Category Archives: Hollywood

Rockin' – Not Humpin' – In the Free World

There was a lover’s quarrel on tonight’s episode of Rockstar: Supernova, and presumably on last night’s episode, as well, which I missed due to catching the fun of Clerks II at the cinema.
Jill is a pretty hot runt, she’s like 4’10 or something, but boy, you get her Italian angst firing and she might as well be six feet tall, man.
She won the rights to sing the Stones’ Brown Sugar with Supernova member Gilby Clarke (formerly of Guns’n’Roses, Heart, MC5, etc.) shredding some guitar. In her infinite wisdom, she thought it wise to, well, hump Gilby from behind while performing.
Gilby, and this fucking rocks, walked away from her antics. He strode towards the catwalk and got the hell outta there.
Then, the post-song comments were exchanged. Gilby said, “The only thing that really bothered me was the humping… Women in music today have sex, like that’s the only thing they can use. You have more than sex. I think it’s cheap, and it’s weak.”
Overnight, Jill commented that, “I think Gilby’s used to having Axl Rose up there, and it’s a totally different dynamic with a woman on the stage.”
She claimed that she did the humping as a means of getting her emotions out in her vocals.
Gilby retorted, “I played with Heart, two women, and Ann Wilson never had to stoop so low as to hump me to get her emotions out.
The next take from Jill was, I think, incredibly lame, but stay tuned for my opinion after the rehash. She said, “It’s rock and roll. Why is there a double standard where a woman can’t be up there and show her sexuality, but you guys can? You rip your shirts off and stuff like that.”
Gilby scoffed. “All the moves were predictable! I’ve seen it at the Holiday Inn, I’ve seen it everywhere!”
Gilby Clarke gets MY vote for feminist of the year, all right? Bang-fucking-ON, Gilby.
Any mainstream chick out there in rock and roll or pop or whatever is using their booty and boobs as much as their voicebox, all right? Don’t give me this “double standard” bullshit. There’s no double standard.
What he’s saying, honeybunches, is that he’s sick and tired of chicks who think they need to fuck their way to success. He wants talent to speak, not a twat. I’m pretty sure he also doesn’t want to be in a band with a guy like Tommy Lee and a chick who thinks grinding one out’s the only way to extricate her emotions.
If you have talent, brains, a body, and the whole fucking package – and she does – then let that speak. Let it wail. Let it send a blood-curdling scream into orbit. Don’t dumb it down or cheapen it by throwing some suburb blonde bubblegum “here, let me hump you now” bullshit into the mix. It’s trying too hard.
Since when was it only a display of sexuality when you reenacted sex? And why did I miss the bloody memo, huh? No one ever tells me dick.
Oh, right, because IT’S NOT the only display of sexuality! Fuck. That’s like suggesting the only way to be heard is to shout.

sub·tle (sŭt‘l) pronunciation
adj., sub·tler, sub·tlest.

    1. So slight as to be difficult to detect or describe; elusive: a subtle smile.
    2. Difficult to understand; abstruse: an argument whose subtle point was lost on her opponent.
  2. Able to make fine distinctions: a subtle mind.
    1. Characterized by skill or ingenuity; clever.
    2. Crafty or sly; devious.
    3. Operating in a hidden, usually injurious way; insidious: a subtle poison.

Dilana, who I’m a secret lesbian for (okay, well, no, but she’s got a fan here, man), can be as on-edge as anyone’s ever been, but she was at her sexiest when she was her subtlest, during her performance of Nivana’s Lithium a few weeks back where she just stood there, fucking STOOD there, staring straight ahead, and raging out the lyrics, her eyes emanating everything they had to, and her body doing nothing. It was so goddamned hot, man, so intense. Yet, subtle, baby.
Ain’t you ever fucked someone with your eyes? Ain’t you ever been fucked by someone’s penetrative gaze? Don’t you remember how goddamned HOT that felt? Yeah, well.
And that’s what Clarke’s saying. Let yourself do your talking – your talent, brains, eyes, pouty lips, the way you wiggle your ass. Don’t think you gotta fuck or hump or grind your way to whatever achievement you’re after, because if you start down that path, there’s not really any other route for you. Respect is a very tenuous thing. Do not be fucking with the respect you have; you may never see it return to you.
It’s really bloody cool to hear a guy get on a soapbox about that sort of thing, and I’m thrilled to see it in an arena like dirty, sexy rock and roll.
Have I mentioned how much I dig this show? Huh? It’s like crack, man. One hit just ain’t enough.

I'll take two and a side'a yum, please.

Ah, Dilana, you tasty morsel, you.
Isn’t she hot? Maybe she’s not really your type, but the minute she opens her mouth and talks, she hooks you in. On stage, in CBS’s Rockstar: Supernova, she’s a fuckin’ foxy vixen. She’s practically a female Kurt Cobain. She’s just on. This woman’s something fierce, baby.
What’s cool, though, is that she’s got this undeniable stage presence and this almost violent personality up there. She radiates intensity. Sit her down for a chat, and she becomes this incredibly vulnerable and articulate woman. It’s this wonderful, sexy, powerful female dichotomy I really wish could drive this world more. Be strong, be weak, be everything in between. Just be, baby.
There are few women who get me titillated, but she gets a nod. When you think about wanting to be loved, it’s by people who feel as intensely as this woman appears to. Hot. Fuckin’ hot is what that is.
This is the first time in my life I have wasted a precious second or more to spend time voting in a reality show contest. Sigh. The streak is over, kids.
But it was a free vote, at least. Whew.

Piracy and Perceptions

Ah, me hearties, here I sit, the night wind whipping through me bedroom, as I scheme and plot. How difficult, really, would it be to sneak on over across the way and steal me that surely-leaky rowboat, strap it to my scooter, head down to the mouth of the Fraser, and set sail? How many hours – three, four, a thousand, more? – would it take to finally reach the Caribbean, where I’m sure to not only find Captain Jack Sparrow, but seduce him?
A piece of cake, I’m sure. As good as done, she says.
Okay, all right, so no such lofty plans exist. Ya found me on out. I’m just a big liar/dreamer/whatever kinda gal.
Instead, I sit here in my jammies, my fleece sweater zipped to its very top, my toes curling in the chill of this unseasonal wind, thinking simply that Johnny Depp fucking rocks.
It’s funny, we all have our definition of sexy. Me, it tends to be guys with a little extra around the middle and broad shoulders and baby-ish faces. Can’t tell you how often I fall for that look. It’s just the flavour that suits my tastebuds the best.
And everything in that description is what Johnny Depp isn’t. He’s short, skinny, has a chiselled face, and so forth. But he’s so fucking cool.
Depp’s gotten where he is with little compromise. If there’s anything sexier than someone who makes it on their own steam, their way, with zero compromises, I wish to hell someone would show me. For me, that’s as hot as it gets.
I try to never compromise, but the realities of my life dictate it happens more than I’d like.
Johnny Depp, though, has never, ever compromised, as far as I’ve been able to tell.
I remember my first dose of Depp. It was grade eight and classmate Joyce called me to tell me about the dreamiest new guy on this Vancouver-shot series, 21 Jump Street. She and I differed on the heady topic of men, though. I was more into George Michael and Corey Hart, and she liked the lead guy from A-ha and other skinny people like that. I grumbled and muttered, “Oh, I’m sure he’s hot,” but secretly thought he’d be another scrawny sour-puss type guy.
Well, I was so wrong. I sort of liked him. He gradually grew on me, even though I was more into Peter DeLuise for a while there. But then there was the fraternity of geeks episode, where Depp had to play a pocket-protector type nerd. He just came alive. He was so comfortable playing an absolute outcast that I couldn’t help but love him.
And since then, Depp’s become the iconoclastic outcast. No one but no one identifies with the outside as much as Depp, and even as a millionaire, you still believe that about him. There’s just this air of outsider integrity that he’s never been able to shake. And unlike all the other so-called “bad boys” in the world, he’s absolutely as polite and gracious as can be.
Depp is the new man. A rebel and a sweetie and an artist and an intellect and a politician, all rolled up into one sexy little package. Men who wonder how to show their sensitivity and how much is too much should look at Depp. The guy’s in interviews admitting that he plays Barbie for 12 hours with his daughter and, “It rocks.”
The guy’s in touch with that side of himself. Being vulnerable isn’t the end of the world, men. Letting us know you’re a little broken and a little bent means we can appreciate more of you. Don’t worry, you’re not failing us when you’re not Big Strong MegaMan. You’re just a guy who’s being dug by a girl, and who’s toppled a wall of his to let us in a little.
Hell, Johnny Depp’s getting $37 million for being unabashedly himself. He’s dressing up with necklaces and eyeliner and being called the sexiest man in the world. Do the fucking math.
The “man’s” man isn’t what it used to be. Depp’s the not-so-metro-sexual who’s redefining what makes a man in the 21st century. Tell you one thing, a man of his ilk hasn’t been seen ‘round these parts in many a decade. Hollywood ain’t been makin’ ‘em like Depp. Not ever. Dude’s in that rare air reserved for stars who steal the screen – Jimmy Stewart, Bogey, and Cagney – who can pull off thick, theatrical eyeliner. Oh, that narrows it down to Erroll Flynn, then, doesn’t it? Bogey in black-lined eyes… hmm, no.
Whatever. That rowboat across the way is not long for this world, baby. Get me some rum, some sunblock, and I’m on the seven seas, baby. Arr, matey. Anchors aweigh!

Putting My Foot Down On You, Dr. Scholl

I’m interviewing at an ad agency or two tomorrow. No, I won’t be doing any of the ad copy work or anything, more of a save-the-sanity support office worker, since I excel at that. But advertising is something I’ve always been very, very interested in.
Remember the movie Crazy People, from years back? Daryll Hannah and Dudley Moore? “Jaguar: For men who like handjobs from beautiful women.” Or, “Volvo: They’re boxy, but they’re safe.”
It was a comedy about truth in advertising that emerges when an ad-copy writer has a breakdown and is sent to an insane asylum. He decides to stop lying to the public and tells the truth. He enlists the help of his fellow nuthausers and they reinvent advertising. (My favourite was the Sony one, where the shortness of Japanese assembly-line folks meant better quality control as they were hovered closer to the microchip boards than the tall, gangly American counterparts who were so tall they couldn’t see the fine melds and such. Heh.)
Every year, I go and I see the film of The World’s Best Commercials for that year. I love good advertising.
But I fucking hate bad ads.
Case in point: Dr. Scholl’s for Her.
There’s this new open-toe gel shoe pad made for stilettos and the like, by Dr. Scholl’s. For some fucking reason, there’s this chick in a skin-tight micro tube dress, wearing strapless stilettos (that magically stay on) as her legs dangle off one side of a bareback horse, and she lies back over the hump of this horse, prostrated.
Because I do that in my stilettos every fucking day. And other things I do in my stiletto, apparently, include walking my dog on a reinforcing dike in the ocean, playing tennis, and more.
Who the fuck is this ad for? Who’s the guy smoking crack who seems to think THIS is what’s gonna sell these shoe pads to a woman?
How about having a real situation? Oh, I don’t know… maybe an intelligent woman with spring in her step as she delivers a brilliant closing statement in a law court case? Maybe you have a group of men, all sweating and nervous, desperately awaiting a job interview in a crowded, awkward office, as this sexy chick who holds all their fates in her hands strides towards them, with a I-Own-Your-Ass, And-You-Know-You-Want-Mine look on her face?
I’m surprised they didn’t just get to the point and have some chick in clear pumps spinning her way down a pole, since apparently we’re all just whores who use our bodies for advancement in life.
How about we move the fuck away from more of this objectifying, lame-ass look at chicks today, and into the realm where women really are becoming powerbrokers? Remember, sexy and smart don’t have to be oil and water.
They’re only oil and water because the media doesn’t want us to forget that it’s our asses that count, not the grey matter in our heads.
I, for one, will never, ever buy another Dr. Scholl’s product. This ad pisses me off THAT much. I’m sick and tired of seeing women whose bodies you can bounce quarters of, with brains the size of the quarter, as being the ideal that I’m supposed to somehow strive for.
My ass is copious. As is my intellect. How about selling to me, you assholes?

(If you’re looking for an update on my employment woes, I’ve been keeping that shit over on the other blog. It’s been one hell of a week for me, emotionally, and keeping it together’s one of the hardest challenges I’ve ever faced. I’m scared as hell, but I’m proud as hell of how I’ve been dealing. I’ll be glad when it’s over. I hope that’s soon. I’ve earned the reprieve. If I know anything, I know that.)

Curiouser and Curiouser

As is my custom on Tuesdays, when I’m home, I’m watching television. I had planned to write, but my smarts took the night off, so you’re stuck with a question — or is this an observation? — instead. (Okay, my smarts are fine, but I didn’t feel like ‘writing on demand.’ Sometimes it feels like a job, so I’d rather assume the position until inspiration kicks me hard in the ass.)
Tonight’s menu has included one of my guiltiest pleasures, Boston Legal. During the course of the program, there are a couple escorts included in background banter as William Shatner and Freddy Prinze Jr. chat in a bar.
I watch TV with the closed captioning on, for a few reasons. One of them being that I’m hearing impaired. Yes, you heard it here. I wear hearing aids. Always have. Itty-bitty in-the-ear ones, but they’re there. Such is life. Genetics, they fuck you every time, my friends. The loss is not overly severe, but enough that it cramps my style.
Anyhow, I also have worked in closed captioning, so I’m not deaf by any stretch. Back in the day when I did caption, we always would refer to unnamed persons by their profession first, if known, and if not, then by their gender. These identifications would be used in off-screen IDs for speech when a person wasn’t seen, and in character-specific SFX occurences.
So, there was this sound FX caption — done when action occurs off-screen that is distinguished by sound and is plot-pertinent — of [women giggling]. It was the escorts giggling. Their professions were known: They were escorts.
My question to you is, why wasn’t the caption reading [escorts giggling]? I mean, it was a crowded bar. There were other women. These women, the escorts, it was their giggling that was pertinent to the plot, not that blond ditz hanging off the bar with a Mai-Tai in hand.
Now, fair enough, my captioning house was one of the finest on the continent. My above-average grasp of grammar and such is evidence of that, no? Snicker. Right. Captioning styles vary from house to house, but when you have many, many women in one area and only two of them are pertinent, the tradition is to distinguish them. “Escorts” was the only way to do so, particularly when they had just been introduced to the viewers as “They’re not girls, they’re escorts,” by the always sharp-tongued Denny Crane (Shatner).
I find it interesting that the captioning house in question (the rather uninterestingly named “Closed Captioning Services, Inc.”) has opted to sanitize things for the viewers, when the producers of the program sought specifically not to do so.
But that’s the world we live in. A battle of ethics on every corner, a moral war written on every page. Only who is it we’re protecting from what, and why? Why not call a spade a spade when it is, evidently, a spade indeed?
The scriptwriters call it a spade. After all, the “escorts” are referred to later as “hookers.” A spade is a spade is a spade, it seems.
Is the reality of sex being so readily for sale so offensive that to see the suggestive words themselves written outside of dialogue is somehow even moreso?
Ah, who the fuck knows. We’re going to hell in a handbasket people, and the neocons are doing the navigating. Take a Right up here, folks. There ain’t no turning back now.

Hey, honey, mind photocopying this — and your ass — for me?

A recent sexual harassment lawsuit was tossed out of court in the USA. It doesn’t amount to much in the scheme of things, but I’m fucking elated about it.
During writing meetings on the show “Friends,” things would get raunchy. Sex-talk and profanity would lace the meetings, and one woman got her panties in a twist as a result of it.
I’m sick and tired of the politically correct bullshit out in the world. Whether it’s no longer being able to flirt at all at work or having to check your tongue before you speak, people just take things way too goddamned seriously.
I recently had a reader object to my use of the word “chick” when talking about women. I had to rewrite my response to her because I was so pissed off at first. What the fuck? “Broad” or “skirt” or “twat” or “bitch,” yeah, those are offensive, sure. When you get an email from me, wanna know what the sign-off signature reads? “Resident Cunt.”
Words are words. Intentions behind them are what matters, and people need to start looking at the big picture, not using a macro lens to examine every little happening.
I will never, ever clean my language up for you, people. Sorry, not going to happen. Don’t like it? Read someone else. Go read fucking Miss Manners, for all I care. My blog, my words, my way. Soon, I’ll be having to watch every period and every verb when editors harangue me for perfection and for publication-quality work, but for now? I’m a rebel with a cause, baby, and my cause is “whimsy” and “spontanaeity”. I think it, I say it.
This chick, getting a job on a sitcom about sex, one of the top sitcoms of its time (this was six years ago), was LUCKY. She was FORTUNATE to have an inside fly-on-the-wall perspective of some of the best comedy writing on television. She was warned about the workplace approach when she got the job, yet she decided to rock the boat based on her own narrow perceptions.
It doesn’t work like that, honey.
This is tantamount to something we have occurring a lot here in Vancouver, home of the million-dollar apartments. Yuppies move into areas with clubs and bars and then they piss, moan, and bitch about noise after they’ve moved in. What part of “entertainment district” did you fail to fucking comprehend BEFORE you moved in, HUH? Fucking whiners.
There are a lot of standards I possess that are not met by the world at large, whether it’s cleanliness, food, manners, what have you, but when I leave my front door, I know I need to compromise. That’s life. But these whiners and wimps looking for a perfect, safe, clean, proper life, they’re spoiling it for the rest of us.
It’s one thing to say that unwanted sexual advancements are not appropriate for work, but it’s another thing to let that pendulum of so-called decency swing to extremes. Life just isn’t as fun as it used to be. Personally, I always pushed the envelope in the office. I was known as “flippant.” When I write, I have a backspace key. You think I’m off the hook here? You don’t know shit. In person, the things I say, man, I’m amazed I’ve never been beaten senseless and left for dead some days. Having a cute smile and a twinkle in ze eye serves a girl well, it would seem.
But why should I have to watch what I say? Why can’t I just say it, and if it’s too much, apologize? When did we start cutting the leg off before the gangrene set in, huh? We’re a preventative society now. Playgrounds aren’t nearly as fun as they used to be. Merry-go-rounds are practically a thing of the past. Teeter-totters? Dear god, the potential for death and dismemberment! Get that thing out of here!
We are a nation of pussies, and I don’t mean in the get-it-wet-and-get-it-now “mreow!” sort of way. We’re wimps. We’re too timid. “Park your indecency at the door and homogenize with the rest of us” seems to be the credo of the day. If we were a colour, we’d be beige, man.
So, we’ve had a small victory here with this court case being trounced. For once it seems like filth and debauchery are allowed to be a part of the creative process. But what about the rest of the world? What about workplaces that are boring and stoic? What if a little juice and impropriety was good for productivity? Maybe workers wouldn’t be so compelled to surf for tits and ass when the boss ain’t looking. Who knows. All I know is, talking about sex and swearing and being inappropriate makes me smile. Smiling means I’m happy. Happiness means I get more shit done. Getting more shit done means the wheels of this economy work better.
There’s an argument for scrapping the harassment laws. Economic benefit. Really, look at it – all this shit came into play since the whole Justice Clarence Thomas “Is that a pube on my can of Coke?!” scandal way back when. The economy? Has been tanking ever since.
A connection? Elementary, Dr. Watson.

***

Addendum: Okay, I’m being a tad facetious, but really… don’t we all hate work a little more than we used to? Isn’t impropriety, oh, I don’t know… fun?

I Don't Wanna Be Your Dog

I’m sorry, Iggy, but it’s true.
This one goes out to the porn school boys. Yeah. You know who you are. The guys who watch porn and think women actually want to fuck like that.
The majority of women don’t have “getting titty-fucked” at the top of their weekend to-do lists, all right? We don’t necessarily globally relish having our asses smacked while we’re being ridden doggy-style by some dude who thinks he’s one lap away from the Kentucky Derby. (Probably most women like to take one of those laps from time to time, though.)
The majority of chicks aren’t going to gush and coo like a girl on Christmas morning as you cum on their face. Most will be pissed that you’ve even attempted it, really.
Face it, boys. Porn movies are movies that are made by men, for men. They are entertainment. They’re the sexual equivalent of the DC Comics’ League of Justice: highly improbable, hugely exaggerrated, and excessively stylized.
If you’re taking your sex tips from porn, you might just want to think twice before you invite Debbie over for a little diddling.
Fact is, porn’s for the uninteresting. Most North American porn is so laughably cliche, so utterly uninspired, that it’s a wonder Europeans ever sleep with any of us. Thank god they know better than to believe everything they see on television. Pity the same can’t be said of everyone on this big ol’ continent, though.
If you’re content to underperform, then porn away, boys. If you really want to get fucked, and you really want to know what an orgasm has the potential to feel like, then explore the full dimensions of sex.
The problem with the Porn Boys is they just don’t fucking understand that orgasms are like concert seats. Just because you’re at the concert doesn’t mean you’re getting the best show. In fact, sitting in the nosebleeds might get you into the gig, but with all that frenzied distortion and being so far away visually, you’re barely scratching the surface of the experience.
Upgrading and getting in close seems to sometimes slow it all down and make the experience bigger than life. The bass rocks you, the sweat slowly builds as the tension gets better and better throughout the headliner’s act before they finally blow their wad on the show-stopping encore that leaves them and the audience gasping for more.
Stop being content to just show up and get rocked. Put yourself in the show and really make it an event.
What have you really got to lose, besides your breath?

The Delicate Art of… Face-Sitting?

David E. Kelly starts off with these brilliant shows that eventually get weird and schticky, but so far, Boston Legal is keeping consistently watchable and even loveable.
In a recent episode, William Shatner’s effervescent Alzheimer’s victim-warrior lawyer, Denny Crane, states that when his mind rots to the state of a two-year-old child’s, his bride-to-be has been instructed to euthanize him by way of face-sitting.
Yes, he wants to be killed by snatch.
I’ve written before that the whole face-sitting thing, I can go there, that’s part of the job, I guess, but it does little for me, really. I don’t dislike it, it’s just not a reason to cancel going to the movies, y’know?
That said, I would absolutely feel compelled to give a guy what he asks for from time to time, particularly knowing how wildly fetishistic this love of face can be for guys. If you’re a chick and you don’t get it, try to be a guy for a second:
You’re obsessed with pussy and tits. You have been for a really, really long time. Ass, it’s nice, too. Especially bouncy ass. Very nice, you think. You’ll take two, and don’t call in you in the morning.
Now, you’re a guy who’s in his favourite position – on his back – and not only has this woman come to you, but you don’t even need to sit up to see her. Nope. You’re reclining, life is good, and oh, my God – she’s sitting on you. That nice bouncy round ass is on top of your chest, her twat – that Mecca, that daily fantasy, that height of all things good in your life – is resting on your lowly lips. And, dear god, when she bounces this way or that, presto (or, the gods have smiled, and she’s leaning over and using the headboard for support, and there they are, front and centre – dangling, even). Looming overhead like giants in the Amazon, her breasts. Oh. Oh, ho, ho. Yes. That, there, don’t move – never, ever move – stay right THERE.
Welcome to Male Psychology 101.
Of course, they won’t tell you this. They’ll just say, “I like it. It feels good. You look good up there.” Articulate much, guys?
But maybe it’s hard to quantify. There’s this old Canadian rock song from the late ‘80s by The Northern Pikes, and the song lyrics go, “She ain’t pretty, she just looks that way.”
And it’s kinda how I feel about sex. You may have noticed, I’m an enthusiast. Been known to dabble a tad from time to time in the carnal arts.
But sex looks wack sometimes, man. Face-sitting’s just one of many somewhat amusing scenarios we find ourselves in. Blowjobs, they look kinda silly. Toe-sucking, yes, weird. (Feels great though. Really.) Bondage, well… S&M? Oh, my. It’s a regular freakshow, isn’t it?
Or is it? I mean, every now and then the writer me steps outside and becomes the comedian observer me. He’s doing what to me, where? With what? A kitchen utensil? Shit, that’s weird, I’d think.
But I probably enjoyed myself.
And that’s part of the thing about sex. You sometimes just need to suspend your judgment. Yes, weird things go down. Yes, you have preconceived notions. Yes, you’re a little mystified at how that could possibly be a good thing. But do it anyway.
It’s like sushi. Who knew?

the all-sex diet

mm. this is what i needed, a friday night in, relaxing.
it’d be better only one way, if i had a little quality male companionship, maybe some massages, getting intimate on the floor. that’d be nice. a bottle of red, naked, too many blankets, a small world of candles scattered… mm.
to confess, i’m a little tired and i’d probably fail to be myself. being alone’s really not too bad a thing this evening. i have a beer, a little vancouver herbology, and soon, a long oily soak in the tub. lots and lots of oil. sigh. my own private valdez.
had a nice night earlier this week, but i didn’t realize how much he’d worn me out (and vice versa, i’m sure) until today. i have that sore-all-over kinda stiffness from full-body overexertion, but as much as it’s a little annoying, it’s also nice to know it really was as much work as it felt like. fun work, but still. now that’s my kinda fatigue, baby.
you know what i want? i want to take off the weight i have in mind to lose by way of sex. i don’t really overeat anymore (i sure as shit don’t undereat) but i certainly need more exercise. i need sex. that’s all. all i need is a little aerobics and a lil’ strengthening and toning. i know precisely how to obtain it. a plan of conquest. especially in light of all these well-placed aches. (the inner thighs, the lower belly, the arms, hell, the boobs. oi.)
fuck the l.a. diet. damn the jenny craigs. to hell with grapefruit. watch this, weight watchers. give me orgasms and breathlessness. i know. i’ll call it the all-sex diet.
yeah, that’s the ticket.
“and thursday, we recommend two hours foreplay (staggered for endurance purposes) followed by a rigorous 15-minute doggy style, as well as two sets of wall-aided laterals, and to conclude, water sports, including…”
“friday, rest.”
“saturday, turn off the phone. close the blinds. it’s time for a six-hour session of territorial pursuit. you will need: tethers, non-slip surfaces…”
sigh. if i could sign up for that diet, i absolutely promise to take my vitamins every day and even eat my veggies.
i didn’t even have sex with the guy, it was all foreplay, and it was still that strenuous. keep in mind, i cycle, i have freeweights. i may be a bonus lover, but girl’s got endurance, a’ight? the last guy i slept with didn’t even get me close to that overextended. (not that i didn’t try to cause it. some things are mysteries.) it was nice for a change.
(wistful sigh, low groan) yeah. that’s the lifestyle.
but, i ask you, some days, is there just nothing else better than kissing? there’s nothing like the duel of two smooth, soft, energetic tongues. feathery caresses, grip’n’grab gropes. pushin’ up ‘gainst each other, angling for a better, closer position. that slow escalation of breath.
every kiss is an aphrodisiac for another. i can never have just one.
it’s so hot. a guy who can kiss, well, forget his bad points, he’s graded on a curve. kissing, what is it? what is it that makes kissing so damned sublime? it’s almost like necking’s the reminder of all things good. it’s innocence, yet it’s heat.
as much as i love having sex and thus tend to not wait too long for it, i have to admit that it often feels disappointing in a jaded way if necking sessions always result in sex. there’s something really hot about working yourself into that slobbery frenzy brought on by a heated make-out session on the sofa/then bed — and having to let it ride.
do you ever just sit back and enjoy that somewhat sexually frustrated expression on your partner’s face when you just know it can’t go further? not that you’re thrilled to be paining them, but it’s just great to always know you’re the one who’s bringing that heightened sensation into their world, and it’s nice to know they feel that it’s such a loss it ain’t goin’ further.
i guess, for me, i like the anticipation, knowing what’s going to happen next time as a result. i suppose that’s what makes it easier for me, as a chick, is i can honestly say, “yep, gettin’ laid next time” since, well, if I want it, i’m pretty liable to get it, right? how often does a chick want to get laid and the guy say, “well, not right now.” it happens, sure, but the odds are in my favour.
and my powers of persuasion make me suspect i’ve missed my calling as a jedi knight. just saying.
so, i’m on the hunt for the man who can calm my savage beast. when located, the all-sex diet goes full boil. i’m always so gung-ho when i start new things.
what, beginner’s enthusiasm? luckily it takes me awhile to tire of things. 😉 and i’m very, very goal-oriented. love that pursuit.
the all-sex diet program is now accepting applicants.

Sexy: Quantifiable? Bogart to the Rescue


Every day, somebody somewhere sputters, “They ain’t makin’ ‘em like they usedta.”
And this is true. So, there I was, watching The Maltese Falcon, thinking about what it is about Bogey that gets me hot and bothered every single goddamned time. See, a guy recently emailed me to lightly chastise me for erroneously attributing the “When you’re slapped, you’ll take it and like it,” line of Bogey’s to him making Peter Lorre his bitch. (It has been at the bottom of this blog’s sidebar since day one, the bottom of my original blog’s sidebar, too.) I told him I thought I was right, and just moved on (and, yes, I am right). Today, I dug out the disc and began watching it, savouring the flick along with my toasted and buttered peasant bread, and dank, dank New Zealand cheddar, and dark coffee.
And just like the butter, I slowly melted as I watched Bogey; lying there on the floor, longing for a man who has that same mix of brashness and humour and sensitivity and lust and brood to step out of the shadows to a saxophone soundtrack playing behind the scenes in my life.
Goddamned right they ain’t making them like they used to. They’ve never made ‘em like Bogey. It’s a fucking crime his career wasn’t longer.
What makes him sexy? Scratch that. What is sexy? What is it that turns us on and keeps us revving? How do we define an idea, an intangible? For some women, it’s a guy wearing only a jock under seersucker pants. For others, it’s cracked and aged black leather paired with jeans and a wife-beater and topped with stubble (sigh). For still more, it’s that metrosexual gleam that comes from the coif and the couture.
But Bogey, he had none of that. A face like a weathered horse, the man was no Errol Flynn. His voice had that gravelly vocal twang and he always had that inimitable sparkle in his eye when he grinned or leered. He oozed sexuality in a time of repression, and because he didn’t have the lustful good looks of the A-List stars, he got away with it. He was an average guy that could eyeball a woman in a way that conveyed exactly the kind of confident and daring lover you knew he’d be. You just knew he’d pin you against the wall and devour you. You knew he’d be as comfortable submitting to you as dominating you. It just showed.
There’s something about the way a man can unapologetically own a woman through his looks (or vice versa), yet offer no intimidation by ever even suggesting it’s about ownership. There’s something about expressing lust through your eyes – real, true, now-here, for-as-long-as-we-can lust. And Bogey broke the ground and set the pace for an entire legion of men who’d grow up wanting to have what he exemplified. Bogey set a new standard for sexy, something we’re still trying to figure out in this day and age of plastic surgery and air-brushing, and something we keep missing the mark of.
It’s not about the dimples, the white teeth, the hard body, the fine coif. It’s about you knowing what you want and knowing how to show it. It’s about learning how to communicate with your eyes, with your lips, with your words, with your body language. How to think something like, “I’d love to throw you down and keep you there until we’re both utterly spent and gasping in musky pools of our own sweat” and let it be read only through your eyes and the purse of your lips.
And Bogey, he had that. Throw into it the ability to adopt dozens of different smiles, the coy mannerisms of his foot shuffle, his playful body language and suggestive head tilts, the way he searched a room or his scene’s companion for changes in mood and worked with it, and that incredible focus he had in his gaze, and the guy could be 5’1 and a buck-10, and he’d still have the sex appeal of an animal. Some guys just have it, and Bogey, he did.
I’ve known a couple guys who had it, and to this day I see their faces in my mind some nights when I’m alone, or even with a man. They’re always unforgettable, those guys, but it’s that gleam in the eye you remember. Yep. There’s something about a gleam… and it’s one of the reasons leaving the lights on during sex is so fucking hot. Too many of us can’t muster that gleam outside the act itself, so leaving the lights enables you to see your lover drinking you in like that… well, mm, there’s not many images that you just want to freeze-frame forever, but that’s sure as hell one of them.
Me, I’m very conscious of how and what I emote with my eyes. There are guys who set my eyes a blazin’ and I make a point of letting that show. Those nights, I don’t even have to mention that sex is on the mind, it’s just that damned obvious. It’s not needy or desperate, it’s confident and suggestive. You don’t even have to say the words. It’s like seeing a movie with a great director pulling the strings, some things are left unsaid but are unmistakably clear in intent. It’s fucking hot, whoever’s doing it, and it’s part of what defines sexy. Knowing what you want, and being ballsy enough to show it. Or just damned well taking it (when consent is obvious).
When it comes to men, it’s a pity there aren’t more Bogeys. Or Js. Or Clints. Or Newmans. Or Depps. Sure, the latter are pretty boys, but it’s more than that. They discovered sexy, what it really means, what it really is. That it’s a quality, not a look, not an image, not a brand name. It’s just a thing inside you that you learn to put on display, and it’s uniquely you, whatever it is. You find your way to that place, that confident spot, and it compensates immeasurably. It just shows.