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.)
Category Archives: sexuality
From Poutine to Self-Love, Baby!
I should not be writing.
Another probably painfully tiring day awaits me tomorrow, before what is liable to be a mockery of a weekend, on which I believe I need to work Sunday, but the verdict is not yet in. (No, not real work. Taking a bunch of kids to a space museum. Yeah, who’s your sex goddess NOW, huh?)
I should not be writing, but I am.
You see, I took a terribly sinful break earlier today on what has been a gruelling couple headtrip days, and I acquiesced to the evil that lurks within: I submitted to my craving for poutine. If you’ve never had poutine, then you’re probably not Canadian. A pity for you, you poor fuckers. You’ll hear about it, and you’ll think, “Ew, ick!” but really, that’s just your ignorance talking, or perhaps it’s the silly little granola-loving freak you nurture deep within. Either way, it’s all about the fat. Mm, fat!
Poutine’s french fries smothered in cheese curd and gravy. In other words, it’s potatoes that died tremendously worthwhile deaths. And I salute them! So do my lovehandles. But I do digress.
There, there was a paper lying about. I shouldn’t be so brash as to call the Province a newspaper, because it’s hardly a good newspaper at all. It’s a tabloid. It’s the McDonald’s of news for people who are news-tritiously challenged. Or chronologically challenged, and I was the latter. Oh, and apparently the former. How convenient.
Dammit, again with the digressions!
Lemme get to my fucking point, shall I? They had a story today about seven Vancouver chicks (you go, girls) who’ve opted to get married to themselves.
Yep.
They’ve all got the gowns and they’re doing a public ceremony down on Vancouver’s Jericho Beach, and when it comes to the “Do you take this…” part of the ceremony, I think it’s going to be changed to, “Do you take yourself, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, until your dying days?” or something like that.
I wanted to fucking stand and cheer then and there.
It ain’t some feminazi gig or anything, boys, so don’t get your panties in a bunch. It’s about saying, “Hey, I don’t need no man for happiness. I can provide that to myself.” None of us really needs anyone… it’s just nice to have them.
Like Margaret Atwood once said, “a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.” I happen to believe that goes both ways, but too many women are too fucking obsessed with getting a ring on the finger and being validated by having some studmuffin by her side. It’s a sad state of things, and I would have thought we’d be farther along by now, but here we are: same shit, different story.
I made a brief comment about the “How to Get the Guy” show the other night, a show that still pisses me off on premise, even though the things it’s saying are sort of on the money. Yes, good ways to get a guy. Just bad ways to keep them.
If you’re not yourself when you snag a guy, it’s gonna be pretty fucking hard to keep yourself in that hyper-perfect state. And when you’re not that woman anymore, is he still going to be interested? Or are you just the dating equivalent of spam – building up an average product into something extraordinary, only to have it fall flat? Only you can know.
These chicks, they have the right idea. They might be being weird about it and taking it a bit far, but hey. Whatever gets you through the night, baby. You want to embrace yourself, love yourself, and make a commitment to yourself, then I say more power to you.
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this week, wondering what all my stress and frustration about this job search is coming off as for the masses. I mean, you all look to me for whatever the hell it is you want to find here on these pages – mantras about your body type, tips on hand-jobs, profundity on being single, scathing commentary on whatever the hell the flavour of my day is… Honestly, I have NO idea what you’re here for, but I’m thrilled you tumble onto my doorstep, and I thank you for it.
But here I am, in all my flawed glory: Stuck in a financial conundrum that I know will end, but I’m terrified won’t end on schedule, my fears and my horrors hanging out for all to see, and the fact that I’m brutally, completely human. I’m as fucked up as anyone, man. I don’t have it all together, and I probably never will. Do any of us? No, probably not. We just play the roles well.
It’s that old, “I’m not a doctor; I just play one on TV” schtick. I ain’t no guru, baby, I just play one on the ‘net. I hurt, I get vulnerable, and, baby, I get scaredy-scared some days.
In the face of all that, I found myself there on Commercial Drive, strolling around in the mid-afternoon sun, a few minutes to kill, when my cellphone rang. Yes, yet another job interview call. (I’ve sent resumes around for just under two weeks, and by Monday’s end I’ll have had eight interviews, all for “real” jobs, so let that tell you what it will.) The funny thing was, this was an agency, and I responded to an ad of theirs earlier this week. I got The Big Rejection Letter. And there she was, calling me now, about an ad I responded to earlier today, knowing full well they’d already rejected me once this week.
She goes, “Your name sounds familiar!”
“It should, I applied earlier this week and got The Big Rejection Letter. But I’m stubborn, and it sounds like a great job for me.”
“Well, it’s a new posting, and I’m glad you’re persistent! I’d like to have a chat with you and see if you’re a good fit for our client!”
I got off the phone (the appointment’s at 9:00am, for an advertising co., one of two interviews tomorrow) and felt SO FUCKING SMUG.
The thing is, keeping your head together and being strong and loving yourself in the face of adversity’s the hardest thing in the world to do. When you’re single, it’s even harder. And that’s why I love hearing about women like this, the ones who say, “You know what? Fuck convention. This is about me.”
Oscar Wilde said my all-time fave quote that I keep citing here and should finally just put in my fucking sidebar, that loving yourself is the beginning of a lifelong romance. It’s times like these when I need to consciously try to love myself. It doesn’t come with ease. It’s work. Every damned day right now, it’s work. Every employer I talk to, every resume I send, my first thing I tell myself is, “I fucking ROCK. I can DO this.”
I don’t really believe it… but I play a guru on the ‘net, you know, so it’s convincing.
Where's Steff?
Hey, kids. I’m still looking for work. Honestly, it’s just beating the creativity right out of me. Like a fucking dog in an alley, my friends. I don’t feel like writing. Today was a two-interview day, which is great, ‘cos it’s interviews, but I didn’t receive any other responses, so I feel like there’s an insta-wall in front of me. I don’t really have the time to “wait it out.” Either I get a job and keep a place to live, or the fit hits the shan and I run like the wind.
I should be getting greater responses, but there’s a pretty crazy job market and who knows what’s going on. Either way, I’m frustrated, I have nothing of value to say, and there’s not a lot of point in updating unless something good happens. It comes and goes, the goodness. This morning’s interview was good, but the second wasn’t that great. It went well, but they kept me waiting thirty minutes for the interview to begin, and I’m not sure I want to work for a company with so little respect for my time already. Unfortunately, I have no choice. I’ll take the first job that comes.
I didn’t get the job from the other day. They decided to look elsewhere. I decided that was fine by me after I saw them repost the ad before they decided to tell me I wasn’t up for it any longer. Again, it’s a question of basic etiquette and doing the right thing. It’s a pity I seem to be more an anomaly than a common standard when it comes to perception of what the right thing is.
I should tell you about a strange thing that occurred, though. Were one to Google my full name, it wouldn’t take long for this weblog to appear in connection with it. I am a Scribe Called Steff. Shit, it’s on my resume, the “Scribe” moniker. Whatever. I’m not ashamed of what I write here. I toe the line between smut and sexy with aplomb, I believe, so, y’know, “whatever.”
However.
I do NOT publicize a certain email address in conjunction with this blog. There’s an address that is explicitly tied to my resumes, and nothing else. A few friends have it, and some publishers, and that’d be that.
The other day, I got a pretty overtly sexual email (and I have ideas about who sent it) and the person emailed me at my “job” address. This leads me to surmise only one thing, that a potential “employer” has specific designs on what writing about sex means about me as a person. Whoever he is, he has another thing coming.
I have to say, it pisses me off, the judgments that are made on the basis of who we are behind closed doors. I’ve written about it before, and I’ll write about it again, but this recent occurrence has really irked me a bit. The fact that this person sent the email to the board’s email, and THEN my “employer” email as if to say, “Hey, look, I know who you are,” is what creeps me out.
Whatever. Suffice to say that looking for work isn’t as fun as I wish it could be. It’s essentially a prolonged exercise in vulnerability and submissiveness — both qualities I try to endure in very sparing quantities. I want a job. I want this over.
And when it is, I’ll be a better writer. For now: Hi, I’m Stressed-out Steff and I’ll be your tourguide through the jungles of the jobless, where the prey pray for fortune and speedy resolution. Sigh.
Opposing Forces: The Laws of Attraction (?!)
An immensely wise philospher-singer once sang:
We come together
Cuz opposites attract
And you know–it ain’t fiction
Just a natural fact
We come together
Cuz opposites attract
Cuz opposites attract
And you know–it ain’t fiction
Just a natural fact
We come together
Cuz opposites attract
Whatever happened to that Paula Abdul, anyhow? Where is she now? Those one-hit wonders, you know, like flashes in the pan.
The Guy sent these photos the other night after I pointed out what had to be, and what I said then, the most unseemly gay male couple I’ve ever seen. Now, keep in mind, I live in Vancouver, or as I think of it, San Francisco North. I’ve lived here all my life and see trannies, queens, and the whole shebang as often as they come.
Picture a Pillsbury Dough-kinda boy: nice protruding round belly, about 5’11, goatee, 26, kinda cute in that “If I weighed 65 lbs less, I could be a surfer! Hand me a Twinkie?” kinda way. And his boyfriend: About 5’5, absolutely skinny, 18-if-a-day, wide-eyed with do-it-to-me-now! lust, gazing up longingly. Chunky Two-Time had LoverBOY leaned up against a rather dubious chain-link fence, and it was pretty fucking obvious who was offering a little topping for the evening, if you know what I’m saying.
The Guy shuddered. And rightfully so. It just looked fucking weird, man. I’ve seen the whole Blue Oyster Cult-Village People leather crowd, the big fucking hairy bears, the demure little Asians and their Rice Queens, and the whole shebang, all right? This looked weird. I’m tellin’ ya.
But not as weird as this.
I went out with a guy once who argued that, when it comes to love, a couples’ longevity depended categorically on the balancing of the attractiveness scales. There had to be a relativity between their appearances, or it’d be doomed due to the rearing of the ugly insecurity head.
Maybe. Maybe so. Maybe not. I don’t have my Relationships Physics & Probability degree just yet. Probably a hold-up at the post office. Please, Mr. Postman, look and see if you got a letter in your bag for me. I been waiting such a long time since I ordered that degree of mine.
I think there could be some truth to it. Look at the couple in the photo, then. As I said, the Guy fired it off to me to illustrate that the Gay Odd Couple was a fitting reminder of this forwarded email he’d received that’s making the rounds as “Redneck Wedding of the Year.”
(I didn’t realize they had a rewards ceremony now. What, every-fucking-body’s got trophies now? Who’s next, huh? Bowlers?)
I confess, I feel badly putting the photo up. I’m sure they’re sweet people. Scary, but sweet. In between shooting beer cans off the fence, Jeff Foxworthy reruns, and playing D&D, they probably serve up a hell of an apple cobbler, you know?
I just don’t get the whole opposites-attracting thing, myself. I’ve always been attracted to guys who carry a few extra pounds, just like me. (Not rotund, just excessively huggable.) They should be bookish, and into film and food and life, not clubs, and smart enough to make me frustrated that I shoulda known that first.
Most couples I know are pretty on-page physically. Not too many of them would stand out in a crowd, and probably most seem natural together. The beautiful people get together, the people with perfect hair curl up together, the punks mesh’n’mosh, the granolas sing Kumbaya in harmony, the plastics meld… it’s all so consistent. Do they last? I don’t know, but they look right at the mall.
Nah, I don’t get opposites attracting. What’s the point of hooking up with someone you got fuck-all in common with? How about you? Has it ever worked for you? Are you into the relationship equivalent of magnetic field reversals or something? ‘Sup with that? Enquiring minds, yada, yada. And were you at this wedding? What kind of cake was it?
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?)
Whip Me, Beat Me, Slap Me – Just Don't Judge Me
While all the good little people were out getting in touch with their god of choice, I was having a lovely Sunday morning watching a BDSM fairytale, Secretary.
I’ve been meaning to see Secretary since its release in 2002, as I’ve been a lifelong fan of James Spader ever since I loved hating him in Pretty in Pink when I was just 13.
I remember being apprehensive about the movie, though, way back in 2002. BDSM, I thought, was largely for Weirdos. I suspect the movie was the first really mainstream movie to introduce the lifestyle to a large percentage of the population who probably walked out of the theatre with a silly grin pasted on their lips. It’s not so bad, they likely thought. A little odd, and weird, but certainly not this horridly perverse thing their churches had them believing it was.
Since then, my eyes have opened. No, I’m not into S&M, though I don’t mind a little smack on my ass from time to time, but I’ll probably never join the movement. I ain’t, however, writing that in stone.
The movie Secretary does not dispel the notion that those who gravitate to this pain-for-pleasure lifestyle tend to be somewhat broken inside. It echoes the common perception that the participants are hurting after a life of shortcomings and trouble, and this is their way of finding a coping mechanism. Control the pain that pains you, and you will control the life around you; this seems to be the prevailing wisdom.
So there are those who scoff at them and scorn them, as if they should find healthier mechanisms for dealing.
Aren’t we all hurting to a degree, though? Don’t we all nurse regrets and fears and wishes and wants? Sure we do. But the rest of us got the magic “All Better Now” button installed when we were manufactured. Or did we? Hmm, perhaps we could use a little coping, too.
And what would you suggest? How about a more socially accepted method? Alcohol to cure to ills? Cocaine’s making a comeback, you know. Perhaps cardio-holism is more your thing. Sweat, then, baby. How about a double-banana split? A bag of Doritos? How about shoplifting a new shade of red lipstick? Say, I hear they have a double-bill at church this weekend.
The point is, we all confront our demons in ways particular to us. The notion of willingly allowing ourselves to be hurt seems to be one that most people can’t handle. It’s not as if life doesn’t bruise us often enough as it is, is what people think.
And, sure, there are some right-fucked sadomasochists out there, but there are also some incredibly well-balanced ones as well. It takes all kinds, just like bowling. The thing is, do you understand why you like to have pain inflicted on you? Are you aware of what it does for you? By that same token, are you aware of why you want sex and romance to be all feathers and soft kisses?
It’s all about self-knowledge, this life thing. The more you know about what motivates you to do what you do, the greater your grasp on things will be. If you’re oblivious, then you’re in trouble. Simple.
I’d argue that the person who likes only the soft love – the gentlest of kisses, the lightest of touches – is equally as mentally ill-equipped as the out-of-touch person who prefers only pain. I’d say that they probably fail to realize just how sheltered they’re trying to be from the harshness of reality, and that they need to wake up and smell the rough sex.
I think anyone who’s only into pain for pleasure, and has no other outlets, is unbalanced. Just like in Secretary, there are plenty who like a little roughness and pain in between the soft kisses and lingering caresses. Balance is good. Experimentation is good. Sticking to vanilla all your life, or just Rocky Road, is probably never a healthy way to go.
There is nothing wrong with loving a little roughness. There’s nothing to be ashamed of when it comes to enjoying your lover smacking your ass so hard it’s red when they’re done. There’s simply nothing wrong with liking anything, as long as you understand why you like it, and you’re not just using it to cover up the ills of your existence.
Society doesn’t understand BDSM, and they’re not going to anytime soon, either. Acceptance is increasing, but as long as it’s all the hardcore folk riding front and centre and playing the roles of spokespeople, there will always be a negative perception about the lifestyle.
It is what it is. Enjoy what you do, and know that being discreet doesn’t mean being ashamed; it’s simply self-preservation in a society that just doesn’t understand. Sounds like being gay in the ’40s, don’t it? Oh, well.
AIDS: Another Rant Against the Bush-League
First off, a big thank you to the cute blonde across the way who keeps wandering around in boxers and no shirt. Love those pecs. Welcome to the neighbourhood, neighbour.
Kindness… With Strings
If you attach conditions to kindness, it doesn’t seem to be so much that it’s humanitarianism you’re after, y’know?
So, it was with great amusement – albeit bitter and pissed amusement – that I took note of the sanctimonious stipulations attached to all the “donations” being made by the Bush administration since 2003 in the name of AIDS assistance throughout the world. This was all shown during the brilliant Frontline “The Age of AIDS” documentary I mentioned in an earlier posting.
When it comes to countries like Uganda and Brazil, they’ve stood face-to-face with some pretty grave dangers posed by the horrific disease, and through understanding the culture and society in their nations, they’ve managed to come up with social programs to stem the rate of infections.
In Uganda, they teach abstinence and faithfulness, but they also implore the public to use condoms. There’s an intense movement towards education, and they’ve managed to go from having one of the highest incidences of AIDS to a much more stable number (and I’m too lazy to grab facts right now). The government was providing copious free condoms for the public to use. This proved extremely effective.
In Brazil, they’re not kidding themselves. It’s a very sexual country. They work hand in hand with the sex trades to try and control the amount of unprotected sex going around, and they push condoms onto the public awareness stage. It’s working. They’ve also created a system by which their citizens are ENTITLED to the drug cocktail known to keep HIV in check (most of the time). They’ve struck deals with pharmaceutical corporations and they have in-nation drug-manufacturing plants that allow them to make drugs for their citizens at a reasonable price. This is not a wealthy nation, but they have their shit together.
The US has attached stipulations to both these nations. In Uganda, the government provision of free condoms for the masses has apparently dropped by 80% since the Bush administration intervened, favouring instead the preaching of abstinence. In Brazil, they were insisting the Brazil government condemn prostitution (as it’s legal there), which prompted the Brazilian government to say, essentially, “Fuck you” to the money so they could maintain their autonomy.
Brazil’s aggressive approach to controlling AIDS, which includes HIV treatment, massive condom distribution and explicit HIV education, has produced one of the few success stories in the developing world: In the early 1990s experts projected 1.2 million infections in Brazil by 2000, but the interventions cut that number in half.
Read the source here.
As the Brazilian government rep said to the documentary’s producers, “This year it’s prostitutes, and maybe next year it’s homosexuals. Where do you stop?”
That’s a very good question. Where do you stop?
You stop when it’s your moralizing that is limiting the potential for other nations to save the lives of their citizens. You stop when it’s your failure to realize that husbands and wives get AIDS and, thanks to their marriage vows, they should expect to be able express their love in physical terms, and telling them to abstain, and not to use a condom is something that will get you laughed out of most bedrooms. You stop when your vision is so narrow that you’re not even seeing the dangerous ramifications of your moralizing. You stop when the disease has afflicted more than 5 million people in a single year (2005). You stop when the total number of dead now exceeds 25 million in just 25 years. You stop when more than 40 million people are living with it worldwide.
You stop when your sanctimonious beliefs mean you’re being a hypocrite to the very faith you profess to believe in. It’s about saving lives. It’s about letting people live, helping people live, and, if you happen to believe in an afterlife, letting God do the judging at the end of those lives.
You just fucking stop. You help. You do whatever the fuck you can to end the deaths. Because that’s what a good person does. They help in the face of all adversity. They help when they’re called upon. They don’t put conditions on it. They don’t judge those needing help. They just help.
If, in fact, AIDS (as Pat Robertson and his ilk believe) is an epidemic unleashed by God in an effort to punish the immoral, then why has “He” given man the tools to treat it even the least little bit?
I despise hypocrisy. More importantly, I despise the knowledge that 40 million people on this planet will more than likely die from this disease that we seem unable to find a cure for, but that many of them will die far sooner than they need to, and more will contract it than are necessary, all because of to many governments who have been too ashamed to admit they need help, or those who are too fucking sanctimonious to offer help without strings.
The United States wants to be a world leader? Then fucking lead from the trenches, not the pulpits. Get in there and get dirty, and don’t worry how the fuck it looks. Be like Nike, and just do it.
IMPORTANT NOTE: I just read this, and it blows my mind. YOUTH, AGED 15-24, ACCOUNT FOR MORE THAN HALF OF ALL NEW HIV INFECTIONS WORLDWIDE. More than 6,000 are infected daily. Wear condoms, kids! Fuckin’ hell!
Steff the Public Service Announcer
Okay, a couple of things. I’ll get back to the orgasmic neighbours tonight or tomorrow, but there are more pressing things that need mentioning.
The first being a rare but possible cause of death resulting from blowing air into a woman’s vagina. If you’re doing oral or playing around, never, ever, ever blow air into a woman’s vagina. This is not a sex myth. This is not a legend. This shit happens. The air bubble can cause an air embolism, which can then float up into the heart and essentially kill her. Not good. This condition is more likely if the woman has enlarged blood vessels resulting from pregnancy or past vaginal trauma. Since you don’t know if she has these larger vessels, don’t do dumb shit, and don’t try to cause a “pussy fart.” (During some sex moves, you’ll hear strange air sounds happening, but I don’t think that’s anything to worry about; it’s actively trying to “inflate” the woman that’s an issue. Like I sez, rare, but it does happen, and it does occasionally cause death.) And really, while everyone thinks sex is probably the best way to go out with a bang, why rush it?
You can blow on a woman’s vagina, and have fun doing so, as there seems to be no evidence of that ever causing problems. Just don’t pucker up and treat her like she’s a balloon at a kid’s party, all right?
The second thing is, the annual UNAIDS report has been released. This report is released by the United Nations’ AIDS organization and is essentially a “state of the union” report on AIDS internationally. You can find the massive, intimidating report here, which is a staggering 24MB PDF file in entirety, or you can select individual segments to read on the same URL there.
The important thing to note is that A) an increasing number of American gay men are apparently devolving and becoming STUPID FUCKHEADS because there is an increasing segment of them now engaging in unsafe sex practices because they think the dangers of HIV are somehow magically disappearing. And B) the number one cause of death in African-American women between the ages of 25-34 is now AIDS. The A-A woman is more likely to contract HIV than any other female race, and safe sex is imperative!
Safe sex is imperative whoever the hell you are. You and your partners need testing. You need to use a condom until you know you can trust your partner and you’ve both been tested. If you think they might fool around on you, insist on condoms. If you’ve ever witnessed any behaviour from them that makes you question their integrity and character, you may be risking your life by not using a condom.
Scared of hurting their pride? What, would you rather get a virus that will compromise your quality of life, threaten you with a potentially far shorter lifespan, and even make you fatally vulnerable to stupid things like the common cold? Get the fuck over yourself. Be vigilant. Condoms may kill moods, but AIDS kills you. Do the fucking math.
The CDC has a well-written and concise look at how HIV is transmitted, and if you’re at all ignorant about AIDS or HIV, you should, at the very least, read this.
Out of all the diseases in the world you can catch, the one you can most easily avoid is HIV. Responsibility saves lives. Be safe when playing with others. A friend of a friend of mine contracted HIV last year and can actually pinpoint the exact encounter in which he caught it. What a horrible thing to have to live with, the knowledge of how stupid you were in a single moment in time, and how the rest of your life is changed as a result of it. Don’t let that be you.
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.
Revisiting: "You Can Make Me Come, But…"
I’ve not been in my right mind this week, literally. So, I’m about to do something I don’t often do, which is to qualify and revisit an opinion piece; the one I posted in response to an anonymous question yesterday.
I’m human and flawed at the best of times, but this week I’ve been plagued with migraines, sleeplessness, and a few other symptoms as a result of an acute sinus infection. I’m beginning to get well, thank god, but it’s made me irritable, angry, unpleasant, and really, really bleak for the last few days, and I think it’s been showing a little too readily in some of my writing, and in this piece in particular.
First off, I’m not doing a 180 here, okay? The reader asked if I thought she was a hypocrite for doing everything but sex. No, not for that reason. I think honesty’s the most important facet of any relationship – be it with a parent, lover, friend…honesty’s EVERYTHING.
If you’re not sleeping with someone because you’re nervous, because you think you want to wait, or whatever your flavour is, then be honest. Say that sex is a really, really huge step for you, and you make no promises, and you may even wait until marriage, but that you really don’t know what your sexual future holds for now, and they can’t have any expectations of it, no matter how much you might be enjoying playing with them as you head down the road together. And if it’s confusing for them, tell them it’s far more confusing for you, because you know that’s the truth.
Don’t take the easy way out, don’t choose some simple pat answer like, “I’m waiting until marriage,” when you know deep down inside that’s not what it’s about.
Besides, you’re selling a lot of guys short. No, they may well not wait until marriage, because marriage is a huge, huge thing, but they might wait one hell of a long time for you, and you’re not giving them that opportunity to honestly consider what it is they would or wouldn’t do for you.
It’s such a hard topic, that of when sex is the right move to make. I have no qualms with abstinence until marriage, but whatever the reasons you’re choosing not to have sex, you need to be honest about them. You need to be honest about every aspect of your life, and I truly believe that.
Honesty shouldn’t be some lost virtue, or something we pull out when it’s convenient to us. It’s hard to be honest about our fears and our emotions, and sometimes being honest about them leads to hard places and difficult roads to travel because it can be so damned confusing to admit what lies behind our poker faces, but the cliché of it being the best policy is true for a reason.
It’s only through that honesty with each other that we can face challenges and adversities. If you’re being dishonest, even about something that’s “kind of” true, like waiting for the right person, you’re setting the groundwork for yourself to tell little white lies when it makes things a little easier for you to process.
I disagree with that to the very core of who I am.
Did I handle the question well? No. I’ve been in a really dark place this week and I’ve not been comfortable facing it. I’ve been dealing with things somewhat passive-aggressively, it turns out, and while I have reasoning for it, it doesn’t really excuse it.
And while you have reasoning for stretching the truth, it never excuses it, either. These are the simple truisms behind living a good life, and you are trying to choose how you want to live. Don’t commit one transgression to stave off another. Clearly, by asking the question as you did, you’re already somewhat uncomfortable with how you’re handling the situation, so maybe it’s time to reconsider.
As for abstinence – feeling guilty about it, questioning it… Abstinence is a hard, hard road to choose. You’ll have weak moments. You’ll feel pressured. You’ll feel like you’re alone in a big, sexy world. And if abstinence is really important to you, then you need to be strong and hold your position. Don’t compromise just because of all those pressures out there in that big, scary world. Do it when it’s right for you, because it’s not something you’ll ever get a chance to revisit.
Personally, I thought I waited for the right guy. In the end, we stayed together too long because I didn’t want to admit he wasn’t the right one after all. You need to be aware that waiting for rightness doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve made the right choice, and it may still go wrong, and you may eventually realize you made a mistake, and if/when that should happen, you can’t hold it against yourself. The majority of our relationships are bound to end, and many of those will end badly, and that’s why they say that all is fair in love and war; because sometimes love is war. Sometimes it’s wrong. So, if you’re holding out, be realistic, and know that your intentions are what counts, not the end result of your actions… if that makes any sense.
Anyhow. I wanted to edit that piece as soon as I posted it, but my mindset had gone to a darker place and I couldn’t conjure the genuine sentiment I needed to do the job right. I hope I have now. For whatever it’s worth, sorry it was harsh. I still agree with some of what I said, but I wish I’d said it better.