Experts will tell you that who we are in life is defined by the age of seven. Our ethics, our play, our work habits, it’s all laid out as part of who we are, and will continue to be, by seven.
There are those who’ve taken this a step further and will tell you also that who you are sexually is defined, as well, by seven. But we often spend our lifetimes trying to make sense of that definition.
Take me, for instance. I’ve been out of the getting-laid world now for a couple of years. After not having had sex for 26 months (but have since) thanks to a totally disappearing libido because of meds I was on, and experiencing the incredible rush of libido-arising all of a sudden after such a long dormancy, I’ve found myself in some very, very new and different headspace.
After not having wanted sex at all, barely ever masturbating for months on end, I’ve suddenly found myself craving a different brand of sex. Something rougher, more primal. Perhaps even a little less democratic. Power plays. Teasing. Even a little pain. Certainly with discipline.
Not that I’ve ever sat around fantasizing about rose petals on the bed, silk sheets, and soft, feathery kisses and all. That’s never been my kind of imagery anyhow. I fantasize about sex on floors, against walls, in public places, getting rugburn, and always have. But this takes things to another level.
And with that comes the reckoning of how much of that is just “Fuck, I need me some” versus evolution of a new kind of desire. Continue reading
Category Archives: Best of Steff
Steff the Singing Fool
Opera Man always makes me smile.
There are a few Vancouver characters that the locals who’ve been here for years know about. Like the Rock-Art Guy. Or Opera Man.
Over the the 12 years I’ve lived in Vancouver proper, once in a truly blue moon the cosmos aligns ever so fortunately, and I luck out and happen upon Opera Man taking a stroll. Nowadays in his 60s, he’s a shorter, smaller, slimmer Italian man who shuffles casually with his hands clasped behind his back and just belts out baritone operas at will. He oozes joie de vivre.
I’ve seen Opera Man when I was depressed as I’ve ever been, and when I heard him and his spontaneous operatic bliss, I couldn’t fucking help but grin. Big. I love that man. Big love. If there’s a “Dude, you rock, and make Vancouver Vancouver” award, he gets one.
Me, I love to sing. But I’ve always been a coward. I have an all right voice. Took voice training back in the day. I’m deeper-voiced, with a throaty, sultry rattle, and smooth power when I want it… but I’m shy.
One of the many “Making Steff Rock” projects I’ve undertaken in this year of conscious changing-of-self is that of trying to force myself to be a bit bolder, less afraid of being spotted for being myself out loud… in all my trouble-making or bold ways that I usually keep somewhat under wraps amidst the general populace.
So, tonight, cycling home along one of the more travelled bike routes, I decided to sing out loud. Continue reading
The Most Annoying Conversation
I had a chance to go to a huge party Saturday night, but I decided I wasn’t very much on my social game, and that a simple one-on-one conversation would be better suited for the day I should have after a long week, so I made plans for a drink with someone instead.
Well, so much for being on my social game.
It was my first time meeting this guy. I figured, smart conversation and some drinks, a nice mellow time, right?
And maybe that’s how it would’ve felt if I could have gotten a word in edgewise. But I didn’t. So, no, not so nice, not so mellow.
While I’m often excessively articulate and pretty quick-thinking about it, I go through phases where I’m thinking more than speaking, and when I do talk, I’m a bit more measured and slow about it. I often like to do crazy things, like think before I speak, so I’ve been known to take something like 5-10 seconds to formulate my comment.
But apparently hesitation kills and no one should be allowed such time before speaking, if my night was any measure of that. My drinks-date interrupted me every single time I spoke. Not once could I naturally finish my thought. Every. Single. Time. I even got pissed off now and then at him interrupting, and CONTINUED speaking, despite him not stopping his interruption. Still, didn’t take the hint. I even said, “You talk too much” and made a couple comments that way, and, nope, didn’t slow him down a stitch.
And then the other thing was, any thing I did manage to say, he either turned it into a statement about him and his life, or else he just flat-out said he didn’t like my opinion. (I said, “I want to go to New York soon” and he goes, “I hate New York, it’s all concrete.” Well, I’m not fucking visiting there for a park, now, am I, when I live in a rainforest surrounded by ocean, mountains, and amazing land? Like New York’s competing with THAT? I’m going for a concrete jungle and “the city that never sleeps”. Fuck. Stop making me justifty myself.)
I gradually just stopped giving a shit and phoned the conversation in. Why fucking bother? Like anything I said mattered anyhow? Every time I spoke, I was interrupted, or informed that my opinion wasn’t at all correct. Way to make a companion feel like they matter and have something to contribute, huh?
I wanted to bitch-slap myself yesterday when I realized I was doing the story-trumping thing myself. You know, say someone goes, “I just climbed a mountain!” and you go, “Wow. Which one? Oh, I’ve climbed that seven times. It’s pretty shitty. Next time you should–” and it’s all right when we do that once or twice, it happens, right? But I think I did it a few times yesterday and I thought, “Wow, you arrogant cunt. Shut up.” So I shut up and listened then on.
This guy needs that inner voice to do a little shouting, methinks.
The irony of all this is, I recognize I’ve become too internal and too into myself of late, so I’ve been working to try and make myself a better listener and a more measured and gracious speaker. I was never, ever as bad as this fellow is, but it certainly serves as a reminder of why I’m trying to take myself to a new level as far as the give-and-take of conversation goes.
If people tell you that you talk too much, you probably do. Maybe you should listen.
If you like interrupting people because you think what you have to say is so brilliant, maybe you need to understand that it’s rude and it’s offensive, and it’s essentially saying to people, “I don’t give a shit what you have to say, because I’m wittier and better than you.”
Next time I want to feel not smart enough or not appreciated, I know who to call.
But, you know, I’m gravitating toward people who know how to make others feel appreciated and liked. It feels good. Who knew?
Struggles Between Sexuality and the Self
A reader, Dp, just happened to ask me to maybe touch on the difference between a person’s sexuality and the person. He and I sort of look at the equation differently, I suppose, but it’s something I’ve been considering a lot.
I’ve placed a sexual encounters personal of late, trying to find that elusive friends-with-benefit situation that encapsulates someone brilliant, someone my style, and someone who nurtures both the same high libido I do while still being a passionate and creative lover who’s not afraid to cross a few proverbial lines in the sand.
I have a tall order to be met. I know it will be a frustrating search. I’m already frustrated, but I’m resolved. I’ve had responses accusing me of being a “shopping list” woman who’s out there for a trophy man rather than reality guy. That’s so not the case. I’m a reciprocal woman. I bring to the table everything I’m seeking in a partner. Absofuckinglutely. I deplore hypocrisy, and I do not ask for anything I’m not willing to provide, or that I haven’t provided in the past.
I’m sure there are a lot of people out there who are comfortable separating the sex they have with the people they are, but I’m not. The sex I have is as much a part of who I am as the girl who loves to bake for her office coworkers. I mean, it’s part of my identity. As much as I am a generous woman, I am a sexual one with a big love for intimacy and passion. I’m given to doting on partners, and I love selfishly receiving. I’m keen on orgasms. But I’m also keen on taking all night to get there sometimes. I seek power almost only in sexual exchanges, though sometimes in my life; but certainly there’s a part of me that does seek that power. To deny that she exists, or to wrongly assert she’s just a “mode” I operate under, would be to blatantly ignore a core part of who I can be, and often am.
But just because I enjoy power exchanges as part of sex doesn’t mean I can do without the smothering, doting affection of old-school intimacy. Because I can’t. Affection and intimacy are as important to me as any other facet of sex, whether it’s taking a good hard shagging or practicing an evening of switchery.
Born and raised Catholic, much of my life has been spent trying to get past the “Satan is waiting for you if you engage in sex” bullshit taught by a church who seeks to shame practitioners away from sex. It’s taken my whole life to realize that who I am when I am a sexual being, someone who’s getting shagged frequently, is a better person than the moral, abstaining girl that life sometimes induces me to be. I’m better all the way around when I’m getting laid. Simple.
The hardest thing I’ve had to learn to be in my lifetime is that woman I am when I’m having sex. Realizing that she’s not a bad person just because she likes to take it the way she does, or domme a fellow when the urge strikes, or tease and taunt a fella to the brink.
I’ve learned slowly over the years that I need to get past that mind-body connection. Past that place that distinguishes the mind over the body, or vice versa, and instead uses them both together to transcend mind/matter, which some of us believe has to happen for real “sexual union” to occur between lovers. Complicated, huh?
It’s one of the reasons that getting vocal about sex wound up being a huge turning point for me in taking my sexual experience to another level. By being less concerned about my volume, just allowing that natural reaction to occur, I somehow got past another level of hang-ups, got more into the now, less into the thought side of it all. It was, and is, such a struggle to override the person I was raised to be as I try to embrace the person I’ve discovered I am, all the while trying not judging the latter just because I was raised as the former.
How each of us gets to that point where we stop segregating who we are sexually with who we think we are morally, and realizing they don’t have to be separate people, that we can (and often are) both, is a struggle I think some of us will be fighting for our whole lives. There will be no easy answer to how you get to that point of accepting the coexistence of your sexuality and your morality, and the realization that one need not cancel out the other.
But the only way I know to do it? Stop stopping at our comfort zones. Stop assuming that just because you’ve always thought one way about sexuality that your mindset is correct. Stop assuming you know how a sexual act will or will not make you feel. Don’t presuppose things like bondage will never appeal to you, because the odds are mighty strong that, like the majority of people out there, who you truly are sexually is something that will be shifting and changing with the rest of you throughout your life. Embrace it. Most importantly, explore it.
Of Dates, Diets, And Me
So, I’ve been dating more of late. Averaging one date a week these days, and it’s all right. Nobody has yet made me pitter-patter, but we’re getting better on the averages here.
My big sexual misadventure of a couple of weeks was the classic case of pulling the trigger way too soon (in more ways than one) largely because I stupidly gave in when instinct said “Stick to the script, girlie. Use the door.” Ultimately the blame lies with me because I’m the person who probably had better perspective that night, but hormones said “Get thee LAID.” Not what I had in mind, but.
Now, though, that’s not the problem. I’m not “going there” for the hell of it. Getting laid is nice, but I’m not doing it if anyone’s getting hurt, or if it’s just flat-out dishonest. And I just don’t feel taking advantage of situations for my hormones, either. It needs to be genuine, and the right thing for right then. As it turns out, I seem to be doing all the rejecting these days, which is new, which is good, but the guilt sort of sucks sometimes.
Like, Monday I had a date. To be brutally honest, I was disappointed to see he has a bigger weight problem than I thought, and that’s a big problem for me at this point in my life.
Here’s where I have to clarify: Hard bodies don’t interest me. Never have. Some are hot but in that “I’d fuck you but I’d never, ever trust you” kind of way. Is that bigoted toward excessively pretty people? Sure, but it’s going on the averages I’ve come to see in my own life. There are always exceptions, of course.
But like I told my date tonight, it’s about health and strength. I’m not strong enough to be around someone who loves food, and all the wrong kinds. I can’t. I’ve lost 50 pounds, gone from a 22 to a 16, and I can’t go back. Won’t. Dad almost died of diabetes. I was heading toward a future of heart disease and diabetes and premature death. I had the “This isn’t good” chat with the doc. I was filled with self-loathing and felt like I was out of the loop with life. I’m so much better than that now. I like this girl. I like her a lot.
And why wouldn’t I? I have changed everything.
So I had the decency to say I’d keep an open mind and if I saw him trending toward health and fitness, I’d develop an interest… most likely.* Which is true. He’s certainly of the “type” I gravitate toward. Very much so. But not at the price of putting myself around a life of excess, not anymore.
Bodywise, that “type” however tends to be guys just carrying a literal few extra pounds. Maybe 30, 40, 50 pounds overweight, depending on height and frame, just of the mildly “doughy” and comfy but nothing more than that. Kind of maybe at a max to the extent that I myself am presently overweight.
Cushion for the pushin’ and a little extra to soften the blow? Works for me.
But you got to know, I’m not keen on bones gnashing into me during sex. I dig madly the slap-slap-slap sound of flesh hitting flesh in the act. Thin-people sex doesn’t sound as fun. They need a little more slappin’. I really love skin, but more importantly, flesh. I’m all about the meat of it. Good firm meat, of course. Like firmness. Excessively jiggling meat, not so good.
But when I say “doughy”, I’m talking more in a Steven Page of Barenaked Ladies, not Jack Black. Geeky and softish but in proportion. What can I say? I’m that type, and I like that type. Says a lot about the light I see myself in, if anything, I guess.
Now, me, personally, I ain’t aiming to be slim and trim. Not in my goals at all, whatever you think of this weightloss quest. I see my ass being perfect at about a size 10-ish. Face it, in life and on this blog, my personality’s larger than life. “Slim” doesn’t compute when one throws it up against “Steff”. I mean, really? Foodie-sensualist-scooter-riding-feminist-geeky-sex-fiend girl? Thin? No.
I like myself a little on the soft side. Just not as much as I was. 🙂 That problem’s solved anyhow. Like I wrote yesterday, waxing about the new loveliness of my thighs. Smooth, firm. Lovely! I like this. Shaving is so much more fun. Yet, my ass is amply grabbable. S’all right.
If my proportion stays as good as it is, but I just slim up a little more, then I’ll have what I think is the perfect body. Fuck the media, fuck size two, fuck DDs, fuck it all. I’m cool with a B-cup 10. The ever-perfect 10.
But I’d feel like shit if I just slammed the door of possibility on this guy, who has a lot to offer, but lives a different lifestyle than me right now. I’ve been that person. A little faith would have done me some good.
And it’s like that bumper sticker. “I may be fat, but you’re ugly, and I can diet.” Exactly. He’s cute.
Good people are good people, whatever their size. But they say your social situation dictates your fitness. Hang with overweight folk? You’ll be overweight. Why? They eat fat food, don’t exercise. Hang with thin people? You’ll lose weight. Why? Because they tend to eat better, exercise. Nature, nurture?
It ain’t science, it’s just environment. And given how much a glutton I am when the lovin’s good, given my foodie-sensualist bent, I need to be a very careful girl these days. Let’s nibble wee bits of wonderful cheese and lots of fruit, maybe a crumb of excellent dark chocolate, but nix the pizza. Choice is a wonderful thing.
And that’s the way that low-fat cookie crumbles. As did my date. With whom I’ve vowed to stay in touch with, and get to know, either way, with an open mind. Since he aims to “prove it”. Because good people are good people.
*Steff note: I should add he says he’s up to my challenge and says I should stick around. I said sure. We’ll see.
Overreacting, or Right On The Money? TWITTER SPAT!
A Twitterer I was following, who has hundreds of followers, made a couple comments in the last couple days in which he’s using homosexual terms to insult others, like “gay” and “faggot”.
Strikes me as a very grade-five thing to say, and I call him on it. Publically. He called me politically correct and blocked me.
Here’s my Twitter feed’s archive. Now here’s the exchange.
Greg Scott’s initial comments:
Professional soccer players are such faggots.
When I call pro soccer players faggots I am referring to their repeated dramatic displays of injury, the most disgraceful in all of sport.
And, the next day:
Pink tie against a pink dress shirt with a grey blazer. Good gravy. The CBC National weather guy has every right to dress gay but why?
So, I said:
First some athletes are “faggots” now this guy dresses “gay”? Wanna get a 21st century vocab and ditch the homophobia?
To which he wittily retorted:
Your fear of language and over reaction to words evokes a stifling political correctness I’d prefer you not share with me.
And I got blocked. Dang, Hilda, when am I gonna learn to play nicely with others?
Mm. Yes. I’m just SO politically correct. That’s all this blog smacks of, all day long. Political correctedness. Its predecessor was called The Cunting Linguist but when I got interviewed on San Francisco radio and they couldn’t say the blog name, I thought, “Well, that’s no good.” So here we are at Smut and Steff. Politically correct? My fucking ass.
Wanker. In the world’s largest language, with more than a million words, you have to use “faggot” and “gay” as your adjectives? Your definition of “faggot” as it pertains to the soccer players, for instance, sounds more like a word I know as “actors” or some would even say “hams”, and I’m not opposed to insulting pigs.
Also, I think the fashion-challenged meteorologist sounds more “effeminate” or even “sissy” than gay, since most of the gay men I know can kick most straight mens’ asses. As Jon Stewart says, “Gay goes to the gym.”
But, really, as long as we’re living in a world where people are still carrying placards that reads “God hates fags” and are dressing their kids in shirts like these? Yeah, I’m going to make a comment when fuckwits banter about words that sound a little laced with hate and judgment and 1960s mentality, thinking they’re all witty and cute. Somebody should. And I fucking VOLUNTEER.
When you’re using it as an insult, pal, you’re saying it’s a bad thing, you’re judging. And itmakes you an ass, even if it’s just you in your smug urban-hipster posturing.
But hey. I’m just a politically correct cunt with an itchy Twitter-finger. So what do I know?
Are You Stalking Me Yet?
You too can follow me on Twitter.com, where once in a while I might say something spontaneous, like:
house: 95% clean. floors: 85% clean. laundry: 100% clean. mind: 95% dirty. some situations of filth just can’t be helped.
Think of it as nibblie crumbs of my blog. And my otherwise ordinary life.
Get to Know Yer Blogger #2:The Sex Edition
I did the first Get to Know Yer Blogger because I was too exhausted to think in linear fashion. But then I had fun doing it.
I figure, what the hell, let’s keep this wagon wheel rolling. I don’t live the wildest of lives, but it’s interesting enough. And writing these sorts of snippets all hodge-podged together is pretty fun for me.
Keep in mind, of course, of my sort-of policy of not revealing intimate particulars about my encounters. So, these are all very allusory — skimming the surfaces. You just don’t need to know, although I know you want to. But that’s the stuff I like to keep all secret to myself. What can I say?
The most recent stuff in my life is all variations of themes begun in the earlier years, so most of this is pretty distant from my world of now.
Without ado, skimming the surface of my sexual life…
• The best outdoor sex I’ve ever had? In the absolute pouring rain, middle of a stormy November night. My trench coat was lain down over a muddy patch (but the least wet in the area) under a gigantic elm tree by a river. It was after midnight, no one was around, we got soaked, somewhat dirty but mostly just really wet, and got through it in record time, but it was fucking fantastic. Or fantastic fucking. Both, really.
• One of the best nights ever with a lover was when we went out on a cliff, at the end of a forest path in the North Shore mountains, to catch the sunset… and when we tried to get back, it was too dark to find our way. We stayed until the sunrise, huddling together on a small jutting bit of cliff, conveniently flat, but barely larger than our two reclined bodies. Overlooking the Pacific, surrounded by rainforest. Got home six the next morning, snuck in before Mom awoke. Blissed right out. Until she “woke me up” at 7 to say Grandma had died. Weird. Highly memorable night on both counts. Really sore back. Great night.
• Longest ever stay-in-and-fuck “weekend” in which pretty much nothing else was accomplished? Five days. And thinking about it still makes me grin. I need me a chance to break that record sometime. Best thing ever, all-sex weekends.
• Most sex in a night? I don’t typically count. Six times that I know of, maybe more? Once is just wrong. Besides, it’s not about the number. It’s, can you handle more? Are you at the point where no amount of lube in the world is going to make this easy on ya? Then it’s probably a good time for a break.
• What ever happened to sex outdoors? Now that I have an apartment, I just never get around to outdoors sex anymore. Sex on floors, however. Shit, it’s been a decade. That totally sucks. Holy to-do list item, Batman.
• Sex under the stars. A lover had a rooftop patio in an apartment that was taller than the other buildings around. We’d pull the mattress out and shag ourselves silly out there, under meteor showers and anything else you can think of. If you’ve never had sex on top of an apartment building? That’s your to-do list item, then. Highly recommended. I should put a personal ad out for penthouse owners, seriously. I love the heavens.
• First time I ever had casual sex or, rather, sex I knew would be a fling at best? I was 27. He was a fella I’d met travelling in California. He’d had a girlfriend, but we spent the whole night talking at the Sacramento youth hostel. We wandered around the whole town, talking until five a.m., even happening upon the band Cake rehearsing for a show at 3 a.m. and we sat in the deserted street and listened to ’em and kept chatting. Awesome chemistry, but even though he was away from his gal, he wouldn’t cheat on her — which made me think he was even hotter. Kept in touch by emails after our travels, and when he became single, he booked the world’s fastest plane ticket. He was Mr. Five-Days-Indoors. Then I showed him a little of the town, then we shagged more. His visit was for 10 days. Never spoke again, for whatever reason. But no regrets. Not a one. Had a nasty UTI after all that sex, but like I say, not a regret.
• The older I get, the more aggressive a lover I become. Not sure why that is, but it is. I don’t mind, but the younger guys seem to. Silly.
• That said, my biggest fumble in bed? Just assuming everyone likes variety in sex. The men who can’t handle any agression at all make me want to bitchslap them and kick them out of my home. I’ll show you some fucking aggression, boy-o. Happens a little too often. My screening is becoming more intense. Men need to be fucking be honest when they say they’re looking for a woman unafraid to say or do what she likes, ‘cos I’m that woman. Such as the guy featured in my rant The Kid and the Long, Long Night.
• First time I ever played You-Show-Me-Yours– I was seven or eight and had no idea nudity was bad, since, as hung up about sex as my folks were, we always saw them naked. It was a neighbourhood boy and we were suitably in the forest before we dropped our drawers. He wanted to see how girls peed, too, but I took a pass on that. Thank goodness. I’m so not the golden showers type.
• My eyes get me noticed on here, I guess, ‘cos they’re that feisty green us Irish girls play off so well. But I think my lips are my best attribute. They’re full and soft. And strong. And they serve me well. My teeth have a gap in them, not in the centre, though, off to the side. But they’re clean and white. I wrote about what my face “means” in the art of “face-reading.”
• I’m deceptively shy when I meet a new guy the first time. Shy, but kind of confident. But once we’ve become acquainted, the hesitation and shyness goes right out the window.
• Sexiest thing a man has ever said? Probably “Thank you.” Lots of sexy things get said in the moment, and most of them are just “said in the moment”. But it’s geneuine appreciation or after-the-fact conversations that really stick in my mind. Once every blue moon there’s that sex that’s so awesome it feels like an out-of-the-world gift to you both? And a “thank you” after that, laying spent with each other, just blows my mind. Genuine gratitude and appreciation is so fucking hot. Sexiest thing I’ve ever said? Couldn’t tell you. Not a clue. I say a lot in the moment, and remember little of it after.
• I chipped my tooth. I was blindfolded and bound. A lover decided an ice cube of his really wanted to meet my clit. I spazzed and shot up in shock — unfortunately he was leaning in for a kiss. Our teeth collided. Mine chipped. We made sure we were both okay, and the sex took off from there. One of the top three sexual encounters in my life, but probably greatly romanticized because it was 15 years ago. I don’t mind. I love the memory.
• I’m an outted blogger working in an office where everyone knows I write about sex. In fact, every single person in my life knows I write this blog. Most of the reason I wanted to write it was to get past my sexual hang-ups. What better way to do that than being honest about your identity? So, yeah. It’s cost me a job or two in the past, but that’s not an issue anymore. Fuck ’em. I won’t work where it’ll be a problem. My life’s too short.
• Now, violence-free! I’ve never been assaulted, and have never hit anyone, in a relationship — or in life. I consider myself blessed. And intuitive about when to get the fuck out. Complacency kills, baby. Besides, I tend to take an even split in wrestling matches with lovers. I’m a strong, strong, tough gal. Just try me. No, really. 😉
• Most erogenous zones? A reader asked. My neck and inner thighs. Having kept my hair short for several years now, I think of it as an unwitting gift to men. I used to have really long hair and it annoyed me that, while men loved the hair, they focused on it and not my neck. My neck’s where the focus belongs, boys, believe me. Problem solved. But they now pass “go” that much quicker as a result. Inner thighs? Need I say more? Oh, well, let’s say this: I was on the couch last night in short shorts, and it occured to me that my thighs have never been this smooth and firm. They don’t even rub together when I walk anymore. I love these thighs! I want to show them off more.
• When I think of you, I touch myself. The first time I ever masturbated, George Michael was my inspiration. I wrote about it, too. You can read that here.
• I still have my Catholic school kilt. Better yet, I’m one or two sizes away from fitting it for the first time since ballooning up since I was 13. How exciting. In other sexual stereotypes: Along with being a former Catholic school girl, I’ve also been a leader in Guides, a bookseller, a candy-striper, and a librarian. Christ, I even sang in the choir. That said, I’m good enough to bring home to Mom, but bad enough to keep it all very, very interesting. Plus, that penchant for voyeur sex might just make Mom’s hall closet a good place to try playing. Just be very, very quiet.
• The older I get, the more my mind opens. Things I nixed only a couple years ago are now proving more and more intriguing to me. And this is why I judge nothing. Well, except golden showers and scat and stuff. Never going to happen. More thinking along the lines of advancing into BDSM and areas like that, really. Depends entirely on partners from here on out. Will they inspire exploration? That’d be nice. I’m sure you’ll hear, either way. (Here’s my Bondage for Beginners, if you’re interested.)
My Reader, Oraless-For-25-Years, is Getting Oral!
So, remember the reader who wrote me a couple weeks back to say that her hubby sucked ass at oral, and had for 25 years?
Now, a bunch of guys wrote comments, saying, “Well, maybe it’s not all his fault”, but what I’d neglected to say was that we’d exchanged about a half-dozen emails or so about the topic before I posted. I don’t like commenting when I don’t know the shit, ‘cos it’s so easy to hear 12 facts and think you can offer a solution. I actually like dialogues, so when people email me a question, they can expect that I’ll clarify points, and to respect people’s privacy and my blog space, I truncate in posts.
Well, the dear reader wrote me back today! Good news! We LOVES good news!
Turns out, she decided everything else in the relationship was fine but she was fed up with the bullshit. She told him his rules were stupid and that he completely sucked at it and it wasn’t worth the hassle and emotional turmoil it put her through to ask for it. She said, “I told him I never, ever wanted it again.”
I guess that was the reality-check he needed — he shaved his facial hair to show her that he wanted to try harder, and went down on her, breaking his own rules about how long since intercourse — and it was apparently fantastic! He said it became a matter of pride, and now he’s proud of himself for reducing her to orgasmic puddle of bliss. She says he’s strutting around like a peacock, going, “I knew I could do it!”
As she says:
He told me that I smelled clean, and also KISSED me afterward. I think there’s an alien in my hubby’s body, but he can stay!
And, you know, I’m just over the moon that it worked out. I’m thrilled she got back to me and filled me in. I’ve asked her to let me know a few weeks down the line if he’s keeping up with it.
This is why I love getting emails back afterward, though. Because it goes to show you that, there’s only so far all this nice, polite, please-and-thank-you shit goes. Life’s too fucking short. Sometimes, you just have to say bluntly that they ain’t getting the job done. If you’ve tried and tried, but you’ve always been nice, it’s time to get rid of the tact and diplomacy, and throw down.
Like Jack commented last week on a posting about the guilt after disappointing sex, he was surprised I didn’t call out the fuckhead who failed to give me the knee-quaking sex I so richly deserve.
Yeah, I was totally surprised too. What a total lack of character for me. I figger it’s only because I’d gone so long without a good shagging that I had this surreal, “Did I imagine all that good sex?” But I also confused the issue — I thought, “Well, he’s a nice guy, just…” But then it clued in the next day. No, he’s a selfish lover.
And it was a good learning lesson. But if I’d said something, I might’ve stuck with that fellow, and I’m hoping this Quest For Good Sex can be much, much better than I think he’d have mustered anytime soon, even with all my willingness to help.
(I’m tired of edumacatin’ the boys. I want me a good sexual equal. So, I’m holding out and scoping still, dates loom. I am NOT settling.)
Be blunt. Embrace the power of speech. Say what you really, really want.
Hell, you might just get it.
Image found on Chagrin/Tumblr.
Get to Know Yer Blogger
I feel like telling you random things about me, mostly because I’m too fucking tired to string coherent thoughts together, so “abstract” works spiff for me. And I’m not writing about sex today, so, y’know. Mental break. 🙂
So, in no particular order, some of the things you probably don’t know about me and my life.
• When I was six years old, my family and I were in Tijuana, Mexico, for a day of shopping away from Disneyland. Somehow, I wandered off. My folks thought I’d been kidnapped and sold into slavery or something horrid, because I was gone for a whole three hours.
Then they found me. Much to their surprise, I’d managed to barter with a street vendor for a cowhide cowgirl’s vest, then also a watch, with some of my candy money, and had bought candies and was hanging out with a bunch of Mexican kids on the street, sharing my goods. Me, I had a great time. My folks, though, got robbed of $500 in cash while waiting to talk to the cops in the police station, so they were pretty mad at me. Impressed with my loot, though, and my shrewd six-year-old negotiation skillz, and hugely relieved, they let it go pretty quickly.
I still remember the smile the vendor had, being so amused at me bartering for my cowhide vest, that I loved for the next two years.
• I moved to the Yukon when I was 21 for a year. Because I was a Northern Exposure fan, and because “seeing the Northern lights” was high on my to-do list for life. The first time I ever saw ’em? Blew. My. Mind. Still do, when I luck out and catch ’em every few years.
• I ran the election campaign for a guy in my college who was running for the position of Women’s Issues Liaison. He won. How’s that for being a feminist? (Favourite conversation with him ever: Reaching the conclusion that the old looped “holy shit handles” hanging from the ceiling of his ’71 VW Beetle were “fuck straps”. Good for feet or hands, depending what part of you should be suspended, he figured.)
• I was the youngest person in my college class, 17 years old, journalism. 18 when I ran Mike’s campaign. We made the BC evening news.
• I won a car once. It was a 1979 Chevy Monza. Covered in doghair. Broke down on a bridge. But that’s just the beginning of the long winding story that you’ll find here.
• I have officially ridden so long, and so far on my scooter… (Yamaha Vino 49cc, pictured here, but now has camouflage-duct tape for a seat cover. Heh. I’m a pragmatist.) …that my 41,000+ kilometres is the equivalent of riding around the world at the Equator. Cool! Let’s do it again!
• I’ve fallen down a flight of stairs, have been thrown off a horse mid-jump over a fence, have had a scooter accident… (that hurled me off my bike, destroying mine and my friend’s, and sent me sprawling into an intersection. My friends all thought I was dead. The story is here, on my “journal” blog, The Last Ditch.) …have had three cars totalled with me in them… and I have only one scar on my body, it’s on my right nostril but I got it in grade 2, not in any of those incidents. And I’ve never, ever broken a bone. My body alignment, though, heh, is a whole ‘nother story. But I’m tough!
• I’m a decent public speaker, dare I say even good? And it doesn’t terrify me. Dentists, however, do.
• When I plan my roadtrips, I take special care to figure out where I can be for a great sunrise. I don’t know what it is, but something about driving somewhere new, great music on the radio, and a sunrise looming in an exotic new spot, why, that’s one of the best things in life.
• When I was nine and mad at a boy in my neighbourhood, I took my cowgirl boot off (loooved my cowgirl boots!) and hurled it across the yard at him, and hit him smack in the head. I was so proud. My mother heard me screaming that he was an “ASSHOLE!” and came running out as the boot met head. That went over well.
• The sex fantasy I’ve had since 16 is that of shagging in an anti-gravity chamber (think NASA). I have that filed under “unlikely”. But it’s probably my biggest sex-geek factoid. “Ooh, sex at NASA! Lift off!”
• My dream vacation I want to take when I get some more weight off and really adopt the physical lifestyle I want? Learning to surf in Morocco. Can’t help it, love the idea of a feminist sex-writing chick from Canada learning to surf in an Islamic country. And, Morocco? Ohhh. Oh!
• In keeping with the cowgirl boots and cowhide vest, as I type, to the left above my bed is the caricature/cartoon drawing of me done in Disneyland that summer of my misadventure in Tijuana — me as a six-year-old cowgirl, rodeoing on an electric riding horse.
• I sold Michael Hutchence of INXS a bunch of wooden toys for his kid when I worked on Granville Island. Three weeks later he was found dead of auto-erotic asphyxiation. (Other celebrities I’ve “served” in the retail industry are a pretty insane list, since this is MovieTown — David Duchovny, Tim Robbins, Malcolm McDowell, and way many more. But I’ve never been starstruck, so. Whatever. Malcolm McDowell though? COOL as can be.)
• I had the uncanny luck of totalling one of my cars on a snow day, on a mountain — and was caught on camera by a news cameraman. The story’s probably one of the best things I’ve ever written, about 5,000 words, in two parts, on my journal blog. Part one here, part two here.
• I’m fabulous at throwing dinner parties. But I never throw them anymore. Hmm. Oh, right, got tired of being broke off my ass after feeding everyone all the time. Broke sucks. But if I had the money? I’d be doing it weekly. Love that. Love, love, love. Bistro Chez Steff.
• I kinda always wrote a bit now and then as a kid, but it was because I wanted to be friends with a particular chick in Grade 11 that I joined my first creative writing class. My teacher, upon reading my journals I’d write while working nights in a laundromat, describing the paradoxical characters on a quest for cleanliness, and she encouraged me to start writing, and suggested I look into journalism for school. I blame this blog on her. Ms. Phelan rocks my world, even now, almost 20 years later.