I really think that romance without great food is just a waste of everybody’s time. Really. Love, sex, passion, with… reheated leftovers? Bland boiled dinners? Decarbonated generic brand soda?
Oh, please. Love, sex, passion, they deserve good wine, ripe, succulent fruit, tender meats, chocolates, and oh, so much more! When I think of passion and romance, I think of places that are married to my epicurean fantasies as well — Venice, Tuscany, Paris, ad nauseum.
So it should come as no surprise that I consider breakfast an important skill I’ve learned in my repetoire as a femme d’amour. Hash browns? Got ’em down. Scrambled eggs? Cracked those. Hell, I even make homemade bread these days. Being able to make love, sleep late, and eat the food of love, breakfast, is something high on my list of priorities when it comes to terminating the single thing.
While I cannot live without my eggs and bacon with upscale toast, there are times when practicality can offer a really sensational detour from the norm.
I’m giving you a recipe that I modified and funkified. It’s a sour cream & coffee double-chocolate – chocolate chip banana loaf. Oh, yeah, it’s all that.
But here’s how you make it work. You’ve got the thick, moist slices of this dense, rich banana loaf, and you serve it with a really enchanting assortment. Maybe some slices of whiskey-infused cheddar, or a candied-ginger white stilton, some ripe strawberries, a few blueberries, some mango, something exotic like dragonfruit, fresh vodka-soaked pineapple (good morning!), and lime-drizzled slices of pear, and you slice it all up and arrange it on a couple platters. You have a carafe of coffee, and presto, you have some pretty tasty contentment.
The spread’s designed to be picked at and enjoyed over the course of a morning or early afternoon. Lie around and play board games or with each other, nibbling when a pang strikes you.
This recipe made a little less than my altered end version makes (originally 1 large loaf versus two medium loaves now) and didn’t have as much banana or chocolate in it, and no coffee, so I decided to make everything right with the universe and decided to take it to some new places. It’s moist and it’s better on the second day, so make it before you get together. I think it’s relatively idiot proof, so have at it!
I recommend this as a Valentine’s weekend-spread item. Takes 10 minutes to prepare!
Steff’s Sour Cream & Coffee
Double-Chocolate – Chocolate-Chip Banana Loaf
Preheat oven to 350.
In a big bowl:
1/2 cup margarine or butter
1 c. sugar
2 eggs.
Cream these ingredients with a blender or mixer until all fluffy-like.
Mix in:
The flesh of 4 mashed bananas (the blacker the ‘nana’s, the bettah)
2 teaspoons vanilla
Get it really well mixed.
In another bowl, combine:
3 tablespoons dark, bitter cocoa
2 cups unbleached flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
Add 1/2 cup sour cream (lowfat works!) to the banana/moist mixture.
Add 1/4 cup dark coffee (I used leftovers from my French press. Dredges.).
Mix well.
Add dry mix to the moist mix, and combine only until all the flour is mixed in. (The less you mix, the fluffier the loaf. More you mix, the heavier and tougher.)
Add 1/2 – 1 cup of chocolate chips, and mix. (Again, easy on the mixing!)
Split batter into two well-buttered 9×5 inch loaf pans. Bake at 350 for 40 – 50 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the centre comes out clean.
This is crazy moist, and only gets better the second day. I sprinkle the tops of my loaves with more chips before I put it in the oven. It’s a nice touch. And if you want to make it ever nicer, just sprinkle the slices with icing sugar before serving.

IN EXCITING NEWS — It looks like I finally figured out my fucking archiving settings on Blogger! You can now read my archives month-by-month as listed on the sidebar. Shit, Bob, this is a real, live, functioning blog now!

So, I had the world’s longest email from a guy a while back who has reconnected with a girl he was in love with some 15 or so years ago. Sorry, reader, for both the response delay and the wisecrack about the email. 😉

He’s about to move across state lines to be with her, and he’s having massive insecurities about his size, which is 6.5 inches hard. (Which is slightly above average, statistically speaking.)

I’ve written about penis size before, and my bottom line is “get over it.” You have what you have, and that’s that, says this down-to-earth, potentially naïve girl.

(It should be noted that I recently heard that, for every 35 pounds a guy loses, he gains an inch in cock size. I’ve seen no hard evidence, pun intended, but it’s a good motivator at for the boys wanting to watch their weight.)

The problem is, this chick was married for a few years to a bad boy that she supposedly had unbelievable sex with, but little else. The divorce happened, the two reconnected, and now he’s questioning himself for the first time ever because he’s madly in love with her and wants to be the best thing she’s ever had, in every sense of the word.

Here’s just a brief snippet of his email to me.

Let me ask you something, having been with someone outside the range considered average, have you been, or will you be disappointed now with less – at least a little? Do you respect a man less sexually a bit because you experienced a larger man? I’m aware that there can be great sex with average to smaller, and there are other factors contributing to the experience, but… And size must have some impact for chicks, being that most will “check out our packages” to see what the future holds.

Whew.

Well, then. Let’s talk about my perspective on this, then, shall we? Yeah, I’ve been with smaller men. I wouldn’t be happy with a guy under 5.5, and 5.5 is only “just” enough to satisfy me. But, yeah, it’s that old cliché of “it’s not what you have but how you use it” and it’s more than that. So, let’s backtrack a bit.

My first real lover was a guy I was with off and on for seven years. I’d never had anyone else so I didn’t realize he wasn’t that big, but he was probably 5.5 inches, in hindsight. He was a great lover – though I’ve had far better since.

In the years that have passed I’ve asked myself a million and one ways why I stayed. It was an emotionally abusive relationship, I could’ve had other men and in the time that I was with him, I did (as we often broke up for spells then got back together, ‘cos we kept doing the whole “let’s be friends” thing but would fall into ex-sex patterns that just reignited the relationship, et al).

And in my older, wiser years I’ve come to realize that sex is the greatest illusion of them all. When the sex is great, we women (and even men, I’m sure) can lie to ourselves and make believe that the relationship itself is working if the sex is. God knows I fooled myself. It’s even worse when the sex is great and frequent – we had sex, literally, every single time we saw each other, and usually multiple times, as many as six times in a night. We were antisocial, stayed in, and fucked. When you do that, it’s pretty easy to ignore everything else that’s wrong.

But some of us grow the fuck up. We learn that, yeah, something seems to be missing. Sometimes we even get wary of ever having a relationship where sex is so prevalent again.

In the years since, yes, I fell for a “smaller” guy, and fell reasonably hard, too, but he offered so much in all the other areas that I felt it was a no-brainer. And he wanted to please me and did everything he could to do so. Would it have been better if he had a larger cock? Well, of course! Would I have been over the moon to have that in addition to everything else he offered? Well, of course! But he couldn’t offer that. And while it might have been a thought I had from time to time, it wasn’t an issue. I cared about him, I trusted him, and I, in turn, did everything I could to please him.

Yeah, you’re insecure, there, fella. And I bet that the fact that you’re about to make a big move is no small part of it. I think you’re subconsciously redirecting fears and anxieties about that big change – and why not? That’s a huge commitment! You’re not just putting your money where your mouth is, you’re leaving everything you know for this woman. Damned right there’ll be anxieties someplace.

You know what the ray of sunshine is? It’s obvious you’re in love. You wanna be everything for this woman. Know what? You’re probably going to fall short of your goal, but that’s okay. You’ll probably still be the guy she dreamed about for 15 years through all those crappy times with that lousy guy who only offered one thing – being good in bed. You, though, bring a package. She can trust you, enjoy time with you, know that you’re that uber-combination of a friend and a fuck buddy, all mixed in with the reliability of a life partner. Score!

Yeah, you need to get over it. So do most guys. There are things you can’t change (or maybe you can – with great pain and anguish and lots of money) but there are other things you can. Ask her what she wants. Get creative about it. Buy her a nice journal book and ask her to transcribe her wildest fantasies for your eyes only, and set about making them happen.

What you PERCEIVE that you don’t have in size – even though you’re slightly above average – you can make up for in passion, in love, in understanding, in communication, in what you do “the morning after”, and what you do in times of difficulty.

Because, I’ll tell ya, it never lasted with me and the guy who was the largest, technically “best” lover I’ve ever had, and it never could have lasted because of who he was. The relationships’ demise I most regret tend to be the ones with whom the emotional connection was the strongest, never mind what happened between the sheets. But what happened between the sheets, because it was with them, was, in its own way, truly special and unforgettable. And, YEAH, that sounds incredibly cheesy, I know!

It’s obvious that some people are far better company than others will ever be for you, and it’s why we tend to pair-bond with them. Some, though, fit our bodies like a glove, and we might wish like all hell that they’d be perfect in other ways, but that usually doesn’t tend to happen. For most of us, we can’t settle for that. But if it’s the other way around? Yeah, that’s something most of us will settle for.

Sounds to me like you’re half way towards that, if you can forget about yourself and focus on the moments you’ve been fortunate enough to have been given.

And I bet 90% of women would agree with me (but don’t just sit there, girls, comment or something!). A lover who’s obviously trying to please us, who listens to what we want, knows how to melt us with a kiss, is kind and loving and doting towards us, but lacks an inch or two of Ideal Cock? It’s almost a no-brainer.

Besides, that’s why you have a tongue and fingers. Use them. Feel the Force, Luke.

One last, flippant comment? This paranoid insecurity guys feel about their cocks is r
ight up there with that bullshit you hate to hear from us — “Does this dress make me look fat?” (My all-time favourite response, from Sealab 2021, I think, was “No, but your ass does.”) You guys think we need to get over whether we look fat? Yeah, well, get over your cock issues and then maybe we can talk about that. 😉

(As for the photo, shit, man, I couldn’t resist! Beats the heck out of “make love, not war”, even if I agree with that motto.)

A couple weeks back, I received an absolutely beautiful new sex book. The Sex Bible by Susan Bakos is the first sex book I’ve seen in a long time that makes me really want to sit down and go through it. I haven’t yet had the time, but it’s definitely on the list of pressing to-dos.

I’ll definitely be sharing my thoughts on this book with you, and I can tell you already that it looks to be blowing that Nina Hartley Guide To Total Sex that I reviewed last fall right out of the bloody water. It has breathtaking nude photography throughout (but all photographed in the right way so you only see ass or tits and so it can be sold in nearly any store) and the little I’ve read seems really well-written and full of insight.

A book like this could prove to get a lot of use out of younger couples or couples looking to make their sex life a little more rounded and a little less standard “vanilla”.

Personally, I think there’s nothing better for a couple to do than to talk about their sex life. The more you talk, the more you’ll realize just what it is you’re wanting and why. It lets you understand your motives and needs in a way you may not have realized before.

I had one of those moments of clarity the other night when I was having a chat about sex. About a year and a half ago now, I had this terrific fling with this guy and the sex just boggled the mind. I’ve never been so spent after a weekend, and the question I was asked that made me think was, why was it good sex? I realized then that it was the first time I was really secure enough that I didn’t care how much noise we made during the act. Turned the stereo up and worked with it.

It’s so amazing how one little thing, like having to concentrate on how loud you are, can detract from the intensity of an experience. That one experience, for me, really spoke to that. I just let go and I was the lover I kinda always thought I had inside. I dropped the façade and really clicked with someone on a new level.

I think it’s easy to forget just how much our hang-ups hold us back. It’s why I believe in things like therapy, or writing, or talking, because getting it, whatever “it” is, out there is the first step towards being able to really own that and then move past it.

Every couple should, in my humble opinion, sit naked on the couch, enjoying some wine, and just start a conversation about sex. If you don’t have the freeform abilities to just take the topic and run with it, then grab a quality book on sex, like this incredible The Sex Bible, and discuss the contents with your partner as you flip through the pages or scan the index together. If you’re the kind of people who aren’t so great at making mental notes, then have a pad and paper or a notebook in which you plan to keep track of things you’ve discussed, your thoughts on them, and whether they deserve ranking on your to-do list.

Draw pictures if it helps, or leave notations on page numbers in corresponding books, but make it a work book of things you want to achieve sexually as a couple. It doesn’t have to be all fluffy and beautiful, either. Make it dirty if you want, write lustful notes to each other in it between book viewings. Whatever it takes to make it a fun project. Do what’s comfortable for you and your relationship, and make a point of having FUN.

We all hit boredom patches in our sex lives. If it was a football game, the coach would be throwing a new gameplan on the chalkboard. It it was a mid-career crisis, management would call us in for a review and an establishing of priorities for the coming months. Yet when it’s our sex life hitting a dull patch, we think that the problem’s all ours or that our partner won’t get on board. We don’t implement steps to shake up the mix. Well, why the hell not?

Something like this book would serve beautifully in the drink-and-discuss sexual review project. All the photographs give a lot of food for thought, and could even serve to provide a little steam to the proceedings. I mean, case in point: see above photo.

I’ve written about sexual reviews in relationships in the past, and I still think it’s a fantastic thing to do. Plan to set aside a night where you’re going to talk about your sex life, the things you’ve done that you love, that didn’t work for you, why, what you’d love to try, what a goal might be for you to reach together, and maybe even what it is your partner does that makes you feel most powerful or appreciated. You can return to your notes a few weeks later and discuss which ones you ended up accomplishing and how you felt that worked out for you, and discuss what you’ve yet to do, and possibly its importance to you and why.

You can have these evenings be fluffy, romantic nights, or you can cut through all the puffery and just lay things out bare, as it were. Me, I favour keeping it simple: Nekkid, wine, a few candles, and say it like you mean it. Dressing it up or worrying about wording things right is a hassle. Keep it real.

Of course, if you’re like me, you just talk about sex all the time and you don’t need a review because you’re big on instant feedback and all. Still, it’s nice to make an evening of it. Show and tell, as it were. I’m always fond of an excuse to get naked and drink wine and fondle a warm body, myself, but then, I’m a lush.

(The above photo — man, I need to get a bigger shower! — is from the above-mentioned The Sex Bible. Now I need a shower.)

I’ve been writing a lot more lately, but not that you would ever know. Scattered everywhere are partially finished works, almost none seeing the light of day. I’ve had everything and nothing to say of late. I’m thinking too quietly, too privately.

It’s been a strange month, year, life. Despite technically being laid off yesterday, I’m still very positive at times. I feel like things are still on the verge of getting better fast. It won’t take a lot for me to have a stunning change of fortune.

I’ve been thinking about a lot today. I sent in a resume about four days ago and now have a phone interview Monday. I’m told they receive about a thousand resumes a month, and even getting a phone interview is a great thing, let alone within the first week of applying. So, I’m feeling oddly good about myself.

I’m researching the company today, and I’ve been watching a movie called Born Into Brothels, about children in India born into marginalized prostitution, and I keep thinking how fortunate I am to have prospects at times like these. But, yeah, prospects. All over the place.

The job I’ve applied for is a stable, solid one in a respectable industry, but there’s an air of sales to it, as well. Damn straight, I can sell like no one’s biz. Trouble is, I don’t believe in sales per se, because it’s pretty simple: If you need to sell it, it ain’t worth selling. If it’s worth having, it sells itself. Most jobs, you can’t get away with living by those principles. This one, I’ll be encouraged to think in those terms, and that’s something I dig. I’ve come this far without selling out in life, so let’s see if I can take it a little further and find yet another employer I can actually believe in. (“You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.”)

So even though it can sell itself, sometimes it just needs, oh, an audio track, and then I get to provide the words. Do the math. 😉 I once was ringing in a $9 sale at a toy store job, and through conversation during the ringing-up, I wound up turning that $9 sale into a $1900 sale. It took all of five minutes of talking. Shit sold itself. I was just the mediator.

And the thing is, the online resume for this company, it was one of the few that seeks out your attributes and all. In writing mine up, I remembered all the great things people have said about me over the years, and I found myself thinking more about their intentions when they told me these things. And all I could think of was, they just wanted me to know. What do they really get out of telling me how or where I shine? Not much. The only person with something to gain has been me. For too long now, I’ve discounted what has been said to me, choosing instead to believe they were “just being nice”.

How disrespectful of me. It belittles others to think everything they say is merely in effort to be pleasant. Aren’t most of us striving to be a little more real every day? I think of all the times I’ve gone out of my way to compliment someone just because I feel they deserve to know they’ve done well or simply deserve a compliment. I know I wasn’t trying to be pleasant. (I’ve written about this in a relationship POV recently; if you can’t (or don’t) trust a lover who’s complimenting you, then maybe you just don’t trust them at all.)

Y’know, I have a bulletin board on my bedroom wall. To it, I tack phone numbers, dates to remember, and even quotes that strike a chord. One reads, “Believe the hype, baby!”

Watching Oprah recently, I saw Patti Labelle on there. She’d just been asked a question: “If you could go back and talk to your younger self, what’s the most important advice you could give her?”

So, Patti says, “Believe the hype, baby.”

And that struck me so hard. So, so hard. I get people telling me more often than I deserve just how much they like me, whether it’s here in the cyberverse or out there in the real world. And so often I choose to ignore it (hence why it’s more than I deserve). Deep inside, I think of all my flaws, all the mistakes I’ve made, believing that this troubled life I lead is a result of my troubled management. I keep choosing to believe the wrong damned thing, I guess. And the thing is, how much further could I be going if I actually started believing what people have said of me?

So, I’m choosing instead to believe the hype. Baby. Tomorrow, at 2:00, I will be repeating the hype so I can get employed by one of the highest-rated employers in this country. Whew. Here’s hoping.

**

Something else I’ve been thinking a lot of this week is sex drive. Mine has been out of gear since last summer. The depression sort of kicked my ass, sexually speaking. I’ve been wanting to get back into dating, but I had no desire to do the whole sex thing. (Makes writing about it a real chore!) All of a sudden, I’m getting my drive back. That gear’s slipping into place now, I’ll tell ya.

It’s probably because I’ve been exercising a lot lately. I’m excited to see I have a pulse returning. It’s that blood flow thing. Gotta get pumping, right? Let’s hear it for free weights.

But it leads me to believe what I’ve been doing wrong in the job search is, I’ve had no job interviews after riotous sex. Last week, I came across a New Scientist article in which they did a study that found that some 70% of those who had full-on intercourse before doing something nerve-wracking, like public speaking, performed far better.

I’m starting to think that rug-burn + job interview = unbelievably successful (not at the same time, of course!). The problem is? I’m still single. But now I’m motivated. Aha. A girl on a mission. See, I need to go in there all bubbly and glowy and blissed-out, then I won’t care, and presto! I’ll be the “it” girl!

It’s ironic though, because the job search thing is so much more distracting than it deserves to be. Ah, well. Sooner or later, I’ll figure it out. Balance, Grasshopper! Balance!

So, I was asked recently what the best sex I ever had was, and why.

This guy, right off the bat, had something about him that I trusted. This was a fling, nothing more, but there was that connection and some moment-seizing got under way pretty quickly after we met. We decided the next weekend we’d take no prisoners, lock ourselves away, and go on the perfect quest for rug burn.

Much to his surprise when he showed up at four on Friday, I answered the door wearing only a oversized dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, barefoot with painted toenails. It was a robust welcome, and things certainly improved from there. We had a late dinner of steaks and risotto, then laid around naked watching movies and drinking wine and not keeping our hands to ourslves. The rest of the weekend, till about 7 on Sunday, was pretty much that — constant nakedness, food, and sex. Getting clean periodically and playing dirty the rest of the time.

I jokingly called it the “poor man’s weekend away”. But it’s like the David Mamet flick says, “Fun? Doesn’t everybody? Everybody makes their own fun. If you don’t make your own fun, it’s not fun, it’s entertainment.”

I’m a writer girl. Fun’s in my budget, entertainment ain’t. Ha.

Anyhow. So far my weekend’s excitement comes in the form of getting laid off. Whee, fun. I have prospects, though, so I’m giving it a week before I pop my gasket. I shall be cool, calm. Sex doesn’t look like it’s in the picture. Sad.

But that doesn’t need to be the case for you. Say, don’t YOU feel like getting away? What, you can’t afford it? Oh, you silly! Have I got just the thing for you! But wait… there’s more!

Okay, okay. Seriously now. Put your money away. Buy a couple frozen pizzas, some wine, okay, scratch that, a lot of wine. Stock up on eggs and breakfast goodies. Get some nibblie bits. And stay in for a self-imposed rainy-day weekend.

In case you want to get up to old tricks with a bottle of chocolate sauce or a tub of golden honey, I’ll share a little trick with you. Make use of those crockpots and rice cookers. You’ll need a “low” or “keep warm” option. Plug it in next to the bed, put some warm, damp towels in there, and when you’re all deliciously sticky but spent, you can just lie there and towel each other off. The warmth’s a pretty awesome thing at that stage of the game, AND you don’t need to get up. If you plan ahead with a couple bottles of water and a plate of strawberries, you’re set.

*But don’t be fools and put the towel down on the bed ‘cos you’re getting all riled back up during the “here, let me get that for you” antics and all. That’d just be dumb-ass. Put the towel back in the thingie-thing, or toss it unceremoniously against the wall. Let’s just avoid conjuring more wet spots than are necessary.

So, I was watching the god that is Jack Bauer in the latest episode of 24.

Hey, I was a teen in the late ‘80s, and I have to tell you, I never would have imagined the bad-boy Kiefer Sutherland that was the murder capital of the USA’s evil teen lead vampire in 1987’s Lost Boys, would be the sex symbol du jour in 2007?

Hell, Lost Boys was pretty much soft-core porn for us teen girls. You had your Jason Patric (who was brilliant in 1998’s acerbic Your Friends and Neighbors), us wee girls had our Corey Haim, then there was that snooty bad-ass Canadian, Kiefer for the odd girls. He wasn’t mainstream back then. He was that shitty older brother to the then-tubby Jerry O’Connell in Stand By Me, and you just thought he’d treat ya like dirt if ever… you know?

BUT that was then, this is Bauer. Now how do they make the Canadian men so damned sexy when they’re assertive, huh? Is it all those hours of Margaret Atwood discussions in high school English? Is it the microbrew? Whatever. It’s working.

Here’s the thing, though. Seriously.

For some of us, the definition of what’s sexy in a man has shifted a bit since the day those planes took out the Twin Towers. I still remember that day, you know? We saw firemen screaming in anguish with tears ripping wide swaths down their dust-covered cheeks. We saw cops doing everything they could to protect and serve when the people needed them most. It was an awesome yet heart-breaking display of just how incredibly selfless and sexy a man being a man could be.

Yeah, there are still women who want their little metrosexual boys, and fine, you know, you can take your Justin Timberlake and find a coatcheck closet, honey.

Some of us, for a while there, we saw just what an awesome thing masculinity at its finest could be. And I do so love that manliness. I think it’s a hard time, however, to be either sex. It’s confusing. We’ve redrawn the lines so often since the dawn of the 20th century that it feels like we’re hamsters in a wheel.. What an exciting time it’s been. In that span of decades, we’ve gone from near-Puritanical morals and a patriarchal society to an almost even playing field. We have indeed come a long way, baby.

But for all the strength we women have gained, men have lost their perspective. These days, you have guys who don’t know how strong is too strong and when empathetic starts to become pathetic. The just don’t know how to soften the edges of manhood. It’s all or nothing, it seems.

The balance of sexual power these decades past has been like that of a boat in a storm. Every time you think you’ve got your footing, along comes another movement.

And, you know, there’s Jack Bauer. A guy who loves his country so much, so deeply, he’ll do just about anything he can in order to protect it. He’s easily one of the best television anti-heroes ever, if not the best. He takes it to cruel extremes yet still keeps you tethered to him. A guy who turns a lamp cord into a shock-therapy torture device, or bites a chunk out of a guy’s neck, yet still keeps you thinking he’s a sweetie?

I don’t know, guys. You want your Zen master for how to be the kind of guy who toes the line, look at Jack. Tough yet secretly a double-agent marshmallow of affection. Who knew. Lost Boys!

And all the things Jack is good at, these guys are failing dismally at.

Sadly, there are countless British Columbians who feel much like I do tonight. There’s a quiet satisfaction in knowing we’re entering phase two of the largest murder investigation in Canadian history. It is the eve of the Robert Pickton trial. At long last, one of the most sadistic murderers in Canadian history is on the verge of meeting with his accusers.
Pickton was arrested five years ago for 26 (formerly 27; one charge dismissed due to lack of evidence) murders dating back to the mid-90s.
Pickton and his brother ran a so-called “non-profit” charity called Piggy Palace Good Times Society. According to Wikipedia, their society’s mandate was to “organize, co-ordinate, manage and operate special events, functions, dances, shows and exhibitions on behalf of service organizations, sports organizations and other worthy groups.”
Which is to say sponsor drug-fuelled parties at their pig farm, featuring the most disenfranchised sex trade workers in this province, the Downtown Eastside prostitutes. The girls at the Pickton farm would be murdered, then fed to the pigs. The crime scene investigation of his farm became the largest criminal forensic investigation in Canadian history.
In the last two or three decades, there have been more than 60 DES prostitutes go missing or cornfirmed as murdered. Some speculate Pickton had his hands in more than a few, and possibly even others in other PNW cities.
The sex trade may not be everyone’s favourite dinner-table topic, but, really, as long as there are people living in denial about the world’s oldest profession, a good majority of those workers will continue to be marginalized. With that comes vulnerability.
Yeah, everyone’s up in arms about the whole NIMBY scenario. “Sure, legalize it, legislate it, but not in my back yard.” Tough. It’s already in your fucking back yard. You’re just choosing to avert thy eyes.
Do I have a constructive solution? No, not beyond the “bring back the brother, institutionalize the madam, legislate the health and hygiene” mantra you’ve heard so many times before. What’s the big deal? It’s going to be a lurid industry no matter how you slice it, but the reality is, women will continue to be victimized, tortured, beaten, raped, and killed unless somebody steps in and accepts that this is part of the dark side of society, but maybe with some proper controls in place, we can make it a whole lot less ugly.
But what do I know. I’m a stark raving liberal with a heart sewn on her sleeve. I get all boo-hooey at the thought of women killed for no better reason than that of society forgetting they existed at all. Call me crazy.

A reader did something today I wish more of you would do. She sent me a news story that had her, I guess, fuming. Her thoughts? “This is un-fucking-believable, really.”
Colour us simpatico, then, because my sentiments at first glance were, “Holy MOTHERFUCKER.”
If you’re one of the number who calls America “the Land of the Free”, it’s time you check your thoughts, pal, because it seems to me to be “the Land of the Paradox”, and that’s putting it lightly at best.
The gist of this story is simple: Cheat on your spouse, and face 1st degree criminal sexual conduct.
I wanna know why the Court of Appeals is allowed to smoke high-grade doobage when no one else is.
Look, I’ve been cheated on. My longest lover ever was sleeping with someone before we split, and after we split, he was married within nine months. Do the math.
Did I hate him? You’re fucking right I did. In some ways, I suspect I still do. I’d certainly never trust him again, as a lover, as a friend, as anything. Would I wish he’d be imprisoned for what he did to me?
HELL NO.
He fucked up. I know it, he knew it. That’s the way the game goes. I took the chance of following my heart, but it seems my compass needle broke long before I got out that door.
We’re talking about passion, matters of the heart, all that. I don’t believe in infidelity. If you’re unfaithful, you deserve getting your ass kicked to the curb. If you aren’t kicked to the curb, there’s your hard proof that your lover’s nth degrees better than you are—they’re giving you an invaluable second chance. Don’t fuck it up.
But JAIL? Criminal prosecution? All because you followed the tick-tock of your heart in one weaker-than moment?
And this is from the nation that claims it’s the GOLD standard of “freedom”? Yeah. Right.
I’ve never been unfaithful. God willing, I never will be. I honestly don’t believe I have it in me to hurt someone like that. But I’d never stake my life on it. I’m a passionate person. I’m impetuous. I’m the very definition of spontaneous. And I’m human. I err. It’s what we do. We make mistakes, then we pick up the pieces and struggle to carry on. I’d be a liar or a fool to claim it’ll never happen to me. I just don’t know what kind of sparks I’m destined for, in a relationship or out. None of us can know that. We’re human. We’ve all erred.
But we sure as fuck don’t need to round up a lawyer for fear that the law is going to stick our asses behind bars ‘cos we didn’t know how many martinis were one too many on a quiet night in a piano bar with one too many beautiful, lonely companions.
Unless, of course, you’re a member of the Appeals Court of Michigan, where, apparently, creativity and the ability to read between the lines is a rarely-seen quality in the legal minds of the day.
Fuck, man. I don’t even need to argue this. Unless, of course, you’re some holier-than-thou religious type who’s never taken liberties or fucked up on a lonely night when the thought of being not-alone was far easier to bear than the reality of being just that.
The Land of the Free. Let’s amend that. How about “The Land of the Mostly Free, Provided You Follow Every Law And Every Legal Sub-section Therein”?
Nah. Not too catchy, now, is it?
Get fucking real, Michigan. I can only hope, and pray, and dream, that the High Courts in that State can get a grip.
Like I say, I think adultery deserves a royal ass-kicking. But by the maligned Significant Other, not some fucking holier-than-thou court appointee. There should be no legal basis to decide these matters, at least not to this degree.
Here in Canada, Pierre Elliott Trudeau, our infamously rebellious prime minister at the time, declared in 1969 that the government had no business in the bedrooms of consenting Canadians. Yet here we are, nearly four decade later, and the American jurisprudence still seems to think it omnipotent in all matters of American life. When is someone going to clue them in, anyhow?
This erosion-of-freedoms thing is clearly getting worse before it gets better. And you, my fair American friends, where the fuck are YOUR voices? These are your voted representatives, and yet your indignation is nothing but a muffled whine in the corner. Speak, or forever hold your piece. After all, this is clearly the bed you have made for yourselves. Or is it? You still have time to be heard, I would think. There’s one more circuit of judges for this case, if only you would deem it necessary.
After all, take it from me, a fiercely proud Canadian: Sometimes, the most American thing you can do, is to question the powers that be.
After all, we Canadians learned it from the very best. But sometimes we Canadians have a very pressing question: Where, exactly, are “the best” now?
Well?

Although it didn’t escape my notice, it did slip from my radar with the manic days of the Christmas season. Maybe you missed hearing about it, because I haven’t seen it get much mention outside of the back page of my town’s major paper.

This is a good thing, though, as I have found more comprehensive information since.

In late December, news reports emerged from Rome and Milan, leading fashion hotbeds of the world, in which the Italian industry has stated that they now intend to self-regulate in order to ensure that health is not sacrificed for the sake of style.

Meaning, no more anorexic models. Or so they say.

The catalyst? The mid-November death of an anorexic Brazilian model, Ana Carolina Reston, who weighed just 88 pounds at the time of her death. She was 5’8.

The Italians are no stranger to anorexia, where it is the leading psychiatric cause of death. Statistics suggest that more than three million Italians suffer from anorexia, approximately 1 in 20 people throughout the nation. In fact, more than 60% of children between the ages of 12 and 16 believe they’re overweight and need to lose weight. Of those, approximately 11% are reported to possess eating disorders.

The Italian fashion community is covering its ass a little, though, as they’re not implementing rigid standards. It’s self-regulated, meaning those who ignore the new guidelines will simply have less desireable showtimes and things like that. Insiders claim these are heavy punishments, but, really, are they?

And what are those guidelines? Well, they are banning models under the age of 16 now, and any model suiting up for work will have to have a medical certificate saying she is of good health mentally and physically. (And we all know certificates can be believed in HappyHappy/JoyJoyland, where no one ever lies and “forge” is not a verb. Stickgirls will still be allowed on Italian runways if they have this magical piece of paper.)

Nevertheless, it is a start. Not nearly so good a start as Spain got last September, when they passed a decree legally banning models with a body mass index of less than 18. (Body mass is “a ratio of height to weight squared”. Yeah, that clears that up. I hate math.)

But it’s a better start than they’ve had in France, where the talking heads of the fashion world stated that anorexia is a “social” problem and not something that can be solved with “regulation”.

Right. Uh-huh. ‘cause when you’re hiring them and telling them they absolutely must fit into a size zero dress, that’s got nothing to do with the problem. And when the media only projects images of beauty as being size two and under, that has nothing to do with the social ills. Fuck, man. Can someone teach these people remedial math, or what?

At least Italy’s on the gangway if not fully onboard. They’re going to start making larger sizes available for the shows. What they consider “larger” has not been stated. I suppose they’ll get wild and crazy and throw a two or, god forbid, a four into the mix.

Still, it’s a start. Maybe if I keep telling myself, I’ll find a way to start believing it.

It’s when I think about the fashion industry and the shitheads printing the magazines filled with airbrushed Barbies that I get pissed off, because now and then I need to write something like the posting below about the Perenially Disappearing Ass that I see just how much these fucked-up beauty ideals are fucking us up.

We’re talking about one of the nations with some of the best food and wine in the world, and some 5% of the population possesses eating disorders (anorexia or bulimia). That’s just fucking criminal.

Insecurities stay with us for life. It’s easy enough to develop them all on our lonesome without needing magazines and fashion pointing out just how flawed the rest of us are. I don’t know about you, but my makeup routine doesn’t yet include an airbrush.

But it’s not about reality, they’ll tell us. Fashion is about the ideal of beauty, not the reality. It’s what we can strive to be, yet not necessarily are.

Yeah. Tell that to Ana Carolina Reston. She thought beauty was worth dying for, and she won’t be the last. I suppose it’s ironic, but she literally did die in vain.

At least it seems her death wasn’t totally for naught. Italy’s starting. Now we just need Paris, London, and New York to get onboard. As for New York, well, let’s just say I’m not planning to hold my breath. In the meantime, I’ll be over here, pondering the irony of the fattest country in the world perpetuating the myth of the bone-thin beauty. [scoff]

So, onward with readers’ questions. An unpaid writer’s work is never done. Mmph. Ha.

I find this next letter to be interesting to me in a couple ways, but a bit of a sticky wicket.

Here we have a young couple who’ve been pretty in love for more than a year. Despite a pretty good love life, he’s never seen her ass naked. Let him tell it.

My girlfriend never lets me see her ass. Never. She’s not fat or heavyset by any means, but has a bit of a ‘ghetto booty’. But when we’re spooning, or doing I’m in her from behind, or we’re showering together, she never ever lets me see her rear. She always turns around real quick or puts a towel or blanket over herself. I ask her about it and she says that she doesn’t like it and doesn’t want me to see it.

But this feels strange to me. We’ve been seeing each other for over a year now. We’re used to each other’s bodies, we don’t have sex under the covers or in the, so it feels like she doesn’t trust me or something like that to see her butt. Any thoughts or suggestions or ways I can help her feel better about her butt?

(And in a later email on the same subject):

When we’re laying together under the covers after sex, I caress her and tell her that I think it’s beautiful, and ask her why I can’t even get a peak at her rear, and she tells me that she hates it and thinks it’s too big, and then makes sure I’m not going to be able to see it. It’s weird… I thought we had grown pretty comfortable being around each other. She’s comfortable enough to fart around me, but not enough so to let me even see her ass.

I know she has some body image issues, even though she really shouldn’t. Her legs muscular, her stomach is flat, she goes to the gym 3x-4x a week, has a gorgeous body, and all that, so I don’t understand.

Ay yi yi.

Me, I’m actually overweight. I have a right to be self-conscious about my ass, and I am. Yet I’ve never hidden it from a lover. Maybe it’s because I’m inherently lazy and that sounds like a lot of work, being on the ball like that all the time, trying to sneakily hide a rather conspicuous body part. And, yeesh, after sex, too? Oh, boy.

You hit the nail on the head, though. It’s a trust issue. She doesn’t trust you. Now, waitwaitwaitwait. Don’t freak out. The good news is, she probably doesn’t realize that that’s the case. I bet that she’d feel horrible if she realized the full implications of her actions.

Basically, with her body language, she’s telling you that she doesn’t trust you – not necessarily “you” you, but she doesn’t trust that you’re going to be man enough to see beyond what she perceives to be a hideous physical attribute. She thinks that if you see her for all her flaws, that you’ll decide the whole package isn’t worth the shame of having a woman with THAT ass.

Now, the insanely stupid part about that, is this: What does she think, when she has a pair of jeans on she’s magically enacted some kind of high-powered cloaking shield so that you only see 67% of the bootay?

It’s incredibly dumb. Highly dumb. But there you go, that’s what insecurities are.

This, I remind you, is coming from someone who’s had to get medieval on her own insecurities. I spent my life engulfed in my insecurities. I remember someone describing me as “average” when I was 15, and I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I wasn’t butt-ugly? I wasn’t some toad?

In fact, when I started this blog two years ago, I was in a world of different headspace. I decided I would not post any pictures of myself for fear that if anyone saw I was just a normal chick writing about sex, they wouldn’t take me seriously. In the two years since, I’ve had a drastic change of mindset. One, I realize now that it’s exactly because I’m a normal chick that I’m taken seriously. Two, I now believe I’m a cutie-pie, but I refuse to post pictures because I want my words taken at their value, not because of how I do or don’t look, which, I think, is cute! (‘sides, anyone with half a brain and a nose for digging around certain major websites would be able to find three or four images of yours truly, if not more.)

But my point is this. When we’re victim to esteem issues, we don’t see the big picture. We see only our flaws, and we feel that if we can hate ourselves and our flaws as much as we do, then it ought to be just as easy for you to do so.

Then there’s the point of history. You don’t know her past. You don’t know if some family member or ex-lover always instructed her to move her “fat ass” or not.

I could tell you a million different things to say or do, but ultimately it comes down to her having a change of headspace. If you’ve never told her that you’re hurt and feeling rejected because she can’t be big enough to trust that you’re being true with her when you say that you love her and her “big” ass, then you need to do that. You need to say that you love her, you find her incredibly beautiful, but that you’re feeling incredibly rejected and distrusted because she can’t she the best in you, and that it’s ultimately getting in the way – because that’s what happens when one lover can’t trust the other.

All you want to do is love all of her, and she’s not allowing you to do that. In fact, though she probably doesn’t realize it, she’s insulting you and telling you that you’re shallow. I doubt she means to do that. I suspect she thinks you’re such a wonderful guy that she wants to do everything in her power to ensure you stay by her. Little does she know, she’s doing the opposite.

You need to tell her you feel distrusted, insulted, and even unloved. You need to explain that you understand her fears, but that she’s not even giving you the opportunity to prove that you’re more man than she maybe even suspects.

Remember – you might be getting hurt in this instance, but that’s not her intention. She can’t see that. She’s trying to protect herself. Don’t be angry at her and try not to feel too hurt, but at the same time, try to make her understand that she is, essentially, hurting you by failing to trust that you’re a better man than those in her past, that you love that squeezable ass of hers.

A final thing to note is that there are people who are clinically diagnosed to be self-loathing. They could be a runway model, but what they see in the mirror is someone hideous. Therapists have a very hard time breaking their will, too. They’ll do exercises like having the person draw a life-sized outline of their body on paper, then the patient will lie down atop it and have their actual body traced, and the outline of their real body is half the size of their perceived outline, and so forth. So, what’s happening is that they have an illness causing them to distort their physical reality. Methinks it’s more common than we think, and methinks it has to do with the endless barrage of air-brushed, unrealistic beauty in magazines, but that’s another story for another time.

Like I said. A sticky wicket. Anyone out there able to share how a lover helped them overcome such an insecurity?