Tag Archives: hang-ups

RANT: Labels Kill Sexuality

Four years ago I wrote a posting about cheating and in it I had a little rant about being called an “older woman” by the letter-writer when I was only 32. The posting is here, and today I deleted a comment that referred to the rant-within-the-posting with this comment that I’ve chosen to delete for its stupidity:

“The sound of a cougars claws slipping down the slope called age.”

That was the comment in its entirety, aside from quoting the entire paragraph under the blockquote-box’s question.

It pissed me off. Why?

I’m the anti-cougar. Continue reading

Unleashing Your Vixen: Some Serious Thoughts

Do you ever have those moments when clarity comes up behind you with a baseball bat and beats the hell out of you?

You get up, groggy, woozy, disoriented, but shit, you know better now, man.

I’ve been avoiding getting into this Vixen thing. The problem with procrastination is that you avoid things so much that you fail to even become aware of why the avoidance is there in the first place.

But then clarity comes along with that fucking bat and, sooner or later, you clue the hell in. Like I did about 30 minutes ago. For some reason, today I feel like I’m Frodo walking across that marshland with all the corpses under the surface of the pondwater. I feel like I’m about to go under, like there’s some kinda tether wrapped around my heart and strung to the reeds below the surface, tugging me down and trying to seduce me into the dark.

It sounds really intense, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. Sure, it feels like that, but it’s a really surreal feeling, like there’s a bubble around me, like there’s all these dead little faces floating around me of people who think they’re alive, but really just aren’t. That I’m sitting around in utter silence on a freezing day in February might be adding to those Dali-esque proportions, so maybe I’ll just browse my iTunes here and stoke up a change of pace. When in doubt, go with the Butthole Surfers, that’s my policy.

This week, the week that follows Valentine’s Day, is the least favourite of my year. In a span of six days falls the anniversary of when the docs found a grapefruit-sized tumour in my mother’s belly and her birthday. Yes, that’s been on my mind. She has been on my mind an awful lot, particularly in relation to this topic. I, more than anything else in her life, am my mother’s legacy, and that’s not arrogance, that’s the admiration of a daughter who had a mother deserving of it. I am my mother’s daughter – in most ways.

If you met me in real life, you’d see a lot of similarities to the person on these pages. I’m boisterous, brazen, demure, open, scathing — whatever you want to call me, I’m an awful lot of those things. But my mother blazed that trail, baby. She was a model in her youth, she was hot when she died, didn’t look over 50. She had red hair, green eyes, and she was a risk-taker and a daredevil. She sold real estate, raced yachts, and wasn’t afraid of a fucking thing (most of the time).

She was never open about sex. I doubt she ever became a vixen. I bet she never trusted a man enough. I don’t think she ever got past the shame of what sex symbolized in her demented little worldview on the subject. My father and I were recently talking, musing about whether she had been sexually assaulted at age 12. My father grew up in her neighbourhood, they were friends all their lives, and he remembered when she changed, as if she just broke. He said something was never the same after she was 12, that day they came home to find her scantily clad, rocking barefoot under the farm’s kitchen table, shaking and sobbing.

This Vixen thing… it’s a personal mission for me, really. I’ve been the legacy of dysfunctional views on sex. I’ve seen what a loveless marriage does not only to the participants but the children involved. I’ve seen what happens to men (including my father) who get neglected and taken for granted, what happens to women forgotten by their lovers, and it all breaks my heart. It’s a really sad thing to behold, the loss of someone’s sexual side.

When I was young, I fell for that fascist Ayn Rand, and one quote stands out after all these years, that “avoiding death does not equal living life.” We’ve somehow fallen into this trap of “surviving” life. Yeah, you go right ahead. Survive. I’m gonna live, thanks.

And that’s the problem, most of us are content to merely survive our jobs, survive our relationships, whatever it takes to make it to the other side with the least resistance.

Being a vixen, or in the case of the men out there, an attentive, daring, open lover who’s receptive to his lover’s needs, takes guts. It doesn’t happen from just thinking it’d be nice to go there. It’s about actively pushing your fears and apprehensions. It’s about saying you’re not scared about being judged. But mostly, it’s about trusting this lover of yours you claim you trust. It’s about putting your money where your mouth is, baby.

It’s too late for my mother, and I caught the bus last decade, man, so I’m good, but there are a lot of folks out there who must learn how much more fun life is when they learn that being vulnerable doesn’t necessarily mean becoming hurt*, it means sucking the marrow out of life and taking the chances you’ve been resisting.

Mostly, though, it’s about really having great new experiences. So, you know, like they says, you better get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’, but make your fucking choices and stop just letting life happen to you. Being a dead fish is simply the personification of all those other little fears you have inside. Confront them.

Me, being a vixen underlies EVERYTHING I do in my life. I take chances, I go with the moment, and I may not have the fancy car and the retirement package some of my conservative friends have, but I’ve got experiences. Very cool experiences. So far, dying tomorrow, I’d have few, if any regrets, and knowing that is the greatest thing I can say about who I am.

*And even if you get hurt occasionally by becoming vulnerable, I’ve discovered firsthand that the richness of everyday experiences far outweighs those occasional bumps and bruises along the way. Like mountain biking or something, sometimes you fall, sure, but at least you’re out there having the experience most of the time… and hurts always heal. I take my lumps and go again.

Here’s to the Forty Percent

Masturbation is a sin. If you do it, you will never be able to be satisfied by your lover. If you do it, you will become addicted to it and will never be able to control yourself, even in public. If you do it, you will be a dirty woman. If you do it, everyone will be able to tell. If you do it, you will never be forgiven in God’s eyes.

If you step on a crack, you’ll break your mother’s back. If you cross your fingers, it’s not really a lie. If you kill a spider, it will rain.

If you believe in the above misconceptions about masturbation, you might as well believe in superstitions, myths, and anything you read in Harry Potter, for it’s all equally grounded in fiction.

Do you really want to know what masturbation is? It’s the physical manifestation of the search for your own inner beauty. It’s relying on yourself to provide yourself with the pleasure that you may never receive from anyone else. It’s about developing the kind of self-knowledge you need in order to really become a lover of any consequence. It’s a tool for discovering what works and doesn’t work in the love department for you, because every single body responds differently to touch. How does yours respond, do you really know?

But most of all, it’s okay. It’s all right.

What’s shameful isn’t the act of masturbation. What’s shameful is that you’re being made to feel as if you’re still subjective to men, that you still need a man to be the woman you deserve to be. What’s wrong is the flagrant abuse of power and authority these people have committed when they’ve told you these lies about what masturbation is. What’s disgusting is this endless sense of embarrassment you’re expected to have about your body, and the lack of knowledge you’ve been provided.

What’s empowering is the realization that all we’re talking about is the sense of touch. That’s it, that’s all. There is no deity from on high that will strike you down for a stroke of your own flesh. I know, because I’ve yet to be turned into a lightning rod for the Almighty’s wrath, and the Lord’s had as many opportunities to smite me as I’ve had to wash my hair. I kid you not.

You will never get “too good” at masturbating. You will never exceed your limit. It will increase your ability to orgasm with your lover, no matter how many times you come alone. You will not be stigmatized if the world ever finds out. You will not get so addicted that you lock yourself in your room and never come out.

You will, though, learn to feel better about yourself. You’ll be better at managing your stress. You’ll be more confident when you’re displaying affection for your lover. You’ll develop curiousity about more sexual experiences. You will have a more open mind. You will better know how to be satisfied, and if or when you’re ready to share that with your lover, you might be astounded at how happy he (or she) is you’re able to help him (or her) better please you.

This lack of support, in the media or otherwise, for the notion of a woman pleasing herself is one of the last major hurdles we, as a sex, must overcome. It is time we demand what we deserve – a sense of self, and a sense of satisfaction.

If you don’t ever want anyone to know, then they don’t have to find out. You can keep it to yourself, and maybe one day you’ll want to share that with your lover, or maybe you won’t. But don’t deny yourself, not one minute longer. Don’t allow shame to control your life. Don’t allow others to make you feel you need to be judged by a higher power. Don’t allow them to tell you that you must continue labouring under the insecurity you’re so clearly feeling.

There are those who tell us that it’s a sin. Is it? Really? Is your perception of your god one that would leave you believing that he/she/it wants you to be less than completely in love with yourself? Do you believe he/she/it wants you to not feel beautiful, attractive, desired? Why would the creator have made the clitoris within arm’s reach? Why not just have the vaginal canal, instead, which isn’t exactly a convenient distance to reach with ease? You want to talk Intelligent Design, then let’s talk about how much we’re designed to please ourselves. Let’s talk about how masturbation and orgasms are the best kind of physical releases, best outlets for stress, that anyone in any condition can engage in.

In the movie Pleasantville, Joan Allen hears about masturbation for the first time in her life in her 40s. She runs herself a hot bath, gets in, starts to stroke herself, and she suddenly changes from a black & white character to a Technicolor character (literally). She explodes with pleasure, feeling the first orgasm of her life, and is overcome with waves of love – for herself. It transforms her as a woman. She awakens to her female desire and learns that she can be her own everywoman, that being subservient to the men in her life isn’t making her who she wants to be, that what she’s been looking for all these years has really been inside her for all that time. She learns that she has entitlements to her own happiness, and that she can now ensure that happiness by just showing a little tenderness towards herself.

It’s a sad thing that we’re taught, as a culture, that happiness comes from the people around us. It can’t. We can’t wait for others to enrich our lives. We can’t hope that the things they do or say will contribute to who we are to become. We must achieve that on our own, and if masturbation is a tool towards that, then I’m all about me.

As a society here in North America, we’re suffering from an all-time high touch-deficit. Meaning, more people than ever before go for days, weeks, months, and sometimes years without touching another person – be it a pat on the shoulder or a kiss on the lips. We’re so deprived already, that the notion of not allowing yourself to be personally pleasured through masturbation is nearly cruel and inhumane, and self-inflicted, at that. No one deserves to be alone, and no one should have to live without having that feeling of coming alive through an orgasm.

It’s not dirty, or shameful, or sinful. It’s a beautiful, empowering act. And sometimes, it’s just a damned nice thing to experience.

Take back control of your sexuality. Learn about yourself. Live a little. Ditch the shame. Embrace your femininity. Push the magic button that’ll change everything you feel about yourself. It’s the first step to becoming the woman you always wanted to be: Strong, sexy, confident, and self-aware.

For first-timers, instructions are here.

Why 40% of Women Don’t Masturbate

Every now and then male-female relations seem like a bad day at the UN. Understanding the issues is imperative, but no one speaks the same language.

John Gray got rich off the chaos that exists in that weird little world of relationships, by telling us that men were from Mars, and women from Venus. It’s true. We have so many differences it’s a wonder we ever crawl under the covers together. But we do, and still, we speak entirely different languages. It’s a pity we don’t have those interpreter-on-the-fly headphones in our ears like they do at the UN – it’d make hooking up a hell of a lot smoother, don’t you think?

I sometimes wonder who my audience is comprised more of: men or women. The chicks who read me tend to like my feminist attitude that doesn’t get clouded with antagonism towards men, and that’s awesome.

But the men who seem to read me tell me they’re here for, I don’t know, a different take on sex, but most importantly, the fly-on-the-wall perspective of the modern female’s mindset.

So, it’s no surprise I’m getting asked a lot of questions by those guys right now about why women are resistant to masturbating, why some (a staggering 40%) just flat-out won’t masturbate. I’m saddened I’ve heard nothing from the women who don’t, but perhaps the notion of lacking the sexuality and curiousity it takes to be a masturbator is incongruous with reading sites like these. Let’s hope not.

That said, I’m going to tackle that question here and now, but from a point-of-view directed to the men in my audience. There are some commonly accepted reasons for why so many women are hesitant to touch themselves, but I’ve got a few perspectives on my own. I think this topic’s far more complicated than most people allude to. I think it’s a societal problem that encompasses everything from religion to upbringing to media.

Let’s start off with the commonly accepted perceptions of why these women resist the urge, and my take on them.

  1. Dirty Girl Syndrome: These are the chicks who think that if they touch themselves, it means they’re dirty or slutty. This is one of those things I think we can lay the blame for squarely on the media, and on our parents. In the media, even now, it’s only the promiscuous women that are portrayed as masturbators, whereas every guy is commonly accepted to jack off, like it’s a male right of passage. Kim Catrall’s character on Sex & The City is an obvious example. “Of course she masturbates. She’s a whore.” God forbid we ever hear about Oprah owning an assortment of vibes. It’s almost as if we’re still left with the impression that sexually desireable, successful, independent women don’t need to “Jane off,” as one of my readers has dubbed it. And oh, do I beg to differ.
  2. Addicted to Self-Love Syndrome: There are those who can’t help but think that if they get into the mode of masturbating, they’ll become addicted to it and won’t be able to stop. Unfortunately, these testimonials we get of women who masturbate twice a day, for half-hour stretches, etc, aren’t doing a lot to change the Resistors’ mindsets. These are likely the women who do have strong sex drives, who are scared at the intensity of their desires, and who fail to realize that not masturbating is making it worse. They don’t realize we’re sexual volcanoes, and without a release, we tend to blow – or just shut down entirely, which is more often the case. They don’t learn how to regulate that pressure, how to cope with it, and that the more familiarity they acquire, the better they will be able to handle the pressure mounting in times of arousal. Instead, they feel the intensity, get scared, and everything shuts down. They don’t experience orgasms, and don’t know how to get there, and are scared of reaching one.
  3. All Or Nothing Syndrome: “If I masturbate, I won’t be able to come any other way.” These are the people who fail to understand balance. I’m amazed at the number people who ask “Is it possible to get too good at masturbating?” I don’t know the answer, and maybe it is possible, but we have to take into consideration that your touch isn’t ever going to be the same as someone else touching you. This is why it’s not only nice, but smart, to masturbate for your partner. They can learn how you make yourself come. You can take it a notch further and make them have their hand over yours as you do your own “dirty work.” The thing you never, ever have in masturbating is the element of surprise, and that’s the element a lover brings to the table. This mode of resisting is essentially a lack of faith in their lovers. Nothing more. These might be the people who obsess about things and get really intense about anything they commit to, and they might just not know how to achieve balance. Instead, they avoid trying masturbating so they don’t need to find out if, in fact, they can balance masturbation with partner sex.
  4. Obligation to Partner: These are the ones who think they have to save their excitement for their partner. They know they have issues with orgasms, and they think that if they pursue one alone, they’ll never get to come with their lover. They’re also the people who don’t understand that orgasms take skill, take developing. The more you learn about sex, about yourself, the more pleasure you’ll find. They don’t realize that the human body doesn’t have a quota for pleasure. This is as much borne from ignorance as it is fear and bewilderment.
  5. It’s a Substitute for Sex: These are the women who don’t realize that masturbation influences a lot of who we are as lovers, what we’re willing to try, what our confidence level is with ourselves, our bodies, and our performances.

And that is that, some will tell you. That’s all that’s preventing women from touching themselves. But they’re just whack if that’s what they believe. Like I’ve said before, there’s so much more to it, whether we want to accept the blame as a society or not.

Let’s take one example. I’m sure every man who reads this has, at some point or another, had someone say to him, “Suck it up. Be a man.” How did that make you feel? Unable to express concerns or fears? Ashamed to be weak? Forced into the stereotype of being Manly Man when, for once, you just wanted to be human and feel whatever was hitting you?

It’s no secret, vulnerability isn’t exactly encouraged in men. And let’s face it, no matter what you want to say about the media today or the modern woman, sexuality is NOT encouraged in women. We should be pretty, alluring, gorgeous, but God forbid we be overtly sexual.

Chris Rock said it best, as a father, your ONLY responsibility is to keep your daughter off the pole.

Men may want a woman who likes to fuck, who will do the things that are borderline dirty, sexually experimental, but ultimately, we’ve all been raised by fathers who shared Chris Rock’s POV: We have to stay off the pole.

So, we’re raised with hearing tidbits like, “That’s not ladylike.” Personally, I’m not Fluffy-Miss-Feminine. I’m in touch with my femininity, but as a kid, I hated Barbies. I disliked dresses, and I heard, all my life, “That’s not ladylike.” When it came to sex, I believed there were certain ways I had to behave. Masturbation was my secret shame until I was in my early 20s, when I learned my boyfriend loved the fact that I did it, when I heard him tell me how much he admired my confidence and my ability to admit it. He told me it made me a strong woman. I began changing my perspective then.

For women, we have to battle so much bullshit we’ve been fed about what a woman is. Until the media begins embracing the idea that masturbation for women isn’t something exotic that only promiscuous chicks do, that stereotype is going to prevail. The fear and shame and apprehension will remain.

And you can’t tell me that men, when they were boys first discovering their sexuality, didn’t also feel like they had a secret, like it was a sin. We’ve all heard the stories of boys playing under the blankets, hoping not to be caught. It’s the same deal with women, but we’re on a different timeline. Men peak at 18, we peak at 32. Of course it’ll take longer to reach the point of comfort with masturbation. Many women don’t get there until their 20s. Hesitant women need to feel like their lovers aren’t trying to get them to perform like a porn star when they’re asked to masturbate. They need to know they’re not being perceived as someone dirty because they’re touching themselves. Unfortunately, that support isn’t as common as we’d like to think. And also unfortunately, a lot of guys are pretty lousy at requesting things from their lovers without making it sound too dirty or risqué. And that, again, becomes a communication issue.

Like I said, this is a huge, huge topic with vast implications, and it’s not a problem that will go away overnight. The media is responsible. Parents are responsible. Lovers are responsible. And the women, in their ignorance and fear, are responsible. So how does it get fixed?

I haven’t a clue. With time, I guess, and with the media, and parents, and lovers, and women all getting on the same page.

Just a second here, I need to glance out the window and check if pigs are flying yet. Hmm, not yet. So, yes, the problem persists. I’ll give some thought on how a woman might be persuaded to learn the fine art of self-love, but I honestly don’t know where to begin just now. It’d be interesting to hear feedback on whether anyone’s had success on that front. Care to share?

Female Masturbation: An Intro For Newbies

And I’ve been thinking about masturbation. Not doing it, writing about it. I still want to hear more results and comments and emails based on the letter down below, but I think this topic is growing in importance for me.

Yes, guys need to understand more about female masturbation – but so do 40% of the female population who never, ever do it.

Why don’t they? You got me. Hang-ups of every kind, from social perceptions of what masturbation means, to fear, to religious implications, to good old-fashioned second, third, fourth generation shame.

Honeys, listen to me when I tell you this: Get over yourselves.

Oscar Wilde once said “To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance.” Yes, it is, in more ways than one. Let’s put it this way: The orgasm is the ultimate in human sensation. It’s every nerve ending in the human body shuddering its way to absolute ecstasy, then collapsing upon themselves in spent euphoria.

Orgasms, though, don’t just fall out of the sky. The ability to come isn’t just something a woman wakes up with overnight. Female masturbation doesn’t get talked about, aside from jokes about vibrators, and that’s very misleading for a lot of women who have no experience in this area. Masturbating yourself is far less complicated than having to screw up the courage to spend money on a potentially embarrassing sex toy that you may not wish to have found.

If your courage lacks, it shouldn’t. We hear that we need lube, we need vibes, we need all this shit, and that’s all wrong. All you need, girls, is a happy little thought, and the soft pad of your fingers. Shorter nails helps, so you can get more variety of feelings, but so long as you’re working with your soft finger pads, not the tips, but the bit down closer to the first skin folds on the top joint. Like the photo below, you just slide your hand over your mons (that bit below the bottom of your belly, the mound) and into the first recesses of your vulva, the home of your clit. And massage around it at first, not on top of it right away because you might be too sensitive when you begin, but as you massage more, start increasing both the speed and the pressure, and begin going right over the top of the clit. And just keep going until you finally orgasm.

Any female who has not yet orgasmed, who’s approaching it for the first time, might feel fear and confusion. Some strange things happen to the body. At first, you might think you’re experiencing pain. Maybe you think you need to go to the washroom. But there’s a million different ways it might feel, and you need to relax and get past that point.

Then, there’s the issue of moisture. When you finally do orgasm, you will probably produce some form of ejaculate. You will be wet, lubricated, and you might even squirt some out. This is normal. There should be no shame with this, so try to be aware of it being an absolutely common occurrence. If it bothers you, one little visit to the bathroom will make it all go away. But you’ll become comfortable with this as you experience more orgasms and learn to let go.

I sort of discovered masturbation at about the age of 13. I remember being really excited about some George Michael photos I’d found – shirtless, tight shorts, that kind of thing – and I found myself dry humping a pillow. I kept getting up and running down the hall to go “pee” because I kept thinking I had to. Nope, that was approaching orgasm – something that never did happen for a few more years. I went from dry humping a pillow to them putting something solid and round under a pillow so I’d get more pressure, then I, well, let’s leave that one out, but the point is, it took a while to get the nerve up to start rubbing myself. Years, really. As for touching myself “under the panties,” well, that probably didn’t happen until I was 19 or 20. I was only comfortable rubbing over my panties because I thought it was dirty, wrong, and strange to touch my vagina on purpose. It was that moisture, it baffled me for a long time.

Fact is, being uncomfortable with masturbating is normal when you’re a woman. It’s sad that that’s the case, but it’s true. This generation coming up now, they’re the first ones to ever hear about female masturbation, really. My generation, and I’m 32, we never talked about it. Sex and the City has changed that. It’s suddenly okay for women to self-serve. But there are still so many hang-ups that interfere with our ability to orgasm.

And that, my friends, is another program. But here’s a great site with neat statistics on the female orgasm (and some on the male’s).

Come to think of it, I’m a little tense. Maybe I’ll go tend to something. Ahem.

Early Sexual Memories

One of the things I pondered on the weekend as I rode the bus to avoid getting drenched on my scooter, was early sexual memories.

I’m not talking about first kisses, first fondles, that sort of thing. I’m talking about a few particular memories I have that sort of crystallized some of the really stupid hang-ups I’ve worked hard to overcome over the years that have since passed. There are two I’ll share here tonight. I sometimes wonder how those early moments shape who we are in the decades to come, so I suspect I might take a look at this theme more in the future.

The first was when I was seven or eight, standing in the bushes behind Tyler & Devin’s house, with a round of “you show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.” After proposing the afternoon’s antics, Tyler got things rolling and tugged his jeans down around his ankles. I dropped my little shorts. He pulled down his Y-fronts. I dropped my little pink panties. We looked at each others bits and parts. But then…

The woods served as a shortcut to most of us kids in the neighbourhood, particularly en route to the Holy Land – 7-11 and Dad’s Ice Cream Shop. Except, of course, the portion with the haunted house. We all avoided that, of course, its broken windows and battered wooden siding, that constant smell of mold and must, all of it warding us off before we’d land foot in that unkempt yard.

It was just when we had revealed our bits and parts that a few kids in the ‘hood came crunching through the forest and discovered us in our exhibitionist glory.

“You’re a dirty girl!”
“Ew!”
“Ha-ha! I’m gonna tell!”
“Oh, I hate girls. Gross, Tyler!”

We shimmied our pants back up, blood rushing to our faces. Tyler started grinning, wandered over to the other kids, and me, I scurried out of the forest, ran under their treefort, and raced that half-block on home.

That lesson taught me that showing your body was something to be ashamed of, something I’ve kind of gone through the motions of explaining how I’ve gotten in touch with it since.

The second “profound” moment was a Friday night when I was about 12 and my friend Meghan was sleeping over. We were in the kitchen, popping popcorn the old-fashioned kettle-on-the-stove way, never a quiet venture, when I had to run upstairs to ask my parents a question that has long since escaped me. I barged into their bedroom only to discover my hefty 300-lb father rolling back and forth on top of my mother, naked, in bed, like a beached whale trying to will itself back into the wet folds of the ocean.

The light streamed in from the hall, illuminating the horror on my mother’s face and the amusement on my father’s.

“Oh… shit.” I muttered, slammed the door, and bounded down the oak staircase to the kitchen. “Forget it,” I told Meghan. “Let’s watch TV.”

About three minutes later, my dad rather unsubtly wandered into the kitchen in his robe and nothing but. “Popcorn ready?”

Unbeknownst to him, Meghan was far more savvy about sex than I was then. I didn’t have to tell her what I’d just witnessed, but we’d exchange horrified tales in the dark of my bedroom as the night progressed.

This was the first time it’d ever occurred to me that I wasn’t a test-tube child or a present from a stork. The notion of my parents fucking wasn’t something I couldn’t comprehend, but instead one of those thoughts I never wanted to entertain. Meghan, though, had no choice. Her parents never realized the amount of noise that came from their bedroom when they’d fuck, nor how thin their walls were, and every Friday night, without fail, they’d go at it. Which, of course, was part of the reason Meghan began staying over at my house, every Friday night, without fail.

There were more formative memories… many, many more. When you’re raised Catholic, I assure you, they come in droves. But that’s all you get, for now.

I’m having a rare moment: I have no idea how to wrap this up. But there it is. Funny now, but psychologically-scarring then. Part of the reason for this sudden “I don’t know where to go” is that I’ve just remembered something my mother once said to me about sex with my father, something that fucked me up and made me dread ever having sex, something that left me angry at her for a time. There can be issues with becoming friends with a parent, and this was one of them. It’s incongruous with the above, so I won’t share it tonight, but it’s fodder for another time.