Monthly Archives: January 2006

My Day


These are the kinds of guys I find hot. The ones who know how to relax, who seem to have enough grasp on what’s important that they find their way here on a rare sunny winter’s day in Vancouver. I mean, if you can’t find your way to seize moments like these when they’re so far and few between, what kind of life are you leading, right?

Oh, so, of course, I made my way there, so it says something about some of my values. I sprained my ankle, though, and had to cycle another 4km to the bus station, which wasn’t very much fun, but geez, this day was worth a little pain. The good things always are, n’est ce pas? And the first hour and a half rocked my world, so, hey, there’s that.

And I’d like to talk about photography for a second. This one is one of my photos I took today. I enjoy photography and have been known to snap a pretty pic or two, days like this, I love it, but I need to take a moment to say that every single photo you’ve seen on here (the Cunt), besides this one, belong to other people. They’ve been found on the web. I don’t make money off this site, so, it’s kinda fine.

But I just can’t help it, they’re all such hot and great images. I love ’em to bits. Makes for a nice look, yeah? Anyhow, I have a good eye, but they just ain’t mine. I’ve mentioned it before, but not for a while.

TWOFER: I'm a Bitch & Something Smells

You have those nights sometimes, the nights before a simple kind of day, a your kind of day-day, where the only thing you really know is this: You’re calling the shots.
The man? Fuck him. The woman? Her too. And everyone in the sub-genres? Them too.
It’s 12:24 a.m., and I’ve decided that whatever it is I do when I roll my lazy ass out of bed, it’s okay. Tentative plan: A fine breakfast, a little South Park, a trip with the bike and the camera downtown to play tourist, for kicks. That’s it.
Before, I had these grandiose plans of, oh, I don’t know, accomplishing something, or something. I’ve come to my senses. Partly sunny. Dubious, you think? Fuck no. Partly’s sounding like it’s from God’s lips, man. Yep. A fine day, whatever materializes. With the last 45 or so days being filled with 40 or so days of rain, well, I’ll take drizzle, man. Just get me the hell out.
Though I feel like keeping to myself after my crazy past six weeks, I am going to force myself to be social. A tad. But only to cute men.
The women, they’ll get nods and grunts. Yep. Balance. It’s all about balance, isn’t it?
Oh, I’m joking. I play well with all others. My folks brought me up with manners, etiquette, you know, and that makes me the mostly charming young thang before you. I say “mostly” because having a mouth like Susan Sarandon at her time of the month is really not doing me any favours. But it feels so damned good, and the hedonist in me, that’s all she really needs, ya know.
_____________
Hopefully the following applies to none of my male readers, but, guys, I’ve been hearing some horror stories.
See, I’ve heard all these things through regular conversations with real, live guys, not through this blog. So, I’d like to just say this right now, that there’s a little too many instances of this sort of thing. You want chicks to feel all right about touching themselves and such, then we need to get on page about this.
Chicks, we’re sensitive, right? Estrogen: License to Pill. It’s rough, yeah, baby. Real rough some days, and you guys, you’re so lackadaisical and oblivious. Normally, it makes us chuckle, but sometimes, y’all leave scars.
These conversations I’ve mentioned, have all included guys, who, upon going down on women they were with, reacted in one or more of the following ways:

  • Gasped
  • Retched
  • Dry-Heaved
  • Actually vomited between her legs
  • Groaned, grabbed his clothes, ran, and proceeded to dress in her apartment’s exterior corridor

I mean, my GOD, guys. If you’ve done this, you are such an ass. Even if it was totally unintentional, oh, lord.
Don’t you ever get the sense that some people are the needing the emotional form of toilet training? Instead of just blurting out every fucking thing you feel in the split instant it hits, try something incredibly nouveau and cutting edge: Hold your goddamned tongue until you’ve let the stupid idea rattle around yer skull a moment.
And that doesn’t go out to just guys, there’re so many women that applies to, and we all know it.
If a guy reacts like that in one of those moments, it’s akin to a woman snickering at the size of a man’s cock. “You’re… not cold, are you? Oh, sorry, yes, that was optimism. I was hoping I could at least turn the thermostat up. Sadly, though… there might be little point in— Oh, I made a punny! (giggle)”
I just find myself wondering what such an experience would do to a woman’s future sex drive, considering how much more governed by emotions (and estrogen, sigh) we happen to be.
I’ve only had one real experience of issue with a bit of a foul odour, and it was after an eight-hour car trip with a guy I really, really, really wanted to sleep with when I lived in the North. He had a girlfriend at the time, and I had shit going on long distance, so I constantly felt the hopelessness of that, too. He paid me the most incredible compliment that day, too, that would sound totally cheesy to say here, but probably the greatest thing a guy ever said to me. It was his tone of voice and the way he stared through me as he said it, though. I melted. A couple hours after that, and needing a washroom for a bit, and I was conscious of my scent. Nothing too intense, mind you, but it was there, perceptible, a little, and I became hyperaware. We arrived at a washroom within five minutes of my noticing it, and I was able to wash up and feel great again, and I’m pretty sure he never picked up on it.
But if he had, it probably would’ve been a source of pheromones, not offense. Since that time, I kind of started to quiz the guys I’ve been with, and have been remarkably surprised at what was, I perceived, an offensive odour, and what guys have found attractive. They seem to have a more accommodating standard, I suppose. We chicks, we get bombarded by media ads about “feminine freshness’ on a daily basis. Hell, they have “feminine wipes,” which are the female equivalent to the baby’s-dirty-ass-alcohol-soaked-wipe. Unfortunately, there’s a market for them. It’s called “being single.” The Age of Paranoia.
I’m just saying, guys need to be empathetic to the issues that chicks sometimes have to deal with, and being nice and delicate about the fact that she needs a shower can go a long, long ways. How about, “God, I bet you’d be incredibly hot all lathered up. But mostly, I wanna do the lathering. Get you wet. Dripping. In the shower.”
That way, you get to play with a bar of soap. (Dove is nicely contoured. Ever notice that?) You get a nice shower. You get a clean chick. And you get to get laid after all. Everybody wins. She keeps her pride, and you get to enjoy the perks.
And though there’s not such an amenable conclusion for chicks who are usually stupid enough to blurt out a comment about a man’s penis size, really, they just ought to bloody well know better. I mean, Jesus. A little empathy. Just like God gave you that flabby bit on your inner thigh that no amount of working out can resolve, the small-penis thing wasn’t likely a request, and surgery ain’t no walk-in-the-park boob job, either.
Anyhow, thanks for coming on my tangential walk this evening. I’ve clearly been sort of colouring by numbers on this posting, but hey, it’s been fun for me. Come again.

Hey, Got A Cam? Cybersex and Masturbation.

show me ur tits. squeeze em.
oh, yah, baby. ur so hot. hard now.

Ah, the internet: Where the flame of romance never dies.

I’ve been talking about masturbation for the last 10 days or so. How can I possibly ignore cybersex?
The butt of many jokes, cybersex is still vastly overlooked for its potential to destroy the modern relationship as we know it. But that’s changing. Mental health pros are finding themselves inundated with sex addictions these days – more than ever before. It turns out that cybersex is the crack cocaine of sex addiction.
It’s changing the dynamics of human relationships. Communication was already doing pretty shitty before this, but now it’s plummeting to all-time lows.
Now, I’m not trying to be an expert in double-speak here, but I gotta revisit earlier claims that masturbation wasn’t addictive. Let’s qualify that. In the same way that marijuana is not addictive, so too is masturbation not.
Dope, you can get pretty compulsive about. Hell, I’m first in line to admit to marijuana compulsions. It’s “not really” addictive because it can be kicked with a little self-control. I think masturbation’s the same. You can be compelled to do it far more than you should be doing it, yeah. Absolutely. But that ain’t addiction, that’s a user malfunction. It’s a user with an addictive personality, someone with lacks somewhere, who’s trying to fill the need with a substitute of choice.
Hell, that’s life, most days. That ain’t a candybar, honey, that’s a need for affection and someone’s lovin’ arms around ya. Same deal. The only thing is, masturbation’s so much easier to paint with that brush of judgement than, say, having a second helping of pasta. “Oh, but’s a cream sauce, I get it. I can relate.”
Needs are needs, and sometimes we fullfil ‘em the wrong way, but we all got the needs, and we all got compulsions.
I’ve done cybersex. Sure. I masturbated when I did, sure. But he had it better at his end, ‘cos after all, cybersex is all about the verbs. Me, I got verbs. Girl’s got vocab, baby. So, I was left a little unquenched, but thank god I was in good hands: Mine.
And that’s the beauty of cybersex. It’s sex on demand, and you know it’s gonna deliver – every single time. With every click, every page, appeasement, baby. You get to fill your own needs, so you get off, fully, completely, each and every time. It leaves everything up to you, it’s more selfish, intensely personal, voyeuristic, and ultimately, it’s all in your head.
Just like every drug I’ve ever had. Personal. Selfish. Imaginative. Voyeuristic. All me. That’s drug use for you, whether you’re into cocaine or Jim Beam, so when anyone tells you cybersex ain’t just like a drug, tell ‘em for me that they don’t know shit.
I think there’s nothing wrong with a little cyber-dallying. Do I? No, I don’t. It’s not my bag – repetitive, uninspiring, and has the feel of those dirty jeans you find on the corner of the floor in a jam – does the job, takes care of the moment’s needs, but a little too loose’n’easy for a real good fit. However, if the right lit man came ‘round with a suitably sexy repertoire of vocab, I’d find myself curious how he’d play through words, sure.
Cybersex worries me, it does. I see dire times ahead for human relationships. I see a time when we’ll be unable to ask for sex in a healthy, seductive kind of way. I see romance and foreplay taking wrong turns. I see communication growing increasingly truncated, and I see us becoming far too introspective and inward-driven to really know how to interact in a meaningful way anymore. In that way, the masturbation is the enabling act that makes it feel “real” when it’s so not.
It’s freaky. I heard about Isaac Asimov’s Robot series and how, in one of the books, he predicted cybersex would transpire – in 3500 AD. Here we are, only 50 years later, doing exactly that — communicating through screens, performing for each other instead of being real, using shortcuts for dialogue instead of fully expressing what’s on our mind. As science fiction, it’s interesting, as reality, it’s disconcerting.
I think it all comes down to balance, really. Masturbation’s awesome, but if you’re sitting around your apartment masturbating all day (must be nice to have such resilient skin and tissue), you might want to consider if it’s doing as much for you as you’re letting yourself believe. It’s about reality checks and knowing when too much of a good thing’s too much. It’s about remembering that your home comes with a door, and when you open that door, a world is at your heels. This virtual shit, well… “Virtual” says it all, really: Nearly real, but, like, not.
I always love to say, “It is what it is.” In this instance, cybersex, masturbation, remember, it ain’t what it ain’t. I ain’t never gonna be what you want it to be. If you’re aware of that, then you’re fine. If you forget that, or lose the desire for the real deal, then you’ve got to take a look at yourself.

Rape Fantasies & Masturbation

Please, read the questions listed in the posting below this, regarding male masturbation (questions are applicable to both sexes) and answer, if you can. As a result of those questions, I’ve just received what I think is an important email from a very articulate young man, on masturbation. He writes:

This is going to sound really disturbing to women but I think a lot of men fantasize about rape. I think that rapists are the lowest form of life. Rape is the single most disturbing and horrible thing you can do to a person. Someone that is raped is scarred forever. My best friend was raped and I would kill the man responsible if I could. That is why it bothers me so much that I have fantasized about it. I don’t want you to think that I’m a potential rapist because I have fantasized about it but I think most men probably do. If they can admit it to themselves. The fantasy part of it isn’t about hurting her or scarring her. I think its just about taking something that youre not supposed to have. I guess something thats extremely taboo is sexy to us. Thats why there are movies about rape, incest, pregnant women, etc. I think thats why guys are so interested in anal. We want what we cant have.

Whew. Rape Fantasies. Yeah. Well, I’ve had ’em. But I’m also a strong girl who can take care of herself, and I pity the bastard that tries it.
That said, this is an topic that needs more discussion. It says a lot about human nature, doesn’t it? Here’s the response I sent the guy, word for word, so I can jam and go back to bouncing around to those ponces, Oasis:
I was just playing with some photography and you emailed me as I finished up, so curious, I read it. I’m deliberately not responding to people, but you’re young and clearly disturbed by the rape thing.
IT’S VERY COMMON WITH MEN AND WOMEN!
The thing is, I think it’s a pretty sterilized fantasy — like, nothing too explicit, you know? With guys, I think it’s a subliminal desire to feel like they could have permission to demand and take what they want — but not necessarily through violence. Just a primal thing, like the caveman dragging his woman by the hair. Whereas with women, it’s more a notion of wishing someone would feel that height of desire that they need to take us then and there — but we’d want to kill any man who’d try it.
It’s a really difficult fantasy for most people to come to terms with because the real act is usually outside our ethics, but we are, at heart, animals, and every now and then I think the notion of being true to that, without all these complications of civility and social correctness would be appealing to us all — the sexual equivalent of a cabin in the woods: basic, bare, free of bullshit.
But the reality of rape is something horrific for a lot of people, in both sexes, to come to terms with. So, instead, we never talk about the fact that most of us have thought about it in that faceless-stranger-in-the-night-this’ll-never-happen kind of way.
Thanks for bringing up an important topic. I was ironically thinking of this this morning, so your timing was stellar.

Male Masturbation

On second thought, if I can’t post for a couple days, let’s get the ball rolling on the topic of male masturbation. Obviously, being female, I can’t really input a lot on this topic, so I need reader help. I’ll have a fabulous guest writer for this main posting, so let’s see if we can give him a little direction in regards to what he ought to share. I also plan to do a posting in which I’ll take snippets of my male readers’ comments and paste them in one nice compendium of male input.
So, some questions for you.
For the Females: What is it you want to know about male masturbation? Does any of it weird you out? Why? What’s your reaction to it? Do you find it hot, or not? Why or why not? Have you had any negative experiences with it? What’s your reaction to finding a lover doing it when he thought you were asleep / not around? What’d you do about it? Do you regret your actions, or are you satisfied with your actions?
For the Males: What’s your process for masturbating? What or who do you think about? If you think about your lover or an ex-lover, are you thinking about specific things she’d do to you, or things you wish she’d do? Are you ashamed if you’re caught by a lover? Do you masturbate when a lover’s asleep next to you? Are you wishing she’d wake up and help, or would that feel like an invasion of your privacy? If you’re involved in a relationship right now, do you find it bothers her, or does she support it? At what age did you start? How long did it take to get the hang of it? How often do you do it? How long does it take to come? What do you wish more women would know about it? Where’s your favourite place to do it?

Quickie Post.

There won’t be a new posting until Friday night, probably, and who knows about that. I have a busy few days coming up. I’ve written a couple things, and I’m not sure how to tweak either of them. One’s on cybersex addiction, a depressing topic, but the one I want to write is another perspective on why women might be hesitant to touch themselves in any meaningful way. Unfortunately, I have to spend time trying to find a few particular writing examples to take in to a certain notorious magazine seeking a copyeditor. Not sure I have the skills for their level of publication, but shit, I can give it a go. I really need to invest some time in finally amassing an actual portfolio. I’m far too laissez-faire about all this.

ANYHOW. An update on Canadian politics. We have a new Prime Minister — a religious in-search-of-morality-for-the-masses Conservative Prime Minister.

They have a minority government, though, and unlike the US, we have four major parties. The Liberals can band with the NDP for any vote and easily vote down the Tory (Cons.) agenda, so I doubt there’ll be five years of Conservatives at the helm — we may have another election in a year. Let’s hope. Their minority gov’t is even smaller than the Liberals’ gov’t that suffered a vote of non-confidence, so, I’m optimistic on that count, but I know Harper (the new PM) is the kind of man who’d rather impact things HIS way and only serve one term, than toe the line, not put his own policies in place, and serve three. (We have no limit on how often a Prime Minister can serve the country. Trudeau was our PM for much of 16 years. I like this aspect of our politics — consistency can be a virtue.)

For those who know little of Canadian politics, we don’t elect a leader — we elect a party. We vote only for our local Member of Parliament, and based on the number of MPs voted from any one party, the leader of the party with the most votes becomes PM. I wish we could have a separate vote for leader, but oh, well.

Interesting point? The Conservatives never won a single seat in any of Canada’s largest cities — Vancouver, Toronto, or Montreal. Figures, you gotta be a hick to buy that shit. (No offense to the country folk.) But enjoy your sex clubs in Montreal while you can — if anyone tries to take that away, it’ll be Harper.

Fishies: Wake up and smell the pheromones

I’ve been on a masturbation writing tear, and I’ve got more to say about it, too, from a couple different points of view, and both will be a little tricky to say just exactly what I want to say, so I’m biding my time on those – but later this week, they’ll be up.
In the meantime, I apparently opened a can of worms when I posted the rant found below without having the add-on disclaimer at first. I agree, it might’ve been a little harsh for some of the men in my audience. I stand by what I say, though, because it applies to a good deal of men who are oblivious to appeasing their partners’ needs.
But what about the women, then? All right, to the women we go, then.
Everyone has heard the phrase, “She lies there like a dead fish.” This is where you got to realize that stereotypes and clichés exist for a reason. You can get all huffy and say, “That’s not polite!” but hey, the truth hurts.
If you’re lying there, and do nothing but a little groping and kissing, as your man does his thing, you have NO right to complain about lousy sex. You have no right to say he doesn’t know how to get you off. You have not one iota of justification to piss or moan – at all.
Sex is only good when both partners get involved, when both partners do what it takes to appease the other. If you’re one of the Dead Fish among the female population, then you’re doing a few things:

  • Making the rest of us have to make the stereotypes go away so that it’s known that sexy, vivacious women who like to get hot and heavy do in fact exist.
  • Making the rest of us feel like rock stars because we leave the men quaking in our wake, after they’ve been stuck with underwhelming partners before they happened on us.
  • Causing your sex life to be as unfulfilling as it is.
  • Denying yourself the knowledge of how bloody incredible it is to discover your inner vixen.

The interesting thing about both male and female lovers who are unfulfilling for their partners is they have two things in common: Ignorance* and laziness.
But it’s a lot more than that when it comes to the chicks. So many chicks have so many hang-ups. I’ve talked about it before, becoming that “vixen” I’ve mentioned means learning to accept that saucy behaviour in the bedroom doesn’t mean you’re some morally compromised individual – particularly if you’re behaving in that way while in a relationship.
Women get terrified, sometimes, of behaving “badly” in the name of feeling “good,” because they know their boyfriends/husbands/lovers feel that there are certain qualities in their women that they absolutely adore – how kind they are, all of that. A lot of women can’t come to terms with being that character-filled individual, and then being a sexually skilled “bad girl” in the bedroom. They don’t realize that it’ll usually enhance the relationship, not hurt it.
But seriously, girls, get the hell over yourselves. Don’t assume you know how your man’s gonna react. Show him the respect of letting HIM decide how he feels about such a notion.
The fact is, you’re having bad sex in part because you refuse to do your part of the job. If you spice it up, odds are damned good your man’s desire will up in quantities you couldn’t have imagined. Even in the boring old missionary position you can spice things up by wrapping your legs around his waist and clenching your vaginal muscles with every thrust and digging your nails in his buttcheeks or something. If you encourage him to take different positions, that’ll help, too. Here, go to this site and take a look at all the pretty pictures, and then promise yourself you’ll try a few. Oh, and if it makes you all tingly, don’t hesitate to touch yourself as you look’em over.
Every position changes the sensation. If you’ve never orgasmed, and you don’t masturbate, and you’ve never tried any of these positions, it’s no wonder you’re a lousy lover. Sex isn’t something that’s just instantly good when you add one genital to another. It takes skill, spontanaeity, a willingness to try new things, a dedication to educating yourself, it needs a level of fitness, specifically endurance, and a commitment to being open and honest with your lover.
And most of all, it needs a voice. You need to express your wants, your desires, and most importantly, your concerns and/or fears. If you’re not comfortable talking to your lover, nothing’s gonna ever reach a plateau for you. Conversations about sex can be as arousing as any kind of touch or tease you do. Sitting there on the couch with a lover and talking about all matters of sex – and not touching each other – can be a really arousing kind of foreplay. Then, you do everything you talked about, and it’ll be hotter than it’s been before, guaranteed. The conversation as foreplay was one of my earliest sexual lessons, and transformed me as a lover. And now, here I am.
Your first step is being comfortable touching your own body. Once you do that, you have to start taking chances with positions, props, whatever. But you got to come to play, baby.
Otherwise, you deserve the lack of orgasms, the lack of passion.
There ARE men who will not respond to a vixen, and don’t let anyone tell you different. There are men who are intimidated by a strong lover. They’re uninspired, they’re not confident, they’re not willing to do what it takes to appease you, and you will need to decide if an unfulfilling sex life is something you can live with. I’d vote no, but hey. When it comes to lovers like that, I like to remind folks that our actions speak volumes about our character. An unwillingness to really learn how to please your lover is indicative of hang-ups, pettiness, insecurities, whatever, but it’s indicative that something is off, and don’t forget it — after all, it’s indicating the same thing about you. You really want that?
It can be hard transitioning to a sex goddess, but hey, the view’s great from that lofty perch, baby.
I think everyone – EVERYONE – needs to read good books on how to perform sexually. Hey, worked for me. For the women out there, most decent sized cities have women-only bookstores. Check’em out. You’ll be surprised what you can learn just by visiting their sexuality sections. Sure, you can order books online, but it’s better to examine ‘em in real life. Better yet, ask a qualified clerk for help. I was very generous back when I worked in a bookstore, and just loved having a woman come back a month later to thank me. One brought me flowers, once.
The last word? There’s too damned many women who think that lying on their backs is all it takes to have sex. It’s selfish, it’s boring, it’s uninspiring, and it’s flat-out wrong. Sex, done right, is an incredible experience that is seldom surpassed in life. Don’t you want a ticket to ride?

*Ignorance is defined as:
The condition of being uneducated, unaware, or uninformed.

Steff Rants: On "Letting" Women Masturbate

All right, I read a comment this morning from “The Dating Master” on my posting about why 40% of women don’t masturbate, and I’ve been a little riled ever since.
I should be cleaning my house before my friend arrives for a barbecue later, but he’s seen the mess before, and I’ve got a groove on with some classic Verve playing, so fuck it, let’s tackle this.
The guy, and I can’t be entirely sure of whether he’s serious or not, but I’m leaning towards “yes,” based on his own blog, said: “the problem is if we let women masturbate then they will say hey why do we need guys we men are sexually starved as it is.”
The thing IS, though, that even if he’s NOT serious, there are men out there who think like this. So, I’m gonna take ’em on!
Normally, I’m kind enough to fix people’s grammar, but his stays as-is. All right, rant mode ON. I just voted, I feel EMPOWERED, baby. And I feel like swearing a lot — I am one with my inner-trucker tonight. (This is NOT an anti-man bash! It’s an anti-sexist-guy/anti-lousy-lover bash! There are good guys out there. I know it!)

_____________
First response: What the fuck?
Second response: “LET” us masturbate?
Third response: Why, you…

All right, no one needs to LET US do a goddamned thing. This is why I’m telling women to talk charge of themselves and get to know the fine act of self-love. It’s 2006, buddy.
If you men are “sexually starved as it is,” maybe it’s time everyone stop, sit the fuck down, and think about why that might just be. Here, I have a few ideas. Let me share.

  • Almost every guy thinks he’s some kind of stud when he gets in bed. The guys are thinking, “Nah, that’s not me,” and the women are thinking, “You fucking tell ‘em, sister.”

You do not just insert your penis and see us crumble into ecstasy. You can’t just rub our clit for 30 seconds and think we’re done. You can’t just work us for the average 14-18 minutes that statistics say the average man lasts. There’s a reason foreplay exists – it’s so that WE orgasm, too.
You may be sexually starved, but you ain’t getting the fucking job done when we do let you at us, in most cases, so why the hell should we bother? Seriously. I’d rather read a fucking book than have lame sex. You want to underperform? Go masturbate, I’m having a bath. Yeah, seriously.
Educate yourselves. Learn what the hell the g-spot is, where it is, and why it works. Learn that less than 30% of women orgasm every time they have sex – and their partners have a good deal to do with the low results, but I’m not suggesting a woman NEEDS to come every time she’s getting laid, but men NEED a reality check on the matter. Learn that less than 40% of women are capable of having an orgasm vaginally. Learn that our BODIES are one giant erogenous zone – not just three regions of it. If you don’t work it, we won’t want it. Period.
You want us to want you more? Learn how to make us shudder. Learn how to tease us, deny us, prolong us, then satiate us. And learn how to have better longevity with your erections. I mean, Christ, it’s a MUSCLE, and very few men ever do exercises to strengthen it, other than masturbating and deflating.

  • And the other part of the problem? Women who are still being fucking subservient to the men in their lives, and completely disrespectful of themselves, who aren’t putting it on the table and saying, “THIS IS WHAT I WANT. This is what I enjoy, and THIS is what you need to do to make me orgasm.” And why not? Because they’re ashamed to talk about sex, they think they’ll hurt their lovers’ feelings by being honest, or they think they’re not entitled to say anything, or worse yet? They’re as fucking ignorant as the men they’re fucking.

Men, it is in YOUR interest to educate your lover, to educate yourself. By simply having sex in the standard formation – missionary, whatever, for 15 minutes – you’re denying yourself. You’re making your woman apathetic. Women NEED to be titillated or they just won’t care. Men are hardwired to have their dick inside something, we all know this, and that’s a good day out for just about any guy, really, but women, most of us can cope without sex and without you, just fine, and you really, really want to avoid having us feel that way.
When you take the apathetic way out with sex, you’re essentially dining at the sexual taco hut. Sure, it’s a great thing now and then. But there’s a big world out there – homecookin’, upscale, little quickie snacks, and you’re relegating yourself to the same goddamned thing every time.
Women, they’re BORED. And you’re doing nothing to affect it.
The butthead who made this comment, he’s blaming his woman for the lack of sex drive. Take a long, hard look in the fucking mirror, first. And then ask yourself why you’re so damned threatened by the notion of having your woman actually understanding her own sexual organs.
And women, speak the hell up. Why in god’s name do you not?
I was exposed to something at work today that just makes me shake my head at the state of the sexual union. God, things are fucked up in the world of sex these days. I’m not really into the whole reading-erotica/surfing-porn thing. I’m concerned about sex, and that’s why I write all this and seldom visit sex blogs. I’m on a mission, really. I think it’s time we deserve good sex, all the time. I think it’s time we learn to communicate about it.
Masturbation is the starting point. Then talking. Then practice. Then experimentation.
But guys like the above, they just want the third step. All the goddamned time. Unfortunately, these are the men (specifically the sexist breed above, I mean) who will NOT respond to a woman saying what she needs or wants. He thinks he knows, and that she’s just asexual. A good portion of men become excited when their woman wants to actually talk about sex, so don’t let this guy deter you. And if you’re with a man like this, you need to seriously consider whether or not that’s something you can live with – you sure as hell deserve better, but can you live with it? Better yet, why should you?
Jesus, I hate sexism. Thank god most men are smarter than that. You guys, I love, love, love. This guy, I wanna slap.
Someone thought this was an anti-male bashing. It’s not. I’ve been fortunate to have mostly wonderful, considerate, thorough lovers, and I’ve repaid them in kind — like it should be. There are women out there who are lousy, lousy lovers, and they piss chicks like me off, because they lower men’s drives to learn more about pleasing us. Sex takes two, and every position can benefit from mutual involvement. If you’re guilty of the “dead fish” lay-there-and-love me sex, women, smarten the hell up. You’re getting the lousy sex you deserve. I’m gonna rant on YOU on the weekend. I got something else up my sleeve next, to get back on the masturbation topic.

Thinking Too Much, Too Late

This isn’t really off topic… it’s masturbation of a sort. Literary masturbation.
Tonight, I can’t stop thinking of how I got from point “A” to this point of my life. I don’t know when this mood struck me. I made a comment in response to one of my readers earlier today, “It’s amazing, the footprints left when people walk out of our lives.”
It got me reflecting on some people I’ve known, experiences I’ve had – all that profound shit that shakes down from the tree of life.
I get a lot of emails from this site, people wanting to connect, forge something, interact, I don’t know. Sometimes it seems they want to know more about me, I get questions. They divulge deeply personal things to me, profound problems, fears, experiences. It can be daunting, but it’s very rewarding. I try to respond to everyone, to share a bit of who I am in trade for their confessions.
Another reason I’ve been thinking about myself is that I had this email sent to me about “Stop Internet Censorship,” a new-ish blog formed with a mission, that has a number of esteemed contributors. I was asked to join it, and have, because I think censorship’s bullshit. But it has had me thinking. How does this concern me?
Really, I’m not sure it does. Not yet. It probably will. But I’m pretty open about who I am, thus why I get really personal things sent to me, I guess. I leave myself vulnerable here, only because I feel invulnerable.
Everyone in my life knows I write this. They all know I do everything from sex advice and tips to ponderous deliberations. From my father and family to my employers to my friends, they all know. They accept that this is just who I am, and I’m not ever judged for it. I couldn’t much care if I’m outted tomorrow. It would impact my life little, I suspect. I’d flinch and grit my teeth because I’m a control freak and would rather decide on my terms when to let my identity be known, though.
A reader commented (on this posting) last week, and for all I know, hasn’t been back, that I was, essentially, a hypocrite. It pissed me off. It really, really pissed me the fuck off. So, let’s go with that for a moment. You know what you know about me because of my grace, generosity, and openness. It’s my gift to you, this intimacy with this stranger you may never know. I’m not being arrogant, I’m being honest. That is, in its essence, what blogging is. Allowed voyeurism, by we, the brave provocateurs.
Those of us who do this, who put ourselves out here in the raw – with the hurts, with the reality, with the insights – we do so for our own reasons. We have gracefully allowed you, the world, to be players in our mix. You’re the voyeurs we’re humouring by leaving our blinds up. You owe each of us the very simple respect of acknowledging we all have our stopping points. There are things that, for whatever stupid reasons we have, we do not wish to share. That is our right. When it comes to what it is we divulge, you have no say.
Those are the facts.
It doesn’t change much for me. I still plan to tell you a little more about who I am and how I got here. But just keep in mind that I have a line in my sand, and if you cross it, I’ll mince no words in telling you so. What I choose to tell is always going to be my choice. Fortunately for us all, I love to take requests. It’s just so spiffy and interactive, like a game. I do so enjoy games, after all.
Anyhow, most people treat me wonderfully around here, and I love it, and love those of you who it applies to. I do love to please a crowd. There’s just the occasional twit, and I wanted to say something this time.
But I do digress.
I think it’s safe to say we all know I’m a pretty introspective individual. My life has made me that way, through a variety of experiences. I’ve had a lot of strange encounters with death, a lot of struggle, a lot of experience, in all ways, shapes, and forms.
I guess it’s part of why I’ve been riding the masturbation topic this week. I’ve spent a lot of time alone in my life – I’d have to, to write as much as I do these days. But I love being alone. I can be the life of any party, and my personality, when I turn it on, can win over just about any person, any time. And though I love people, I’m protective of my space. That space is precisely what has seen me through all the struggles and hardships I’ve had. It’s also what makes me an engaging person to befriend and know.
Over the next week or two, I’ll be wanting to spend a little time taking a look at myself, and I hope to have an interesting post of how a girl like me gets formed. Not necessarily because it’s been a request, but because it’s my blog and I’ll do what I wanna. (Oh, I’m just playing. It’s actually something I do every spring… a stop-and-smell-the-self or something.)
I said earlier about the footprints left in our lives when people walk on out, and there’s been no bigger tread than that of the one left by my mother. Six-plus years have passed since her death and the loss still finds me from time to time, and this week has been no exception. Some sad topics came up when talking to my father the other night, and I’ll be expounding on that another time, but tonight it’s too much for me to think on.
I will tell one story, though, of one day spent with her that has profoundly affected the way in which I live my life today, something I hope the parents out there can learn from.
My mother wasn’t well educated, and I remember her getting her GED (high school equivalency) when I was in Grade 3, but she had the most common sense of anyone I’ve ever met. My father made me flush with pride the other night when he said that, then told me I got mine from hers, and took it further than she had managed. I’m proud I had her as a role model.
Something she forgot how to do as she got older, sick, and tired of the struggle in her life (the result of a bad menopause), was how to stop and smell the proverbial roses. But she taught us how to do it in our youth. I remember being in Grade 2 at a Catholic elementary school. We’d take the bus all the way from White Rock, out into the valley, and the whole thing would be a 45-minute ride, up and down the streets in the valley, before ending at that small school by the church.
I remember this morning in particular – a spellbinding onslaught of spring. One of those days after a warm rainy spell, when the April sky explodes in blue and light, and the world just comes alive. The birds sang, flowers bloomed big, the air was rich and aromatic. We couldn’t have been in class for more than a half-hour, when what should happen?
My mother arrives, tells the principal we have doctor’s appointments, picks us both up from class, and makes a beeline to Vancouver’s famous Stanley Park, which was carpeted with baby daisies and little purple flowers I’ve never learned the names of.
She took our shoes off, bought us ice cream before it was even lunch, and told us to play nearby after she hugged us both and told us it was a day made by God.
She then sat down on the grass with a sketch book, and began sketching as we ran wild all over the grass. I remember nothing of that day except the happiness and freedom I felt.
I learned then that life comes with a pause button. To this day, I never let things get too hectic without remembering I can say fuck it and stop it all. I did that again today, the second time in a week. I went for a long bike ride in the rain and just felt incredible.
That day, my mother just sat there, watching us. She looked so damned beautiful, but then, she always did.
Never underestimate the power of spontanaeity – not in life, not in love, not in sex. There’s nothing more spell-binding than a well-chosen change in plans. My life is richer today as the result of a seemingly innocuous little day at the park, spent at the whim of a woman who loved to hear birds chirping, and who’d been overwhelmed by a shitty streak of rain.
And never, ever underestimate the impact it might have on those along for the ride.
In the next couple of weeks, I’ll choose a couple more things that have profoundly shaped who I am, and maybe share with you the lessons I’ve come to learn as a result. Self-indulgent, but perhaps a couple people might find it interesting.
It’s fitting I end this post in the middle of the rousing chorus of Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here.”