I can’t help it, I like Oprah. I even have the 20-hour 20th Anniversary DVD set, but I blame GayBoy for that, since he picked it up as an Xmas gift for me.
So, there I was, watching it, and who should she have on? Pink. The chanteuse who belts out that anti-mainstream track, Stupid Girls. Oprah invited her onto the show based on the brilliance of that track’s video, (you can play it here) which mocks the mainstream perception of what the complete woman is these days.
The gist of it is this, we live in a most ludicrously plastic time. This cult-of-celebrity shit goin’ round just pisses me the hell off. I could go and pepper this fucking rant with a hundred celebrities’ names and get myself some major hittage, but I won’t stoop that low.
God forbid I should piss off the power-bloggers (IE: Pink is the New Blog, Go Fug Yourself, Gawker, and more), but who gives a shit? How can people today care even remotely as much as they do about what Mr. Fucking Britney Spears is doing with his life? Does it matter?
The answer to that is an unequivocal NO.
I can’t understand the obsession. Can anyone explain this to me? Probably not. People are becoming so vacuous and vapid and shallow that it’s a wonder the world has any future, seriously. Cure for cancer? Not fucking likely! A better world? Fuck no! A better cellphone? You betcha!
But I’m getting off-track. What pisses me off most of all is what’s happening to the chicks of today’s generation.
I’m a fierce feminist, baby, in my own way. I don’t resent men a bit. I don’t want to see masculinity erode as the price of my attaining a stronger position in the world. I think I can have my cake and eat it, too. (And I do, it’s chocolate and caramel. Tasty.) I’m smart, I’m sexy in my cute little way, and I live my life with my integrity on my sleeve. I capitulate to no one, yet understand compromise is a way of life. I know how to get what I want, how to say what I mean, and how to behave in a non-threatening, yet intelligent manner.
Too bad the same can’t be said for the younger chicks coming up behind me. What the FUCK is going on? I blame Britney Spears, Madonna, and anyone else who’s put their fucking beauty before their brains in the last couple decades.
Like Pink said, “Sexy and smart aren’t oil and water.” You do NOT need to dumb yourself down to sex yourself up.
As long as men have a choice between a non-threatening chick who’s gonna laugh at their jokes and a smart chick who can bring some edumacatin’ to the table, there’s going to be a dichotomy of choice. The guy who chooses the latter’s always going to be the better choice for you, and don’t forget it.
Now, I don’t run around flexing my big IQ all the day long, but I can flex it when I need it, and I never, ever abandon it in favour of making a less-threatening impression.
I could have, back when I was the Queen of First Dates. I know I intimidated more than a few guys, but they got what they deserved. I said I wanted an intelligent guy who wasn’t threatened by my intelligence, yet THEY showed up on the fucking date. What, did I stutter? You wanted smart, so long as she isn’t smarter than you? Keep going, bub, this ain’t your stop.
We have a generation of Bubblegum Girls on our heels. The ones who think cleavage speaks louder than creativity, that breast size matters more than brains, that plastic surgery is the path to perfection.
Got news for you: There is no perfection.
The Guy’s not one of these losers who can’t handle smarts. But then, he’s pretty darned smart himself. Put us in a hat store and they’re gonna have some trouble sizin’ us up, I bets. He referred to me as “flawed” when listing all the things he liked about me. I furrowed my brow and quizzed him, “Flawed?” I think he was worried I was taking it the wrong way, but I was somewhat amused, since I’ve no illusion on my shortcomings. Still, he explained his thinking and introduced me to something that has previously eluded me: The concept of Wabi Sabi.
No, no, not the green stuff you mix with soy sauce for sushi, that’s wasabi. This is the Japanese principle of imperfection being the definition of beauty. That is, it’s in our uniqueness, our flaws, our subtle imperfections that our true beauty lies. The guy cited Sophia Loren as an example – weird eyes, large nose, strange jaw, dominant cheeks, but you throw it into a bowl and give it a good mix, and you have one of the most stunning beauties of this past century.
But tell that to our vapid Western society. Tell that to they who wield the airbrushes of the world. Tell that to Gawker, to Vogue, to the music video industry. Tell them that the scar on my right nostril gives me character or uniqueness. To them, it’s a reason to go under the knife and be “healed.” Tell them my intellect makes as large an impression as my big green eyes or my smiling lips or my verging-on-ghetto bootay. Today, it just don’t work that way.
While other girls wanted to be Madonna, I wanted to be Janeane Garofalo. I nearly died laughing last week when the Guy and I were talking about the “Allowed To Fuck” monogamy exlusion — that one person we can fuck outside the relationship, if the opportunity arises. His choice? Janeane Garofalo. My response? “Shit, I’ll join you.” (I haven’t decided who I’d choose yet. Hmm. So many choices, so little time. My answers were not finite, Guy!)
Garofalo’s cute, smart, sexy, funny as hell, and she doesn’t take shit from no one. Did I mention the killer smarts? And, like me, she wears glasses instead of contacts. She’s flown in the face of a Hollywood that demanded she conform, yet she’s held her own. Sure, she’s thin now, but she wasn’t always, and she did it for herself, not for the industry.
It’s bad enough that the media’s perpetuating these stereotypes – and even escalating them, but to have today’s young women participating in these negative trends usurping them of their righteous feminine powers is a fucking travesty.
Respect yourself. Be who you really are. Use your brains. Speak in your own voice. Don’t dumb shit down for a guy who doesn’t deserve what you have to offer.
And men, if you’re tired of the vapid beauties, fucking well SAY something about it. You may enjoy looking at the images, but are you enjoying the lack of brains that come with?
Can we, for once, return to the long-ago fantasties of sexy librarians and teachers with yardsticks? Chicks with brains who knew what they were doing when they dropped their drawers? Is it really such a terrible thing, self-knowledge and the ability to express one’s self? Must I and my peers continue feeling like some sort of carbon-dated example of what women once were?
‘Cause, shit, honey, I’ll tell you one thing: I go under the knife for no one. I am what I am, it is what it is, and you’d better get accustomed.
Tag Archives: hot
Confessions of a Serial Kisser
Nice, full lips: I can’t get enough of them. I bite, nibble, and suck them with little regard for consequences. I acquiesce to an invading tongue like a defenseless village against raiders. Enter at will, I silently command, unwilling to put up a fight, but ready to engage regardless.
I nibble, bite, lick, and suck my way down his torso, enjoying it as much or more than he does. It’s my land, my territory, and intimate knowledge is my only goal. There’s no part of the body safe from my probing, and I’m an explorer with abandon, navigating first with my hands, then staking my claim with my lips. A nibble, a bite, a suck… all aphrodisiacs for yet another.
Like an addict, one is never, ever enough.
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.
Guests: He Bop, She Bop, a-We… Never Bopped?
A big ol’ Canadian thank you out to these lovely Texan bloggers, Goose & Gander, who decided to take a stroll through the happy walkways of mutual masturbation for us, the flies on the wall.
Now, I couldn’t find any nice photos about this topic — nada, none, nyet. And I like pictures, they’re purty. So, I thought instead I’d include a photo from one of my favourite sites, of one of my favourite sexual positions.
What I found interesting here was that two people who are so into each other sexually were initially ambivalent about this. God knows I’ve been the ambivalent one, too. But that’s the thing, that ambivalence is out there. I’m not going to keep banging my drum, though. You heard my thoughts. Here’s theirs. Thanks, G&G.
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Recently we were honored to receive a request from La Scribe Steff to discuss amongst ourselves, and share with you our thoughts, the timely topic of mutual masturbation. We told her, yes yes yes!, but, well, we’d really never done it much.
What to do, what to do in a case like this? Well, mutually masturbate, of course!
But before we get to the juicy details: Why haven’t we done it? There were a couple of reasons.
- It never came up
- We were good with each other already
- Silly old embarrassment
Embarrassment was the tough one, of course, so we decided to investigate in stages. We are nothing if not determined to bring to you, the Cunting Linguist reader, high-quality research.
Really Shy Mutual Masturbation
The first night we chatted a bit, took off our clothes, got completely under the covers, snuggled our heads together, closed our eyes and got to business.
It started off kind of odd and, well, dry. So, out came the lube and I pulled out ye old silver vibe just to ensure a good result. I’d say the first few minutes were kind of stiff (ha) and quiet and a little uncomfortable. But soon, the vibe did its work, and my breathing increased, and so did Gander, and then little chirps and moans began and then I came and he came and I came, and selfishly (because the experiment was mostly over) came again. I like to come in threes.
Then we put the laundry away and laughed.
Silly Vanilla Mutual Masturbation
The next night we were both very horny. It was about 6:45 and Gander was due to go back out from 8:00-midnight, and there was no way in hell I was going to stay up that late to jill off. I decided at this moment that we’d distract the goslings with large bowls of ice cream and a movie.
With this semblance of privacy, we ran into the bedroom, latched the door, and went to town. This was a much better experience. There was necking, pinching, fucking, rubbing and oral. At one point, when Gander was going down on me, I stopped him and had him put his fingers in me as I masturbated while he watched. Oooh! That was great! Then we fucked a little bit more, and he pulled out and I stroked his balls while he masturbated. Ooh! That was great, too.
Then we raced back out of the room to stop the kids from destroying the couch while pretending to be dinosaurs.
All in all, we began to see the point.
Kinda-Kinky Mutual Masturbation
Life intruded and we were unable to really have any sexual contact for days and days. But last night, after talking with friends about spanking for a few hours, we got into bed and started fooling around. One thing led to another and Gander grabbed my hand, shoved it between my legs rather forcefully, and rolled me over. I rubbed myself furiously while he spanked me very hard. Yessiree! Then I rolled over and massaged his balls and he jerked off on my stomach.
Hooray!
Okay. I think we have the hang of it and we’ll be including it in our repertoire. Thanks Steff, for helping us break through a barrier we didn’t even know we had.
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BACK TO ME, LE SCRIBE STEFF: And thank you, you fabulous folks, for contributing to the series. True mutual masturbation is getting to the finishing point solo with your partner observing and responding in kind, it’s ALSO a weird-as-shit experience because of the embarrassment listed above. It’s not for everyone, but yeah, it’s highly recommended. Besides, varying sex is a good, good thing. And like these brilliant folk above, trying it once, twice, three times before you pass judgment is a smart move. It’s like trying anal or something — it’s not going to be a great fit with everyone, but when it works, well… y’all come back now, y’hear?