Tag Archives: being honest

From There to Here

In 2007, I spent 7 months working for a toxic employer.

By the time I left my job, I was close to the highest I’ve ever weighed, at my most negative and always whining, feeling sorry for myself, and feeling pretty hopeless about everything, especially about writing, which I’d been sucking at for nearly a year at that point.

I quit that job, even though I was always taught leaving a job in less than a year was a crime I’d be judged heavily for. I realized  one day in August that, if I didn’t leave, it’d be the end of any Steff I ever knew; I was approaching the negativity point of no return. Continue reading

RANT: God’s Asked Me to Whale On Yo Ass, MoFo!

There’s a lot of attention being paid to polygamy and bigamy at the present, thanks to the arrest of that uberFucker, Warren Steed Jeffs. I know there are a lot of polyamorists in my audience, so I’m going avoid starting a war of words just because I disagree with the lifestyle.

(Disagreement does not equal judgment, so spare me the sanctimony, thanks! Do what thou wilt; just don’t invite me to the party.)

I want to say one thing, and one thing only.

CNN’s been showing these slighted polygamists who feel the world is up against them. (I may not agree with it, but I don’t think it should be outright outlawed, but that’s another argument for another time.) Naturally, the butthead I saw was excusing or justifying his lifestyle because he believes he lives that lifestyle in praise of God or as a means of being closer to God, or even because God wills it as such. Insert the justification you like best.

I am sick and fucking tired of everyone justifying their actions because it’s “God’s will.” No, people, it’s not God’s will. If you are religious, then you understand the simple premise of the belief that God gave free will to man so that man may choose and thus ultimately secure his own fate. You have chosen your lifestyle — whether it be that of a polygamist or that of a bake-sale/PTA mom. Don’t fucking tell me you’re doing it for God. Do it because you choose to, and have the balls to own up to choice, public opinion be damned.

I could turn around tomorrow and buy stakes in the best Belgian chocolate company in this city and scarf cocoa up my fucking wazoo, turning myself into some 400-lb ball of flab and say, “But God made the beautiful cocoa bean and I am simply choosing to respect the beauty of his creation by indulging in it! I’m doing it for God! My rolls of fat are a testimony to his greatness!”

Nuh-uh, sweetums. I’m doing it ‘cos it tastes so fucking good and I’m not getting laid so if that means I indulge, then I indulge. But it’s my choice, and that’s enough justification. “Because I want to!”

I’m really goddamned tired of people not taking responsibility for their actions. You’ve chosen. You live it. Be proud of it. Don’t tell me it’s for a God you’ve never had the privilege of sharing a beer with. You don’t fucking know what He wants, if in fact He even exists, so don’t presume to excuse your actions through Him.

A nation of pansies, that’s what this is. Fuck, man. God wills it, therefore it must be so. If that’s the case, then know this: God gave you a spine, but you CHOOSE not to use it, you fucking amoebas. Get with the program or check the fuck out, but spare me more of this bullshit.

(This goes for anyone on any side of the “God wants it” argument, whether Poly or PTA or Pro-Life or whatever. I’m just sick of the argument. Personal responsibility’s like some distant figment of the land over yonder or something. I, for one, think it’s time we remember what the hell it once meant.)

Lightning Crashes… Or Something

There is a world of difference between saying what needs to be said and saying what you want to say. Words get taken the wrong way and intentions are often lost in the mix.

Hi, I’m Steff. I’m a compulsive foot-in-mouthist, and thinking before speaking is a lifelong fantasy I’ve yet to make true.

And you know what? Honestly, I just hope I keep on failing.

It’s so goddamned much fun when I get to actually say what I think. I do curtail it day to day, but not as much as you might think. I’m not one of these secret-other-self type bloggers who has a total alter ego they only bring out to play on a CPU. I don’t have to hit the bong or scarf a tab or guzzle a 2-4 in order to tap into that inner self. I just have to bite my fucking tongue sometimes so I can yield to convention. But, trust me, most people I know have known me to say incredibly crass things sometimes, and I’ve no qualms about playing a fool.

If there’s anything I miss about my old job, it’s that they’d long ago labelled me as “flippant” and knew me to be an absolute yutz at times, and, in fact, they embraced those moments of utter irrelevance. I miss that, and I miss the fact that I’m not feeling as comfortable being myself as I once was. I chalk it up to the oddities of the recent past: the lack of sex drive, the in-orbit levels of estrogen, the sub-terranean depths of depression, and all that shit. But I feel it coming back to me now. I’m waiting, like a lover in the night, I’m waiting for my own arrival, naked yet comfortable.

And that’s the thing, man. Being yourself. It ain’t just about saying what you’re thinking, it’s about feeling comfortable in your own skin and knowing, without a doubt, that the things you’re doing and thinking are all about who you are. It’s far easier said than done, and far harder to actualize than any of those fucking self-help gurus would have you believe.

Why’s that? Well, ‘cos we live in a shrink-wrapped society that thinks image is everything. Hell, it’s apologies-on-demand in our day and age. (I wrote a little ranty thing about just that on the other bloggie-poo of mine earlier today.)

Y’know, there’s two ways I write best: One, with music driving the cadence of everything I tap out, and two, like I am now, seated in unnatural (to you) silence — my little hearing aids turned off, or not even inserted in my ears. I find that if, one way or the other, I drown out the world, that all that’s left is the rat-tatty-tat of my heart and my fingers on the keyboard. Gone is the judgment, the cynicism, the self-doubt, the angst, the bafflement, the groan’n’drone of the world beyond my far too thin windowpanes. I can give in to autolatry and isolation, and, for once, being myself is just a little easier.

I have the misfortune of working at a company with nice people, but with extreme political aspects to them. And with politics comes correctness, and with correctness comes a realization that I might not ever fit in as I’d like to. But, then, I haven’t been there long, and it took me more than a year to gain the unequivocal fondness of my last employers. (But I was in a bad, bad place when I started that job — borderline alcoholic and drug addict, really.) I suspect I’ll beat the living shit out of that time-lapse this time around, but OHMIGOD does it feel like forever.

And I’ve been thinking about this for a little bit today, how weird it all is when we lose touch with ourselves. It’s like trying to dial up a friend and stoke an old relationship. It ain’t gonna be all love’n’kisses as soon as that cup’o’joe settles on the table between you, you know. Takes a little massagin’ of egos and checking in and tuning up and all, don’t you find? Yet we think that because we’re all of a sudden aware of the distance between who we are and who we’re being that there’s some kinda mental Band-aid we can slap on that gaping psychic wound and suddenly be our uber-ally self all over again. Not gonna fuckin’ happen, sweetcheeks — try though you might.

So, that’s where I am. I know who I am but I know who I’m seeming to be, and who I’m seeming to be’s just gotten her eviction notice and I want her ass on outta here, but I know there’s a holding period before that’s gonna happen. Meanwhile, just call me Marcellus Wallace, ‘cos I’m about due to get medieval on that waste-ass tenant if she ain’ packin’ in a friggin’ hurry, baby.

I’m trying to remember when in the hell it all shifted for me. When was it I lost touch with all the little bitty bits o’ Steff that make me grin when I’m alone? At some point during my recently RIP’d relationship, to be sure, and no, I’m not about to blame the ex for causing me to go AWOL. Sure as shit weren’t his fault, not one iota. He liked the chick I am, not the chick I became, and that’s fact that I don’t doubt. The problem was never him, the problem was that I, like most chicks have a tendency to do, managed to fall into that trap of being what I thought was the right thing to be in a relationship, and somehow, that coupled with the estrogen depression and the prevalence of strife and upheaval in my oh-so-tumultuous little dramatic life somehow sent this kick-ass, fun to be with, always witty, always snappy chick somewhere way the hell out into the stratosphere.

And, dude, it sucked!

There’s nothing (NOTHING!!!) worse than waking up with the side of you that you just don’t like. There’s nothing (NOTHING!!!) cooler than waking up with a grin on your face ‘cos nothing turns you on better than liking who you are at 6:53 am, all right?

And you don’t get to be that person if all you’re ever doing is kow-towing to convention and appeasing all the little perfect (read: no fun, dry, unenviable) people around you. You get to be that person when you say things that catch yourself and others off-guard and you bring a grin to their face. You get to be that person when that gleam in your eye sparkles and you find yourself walking down the street with an unwarranted grin.

Ah, well, I don’t know why I’m writing this, and I don’t give a fuck about it, either. I just felt like it. That’s reason enough, no? I wish like nothing else I had Live’s Lightning Crashes somewhere on this harddrive, but no. I do not. If you read this in the next couple of hours, (say, before 2am PST) perhaps you could email me the song and I can rock-the-fuck-out before work in the morning. Not that I’m condoning piracy. Okay, fuck it. I’m condoning piracy. Sign me up, matey, and watch me rock and roll on the pitch of those waves.

The Dubious Nature of Anonymity

I’ve had an email or two that has asked what I think about bloggers getting outted and shit like that.

I got outted last year. My name is Steffani Cameron, all right? I really don’t give a fuck who knows, ‘cos anyone with a nickel and half a brain can run my handle through Google and tap into an interview I did last fall in which the bonehead ran my name and unwittingly destroyed any chance for anonymity that I might’ve had. Jesus, if you have half an iota of ingenuity you could probably even find a photo of me, ‘cos there’s at least three of them accessible. Besides, back to the “my name is known” thing — when I did Sex with Emily on FreeFM, I gave ’em permission to use my name. And the CBC used my name in promoing my blog on Zed in February.

I recently did a job search in which I know for a fact at least one of the employers knew of my blog and its content. I almost know for certain that one of those employers sent me a sexually explicit (and very creepy) email to an uber-private email that is NOT in any way associated with this blog, and which no one who has ever contacted me through this blog has ever had the privilege of knowing. That’s the only time I’ve ever been creeped out about my lack of anonymity.

Both my last employer and my present employer, and every parent of every student I’ve ever taught, has known that I write sexual content. My father, brother, and every friend, family member, and longtime acquaintance knows about this blog.

As far as being a public blogger of sex goes, I’m ALL that, baby.

And that ain’t about to change.

My phone number, however, is unlisted. I have caller ID blocking on my phone as well. And that ain’t gonna fuckin’ change either. Last thing I need is anyone deliberately reaching out and touching me.

What do I think of the recent spate of bloggers that I’ve heard about who have up and vanished in the night because someone leaked who they were? It’s too bad. It’s really a shame we live in a society where people can be judged on these bases, but the fact is, we do. I’m doing my part to fight the fuckin’ power, ‘cos I think it’s flat-out wrong. I’m doing my part to prove that a good person can like getting shagged senseless. Sex is a sin if you want it to be. Sex is a shame if you allow it to be. Sex is a stigma if you let it be.

Sometimes people are powerless about the bigotry and the judgmental POV that peppers our society. That’s reality, baby, and it’s the cold fuckin’ light o’ day.

I was having this discussion with my coworkers last week, since I work with highly political people who are well-connected and who have political aspirations that will build on their political histories, and I jokingly said, “Yeah, well, politics is likely out for me.” The web designer guy was commenting how he thought that might not necessarily be the case. He commented to the effect that we’re on the cusp of this era where everyone’s dirty little secret is about to stop being so secret. Just look at PostSecret.com and how hauntingly real all those unthinkable sentiments are. Suddenly we know people’s dirty little thoughts. Suddenly we understand that our own dark and cobwebby little corners aren’t as unspeakable as we might’ve thought, because they beat us to the punch and said it first.

The information age makes everyone Googleable, and the fact is, those skeletons YOU think are in YOUR closet might just be behind far more transparent doors than you suspect.

One day, and that day’s coming soon, we’re going to realize that everyone has moments of shame and degradation. Everyone’s done something they’d rather not have exposed. Everyone’s cozied up a little too close for comfort with shame. We’re all fallible, we’re all products of the same erroneous genetics, but a lot of folks just haven’t the a) balls or b) fortitude to admit their dubious pasts.

Me, I’m honest to a fault, always have been. Why hide my shit? I’ve fucked up, damn right I have, and yeah, I like my sex with a side of dirt, but so what? Who the fuck are YOU to judge me? No one perfect, that’s who you are, so let it go, man. Let it all go. I’ve never met a person I couldn’t find a fault in, so I’ve given up my quest for perfection. Good is good enough. Bad is good enough. I’ll take what I got, man. It is what it is.

So, to those beloved bloggers who’ve been outted and don’t feel they’re in a place where they can be honest and be who they are without retribution, well, I don’t feel their pain, but I understand their reservations. We’re on the cusp of a new era of honesty, but for now we’re still mired in lies, and I understand. Hopefully more people like me’ll come out of the woodwork and be what they gotta be to get this show on the road, but in the meantime…

You got me, baby. You got me.

It’s weird being honest about this shit. It’s odd meeting new people and having them be clued in, either by yours truly, or just because they just know. It’s a little surreal. I get fun grins out of people, but you know what? No one has ever recoiled. No one has ever judged me. Most of the people are impressed, actually, and they’re usually taken quite by surprise, something I really enjoy. They’re amused, they want to know more. It’s awesome. Honesty’s freeing. They may say it’s the best policy, but, dude, it’s one hell of a ride, too, y’know?

A Strange Piece About Rockstar, Writing, and Small Children

It’s Rockstar night again. Elimination. Starts in a few. I pick Patrice. I think Storm gets a shakeup.

I cannot tell you how much I weirdly relate to this show. I don’t know why. I just want to be in that situation where I get chosen, you know? But this is one of those rare reality shows where the contestants have really earned the right to be there. They’re pretty solid. They’re street-wise and street-smart, though, because they’ve all played the circuit. They’re tough people, man.

Unlike the car-wash kids and farm boys and hoods and all that over on that Idol show.

But, you now, I’m street-wise and street-smart. Girl is hip to shit, you know? For real, like. Sorry, fell into hip-hop mode there for a sec. Y’all.

I’m professionally doomed. Really. Just, kaput. As a writer, I will never, ever, ever, ever succeed. (Okay, so it’s part reverse psychology, but work with me here.) All right, there’s a chance. It’s just slim. Real fuckin’ Jenny Craig slim, you know what I’m saying here?

Why, you ask? Pretty simple. Love the writing, hate the whoring. I mean, all that whoring, and no orgasms? I think not. Whoring, bad! Money, good! Not wasting precious hours of my life giving it to the man? Good! So, yeah, I never write for publications, ‘cos I can’t stand the bullshit, right? Life’s short. Time’s precious.

I’ve tried it a few times. I hate conforming my style. I hate doing rewrites. I’ll do a little, right? I can definitely edit better than this, this is on the fly. It’s just that I’m a little too ADD for the process, is all. I’d love to have a syndicated column, though. That’d be awesome. I just need to one day get my shit together and figure it out. Working on that.

Wouldn’t it be really cool if suddenly there was a Blogstar tournament or something and you could blog your way to fame and fortune? I’d knock back a thousand coffees for that. Shizzwang!

But I do digress. I, uh, hit bottom today, folks. I was a fucking mess until this afternoon. Long goddamned day. I kept breaking into tears. I’ve just had a shitty couple of days – PMS struck like an evil flying monkey from a Wicked Witch. Goddamn it’s vicious! Is it too late to ask for the penis model? Yes? I mean, I’d pay extra some days if I could have a penis.

Stop the presses, though. I think I’m on the up-swing. I think I’m returning to land of the mildly depressed. That’d be fucking SUPERB, man. And I’ve made a counselling appointment. I’m so stubborn. The auto-speller corrects my “UK” spelling of counselling by removing the extra L, and I go back and UK-it again. Fuckin’ Americans and their changing of the rules. C’mon, English (as opposed to “American” English) rocks. It’s Harry Potter’s language, for Christ’s sake!

Back to the important bit, that up-swing thingie-thing. I called it, man. I said I’d probably start to improve in the evening today. Yep. I’ve done the reaching-out thing and my counsellor (+l) gave me a call and we spoke about 20 minutes, and I finally heard someone who knows their shit telling me it sounds like I should’ve been melting down sooner. Nice to hear. Goodie. Instant validation. Just like the thrill of fresh credit, but I don’t hurt for it for years down the line.

Okay, so, Patrice, and Zayra, and Magni have all performed. Judgment looms. Yes, I’ve written this in commercials. I’m realizing how much my body is perpetuating my stress in the form of real bad tension. Thus, I’m pretending to know a thing or two about Pilates type stretching and shit, so I’m not sitting down for the show. It’s helping. My neck and shoulders have been badly knotted. I’d frickin’ harm small children for a massage right now, I shit you not. I should watch a surfing DVD and think about the wonderful movement of the ocean. Yeah. Happy shit, like. But this is good, the mood is improving. I got rid of all my evening work until September (and likely beyond). Some semblance of a life is now possible. As is rest. Things are looking up.

Huh! It’s Zayra who’s gone. I thought that the band’s fondness for her bravado would keep her around a week or two, whereas Patrice consistently is in the bottom three. Wrong call, evidently. Damn that fallibility.

I have succeeded in having fun. Writing this was fun. You see, earlier, I was having one of these tragic god-it-sucks-to-be-single moments and thinking how I had nothing. I was low person on the totem pole again, single, tired all the time, blah, blah, blah! And then, aha!, a thought! I had something. Something indeed. Something just for me. My writing. No, I don’t get paid. No, the world at large doesn’t really get a glimpse of it. No, I’ve never had that moment of seeing someone on the bus reading me. But I get to do it.

And that’s pretty fun sometimes.

(This is my writing equivalent of a game of ping-pong. Highly cut and kinda hard to watch. Heh. Looks cute in shorts, though.)

The Fantasy Business

The guy is asleep, about four feet to my left. He looks so different when he’s sleeping.

We were talking the other night and I told him I would have to start getting up before him for awhile on weekends, so I could write, as it’s really important to me. He understood, naturally, and began narrating, suggesting the above opening line as an opening line. I had different ideas in mind, naturally, but hey… I’m in the fantasy-fulfilling business, you know.

And maybe you don’t know it, but you are, too.

I was reading a certain high-profile sex blog yesterday in which another blog was mentioned, in both a positive and negative manner.* The former blog included a negative mention of the latter’s recent dismissal of her lover’s desire to come on her tits sometimes. The latter told her man he was “acting like an idiot,” and apparently he apologized, saying he was “horrified” with his behaviour.

Yeah. Right. Both myself and the voice of the former blog state that any notion of this guy truly being “horrified” is more hilarious than it is likely.

What is likely, though, is that she managed to, in one simple, fell swoop, dissuade her man from being anything but truly honest with her in the future. She more than likely made him feel like an idiot, though. Shame’s a killer in a relationship, and she’s going to come to regret that, whether she wants to admit it or not. Somewhere down the road, she’s gonna wonder where it all changed. Well, that’s the fulcrum there, baby.

Sex takes all kinds. We’ve all got strange little fantasies, although his wasn’t all that strange, nor really out of the norm at all. Far be it for me to suggest you do anything you’re uncomfortable with, but as far as fantasies go, allowing your guy to shoot his load on your tits isn’t exactly all that invasive.

Personally, I’ve admitted before that I’m not really into the above. Would I shut a lover down for asking? Jesus, no!

Your job, as a lover, is to listen to your partner’s wishes, dreams, and desires. That means, if they have a d-i-r-t-y fantasy, you should be listening to it. Do you have to partake? Absolutely not. But I don’t care if you’re the goddamned Queen of England – you have NO right to ridicule them or mock them for their wishes. Don’t you EVER think otherwise.

Deep down inside, I’ve always had this ridiculously stupid fantasy of having sex in an anti-gravity chamber. Yeah, loverboy and I are cracking the code for NASA and taking a field-trip. Right. (Although there was reportedly a hotel in Paris that offered the services once upon a world, if I recall correctly.) Still, I’ve thought of it more than once. It’s there, on that list, “Things I’ll do if the chance arises.” Mental note made, long, long ago.

Fantasies are what they are, and everybody has the right to them. Shutting down your lover for their wishes is akin to telling your kid they’re too stupid to be an architect. Who in the HELL do you think you are?

Don’t like the idea? Just say no. Tell them you understand why it might get them off, but you’re uncomfortable with performing that act. They’re not insulted, and you’ve made your point known. Peachy.

But in a perfect world, you’d grow the hell up, and realize that most of these things aren’t going to kill you, but they might take your lover to a place they’ve never been before. Now you decide. Do you want to be a selfish person, and just say no all the time, or do you want to explain that it doesn’t do anything for you, but you’re willing to indulge their desires, if it makes them happy, once in a blue moon?

Consider it like one of those strange food cravings we’ve all had: pickles and ice cream, a bacon & peanut butter sandwich, liver and onions. It’s not a regular part of our diet, but once in a frickin’ while you just can’t help yourself. There’s almost this shame behind it. I’m eating bacon with peanut butter. Just like that fat fuck Elvis. Is there a dire future with a toilet in front of me? We’re secretive about it. Guilt, guilt, guilt, baby, but GOD, it feels good.

Now, imagine you’re sitting there, dreaming of this sandwich, and in comes your lover, who’s always stated it’d make him/her ill to have one. And there they are, holding the sandwich with bacon cooked just the way you like it, on the best bread, with the best peanut butter, and they made it themselves. Now, I guarantee you, apart from just satisfying a craving, it’s gonna be the best fucking sammich you ever sank your teeth in. It’s a gift, it’s thoughtful, and completely selfless.

Like fulfilling any fantasy can be.

And let me say another thing: If you lord it over them (“see how generous I am? You owe me, you know,”) then you’re still a lousy lover, don’t kid yourself. It’s not about power or debt or superiority. It’s about just being there in a way that makes your lover feel a little more validated by you.

Hmm. And you know? Mine really does look a little different while he’s sleeping, and it’s time I returned to him.

Listen to your lovers. Indulge them sometimes. Never judge them. Always respect them. Is it really so fucking hard?

*I’d rather not give publicity to her in a negative way. She’s already getting slammed, and if she reads this, she’ll know it’s her.