone finally pointed out that the ideal of beauty in the fashion industry is more of a, well, let’s call it The Photoshop Factor, shall we? If you’re more pedestrian and like to use your HP Image tools, they’ve been so kind as to dumb down the latest greatest photographic trend. You betcha. It’s the “thinnify” action. Hell, all ya had to do before was reduce the width by 3-7%, but I guess they had to go and create the “reverse the 10 lbs” button.

Let’s face it. If being thin is so hard that not even models can pull it off, so they need to be “thinnified” then how in the hell is the majority of the population gonna pull off the ideal, huh? Who the fuck are they selling to, anyhow? And why are we putting up with it?

Models in magazines were airbrushed for forever. Now they’re CGI’d and gussied up in Photoshop. There is no real beauty. It’s a figment. Boys with their opaque view of sexuality got it into their heads that doing a little thinnifyin’ was the way to go. Oh, and get rid of that scar. No, no freckles. Can we give her a bit of a tan? Green eyes would pop on that skin, huh? Yeah, change it all and have the file uploaded by 3.

It’s a factory, is all. Like the old Heart song goes, they can’t sell ya what you don’t want to buy. You want the unreal beauties. You want the plastic Barbies. Something about a plain ol’ girl with freckles and jeans is too normal for you. So, instead, our media’s littered with false ideals. It’s like a Babylon on the rise. Crazy shit, man. Falsehoods abound, but, hey, the public’s buying.

Demand more. If it means getting behind a corporation that’s doctoring for itself a big ol’ bleeding heart love-thy-fellowman-and-thy-big-ass image, well, it’s probably better than the alternative.

And, sure, some of Unilever’s products sell themselves with sex, but they seem pretty straight and narrow, for the most part. Could be worse, you know, as far as big bad conglomerates go, that’s for sure.

The message in the Campaign for Real Beauty is one that needs to be heard, even if the messenger’s a little on the dubious side.

And while we’re talking about this, let’s mention that one of my readers smartly called me out for saying I needed money to become the person I wanted to become. She said I should know better than anyone that a woman’s glow comes from within, et al. Yes. Well. Perhaps so. I should know, yes?

I also know what it looks like when your clothes hang off ya or are too tight, and what a bad ‘do looks like, and so forth. In an ideal world, a woman’s glow would cut it, but if I’m a semi-vain human who knows where to draw the line, well, that’s a start. Beauty does cost money. We’re beautiful creatures and there’s nothing wrong with a little paint to enhance a good canvas, you know what I’m saying? But I don’t buy brand names and I think a $50 hairdo’s as good as a $300 and I’ve even bought clothes second-hand. There are different kinds of vain. Mine requires a budget, but it’s doable. I know what my style is, and I take nothing really from the media by way of influence.

‘course, I’d kill for a new leather jacket, too, eh? It’s about feeling good, yeah. Sometimes you need to spend some dollars, and most of us tend to be reasonable on that topic.

I am a stark-raving liberal. I care about my fellow Earth citizens. I think “luck” plays too great a role in the human condition. Why am I not some rural African dead or dying from AIDS? Why I am not subject to the ludicrous conditions and threat of rape in modern day South Africa? How did I luck out, born middle class, white, and reasonably happy in free North America?

Couldn’t tell ya. Is what it is. I’m grateful daily for who I am and where I am.

But, also, I am apalled by the western world’s lack of involvement in the African condition. After all, if it’s just luck, then why is theirs so goddamned bad?

It was about 120 years ago that the first-ever human rights campaign began. The birth of photography made it possible to document horrors happening, and it was first used to document the horrors of the rubber massacre at the end of the 19th century. The Congo was being obliterated by King Leopold and his Belgian bastards because of the discovery of rubber trees there (the birth of the auto made rubber, for tires, a highly prized natural resource until a synthetic form was invented much later). It was an attrocity that became the basis of Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, upon which the movie Apocalypse Now was based. Head-hunting was a sport, one could claim. Nearly 10 million Africans were murdered in what became the first modern genocide… greater than the Holocaust.

In that 120 years, incredible tragedy has consistently clouded the continent. From genocide after genocide to drought and starvation and racial cleansing and horrific rape statistics, the continent serves as a reminder of just how much can go wrong when political instability is inflicted on a region. Throw into that mix a little climate intensity and general social unrest and you have the hottest hotbed in the world.

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Y’know, Africa’s a part of the world I’d like to get lost and never found in. Something about that part of the world makes me wanna weep inside, the good way and the bad way. The cradle of civilization, indeed. If the earth is an animal, Africa is its pulsating heart. I wanna go, and bad.

But I really want to see it start to heal some. Believing in manifest destiny, white Europeans landed on Africa and decimated it for its bountiful and enviable natural resources. They brought firepower when Africans had only fire. The place has never recovered. Can’t we at least atone a little for the sins of our fathers? Just a bit?

So, I’m going to make a point of it in the next week to go to the Gap and buy a (Red) t-shirt. Bono of U2 fame and pal Bobby Shriver have come up with the idea. A (Red) brand shirt* will mean half the money goes to buy drugs for AIDS victims in Africa. Oprah bought shirts for her audience of 300, and that profit alone was enough to pay for the drugs to inhibit transmission of AIDS from a mother to her unborn child for 14,000 women.

More than providing cold hard cash for a problem that is more economic than it is anything else, though, is that it proves people care. It proves that western people WANT their governments to contribute to the global human condition in a positive, lasting way. It proves that we think they deserve to live, too.

I mean, you agree, don’t you? Then why doesn’t your government react? Buy a shirt.* Become a number. Become evidence. Become a powerful political platform. Become part of a movement that’s proving it feels good to give a shit. It really, really feels good.

Like that $20 was gonna go to something better, anyhow. Do it. Get (Red).

*Or shoes. Or blue jeans. Or an iPOD Nano @ Apple. Or a cell phone @ Motorola. (Red) is an entire line of products. All fall under the (approximately) 50%-to-AIDS-prevention/treatment guidelines for African charity proceeds.)

I’ve always been a tomboy.

When I was a kid, my most prized possession was my cowboy boots. Yep. I still remember the rage I felt that provoked me to take the extreme step of yanking off one of my beloved boots and hurling it across the yard at Devon’s head, when we were 8 and 9. I hit ‘im, too. Direct hit. That’s how much of a tomboy I once was. I’ve never thrown like a girl. He deserved it.

I never listened to the same pop music my contemporary chicks listened to. My movie collection looks like a guy’s. I never did the make-up parties. I never did “girl talk.”

Honestly, I’ve always wondered why I’m not a dyke, and the best answer I can come up with is that, well, they’re girls. I always liked playing rougher with the boys, so hey. Game on, y’know?

Back in the day, I despised going to Catholic school as a kid for a number of reasons, and at the top was that I had to wear tunics, then kilts, for more than a decade – daily.

There was a time in my late teens when I wore skirts recreationally, you know, outside of school and all. Then, I just stopped. I just swore off them. I hated skirts, I guess, for a number of reasons – insecurities, body image issues, a whole world of dumb-ass reasons have prevented me from wearing skirts since my youth.

In the last month or so, three or four skirts have been given to me. I’m mortified. I don’t know what to do now. I do know one thing, though: I’ve been rebelling against the whole tomboy thing for a while.

I last had my haircut at the end of July. I tend to like to do drastic things after a relationship ends when it comes to my hair, so I tried that this time, but with little success. The woman hacked off my bangs and a few other things that underwhelmed me. I was going for more of an Isabella Rosellini short-hair look, but it failed. I’ve been keeping my hair short-short for about three years now, and something in the last 6-8 weeks has snapped. I’m tired of it. I want to feel like a girl.

I’ve not had my hair cut in nearly three months now and it’s getting longish. Another three or four months and it’ll start looking like a bob, if you need a reference. My natural wave has returned and my hair’s doing some things I’ve never seen it do, despite having worn it down to my ass back in high school. (I once had a stranger approach me and say, “I’m married, so this isn’t a come-on, but you have the sexiest hair I’ve ever seen and I hope you never cut it.”) Stupidly, I did cut it, and it never grew back right since. Until maybe now.

I’m loving it, actually. My eyes are popping now, my lips look fuller. This hair’s working for me, so I now need to decide how much further I want to take it. And in there are some real identity issues. Something about this hair is reminding me of being 9 and 15, some pretty formative years. It’s having me ask a lot of questions of how I went from what I wanted to be to becoming what I am today, and just… you know. Am I happy with myself? I was, for a while, but now I want more. I want to be better. Inside and out.

I’m on the verge of revamping my identity both internally and externally. I’m really trying to change the way I feel. I don’t think I should be so repelled by the thought of being feminine, and over the last year, I’ve taken baby steps. I play cuter for the boys when the thought crosses my mind. I get how to be that little kitten-ish type female, but I can still dial into the girl within me, the one who throws like a boy.

The most recent major step in this revamp was to buy pointy-toed high-heel shoes. Yep. Some serious clickers there. I’ve always been the Doc Marten-boot or clunky-heel chick. The type who wears cargo pants while vamping up with eyeliner and painted lips, you know? Some days work better than others. But real, genuine heels have never been in my wardrobe. Sure, nice cute flats, etc, but never heels like these. These are the kinda heels a girl wears when she knows she ain’t comin’ home alone tonight, you know what I’m saying?

I’ll tell you what prompted me. I may be straight, but I appreciate the aesthetic of the female body. Do I ever. I was going into my new/old job and on the first day, a couple weeks back, and I came to a stop right behind this chick on a bicycle. She had these cute tight faded jeans rolled to mid-calf, a light white sweat jacket fitting smartly on all her curves, and she’s got her left leg down for balance – on the back of the calf, a nice tattoo of a broken heart, and then she had a 3” heel on either foot. Never have I wished I had my camera more than right then.

Fuck, man. That was h-o-t. I just thought, “Shit.” That’s the kinda gal I’d get all tangled up with if I went that way, you see. And I’m not it. I’d never have those heels on that bike. And why not? That’s precisely the kind of rule I love to break, and, in a way, it completely suits me. But I’m not it. Yet.

Doesn’t it make sense, though? You want to feel and look the way you think “hot” is defined, don’t you? I’m never, ever gonna be hot in the Britney Spears sort of way, and never do I want to be. I’m more turned on by the girl next door from your childhood who can really kick your ass now. You know the type. You’re secretly really wishing to lose a wrestling match with her? Yeah. That’s my style. I’m working towards that.

I guess I’m getting to that point, though, where I feel like I’m moving past all the troubles that have been my 2006, finally, and I feel like I want to have something to show for it, externally. I’d like to get a tattoo sometime next year, for instance, and I want to master these new high heels I have. I’ve never gone higher than 1.5 inches before. I have height issues. What can I say? I’m a pussy.

Starting this weekend, I’m taking my new heels on walks for the next week or two. Then, I will have to arrange a girl’s night on the town and see if I can play a good little skirted girl for the masses. There’s this cute pink-and-cream skirt I want to show off.

Now I’m in a strange headspace. I’m acknowledging to myself that I’m not really what I find attractive. I’m close, but I’m not quite there. To get there, I need more money. Sigh. But maybe I can fake it after all.