Category Archives: dysfunction

Fat-Fat, Skinny-Fat, & NonFat-Big-Fat Meanies

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Uncredited photo on NEWSONE.COM.


FIRST: This Washington Post blogger suggests “fat” as become an offensive word. Offended? Don’t read. If you’re foolish enough to give the words power, that’s your choice. Go to a tap-dancing show if you think I should dance around this topic. I’m hitting this, yo.

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A blogger for Marie Claire online, Maura Kelly, has had a shitstorm of no compare land upon her since she decided to take on Mike & Molly, the chubby show about a couple who hook up at an Overeaters Anonymous meeting.
Long story short, she said things like:

I think I’d be grossed out if I had to watch two characters with rolls and rolls of fat kissing each other… because I’d be grossed out if I had to watch them doing anything. To be brutally honest, even in real life, I find it aesthetically displeasing to watch a very, very fat person simply walk across a room — just like I’d find it distressing if I saw a very drunk person stumbling across a bar or a heroine addict slumping in a chair.

People are calling for her job.
Really? Because she’s hurting people’s feelings, or…?
You’ve got to be kidding me if you think she’s alone in that thinking.
I’ve heard people say it to my face before. I’ve heard people in my company say a person has “no right” to wear a certain kind of clothing because they’re “too fat.”
Me, I’ve been about 300 pounds and a cozy size 24.
Don’t you DARE tell me that Maura Kelly is ALONE in how she thinks. Do NOT tell me people aren’t fat-phobic or disgusted by obesity.
And don’t you DARE tell me everyone’s all shocked that someone actually thinks this.
Where the hell do you people live? I’m on Planet Earth, where really fat people are still perceived as walking stereotypes by a moronic media who thinks they only roll one way.
Half the time there’s a “fatty” in the movie, they’re a messy person, they keep missing their mouth with food and wearing it. I mean, hey, scriptwriters, how do these fat people become fat if they only wear their food and not eat it? Mad science, that!
When Hollywood’s concerned, the token “fatty” is almost always a cute but bumbling idiot.
Now and then someone like Oliver Platt comes along, who’s as graceful as he is oversized, but, for the most part, you’d think fat always equaled clumsy slob with no life ambitions. Thanks, Hollywood!
What the hell’s with this sanctimony now?
It’s just ridiculous there’s SUCH a furor over Kelly’s words and not enough anger about the program itself.
And where’s the anger about magazines like FHM, who hatefully call this undercover-camera footage of a fat man eating cheese “comedy gold”? Raise your hand if you don’t think this guy’s seen this footage and ever wants to exit his home again.
Face it: People are mean. They’re cruel.
Okay, was Maura Kelly an asshat in how she worded her rant? Yes.
Was she saying what a LOT of people probably agree with? YES.
Was she likely baiting people for a reaction? Yeah.
Does that make it right? Not really.
Should she lose her job? HELL, NO.
So where’s that leave us?
Finally friggin’ talking about it.
Here’s how I see this issue, on many levels:
One, Maura Kelly’s pretty wrong but there’s some truth to what she’s saying. Obesity can’t be allowed to become normalized. We can’t sit back as a society and say that what we’re doing to our health is okay. We can’t keep eating ourselves to death because we’re too lazy to chop up some vegetables.
Two, the problem with being horrified by “fat” people making out is, they’re not the only people with bad eating habits, they’re not the only unhealthy people. Are Kelly-type people grossed out by the “fatty” lack of health or just the fat? How hypocritical is that? IN FACT, there are “fat” people who eat healthy meals and can probably haul ass further than you. Don’t judge the chubby books by their ample covers.
Three, by keeping the perception of health on how we LOOK, a lot more “skinny fat” people will keep feeling validated in their habits because they have smaller than a 34 waist — much to the chagrin of the 5’4, 125-pound type-2 diabetic I know who drank himself into the disease by way of two full-sugar Big Gulps a day over a decade, and much to my chagrin as as a very-healthy-but-chubby taxpayer.
Four, is the show really doing “fat” any favours by making it a sitcom about fat people who meet in a fat-people place and who live their life around a lot of fat-people issues? I’m not so sure we should be celebrating the program while demonizing the critic, if the show’s reinforcing stereotypes. Know what “sitcom” is short for? “Situation comedy”. This situation, for Mike and Molly? Fat man meets fat woman at a fat meeting and they go home and are fat and awkward together. Oh, win, Hollywood — just made of win. The plot development seems a little, well, thin to me.
Five, when Maura Kelly likens seeing fatness to that of seeing a heroin junkie or an alcoholic, is she that far off the mark? Most weight situations are insanely difficult to be reversed, like a lot of addictions are, but they can indeed be reversed. Not all cases of obesity are caused by poor lifestyle choices, but many are. For me, she would NOT have been off the mark. Food is, and always has been, my primary choice of drug — be it my undying love for butter or passion for anything cooked well — and it would have led me to an early grave if I’d continued as I had from 1999-2003, as surely as an overdose or alcohol poisoning could have.
Six, by being a complete asshat in how she positioned some of her argument, Maura Kelly has shown us just how hateful most people’s speech is when it slips out in seemingly-harmless little chunks here and there — whether it’s a snide little “Oh, lord” about a morbidly obese man on the next corner, or a quiet chuckle as they see a heavy woman trying to squeeze into a too-small chair on a food court. Hypocrites.
You have no idea the jokes that are made to my overweight father’s face. To his FACE. He’s the kindest man I know, and he’s fat, and he knows it, and yet even his “friends” and “family” make remarks that break my heart. To his FACE.
Because he’s “fat,” it’s somehow all right.
People are often ASSHOLES, even “nice” people, and it’s about time they know these comments cut and they cut deeply. At least Maura Kelly had the balls to sign her name to her words.
This conversation needs to be had. Accepting people who are 35% obese and greater as just something we have to get used to is dangerous to our health as a society. But skinny-fat people who scarf down their fast food with no regard for sodium, heart health, or diabetes, they aren’t doing society any favours either, and the hypocrisy is glaring.
Ultimately, the conversation has to shift from what healthy LOOKS LIKE to what healthy IS.
Judging overweight people by their exteriors is stupid and foolish, but being permissive of an ever-enlarging population to just keep getting bigger, while chuckling at it and making it part of our entertainment, well… that’s not solving the problem either — and actually hurts those it purports to include in “Hollywood”.
Is there an easy solution?
Yes. As a society, we regulate food like we do anything that can kill people. We must stop legally catering to commercial food producers who see it as “product” and not our health. We tax those foods that can lead to obesity, diabetes, and other diseases so that it pays for the medical care it will surely one day demand.
We ditch shit food, we celebrate farmers, we learn to cook, we eat in moderation, and we exercise.
All of us.
Because most of us are killing ourselves — fat and thin. And it’s really not okay anymore — especially not when, in countries like Canada, the rest of the population picks up the tab for it.
You may hate Maura Kelly for her ideas and her attitude, but she should keep her job, because she’s done what she was hired to do — she got us all talking.

Office Life: Thar Be Meanies

In Virginia, there’s an esteemed literary magazine called The Virginia Quarterly Review.
There, an editor has committed suicide, and the Review has been shut down amid a new investigation that the suicide was as a result of workplace bullying and harassment.
I found the story fascinating on a couple levels.

Photographer unknown.


One, there’s a strange perception, I think, that these sort of things don’t happen in intellectual/cultural offices, and I think this sheds light on the reality that people can be mean fuckers whatever their aesthetic tastes.
Two, it continues the realization I’ve had since reading William Styron’s Darkness Visible years ago — that is, to be literary is to be predisposed to depression and potentially suicidal tendencies. The “Overthinky Syndrome” comes on something fierce when one is closely aligned with literary pursuits.
Three, I don’t think we really give enough weight to mental health on the job when it comes to the people around us.
A few years ago, as I was descending into the darkest depression I’ve ever had, I was working at an office where I felt put down and distrusted daily. It was a very difficult environment to work in, but I had no choice, I’d run out of employment insurance and had to take something.
Given my declining emotional state, I didn’t really trust my feelings — maybe I just felt like shit. Maybe I was misreading the things said and done around the office.
One day I was sorting through papers and found legal documents relating to a case involving one of the company’s principals and the province’s labour board. Apparently there were allegations of psychological abuse by the company’s principal, made by former employees.
I suddenly felt a little vindicated. It wasn’t just me, this person actually was kind of mean and cruel.
A year later, I was working for another employer who would mentally beat me down now and then because I wasn’t sacrificing myself for the job like she was. (I don’t own the company, woman, and I was told it was 9-5, not 55 hours a week, and I was getting paid for 40. Liars.)
I know what it’s like to have the opposite kind of bosses, too.
I’ve had a lot of employers who’ve been people who stopped me from doing negative self-talk, who told me how valued I was. I’ve had a lot of luck working for good people.
There’s a world of difference between going to that kind of job, where a bad mood is just part of life’s occasional fluctuations, versus one of the jobs where I’d be lucky to make it through a day without some mocking, blaming, or guilting kind of assault happening, where a bad mood would spiral into dread about returning the next day, and more dread about enduring five full days in a row with no escape.
One of the reasons I want to be self-employed is, the good people I was working for are in a precarious part of the film industry and job security is a thing of the past. I’m pushing 40. I could’ve handled that uncertainty in my 20s, but I can’t anymore.  I can rely on myself, though.
Another is, my last experience looking for work landed me in both of the above jobs, and I do blame both experiences in part for the depression I then spiralled into.
I also credit them with making me ANGRY enough to change my life.
But some people don’t get to reach angry.
Some people get beaten down day after day, told they’re stupid, useless, and lucky to even be employed. Management puts hurdles before them they’ll never overcome, and the economy ensures more hurdles.
The hopelessness of being stuck in jobs like that, in the face of an economic climate like we have now, it makes sense it’d be driving people to suicide.
And our dearly departed editor? Well, there’s not really a growing market for literary review editors, is there? If he felt trapped, if the university was looking the other way on complaints just to avoid controversy, if daily badgering and emotional assaults were happening, if he was your typical overly-analytical literary genius, then… tragically, it does compute.
Workplace bullying is as bad as childhood bullying, if not worse.
At least when you’re a kid there are potential adult figures who might ride in and save you from bullies.
When you’re an adult, there’s a veneer of judgment that comes with admitting you’re being bullied at work. Most reactions are along the lines of “Suck it up” or “It’s just a job” or “Hey, just three days till Friday! Chin up!”
When a job becomes your jail, you try shrugging it off. One can logically think “Oh, it’s just a paycheque”, but there’s a toxicity that comes from being exposed to these people on a day-in, day-out basis.
Like a river can passively wear down even the strongest of rocky terrain, just running over the same ground day after day, so too can a person’s soul and spirit erode.
When I quit the job that had me working daily for six months just 10 feet away from the most toxic, negative, and belittling woman I’ve ever known, it took me more than a year to start finding the positivity and hope in myself again — the things I said were just nothing like the person I used to be. That negativity changed who I was.
And I’m a pretty strong chick.
That was six months, just six months of being broken down by intimidation and judgment and belittling.
What about others? How far does that daily treatment go, how much worse does it become over time? How deeply does it seep?
This kind of treatment isn’t business as usual.
It shouldn’t be overlooked.
Employees should have greater rights about how they can expect to be treated, especially if they’re performing good work and delivering results. (Some useless fuckheads who don’t care about their jobs or quality could use a little yelling at, but all within reason.)
If this was just another unhappy Wal-Mart or McDonald’s or city-sanitation type job, the story would’ve been dismissed. “I’d commit suicide if I had that job, too — har-har.”
But all this guy had to do was read and write for a living. These were literary people, they had soul and the ability to communicate well.
And yet, here we are.
Cruelty and harassment knows no boundaries. There is no class distinction. Intelligence isn’t immune to meanness.
We’re supposed to be a kinder, gentler society. Maybe now we can stop with the lip-service and get on with the reality of being better than our predecessors.

Further Notes on My Underwhelming Weekend Sex

Yesterday, I made rather not-so-subtle reference to the fact that I finally got laid last weekend in this posting. I wasn’t going to say anything, really, because I was decidedly underwhelmed by the experience.
But then, you know, I thought, “It’s for the greater good! People must know!” So, without getting into detail here, let’s talk about it again.
I was quite looking forward to this particular fellow and thought it would be great because he made it sound like “play” was something he enjoyed.
For a number of reasons, that wasn’t the case. DP commented on yesterday’s posting to kind of defend the honour of men all over this fair planet. He said, more or less, that men invariably suck the first time they’re sleeping with someone new.
Not a newsflash. Every guy I’ve been with has been pretty disappointing penetration-wise on the first try. I generally try to tell myself it’s a compliment, they’re just so EAGER that they have no control. Which, of course, is pretty often the case.
So I’ll never judge a guy on the sex itself, not the first time. No, I take other things into consideration. Does the kissing wow me? How was foreplay? Was it rushed and done only as a means of instigating sex, or was foreplay itself enjoyed for what it is — play? Was it fun? Was he as thoughtful of me as he should have been? And when it came to AFTER sex — was one orgasm all that mattered to the guy? Did any other affection and after-play take place? Was there even a conversation? Was it fun? Was it about intimacy and play, not just orgasms?
Unfortunately, my weekend encounter failed in every single department.
Here’s a tip, men. When it’s your first time with a woman, do not be a fucking twit and get completely drunk. Why? A), It’s offensive. Let’s see. Fucking me, or getting a hangover, and you choose? B) Your performance when fucking is going to SUCK anyhow, so why are you impeding your performance even more? C) Booze you can buy any day of the week, but these legs opening for you? Priceless.
Now, since I’ve been around the block enough to know that men obviously don’t perform well the first time, I should be able to compare this time to all my other “first time” encounters, right?
Right, and this is the first time I’ve ever, ever been left anywhere near as frustrated as I was when this fella left. And it’s too bad. I wanted to like him. But if all I’ve got to go on is that he got drunk, barely got me off, got himself off as quick as possible, and then never touched me again?
Yeah, failed that mission, pal. And, besides, when it’s the first few times I’ve usually got to push the fellas out the door and fend off a few more kisses and gropes and groans on the way. This was just… so not that. I thought I was being Punk’d.
And you, dear male readers, need to learn not to make the same mistakes. Foreplay and afterplay are where you compensate for your performance. If I’m kissed like there’s no tomorrow, and toyed with in any number of ways that arouses me and/or satisfies me, and inspires me to see the fella again, then I’ll completely forget about the first encounter’s disappointments and only remember how much it set to stage for playtimes to come.
Except this encounter, of course. Pity.
And, believe me, I am disappointed. I wanted to like this fella, but I just haven’t got it in me for drunken fratboy lovers when I’m pushing 35, even if they’re cute, smart, and fun. No. I want men.
Women, what say you? Men, how do you feel like when fellas like this are doing the representin’ for your race?
AFTER THE FACT: So, upon thinking about this this morning, I realize this posting might sound sexist, as if it’s only men who underwhelm on the first encounter. I, of course, know this isn’t true. So, tomorrow (or Friday) I plan to write about how *I* might underwhelm (and possibly other women) on the first encounter, and why that can’t be expected to accurately reflect the lover I am after that first night. So, check back later this week for that little ditty.
And don’t forget, you can follow me on Twitter now.

[Note: So I did a Google search for “unsatisfying sex” images, and after scouring 17 pages of results, nothing represents “unsatisfying sex” but god knows if I search for “hard cocks” it’ll be thousands of pages of results. Is this somehow suggestive of the fact that unsatisfying sex is a myth, and hard cocks are over-abundant? Hmm. Yeah, I don’t think so.]

Vaginas: Uptight, everything's all right? Not so much.

There’s a scene in The Tailor of Panama in which Pierce Brosnan, as Andy Osnard, a British spy reassigned to Panama, is shown his new office for the first time by his hot but too tense new colleague.
He wanders to a safe in the wall above his new desk and starts trying to crack the combination. The woman, unimpressed, mutters that she doesn’t think it’s even locked.
Sure enough, Osnard gets the safe ajar and glances at her as it creaks open, and says with a suggestive leer on his face. “You’re right… it was open. Just tight from lack of use.”
It’s a great line, funny as hell, and probably makes most women want to fuck Pierce Brosnan then and there. Nothing like a dirty cute Brit.
But it’s also a reality. The longer a woman goes without sex, and without ensuring she’s indulging in some kind of penetrative masturbation with vibrators or dildos, the more her vagina will “atrophy” and tighten. Funny, this doesn’t get spoken of much out there, but perhaps it should.
The beauty of a vagina is its elasticity. While it’s an organ, it’s also governed by many critical muscles. If a woman is not exercising it, it will lose some pliability. The longer she goes without the “exercise”, the more atrophying you’ll run into, and the more difficult sex will be when she gets around to it.
That’s not something we hear a lot about. There’s the old saying, “use it or lose it”, and it applies to both men and women when it comes to masturbation. Men need to be ejaculating regularly to maintain prostate health, but women need to be Kegeling and penetrative-masturbating on a relatively regular basis in order to maintain their vaginal functionality and integrity.
I mean, when you stop exercising and working out on a total-body scale and you start sitting on the couch for a few weeks, how long does it take for your toning to vanish? Not very, right? So, when it comes to sex, how long do ya figure you need to go without before you lose crucial toning down there? Why do we justify scheduling in working out for our total-body fitness, yet seldom worry about maintaining fitness of our sexual organs?
When we’re sexually inactive, full-on masturbation by women is more important than ever. If you’re someone like me who’s been in the position of being deprived of libido as a chemical side effect, it’s important to override the lack of interest felt by the body, and do what needs to be done to stay healthy.
The trouble is, most women get off on clitoral stimulation for orgasms, and I suspect I’m not the only one out there who, 85% of the time, thinks a vibrator is too much work when the clit can be massaged for 45 seconds to produce an orgasm that follows quickly. Easy, tidy, effective, no clean-up, and wholly portable. Not to mention that, when only 60% of women masturbate, you can bet that a good chunk of that total feels awkward about inserting anything into themselves.
It’s a real shame that it’s the sex who has more issues with masturbation that is biologically required to perform a more “invasive” and socially chuckled-about procedure in order to maintain the optimum health of their vaginas, but that’s the way the cookie crumbles.
After all, it seems there’s still a stigma out there about women using vibrators. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again — it’s only the documented sluts and feminists we see in the media with vibrators. The good girls just use hands or maybe a massaging showerhead. Or nothing at all. But she sticks a Rabbit vibe inside her? She’s a man-eater.
Granted, the attitudes are changing, but it’s still a different segment of woman who supposedly uses sex toys, and maybe that stereotype is true to an extent, but wouldn’t it be great for both sexes if that stereotype shattered a little? After all, it’s not like vibrators aren’t actually IMPORTANT for women to use.
I’d be curious to see what percentage of women it is that feels uncomfortable about inserting a vibrator inside her as a result of this not-so-subtle stereotyping that exists everywhere in the media.
I doubt such studies are undertaken that often, about how the average woman masturbates versus the more sexually-liberated one. Because, after all, who really cares how women masturbate? Isn’t it the man’s job to get us off?
Hmm. Talk about your stereotypes.
But if you’re one of these liberated men or women and sex toys work for you… then you should use this 10%-off coupon and go buy yourself a treat at Vibe Review. The coupon is good for as many uses as you want, just save this link and buy often between now and the American election in November. By using this link, you’ll give me a commission of your purchases and help me buy some wine or sexy panties or something. I’ll never know WHO bought anything or WHAT they bought, so your privacy is GUARANTEED, but I’ll get a few bucks stuffed in my piggy bank and the warm-fuzzies will rain happily upon me. So, go for it, and save a few bucks while you’re at it. And feed your favourite scribe. 🙂
And if you’re not liberated, isn’t it time you started to be? C’mon. Invest in yourself.

Of Groundhogs and Loathing

I just finished watching the last 30 minutes of Groundhog Day with Bill Murray, and, well, this is a weird one, but I think it’s one of my favourite romantic comedies.
Right now, I long for a little kissing and lighthearted fun. That’d be nice. Not to be had, but it’d be nice.
Something about Groundhog Day hits the spot today. I’d realized earlier this week that I’d sunk about as low as I’ve ever sunk. I’m not accustomed to being cruel or mean or angry, and I’ve been feeling that way too much of late. I really, really hate feeling negative things, but acting on them, why, that’s just as low as it gets.
I’m not above fallibility. Wish I was, but I come with the full range of human emotions, from dishonesty through to loyalty, they’re all nestled within me. Normally, my moral compass overrides the bad shit ‘cos I’m typically a very good person. Lately, it’s felt like night and day, depending on my mood.
I seem to be starting to stabilize more. I’ve made the choice that I’m getting off birth control after a couple friends have suggested that this week, which, for some reason, just totally escaped my consciousness as a choice. Throughout ALL the shit that has come down, I’ve been on the pill, and while I consider myself one of the toughest, most resilient people I know, I’ve been anything but that of late. I want to have something to blame, and maybe the pill’s a good thing to use in that capacity. Maybe, though, it really is to blame.
(And while I’m being all hard on myself, don’t think for a minute I’m not impressed with my ability to get through certain things that came my way since June… I’m quite proud of myself in some regards, but I’m disappointed that, in the end, I did start to sink beneath myself.)
I’m supposed to resume the pill tonight, but I’m not going to. Instead, I’ll take a break and let it flush out of my system. Once fall passes and winter dawns, I might decide to resume the pill.*
At the moment, I’m not sexually active, but I still consider going off the pill to be a major pain in the ass because I typically get first-day-of-period cramps that leave me fetally balled on my couch, wincing in agony as my body proceeds to fully explore the potential of cramps. I get the world’s worst first-day cramps. I was once in enough pain that I thought of going to the hospital to get a sedative. I’d really rather not return to those cramps…
…but if the alternative is beginning to hate myself, then I know the choice I need to make. It’s been a week since I’ve had a pill, and since then, I’ve slowly started to climb out of the depressive cesspool that has been home for the last three months — which is coincidentally the length of my last cycle, thanks to the brilliance of trying to suppress my period.
Today’s to be a cycling day peppered by a four-hour stint of work. I have a project to do, and when I’m done, I’m gone, even if that’s less than four hours. I don’t care. Right now, I’ll do what it takes to enjoy myself, because that’s where I find the self-love. If I can have a good time on my own, I can enjoy myself anywhere, any time, and hopefully with anyone. It’s that simple.
Groundhog Day‘s great because Bill Murray also hits self-loathing bottom in that movie. He does everything destructive he can, and then, when that’s through, he seeks to improve himself. Me, I’ve been pretty destructive this past month. One ANGRY woman, man. I’m glad I’ve done nothing drastic because there were moments I was a little nervous for myself. The further I get from it (and I’m not that removed from it yet), the more dark I realize things had been for a while there. I too now wish to improve myself. Steps are being taken and I suspect positive results are already beginning to show in small, inconsequential ways.
I’m sure there are people out there who are forever on an even keel, and I hate them because I’m jealous of them, because I’m not one of them and likely never will be. I tend to be a little more even than this, but there’s often a potential air of volatility to me. That’s a negative, but I often overcome my negatives with my positives — of which I like to think there are many. I’m starting to embrace this difficult time instead of loathing it, because I think I’m heading down the right path — setting up counselling, lowering my expectations, focusing on the little things that need doing so the big things don’t loom so large.
Right now, everything’s worth doing if only it means I stop seeing shadows, you know? Whatever you do, don’t call me Punxsatawney Steff.

*Don’t ever just stop in the middle of a pill cycle or you could fuck yourself over worse than the pills have done to you. Always consult a doctor. I finished my cycle; I’m just choosing not to resume. Despite knowing that I can indeed do this, I’m still seeing my doctor Monday to clue him in and touch base on the evil shit that’s come down in the last few weeks.

For Christ's Sake, Stop the Bleeding!

As you may or may not know, I’ve been trying to change / suppress my menstrual cycle through the use of prolonged exposure to the Pill. Unfortunately, it’s not going as well as I would have hoped.
For those who haven’t been exposed to what “period suppression” entails, it’s basically the choice to use birth control pills for 12 weeks, then you take a week off. There’s a new one coming out called Seasonale, but I don’t know how that differs from just staying on any old pill, and I doubt the additional hype is really necessary, since I suspect they’re just playing on the ignorance of the public… as most marketers like to do. One can simply take their pill of choice uninterrupted for 12 weeks and achieve the same end. (Now, don’t be a moron and do this shit without medical supervision, all right? Get approval from your doctor, talk to them about what to look for, then go bravely forth, young bleeder. Now your shit before you act; don’t listen to me or some other person who has no medical training and knows fuck all about the big picture.)
I’ve been on the pill, now, for 9.5 out of my new “12-week” cycle. I’ve already had a full-blown, long period that began 2 weeks ago and lasted 8 days, and today I’ve gotten it again. In between, I was still spotting. So, maybe I’m the odd the one out. Maybe I’m the freak who can’t adjust to the hormonal change. I don’t know. All I do know is, this really blows.
I did, however, ask the Good Doctor about it and he said it’s just my endometirum rebelling. Yeah, well, I wanna get fucking medieval on its ass and quash its little rebellion.
I mean, if I was in a sexually active relationship, this would be really fucking annoying. Fortunately, it’s just me and Fingie these days, so we have an understanding and things are going smoothly, no feelings are hurt, but still. Biology blows, man. I thought so in high school and I still think so now. This fucking ranks up there with dissecting frogs, for god’s sake.
I wanted to cycle to work today, but now I feel like shit, so yet another day is passing without exercise. In retrospect, 2.5 cups of coffee was a bad plan, since coffee really fucks with cramping, but at least I’m awake.
I took my first anti-depressant pill last night, and that was weird. It’s supposed to double as a sleep-aid, so you take it before bed.I had only a half a pill as you’re supposed to start slow to minimize the onset of side effects. Still, it conked me right out. I vaguely remember getting out of bed to go to the washroom, as I’m one of those people, and I staggered there with my head bent down, and slammed into the door jamb. My first reaction was, “Not another fucking concussion,” (I’ve had three) as I stumbled backwards, my head smarting, leaving me feeling like I’d suffered a cartoon injury, with the pain lines radiating out into the darkness.
Naturally, I woke up this morning in a fog. I really hope this isn’t an indicator of what’s to come, because now that I’m on these pills, I’m supposed to remain on them for the next year. That’s just the rule of thumb. (Where in the hell did the saying “rule of thumb” come from, anyhow? Ever wonder? I mean, having opposable thumbs is one of the highlights of my life, to be sure, but I don’t expect my thumb to be the sovereign entity of my life, so I don’t really see it ruling, but perhaps my ignorance is impeding my ability to comprehend this. Hmm.)

Say Something, Dammit

The sky is blue. This I know.
I can be told once in my life that the sky is blue, and I need not be reminded. I may have had three concussions and had bleeding on my brain, but I’m sufficiently clued in enough to be able to recall the blueness of that great big yonder up there. It’s there, it’s bigger than life, and it’s unavoidable.
What I’m not smart enough to remember, however, is just how spiffy I am.
You see, I have these alien invaders in my body that will never, ever go away. They’re from planet Estrogen, and, man, as far as aliens go, they’re a right bitch sometimes.
Unfortunately, there is an entire world filled with people of my ilk who have been invaded by these cosmic cunts, and we’re known as Women. These “Estrogenies” do things to us that we’re not that crazy about. They make us insecure, make us moody, and make us sometimes a little inconsistent. Fortunately, they also make our boobs swell once a month. It’s a give-and-take thing, really.
Guys are pretty low-key. We like that about you. We like the fact that we know we can make you a sandwich, kiss your neck, give you a beer, and you feel like you’re the king of the jungle. Easy-peasy.
We, however, communicate more than you. You, obviously, communicate less. And you’re deceptive. You like to think you’re simple. “I am man. I grunt, therefore I am.” But you’re complicated. You get moody, you get silent, and you internalize. It’s what men do. We understand this.
What we can’t process, though, is the price it sometimes comes at. Men close themselves off, and then by so doing, they also forget to communicate with us about the little things that help to keep relationships moving nice and happy-like.
“You look nice today.”
“Have I told you lately how much you rock?”
We wish we didn’t need to be told that everything’s well and good and we’re still cared about and we still do all the things to you that we did way back when, but we do need to hear these things. And frankly, you need to hear them from us, too. Everyone does.
Compliments and expressions of affection are like yogurt. They have a shelf-life, and while they keep a little longer than you might think, but when they go, man, they go. And then the weird comes down. Insecurities rise, distance ensues, and things get complicated. Relationship mold. Ew.
It’s lame, but it happens. It doesn’t take much to get out of your head sometimes and just remember to say good things about your partner. Keep them secure about how they’re valued, even when you’ve got things going on otherwise. We all get a little too internal, and it’s just not fair to our lovers if we’re all self-involved and failing to acknowledge their worth to us from time to time.
It’s really easy to forget to be communicative about these things when your sex life is going, but at least then you have a physical expression of that affection, and sometimes things can be left unsaid. If you’re not getting physical often, then it’s really important to at least have the communication working, right? Pretty obvious there. 2 + 2 = 4, yeah?
It’d be wonderful if we only had to be told once in our lives that we’re loved, but it doesn’t work that way. The more it happens, the more real it becomes to us. Fleeting suggestions of affection really don’t leave deep imprints on us, and frankly, they often don’t even make a dent. Even worse is, if we’re told how great we are over a period of time, and then time lapses where it ceases to happen much at all anymore, then there’s even greater reason to become insecure.
Put your money where your mouth is, people, and tell ‘em that you dig ‘em. Tell ‘em often, tell ‘em good. If you don’t, you never know, you might just lose what you have, and that’d be a crying shame. Especially if the feelings existed, but your communication simply lacked. The price we pay for these oversights is far too high.
(And, hey, watch out for the Estrogenies, eh?)

Q & A: Dear God, Stop that Already! PT. 2

Meatloaf has been neglected. But if your name was Meatloaf and you were a big, chunky singer with bad hair and a sweat problem who portrayed a man with giant breasts named Bob in a movie like Fight Club, it stands to reason you might find yourself a little neglected as well.
We’re here to fix that. Meatloaf’s on the table now, man.
Dude’s having issues. There’s an angelically moaning neighbour, a neglected girlfriend, and a completely lacking sex life, all while his hormones are raging.
In a perfect world, we’d flip the switch, the neighbour would shut the fuck up, the girlfriend would get hot and bothered and wouldn’t be able to get enough of him, and he’d be able to keep his mind on the task at hand, while suddenly having the kind of sex life he really wouldn’t want to write home to Mom about.
Unfortunately, it’s not a perfect world, and things don’t magically change. I wonder if Meat’s had a chat with girly-girl about Moana next door? If not, he should. To not talk about the sexaholic, constantly moaning Moana would be akin to ignoring that big fucking white elephant over there in the corner, and since the Laz-E Boy is now out of the question, squooshed as it is under that big white bastard, it might be time to have that conversation after all.
“So, um, she’s at it again.”
“Who?”
“You know, Moana. The neighbour. It’s getting pretty randy over there.”
“You can hear her having sex?”
“Can’t YOU?”
“Well, yeah, okay, I’ve heard it.”
“Doesn’t it get you a little hot?”
“Why, does it get you hot?”
“Well, I’d really, really like to throw you down and have some pretty wild sex right now, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You would?”
“I can’t stop thinking about you every time I hear that woman, but I always feel a little odd, like she’s having sex and for me to come in and just take you then and there would be a little too connected to that, and I always worried you’d have a problem with it, so I’ve just stifled myself.”
“Well, that’s a shame. I’m a little underutilized around here, you know.”
I mean, that’s the ideal “If Hollywood Wrote My Life” way that conversation would go, but it’d be nice, wouldn’t it? The nice thing about talking about this shit is that you can really sort things out. Conversation may not be a cure-all, but it sure as hell isn’t just a Band-aid, either.
You need to talk to her, let her know this neighbour’s causing arousal problems because you’re a guy with a creative imagination. Tell her she’s (girlfriend, not Moana!) on your mind constantly, and that you want to know what you can do to better fulfill her sexually, so that sex is something she’s more geared to enjoy.
Besides that, you need to put your money where your mouth is. You need to constantly start being present physically, without having sex on the mind. Touch her when you pass. Kiss her often. Snuggle when it’s TV time. Put down the newspaper during breakfast and really focus on her. Listen to what she says, make eye contact. You also have to make sure that it’s her entire body that you touch – not just ass or boobs or twat. Touch her belly, her ample thighs, her lovehandles. Anything she’s insecure with, ignore her protests and prove that you find it sexy, too, via light touches and kisses. After a bit of this, it should really help to make her feel sexually secure in the relationship, and some of her hang-ups should begin to drop.
I wrote something a while back that I think deserved a little more attention, and for relationships like these, where one person has hang-ups and doesn’t like talking about sex, it’s something that can take you to a new level. In this game, the point is to take sex books and underline passages that turn you on, that you wish your partner would do for you more often, and in another colour, underline all the things you enjoy doing or wish you could do for your lover. Exchange books, and get to know more about your lover as you read corresponding chapters, and rendezvous later in the evening.
If my math is right, your loverwoman’s in her late 20s, ie: 27/28, Meatloaf, and this is a great age for her to begin getting over hang-ups. It’s really around then that most women start coming into their own for the next five years. A supportive man who loves all areas of her body and makes talking about sex a safe thing by not judging what she says or scoffing in response to revelations is bound to make her feel more secure, and a secure lover’s a better lover. Always.
As for you and your mastur-ba-thon, well, there’s nothing wrong with masturbating, but if it’s getting in the way of your sex life, much less your work or other matters, then yes, you have problems. It is about willpower. It is about knowing when to turn your attentions where they need to be. Maybe you have a sex addiction, but you claim you’ve made positive strides, so I won’t take it that far just yet.
The thing about the neighbour, if you wind up discussing it, making light of it, and acknowledging that it happens a lot, then you have the potential to having a trigger for sex in the relationship. You hear it during a smoke break, you could come in, tell girlie that Moana’s making friends again, and just seduce her then and there. Who knows, it could work out in your favour, if you finally confront the fucking issue and open up to the woman who deserves to know what’s going on in those two heads of yours.
You absolutely need to talk about it. You need to focus on your girlfriend. You need to repress some of your urges so the sexual frustration drives you to repair your relationship. If that doesn’t work, go borrow a cup of sugar and see what happens.

Q&A: Dear God, Stop That Already!

Every now and then I receive a doozy of an email that takes some real figurin’ to figure the hell out for the reader in question. This morning is the perfect example. I suspect the just-passed full moon might have something to do with it, but I digress. I think this may even have to be a two-part answer, for the first time ever. This is the second question in a week or so from a rocker type, and this one we’ll call Meatloaf. Now, Meatloaf sez:

See, my question is simple, however I feel it requires some explanation. I’m slowly starting to think I’m addicted to sex, or lust, rather. Not a bad thing, but it’s getting outta hand. Whenever I don’t have sex with my girlfriend, I’m masturbating to porn (not all the time, but about as much as my body can keep up with). I lust after most women without any effort, which is becoming the biggest part of my problem. We’ve recently moved to a new house and my next door neighbour is gorgeous, as is her next door neighbour. On itself not that much of an issue, but I can hear the girl right next door having sex – when I’m outside, that is, and since I can’t smoke inside, I hear a lot.
I don’t have to explain to you how angelic the moans of a woman reaching orgasm are. Shit, I’ve been to concerts of my favorite bands that didn’t sound that good, and now I’ve got that sound ringing in my head all damn day. I can still do my job, but it takes more concentration than it used to. Anyway, I’m blowing testosterone out of my ears and my girlfriend is only human. Our sexlife is out to lunch anyway – a problem I may have caused myself and which I’ll have to resolve myself, and I think I know of a way to begin doing that.
Which brings me to the actual question: Do you know of a way to suppress lust? Some kind of Buddhist Zen-thing. Staying away from porn is hard enough, but I really can’t do anything about the pretty girls flocking around me (more than usual it seems). Or the other way around: How can I  jack up my girlfriend’s libido, or get her subtly to read your website which I think will help with some of the hang-ups she’s got. If I just say “Here, read this.” you won’t believe the grief I’ll get.

So, methinks a nicotine patch and quitting smoking ain’t likely to do the trick. Pity. Wouldn’t that be great, an orgasm patch? Just slap one on, and there’s no need to be doing anymore slapping? Have orgasm, will travel? Lemme know when that one’s patented, all right? Approve THIS, FDA.
Hang-ups: what are those? Who has hang-ups? I don’t have hang-ups! Let’s start with those, though, and work our way backwards, all right?
Every chick has had or does have hang-ups. We’re hard-wired that way. Do you tell her she’s beautiful? When you do fuck, do you touch and kiss her everywhere? (The more of her landscape you travel, the more she’s likely to lower her guard.) Do you make a point of physically showing you want her from head to toe? When nothing else is happening, when you’re just wandering past her to get a glass of milk from the fridge, do you lightly trace a finger over her ass, or kiss her on the neck? Do you touch her waist and thighs as you’re watching television together? Do you nibble an ear at random?
Most guys don’t, so you’re not alone. The more often you communicate both in words and actions that she’s who gets you fired up, the more she’ll want to fulfill that role for you. Sexuality is a nebulous thing, and you need to enhance it for her.
She’s on the cusp, I suspect, of her 30s, which means her libido will soon start escalating. You want it NOW. So, you need to do a few things, including all of the above.
One, you need to communicate more. Chicks are emotionally fragile. We’re raised to be constantly self-conscious about our appearance, and as a result, our sex drives can be pretty fragile if we’re not feeling sexy. We’re also raised to differentiate between what “good” girls do and what “bad” girls do, and good girls ain’t fucking 24/7… or so the morality police would have us believe.
You’re in a difficult position. It’s also a chicken-or-the-egg scenario, in my mind. Were you sexually unfulfilled and the next door neighbour made it painfully obvious, or did your next door neighbour incite in you a desire to try new things? Who knows. Doesn’t much matter.
The thing is, you’re not sexually satisfied, whether your lover’s putting out or not, it seems. So, my thinking is, it’s time to change the rules of the game. She’s got hang-ups, you say, and is having a hard time moving past that. Well, what do you think your job is? It’s not all on you, not by a fucking long shot, but you can help get her to the next station in life, if only you play your cards right.
This needs at least one more part in order to get the answer right, and I’ve got a few ideas of different ways you can go.
First off, though, is the question of sex addiction, and I’ll refer you to an old posting of mine, in case you’re thinking you might want to try this avenue of getting past your focus issues. Check back tomorrow, same bat-time, same bat-channel, for more on this conundrum. Weigh in if you wanna, kids.

READER SAYS: My Sex Drive’s Out of Gear

First things: Here’s where I remind you people that I’m not a doctor. I have no degrees in any medical or scientific discipline. I’m schooled in common sense and street smarts, and that’s it. In more blunt terms? Take my words for what they’re worth – an interested party offering an opinion, nothing more. In other words? I’m not liable.

All right, so, a reader emailed me. When she hooked up with this guy, it was all sex, all the time. Playtime was gold, and she couldn’t get enough. And then? Nothing.
Suddenly, she’s got zero sex drive. As she says, I am 100% uninterested. It is absolutely uncanny. I have no desire – not towards him, or ANYONE, male or female. If I even wanted to cheat right now, I wouldn’t be able. I used to be this voracious sex creature, all my life – and now, I’m just a sexless zombie. I was on The Pill for a while but I was certain it was fucking up my natural “sexy” hormones, so I stopped about 2 months ago in favor of condoms, basal thermometers, herbs, and moon cycles, which has in fact made me feel a lot better— just NOT SEXY!!!
So, then her question is, What I need to know is, how can I transform myself back into the hormonal sex-on-the-brain tigress I used to be?
Oh, here. Let me just wave my magic wand. POOF. There, that should do it! Oh, it didn’t work? Damn.
The thing about feeling sexy is, it tends to be an indicator of all the other things going on in your life. More on that in a minute. The problem with having that “I’m too sexy for this shirt” feeling dissipating on you is, we’re surrounded by sexuality all the time. The media tells us we have to be beautiful. Society tells us constantly that they judge our books by our covers. Our relationships are supposed to be value-rated by how hot the sex is. The pharmaceutical companies have gotten in on the act with Viagra and Cialis and all those other fun little drugs so we can be sex gods for all the wrong reasons.
The little dark secret that no one wants to talk about is that feeling sexual can go up in smoke pretty fucking fast. There isn’t one thing that could be causing your problems, it’s many.

  • Fatigue (overwork, lack of sleep)
  • Depression (seasonal moods, moodiness)
  • Diet (lack of iron, lack of protein, etc)
  • Underlying relationship problems
  • Worries (money, school, future, life)
  • Fitness (not enough cardio, etc)

And more. Let’s look at your specifics then.
Your relationship has changed for a number of reasons. Your guy’s in a new job that leaves him being less of the guy you used to know – a guy who was creative and passionate and now is a guy in front of a computer, doing a draining and uninspired job.
You were on birth control, something that is well known for affecting sexual sensitivity as well as sex drive. But you fucked up, honey. You went all knee-jerk and stopped taking the pill smack-dab in the middle of your cycle, and you had NO medical consultation before doing so. For anyone else thinking of this: Don’t. Stopping the pill in the middle of your cycle is borderline dumb, because it’ll fuck up your cycle, but worse, it’ll really mess with your hormones. Unfortunately, many chicks don’t know this because the medical information that comes with pills is written in fucking medical/legal-ese.
Pills really do a number on us. Guys will never, ever understand how much pills can fuck us up until we decide to be cruel and shoot them up with estrogen overloads. Here’s an example from my own life, all right?
I started my cycle a day late back in January. It’s five months later and my period has still not returned to normal. I changed it by a SINGLE DAY, and I’m still paying the price. The medical professionals say, “Oh, it takes three months for your system to get back on track.” Know what that’s called? The lowest common denominator. They take all the data from all the chicks who’ve gone awry on their cycle, and they find average length of recovery, and that’s the magic number. Trouble is, every number has exceptions. Hi, I’m Steff, and I’ll be your exception.
No matter what else you talk to your doctor about, you need to tell him/her you did this. Go and ask what it may have done to you. The trouble is, doctors don’t tend to believe too much in pills causing depression and things like that. My doctor was sort of disbelieving when I said I was depressed by way of my pills last fall. Gradually, he came to understand it had to be the case. Since then, I’ve been trying different pills, but I’m still less sexually sensitive than I was, and my sex drive is lower.
You say you don’t eat a lot of meat, and you’re really healthy diet-wise, and maybe you don’t spend enough time with yourself, and perhaps you’re antsy about your future, and all of that. Hell, you even say your relationship has changed because your guy’s not the same. That could do it right there.
Well, sexy comes from caring for ourselves and putting ourselves first – not relying on others’ perceptions of us. We need to exercise, take the time to make ourselves look nice, spend quality time alone, and show ourselves the respect we deserve. Somebody wanting us seems like it should make us feel sexy, but it just doesn’t work that way. We can’t rely on outward situations to provide us with our sexuality. It comes from within.
You’re obsessing about it because it’s something you can’t understand and can’t get to the bottom of. That’s not helping. That’s like guys who worry about whether they’re going to get hard and be able to perform – it exacerbates the problem. But how do you get out of your head?
Talk to someone, and by “someone,” I don’t mean some faceless chick half-way across the country, on the internet. I mean a doctor or therapist and see where it’s going.
The trouble is, not all doctors will see “not feeling sexy” as a medical issue. I think it is. I think you’ve got things going on in the background that are figuring into the equation. Worse, I think quitting the pills cold turkey has probably done quite the number on your hormones, the fall-out of which might take a little while longer to reset itself because you’re so young and hormones aren’t exactly on your side these days anyhow.
The long and the short of it is, this isn’t something you should be fucking around with on your own to solve. Talk to someone and see if there’s possibly something underlying that’s causing it. Spend some more time alone doing things you love, and make fitness a priority. Get sexy for you, not for him, and value how it feels for yourself, not because it’s rejuvenating your relationship.
As women, we tend to forget ourselves in relationships, and the effects of that (especially combined with estrogen upheavals like pill neglect) can be pretty profound on our self-images.
The thing is, we’re lied to. We’re told that getting into relationships is how to feel complete, how to become whole. A lot of the time, though, the relationships we choose are wrong for us, and the result is, the relationships make us less whole.
Sometimes it’s just life doing a number on us, and we want to blame our relationship so we don’t have to face life.
It’s complicated. Herbs and supplements and all that shit are likely not going to solve your conundrum. The IMPORTANT THING to remember is, it’ll work out. You’ll come back to yourself, you’re just taking the long way of doing so. And when things do come back to normalcy, remember, the best sex is still to come, ‘cos sex improves like all hell when you hit your late 20s and 30s, girlie.
Good luck with that. Anyone able to offer personal insight in this situation? Thanks.