Monthly Archives: March 2006

Some thoughts at 3:30 AM

The Guy is a foodie, which I quite like, since I’m a foodie too. There’s nothing like cooking for someone who *gets* what the effort is, and who appreciates the subtleties of a well-designed meal. I’m hatching a scheme for a really nice meal I’d like to cook for him, now that I know I can afford to eat and be merry a little bit. He cooked me dinner last week, so it’s my turn…

…Trouble is, I’m sick, so our meal plans will have to wait a week or so. But The Guy is being a total sweetie and making me a batch of homemade chicken soup made from scratch (from the carcass of the bird that gave its life for our tasty meal last weekend, to boot), since I’m a sickie again. He’s bringing it by on Saturday. This will be date the fourth, such as cuddling and feeding-sickie can be called a date, and it’s safe to say it looks like this might be Something Good. It doesn’t feel like just the fourth date, though. The comfort factor’s far higher than I’d have expected it to be this soon.

What’s really cool about this thing is that we both have brains. It’s pretty tiresome always being the smartest person in relationships (I don’t mean that to sound as arrogant as it does, but trust me, I used to read a couple books a week — good, smart books — for years and years, and I’ve essentially been paid on the job to learn for the last nine years of my life, so I certainly have some book smarts, and street smarts, too).

A relationship with someone with at least as much smarts as me, if not smarter, is a real turn-on these days, and something I’ve craved for a long while. Like, a long, long while.

And hey. He does soup.

Now, if he gives his consent, I’ll share the oddly When Harry Met Sally-ish freaky-deaky way in which we met, but that’s his call. I know he’ll read this, so I’ll just wait for him to clue me in. It’s a pretty wicked story, though.

(My fever’s finally broken. Whew! Thank goodness. 🙂

Lenny Bruce, Obscenity's Legacy, and Today's News

I wrote this late last night, when I should have been in bed. I was out for coffee this morning when The Guy emailed me with a link and said, “This will make you very angry.” Rightly so. It turns out the Supreme Court of the US has decided not to hear a case on internet-based obscenity, meaning that internet obscenity laws are to be decided on a local basis. IE, small towns can decide what’s “obscene” on the internet.
Think about this for a minute. REALLY fucking think about the ramifications of this, people. This is huge. You’re going to have Buttfuck, Idaho deciding on whether or not materials that are being used and seen by people AROUND THE WORLD are obscene… in the land of “free press.”
It all comes back to you. Your vote. It comes down to voting for leaders and politicians because you’re looking for a fucking tax break, but you fail to realize the implications of what that leader’s choices for life-long appointments to the Supreme Court are. Life-long: Meaning decades of deciding the interpretation of YOUR constitution.
You want to tell me that America’s passion for freedom of speech is greater than any other nation’s. Not anymore. Never has been. That’s the greatest lie ever told, my friends.
This year’s the 40th anniversary of the death of Lenny Bruce — a guy who met the wrong end of every obscenity law ever passed in the US. Four decades have passed, and this is the bullshit that’s starting to cycle back into action.
AGAIN, I ask you: Where is your voice?
The timing of that news is just strange, since I’d planned to post this today anyhow. A sad fucking day for freedoms, my friends. Know that.

__________________

The writer I am today is a result of the reader I was then. To tell the truth, I’m barely a reader today. I seldom settle in with a book, but I hope to change that behaviour.
I recently took some time to organize my bookshelves, and this book in the photo, my tattered copy of Lenny Bruce’s How to Talk Dirty & Influence People, still stands up on display, right behind my grandmother’s 1955 rotary dial phone, which still rattles and rings anytime someone dials me up. Next to it, a first-edition of the Arrow paperback version of HST’s Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas.
When I was 18, my narrow, protected view of the world was shattered by HST, but then came Lenny. Like HST’s classic tome, it gets off to an unforgettable start – particularly if you’re an 18-year-old kid. Unbelievably, I had the balls to recommend this to my 14 year old student last week.

“Filipinos come quick; colored men are built abnormally large (“Their wangs look like a baby’s arm with an apple in its fist”); ladies with short hair are lesbians; if you want to keep your man, rub alum on your pussy.
Such bits of erotic folklore were related daily to my mother by Mrs. Janesky, a middle-aged widow who lived across the alley, despite the fact that she had volumes of books delivered by the postman every month — A Sane Sex Life, Ovid the God of Love, How to Make Your Marriage Partner More Compatible–in plain brown wrappers marked “Personal.”
She would begin in a pedantic fashion, using academic medical terminology, but within ten minutes, she would be spouting her hoary hornyisms. Their conversation drifted to me as I sat under the sink, picking at the ripped linoleum, day-dreaming and staring at my Aunt Mema’s Private Business, guarded by its sinkmate, the vigilant C-N bottle, vanguard of Lysol, Zonite, and Massengill.
At this tender age, I knew nothing of douches. The only difference between men and women was that women always had headaches and didn’t like whistling or cap guns; and men didn’t like women – that is, women they were married to.
Aunt Mema’s Private Business, the portable bidet, was a large red-rubber bulb with a long black nozzle. I could never figure out what the hell it was for. I thought maybe it was an enema bag for people who lived in buildings with a super who wouldn’t allow anyone to put up nails to hang things on; I wondered if it was the horn Harpo Marx squeezed to punctuate his silent sentences. All I knew was that it was not to be used for water-gun battles, and that what it was for was none of my business.
When you’re eight years old, nothing is any of your business.”

Lenny Bruce, if you’ve never heard much about the dude, was a pioneering comic who broke all the rules. The Jim Morrison of comedy, he had his ass busted for obscenity more times than Dick Nixon would proclaim he was not a crook. It was on his heels, on his ground-breaking sacrifices and legal hassles that Richard Pryor and every other comedian would follow. Without Lenny Bruce, there might not have been a Pryor, or a Hicks, or a Rock, or a Leary. Lenny Bruce said fuck you to the man, and he said what was on his mind.
These days, there’s something still admirable about someone with the balls to say “What you think is obscene is what others do behind closed doors.” As someone I quite like recently said, let’s meet at the corner of The 21st Century and Get Over It.
Laws of acceptability are drawn by people with the courage (or the accidental happening) to push envelopes in defiance of what accepted norms are. For instance, fucking can now be used as an adjective after 10 pm all because Bono accidentally said it as such during a broadcast of (insert irrelevant music awards ceremony name here).
But the ones who discover whole new lands, they’re the journeymen like Bruce because they’re the ones who consciously know what the accepted is, but choose to go far beyond it, consequences be damned.
You open to any fucking page, anywhere, and there’s something that even today is relevant. Me, my copy’s so fucking tattered it’s permanently mated with an elastic band, the only thing that holds it together. The page where the spine breaks clean in half, page 91, yielded this pearl from 1963, 10 years before my birth.

“Why don’t religious institutions use their influence to relieve human suffering instead of sponsoring such things as the Legion of Decency, which dares to say it’s indecent that men should watch some heavy-titted Italian starlet because to them breasts are dirty?
Beautiful, sweet, tender, womanly breasts that I love to kiss; pink nipples that I love to feel against my clean-shaven face. They’re clean!”

So many of us sex bloggers, we’re up in arms against this Moralizing of North America; the legislative attempts to arbitrate morality; this pitiful attempt to turn back the clock and eradicate sex and desire from the consciousness of the average person.
Got news for you, folks. We’ve been fighting this battle for decades. Whether it’s a brilliant writer and commentator like Lenny Bruce or a filthy fat fuck like Larry Flynt, the battles ain’t new, the war ain’t new, and the blood’s long from dry.
What’s different now, though, is the medium. Enter blogging. Enter podcasting. Enter streaming video. Now we have a voice. Now we don’t have to wait any longer for a voice crying out in the night, for a black-as-hell knight to ride in with a filthy leer and a winning argument. Now the undersexed, underfucked, randy-as-hell, crop-flogging, chain-wearing, paddle-using, nymphomaniacal, cross-dressing, same-sex fucking, porn-loving, and swinging folks, NOW they all have the ability to have a voice.
The thing about activism is that it’s not about ground breaking wide open in one fell swoop. Like any hole, it start with one push of the shovel. And another. And another. There will be rocks and boulders that limit progress, but with persistence, it all comes out. The greater the chorus of resistance, the harder it is to ignore. The greater the groundswell, the more ground we can break.
Unfortunately for the battle, Lenny Bruce died too fucking young. He should’ve died right around now, in his 80th year. Instead, a needle in his arm, he toppled off his toilet, and crashed to his death – a disgraced, bloated man who was mocked and ridiculed out of the mainstream, and instead, placed post-humously upon a pedestal by those who would continue to wage what was known as his crusade against semantics.

The book’s afterword ends thus:

“One last four-letter word for Lenny.
Dead.
At 40.
That’s obscene.”

And it was. It is. Few people ever have the balls that Lenny Bruce lugged around with him, and it’s a crying fucking shame. And still, here we are, fighting for the same things, dreaming of the same freedoms as this long-dead Jewish-American comedian, in this, the 21st century.

Twats and Knives: Together at Last

I was sent this story recently by a reader, detailing about this new trend of women going under the knife to alter aspects of their vaginal regions. I’m sure there are valid reasons to do so from time to time, but really… what the fuck are people thinking?

Plastic surgery is something I despise. Packaging, that’s what our bodies are. I’ve spent my LIFE trying to come to terms with who and what I am. I grew up believing that my ample ass was something disgusting, and I was always under the impression I was far more than just imperfect, I was just physically wrong.
But, hey, the first thing guys seem to wanna grab is that ample ass. And now I have no intention of taking it all off, despite minimizing its spread in the recent past. Hey, real estate’s the best investment you can make, and mine seems to be going up in value.
Fact is, we’re constantly under scrutiny – from our banks, our lovers, our employers, people on the street. Hell, about the cruelest thing one can do to themselves is to buy one of those 10x magnifying mirrors, don’t you think? Why don’t you just run out and buy a lifetime subscription to therapy while you’re at it?
Me, I use a standard mirror. I just lean in real fuckin’ close, you know? Does the trick. For now. One day, the eyes are gonna go and I’m gonna need one of those big-ass look-at-me now glaring glimpses at my imperfections, but I’ll be ready for that day when it comes.
Now, one of the fundamental differences between our sexes – get ready, here’s a newsflash – is the fact that the cock is on the outside of the body, and vagina’s bits and pieces are all inside us. Everyone knows guys are hung up on their dicks. But what about chicks?
Fact is, we’re twat-conscious. Most chicks are as clueless about their twats as the guys we latch onto are. Ever taken a look at your vagina? Yeah? How’s that workin’ out for ya? Tricky, hey? If not, well, you’re probably not missing out on much, since you’re liable to feel a tad self-conscious once you rig up the mirrors to angle a look at your privates. You gotta spread ‘em for a look at it, baby, and that’s seldom ever the best way to get introduced to your kitty.
I remember seeing a posting on someone’s blog a long time ago juxtaposing an image of a woman’s mouth in a sexy pout, and another woman with her mouth wide open, readied for an invasive visit by a dentist and a drill. The author asked the question, which would you rather see? He then alluded to the overwhelming tendency in porn today to show women spread-eagled with their vaginal lips spread wide open.
As a chick, I find it unattractive. But I’m a chick, and I know guys see things differently, so I’m over it. I do, however, agree with the post’s author, and I have to wonder: These women going under the knives, are they seriously looking at these porn-based images as a measuring stick for their own attractiveness? Why?
Taking cues on genitals from porn is like expecting to look like a Vogue model after you’ve showered and made yourself up. How about a fucking reality check? How about realizing that the beauty of vaginas is the fact that each has its own characteristics?
An interesting artist in the UK has done a line of photographic collages called “Cunt Flowers,” and one of those images is what you find here on this post. The artist gets what I’m saying – pussies offer an incredible assortment of appearances, and the beauty is in the variety. We’re not cookie cutters, people, so why the hell are we trying to cookie-cut our cunts?
It’s time we stop letting the beauty industry and media inflict insecurities and doubts upon us. It’s time we stopped paying thousands of dollars to fix what we perceive to be imperfections. We would never fix the exterior of our cars and ignore the engine, would we? So why the fuck do we apply that methodology to our bodies?
Start thinking from the inside out. Touch your cunt. Believe your men when they express passion for all you have between your legs. If he wants to go down on you and enjoys tonguing and playing with you, then get the hell over yourself and let him. He’s the one who sees what you truly offer; you and your headspace probably don’t know dick. Or, twat, as the case appears to be.

Some fighting words

I’d like to take a moment, in light of the third anniversary of the Iraq War, to thank my readers in the military forces over there. Apparently it’s a pleasant surprise that they’re able to access my site despite some filters on their servers over there. Well, it’s pleasant for us both, I assure you.
I’ve had a few letters from guys in the Marines that have just made my day in the last few months. While I disagree violently with the premise of the war, and the execution thereof, and the lack of transparency from the powers that be, and despite a few bad apples in the bunch over there, I think most of the soldiers are just men and women doing their job — for a government that lied to them. The blame should always go on the heads of any organization, and the buck stops with Bush and the Dark Lord himself, Cheney. Make no mistake about it.
I hope that those great guys who’ve taken the time to send me letters find their ways home to their loved ones. I hope you find a way to keep from being too jaded about your government when you return. I hope you get the fuck out now, before it gets much worse.
Three fucking years already. 2,300 (American) dead (and counting), and no progress to really speak of. Last throes indeed, Dick. Fucking twit.
A comment was left elsewhere on the site this morning that got me thinking (my email notifier doesn’t specify which post). I believe it’s by a fella I think is one of those nifty Marine boys who’s written me, about the power of communication, particularly when absent from a loved one. If it’s the same guy who’s contacted me in the past, then his story is fairly simple. He and his wife had a nice relationship, but she was always very restrained in their lovemaking, and always had a lack of confidence in her body and her ability to express what she wanted.
Through constant validation and repeated wishes to know what she really, really wanted, she has finally found the way to open up. During his time stationed across the seas, they’ve been exchanging emails as often as events would allow, and it appears to be transforming their relationship in every way. Fantasies are being discussed, envelopes are being planned to be pushed, and the landscape of their relationship — with an ocean and a desert between them — is morphing into something much richer and more open. He’s counting the days before his return home is to happen, which, if I recall correctly, is in three weeks or so. (Here’s hoping it’s everything you’re dreaming of, J.)
There is nothing more powerful in your relationship than the power to communicate. The ability to express your needs and desires will transform every relationship in your life, but it will boggle the mind if you are able to express your sexual needs with a partner who’s open to hearing (and providing) what you truly desire.
Using tools like email, even when you’re living in the same town, or even the same house, can provide you with a safer means of expressing what you need. As time passes, you will learn to better express those desires in your voice, and eventually, what was once the ultimate act of vulnerability will have simply become a great, great trust shared by two people who know how to be on the same page.
Well, boys & girls, get home safely, and do your jobs with integrity. It’s time that chapter in your country’s history come to a close. Let’s hope that day comes soon.

Filler — A couple good jokes for you

It’s a Monday, and it could be a Very Good Day, depending what goes down, so I don’t want to write right now. I don’t want to tamper with my headspace. It’s sunny, blissful, beautiful out today, and I’m about to head out into the world on my Eurotrash scooter, and plan to find my way to a beach or forest to do some photography. I’m going to try and find Love in images, I think. That would be a fun challenge. (Challenges rock. Ever assign yourself them at the start of your day? Try it!)
But I’d like you to have a smile on your face today, like the one I already have. So, without ado, one of my all-time favourite dirty jokes. I don’t know if it’s really the joke I love, so much as it is the woman I heard it from, and how incongruous the two seemed together. This is why I talk to strangers as often as I can. You just never know. 🙂
Now, I was working in a photo lab back in the day with my colleague Cathy. It was a slow Friday night and we had put out a tray of cookies for customers, for the hell of it. A little old 84-year-old lady stopped in, had some cookies, and began talking to us.
She looked at us both, scrutinizing us. “Do you girls like dirty jokes?” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you like sex?” Then she shook her head. “Well, of course you do. We all do.”
Well, anytime you have an 84-year-old lady with plastic glasses and her hair in a bun, leaning heavily on a burled cane, offering to share a filthy joke with you, you accept the offer. Here’s the joke she told.

____________

In marriage, there are three stages of sex.
The first is called House Sex. This is when you first marry, and you can’t get enough of each other. You have sex all the time, everywhere you can, all over the house. Thus, house sex.
The second stage is called Room Sex. This is when you’ve been together for a couple years and things have slowed down. You still enjoy each other’s company, but you tend to stick to the bedroom and have sex only in bed.
The third stage takes place after about seven years, and it’s called Hall Sex. What it is, is every time you pass each other in the hall, you mutter “Fuck you,” and you’re done with it.

____________

Little old ladies are wise as hell, huh?

____________

One for the road:

Mickey Mouse and Minnie Mouse go to court to get a divorce. The judge checks out the paper, frowns as he’s looking them over, glances up over his reading glasses and peers at Mickey Mouse.
“Mickey, look, I’m sorry, I want to help you out. I watched you as a kid, but really, I can’t grant you a divorce on the grounds that Minnie’s insane. I mean, “for sicker or for poorer…” You know? You made a vow, Mickey.”
“Oh, sir, I never said she was insane,” says Mickey. “I said she was fucking Goofy.”

____________

The rest of my jokes involve priests or sex toys. Well, here’s hoping I have the day I’m wanting to have. Hope you do, too.

Call, for fuck's sake!

So, date two has come and gone, rather successfully, and a third hovers somewhere on the unspecified horizon.
Now, I’m luckier than the average girl because I have this — a mighty, mighty good decoder ring — available for The Guy to peruse and see what it is I dig or don’t. Because The Guy has a functioning Brain and Powers of Recall, he plays his cards rather well. Such as, calling The Next Day after Date One, and emailing me to thank me for my presence immediately after Date Two. I’m such a sucker for communication.
If you are a guy, and you’re trying to do the whole play-it-cool bullshit, here’s a clue. Most chicks will fucking LOVE YOU if you call. Why? Because suspense might be nice at Christmas time, but it really, really sucks if you’re digging someone after a date and you haven’t heard from them as to whether or not the diggage was mutual. Call. Email. Whatever the hell it takes, and everyone will be all the happier because The Bullshit Factor is cut by half. Plus, there’s the added bonus of anticipation.
Anticipation? It rocks. Knowing a date — a kiss, a cuddle, a grope, a lay — looms on the horizon is a turn on. Suspense, or as I like to call it: Unknowing, takes joy away from things. If you think you’re adding fuel to the fire with “suspense,” you’re not. You’re complicating things and setting the groundwork for what will essentially be a whole lot of head games.
Forget about “being cool.” Be straight up. I’m personally so sick of all that shit that if a guy DIDN’T call the next day, I’d probably write him off. My time’s too valuable for someone who doesn’t know how to clue me in that a good time was had for all. I’ll do my part, he better do his.
Needless to say, not an issue with The Guy thus far, so things are swimming along nicely — a fine happening in time for the first day of Spring, no?

_________________

Now, there could be a “why can’t she call?” line of questioning from the guys out there, and you bloody well know why — she’ll get perceived as needy or clingy, even if it’s not the case. If you boys could stop having such narrow perceptions about chicks that call you, then maybe things would be simpler for you. Unfortunately, yer species’ track record makes it just a tad too iffy for us girlies to take the lead there. As much as some of us might like to. And if, perchance, you luck out and get a chick who’s brazen enough to be open and communicative via giving you the call, and she’s not needy, then at least have the smarts to see it for what it is — a chick who’s willing to help you reduce the Bullshit Factor.

Being Alone And Dealing

I’m weird, one of my best times for getting inspired to write is during housecleaning. I think it’s a procrastination thing. I wasn’t planning on posting, but I checked my comments and one made me think. Then I started doing the dishes, and snap, crackle, pop, a memory kicked in, and next thing you know, I sat on down and got crackin’.
It’s not until you’re single and you’re all right with it that you finally realize just how much of society is centered around fitting in and joining the club — getting married, getting laid, getting validated. Society pats us on the back when we find ‘someone’ and if we’re single, we’re told to look at ourselves and find what’s wrong with us, not what’s wrong with them.
Maybe, just maybe, we’re fine. Maybe, just maybe, they’re not good enough for us. Maybe, just maybe, we’re holding out for something better.
I’ve come to learn the hard way that being comfortable with being single is one of the biggest challenges we can face. It’s so easy to run into the arms of someone “who’ll do” instead of toughing it out alone. It’s so easy to stay the course of least resistance in a relationship that doesn’t deserve your commitment. Getting laid is a breeze, if you set your sights low enough.
We’re scared of being alone. I remember my mother breaking down in tears several months before her death, before she even got sick, when she accidentally got stinking drunk (the first time I’d ever seen her drink more than a glass or two of wine) on my birthday and was throwing up and was horribly hung over the next day. I took care of her, cleaned up after her, washed her vomit-stained comforter, and anything that needed doing. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “I’m not scared anymore… I’ve been so scared that no one would look after me when I got old and sick, and now I know I don’t need to worry about that.”
I think we all ultimately know that fear. God knows I’ve been intimate with it.
We’re a tribal society, despite how uncivil we can sometimes be to each other. It’s our heritage, our legacy. We’re in it together… so being alone is something seemingly incongruous to human nature. But we need to know we’re able to handle it, and so few of us ever really try to learn if we can.
We sometimes fail to see how much society conditions us to need the approval of others – from report cards as kids, job reviews as adults, and every fucking time we use our debit cards, it’s all about getting approval. When you’re single and alone, who’s there to give it to you? Who’s there to tell you in the night that everything’s going to be all right?
You. Just you. Me. We’re self-contained, but everything about our society tells us we’re not. It’s a struggle. It’s hard. Never underestimate the difficulty of going it alone, but also, never ever underestimate the wonder of making it work. There is nothing more rewarding than that night when you realize there’s no one in the world that could make you feel better than you feel right then, right there.
Loneliness will always find you, though, but it will always leave you, too. It’s like a tide. It ebbs, it flows, and you just need to find the rhythm.

Stuck In Single: The Weekend Blues?

I’m a sucker for makeover shows. I’m addicted to TLC’s What Not To Wear. In fact, I’d say it’s played a major part in why I’ve lost 30 lbs, and why I will continue to take another 35 or so off. It’s why I wear makeup religiously again, something I got out of the habit of when life turned to shit at age 25. It’s why I’ve gotten hip and cute and usually find myself winking or smiling at myself when I pass a mirror (a conscious thing).
Self-esteem was something I just never had. I never really liked myself and always considered myself an ugly duckling and uncool. I played the role of cool chick with cool attitude when I was out of high school and in early college, and always hung with the older, cooler crowd, but deep down inside, I felt I was a poseur.
There are days, still, when I’m left feeling like a poseur. I’m genuinely shocked when I get emails and comments from people praising my writing, for example. I can’t fathom what folks see in it – some days. And other days, I feel like I’m really all that. It’s a constant struggle, loving oneself, but it’s a fight worth fighting.
I get asked from time to time how one copes with being single. I’ll tell you, I’ve got experience in that. When my life went to hell in a handbasket at age 25, with the demise of a longtime relationship, the death of my mother, and other fun events, the last thing I was interested in was my image. The next last thing I cared about was a relationship. I knew myself well enough to know that getting into a relationship would be a death knell for me. It would, inevitably, go bad. (I mean, let’s face it – the average relationship is 90% likely to die within four years, and we all know relationships seldom go gently into thy good night.) And when it went bad, I would blame myself, hate myself, and go into a blind rage at He Who Caused It – and I knew it’d all be displaced anger I felt over all the other shit that was going on, and I knew it’d mean I wasn’t dealing with what needed to be dealt with.
So, I stayed single. For five years. I won’t even tell you what happened with sex – the occasional fling, which didn’t do much to help the self-esteem issue and instead left me hating myself even more. I learned that having sex for fun is one thing, but having sex to fill emotional needs that aren’t really being met, that’s just destructive. So I stopped getting laid, too, and got my shit together first.
I had a serious car accident and was lucky – the insurance company paid for me to have a personal trainer. Her name was Christine and wherever she is now, she played a major role in teaching me to learn to love myself and appreciate my health. I was fat, I was depressed, I was angry, and I had little to be thankful for, I thought, but I pushed myself despite the world of physical pain I was living in. She was incredible, she encouraged me so much and told me I was kicking ASS on her healthy, normal clients. And I remembered something about myself – I was a determined, strong person. I can do this, I thought.
And I did. I lost about 50 lbs over the next year or so, and have sort of stagnated for awhile, but never really gained anything back. Now, I’m losing weight again and plan to drop more – without depriving myself of those things I love, like red wine and chocolate and all those delectable good things that add richness to my life. I’d rather bust my ass physically than lose the good things, y’know? (Remember, I’m a big proponent of the all-sex diet. I’m not adverse to a good workout, and hey… I’m determined. 😉
But it wasn’t just the working out that helped me change. It was realizing that I would eventually spend the rest of my life with someone, but here, now, I was alone, and the more I talked to those who were “spending their life” with the person they loved, the more I heard “I wish I could be single again, just for awhile. I’d do it differently…”
And I vowed to live my single life better. I could dine out alone with a good book and love the experience. I’d occasionally hop on my bike, kill myself for a hardcore ride around the city, stop at a seaside café, and enjoy the moment. On Saturday nights stuck home alone, I’d have a long, lingering, oily bath and some nice red wine and make myself an incredible grilled steak meal with all the fixings. I’d enjoy the silence. And sometimes I’d write about myself and all the things from my past and present that limited my enjoyment of life until then, and the dreams I had for my future.
Slowly, surely – and this process is ongoing, so don’t kid yourself about it being an overnight process because it takes years – I have come to love myself. Most of the time. Like I say, there are times I don’t feel right. Times I feel like a poseur with writing. Times I feel out of my league. But I plow through. I try to find something positive to hang onto on those days and that’s all I know I can do.
In the last couple years, I’ve had one “sort of” relationship that detonated because the guy had more baggage than a Samsonite shop, but I’ve been on an endless parade of dates with an endless assortment of men. And none of them have been worth my time beyond that first date. No matter what I’ve learned about what I want from love, I know I love myself too much to bother getting involved with someone who’s not going to be all the things I need him to be.
I’m having a rare, rare second date tomorrow night, and I’m optimistic, but I’ll keep my mouth shut about that beyond saying this, he’s a nice guy and he’s different from most of the guys I’ve been seeing ‘cos there’s an intellectual connection that just works. (So, possibly proof here that nice guys don’t always finish last. Take note.)
But if it doesn’t work out, you know what? Not the end of the world. That’s just the way life goes. In the end, I’ve got myself, and that’s a pretty good consolation prize.
So, here’s the deal. If you’re stuck at home alone, sans relationship, with that “Why can’t I find anyone?” woe-is-me mindset this weekend, stop it. Have a quality drink, a nice meal, wear whatever the hell you want, close the blinds, and have some nice time alone. Take a latenight walk with your iPOD, have a long hot bath, call someone you’ve not spoken to in ages, write a bit in your journal. But stop feeling sorry for yourself.
Being single is the freedom to be who you want to be, any time you want. And don’t forget it. Relationships, when they’re good, they’re great. When they’re not, well, honey, you don’t need that shit. You got you. Enjoy it.

The Cunt Gets a Megaphone

Hi, I’m Steff, and I’m the proud owner of a soapbox.
I’m a smart gal, but it’s a big world and a lot of happenings escape my notice. If you see something that gets under your skin, that just ain’t right, and you want me to comment, send that bad-boy link to me, and if it gets my panties in a bunch, I’ll take it on.
There’s no fewer than a half-dozen stories from today alone that have me really, really pissed off. I want to speak to the issues, and I need your help. Send me links. Send me excerpts. My email’s on the sidebar, and my box is open to you – always. I may not get back to you quickly, but if it pisses me off, there’ll be a rant posted same day.
I’ve always been a very political person, but over the last five years I’ve become increasingly silent on issues because I’m so depressed about the state of neighbouring America and the turmoil around the world, but I’m sick and tired of keeping my mouth shut when it seems so damned few people are saying anything of consequence. It’s time I put my money where my mouth is and speak my mind. It’s time I lead by example – it’s time we all did, and I don’t mean those sanctimonious religious fuckers who are trying to legislate morality.
I have sex as often as I’m able, within the constraints of my own sense of morality. I’ve given blow jobs. I’ve taken it backwards and forwards. I’ve used birth control of more than one variety. I’ve had sex in public places. I own sex toys. I’ve watched porn. I’ve tried to become better and better at sex every time I have it. I own bondage gear.
And I am not yet on a first-name basis with Satan. Shocking, I know, but true. I, in fact, (gasp) have gone to church in the last six months. I donate to charity. I do not have a criminal record. I do housework. I pay my taxes – honestly. I don’t lie on my resume. I call my parents regularly. I’m always punctual. I’m a model employee. I treat people with respect. I ride a cute scooter and obey the laws of the road.
Nonetheless, right now, I’d like to be getting shagged silly, and if that makes me amoral, then sign me up, baby.
Religious Right, fuck right off.

Rights and Freedoms

Money, they say, is the root of all evil. Arguable, at the best of times.
Today, though, a coalition of 18 companies are telling us that they’re gonna put a stop to that tree of evil when it comes to child pornography. While child porn is, in my opinion, one of the worst things a human can be a part of, it’s also a multi-billion dollar industry. Where there is money, there is a way.
That coalition — including the likes of Visa, Mastercard, PayPal, Wells Fargo, e-gold, Microsoft, and more — has vowed to stamp out the commercial viability of child pornography. Payments to such sites will be halted. Cease and desist orders shall be issued.
I suppose I should stand up and cheer. Hurrah for the good guys! Instead, I’m sitting here thinking “What the fuck took you so long?”

_____________

In OTHER news… more reasons to love living under the Maple Leaf. I was chatting yesterday with a new arrival here in Vancouver, an internet sex-industry business guy who’s moved to Canada to get out from under the repressive sexual climate that the United States is becoming.
He illustrated his point with this story. The gist is this. You can’t buy a sex toy in Mississippi.
A double-barrel shotgun? Sure! A high-power vibrator? Fuck you, you sick fuck! You’re gonna do WHAT with that thing? Up the ASS? Holy shit, you sodomizing sick son of a bitch! Henry, get me my rifle!
I just can’t even begin to understand how a country –that’s clearly smoking crack– can purport to be “the land of the free” and you can’t even buy a fucking toy to use on yourself in the privacy of your own goddamned home.
And where the fuck are the people? There are those who are out there saying what needs to be said. There are those trying to fight for freedoms for all of you, and maybe you don’t think the Right to Vibe is up there with the rest of your freedoms, but how can a line be drawn? You are free, or you are not. But where in the FUCK are the REST of you? Where are YOUR voices?
America is sometimes the greatest illusion in the world. There’s the dream of America, and there’s the reality of America, and sometimes some of us just wish y’all would open your fucking eyes and see which is which.
Demand your freedom. Demand that your government not just try to pose as the land of the free, but that it seeks to define laws that are inspired by the spirit of what your constitution claims that it is.
If there’s anything more heart-breaking than the APATHY of America today, I wish someone would tell me what it is. As a Canadian, it breaks my fucking heart to see the changing of your nation from across the 49th parallel.
Rise up and stab ’em with your plastic forks, people, ‘cos it ain’t getting any better any time soon. You have voices. Fucking use them.

The Cunting Linguist

It seems I always have something on the tip of my tongue.

Monthly Archives: March 2006

Some thoughts at 3:30 AM

Lenny Bruce, Obscenity's Legacy, and Today's News

Twats and Knives: Together at Last

Some fighting words

Filler — A couple good jokes for you

Call, for fuck's sake!

Being Alone And Dealing

Stuck In Single: The Weekend Blues?

The Cunt Gets a Megaphone

Rights and Freedoms