Author Archives: Steffani Cameron

I was showering after some housework (somethin’ nice about gettin’ real clean after being dirty) and thinking. I wrote a rant a bit ago on beauty products, and mentioned I use Aveeno baby shampoo and sugar to exfoliate. I just finished doing that, kinda all over, since I have a date later, and I realized I have this habit of always licking my lips after I do this on my face. See, the sugar leaves me tasting sweet.

Me, I like knowing I’m literally delicious. Wouldn’t you? So, I scrub with sugar, then use Kama Sutra’s Honey Dust to finish it off after I apply a little natural scented almond oil. Hey, it’s good to be yummy. You too can be your very own food group. Never underestimate the appeal of familiar flavours. (This works for guys, too, so take note. Be yummy!)

*Web stats rock: Someone just found me by searching for “masturbation with teddy bears.” Who knew? If that was you, can you email me why you’re looking? Kink? Tell me about it.

Unleashing Your Vixen: Moves From the Bottom

Woman on Bottom bravely asked a few of those questions most women don’t ask because they’re too embarrassed. How does a woman, under her lover, get involved and change the pace of things when he’s thrusting away? And also, does a Vixen’s role change when it’s lovemaking as opposed to fucking, and vice versa?
Let’s tackle part two first. The difference between “lovemaking” and “fucking” is a mood, an edge. Fucking’s when animalism comes out to play. It’s when the emotions hit a fever pitch. Lovemaking’s true intimacy and tends to be more about exploring your lover (if you’re doing it right, that is) and expressing how you feel. Now, this is very much in theory. I don’t know about your lovelife, but those distinctions apply well to mine.
So, then, here’s the thing. You do the same stuff. It’s not that complicated. It’s just about the edge and how hard you go for it — so to speak.
For fucking, you bite a little more, a little harder. You dig your heels deeper, your fingernails scratch harder. You thrust or squeeze or whatever you do, faster, harder, and more greedily. It’s a mood thing. The actions are essentially all the same.
It’s kind of the difference between pedalling a bike along a nice, flat seashore, and taking in all the scenery, working consistently and over a long period, versus getting that bike up a monster hill with the sweating, teeth-gritting, and panting that comes with it. You go with the mood.
I really don’t think you need to worry too much about changing things up. Learn to just go with the moment. And if you apply the wrong amount of intensity, who cares? So you’ve gotten a little overeager in lovemaking and it switches gears a little to some down’n’dirty fucking. Is that really so wrong? Stop overthinking it. Go with it. Feel the moment and see where it takes you.
Odds are, accidentally switching to fucking from lovemaking will leave you both spent and laughing and thrilled. Hardly an unfortunate accident.
All right. Back to the beginning.

He’s over you, in you, on you. Thrusting. His eyes are closed, he’s concentrating, keeping his rhythm, and he’s used to you doing this – very, very little – so he’s not really too worried about you. Occasionally he plants a kiss on your neck, a token reminder that in other galaxies, in alter-existences, this tango would be danced by two. He continues thrusting, biting on his bottom lip now, clenching his eyes shut, maybe imagining what it would be like if you suddenly couldn’t get enough of him, and you start to think, “Geez. It’d be nice if I felt a little more involved. What should I do first?”

The easiest thing to do is always to start nibbling on his neck, biting, sucking, and nibbling on his neck. Keep it light and simple – hickeys are fun for folks who can get away with it, but are a real pain in the ass when we can’t, and I’m speaking from experience, when a hickey caused a world of grief for me at work. After all, that’s why we wear shirts: Put the fucking hickey on the shoulder, on the chest, on the ass, anywhere you want, but think twice about the neck.
Don’t spend too long on the neck, if shifting the mood’s what you want to do. Begin sinking your teeth into his shoulder, biting a bit.
While you’re dining on Grade-A shoulder, you can reach around him. Press your palms flat on his shoulderblades and drive your hands firmly, with an awful lot of friction, all down his back, over his ass. Squeeze his cheeks, dig your nails in if you want to, and maybe even use a finger to tease him in the crack of his anus. If you’ve been seldom involved, then THAT will should show him that something turned your lightbulb on. “I’ve been reading,” you can tell him.
During all this, you really, really become absolutely in the moment.
Focus on how things feel – know what’s happening to your body. Focus on his rigid girth sliding in and out of you, how warm and good that cock feels, how it feels when it’s moving from shallow into deeper passes and back again. Focus on the slapping sounds, really try to follow what’s happening with your lover’s body.
Feel the moment, like I said, and let it take you where you should go. Be the moment, Grasshopper.
Let the moment lead you, don’t worry about “But Steff said shoulder-back-palms…” NO, I suggested it. Mostly, just let the moment and what you really wanna do deep down in that dirty place you usually ignore.
As you grow to study your lover’s moves more and more, you’ll be able to start anticipating things,&  you’ll know what it takes to really heighten the moment, via thrusting, biting, whatever, but that knowledge comes from studying – how does he move, what feels best for you?
If you shift yourself slightly, does his penis hit somewhere else inside you, a better place? Know these feelings.
It’s different for every single one of us, so you need to be the documentarian who’s keeping notes on how to vamp up her own sex life. Capische?
So, as you’re nibbling/biting/sucking/putting those god-given lips to good use — and those hands, they should always be working the moment one way or another, even if you’re rubbing your own clit as he thrusts (they like that, too) — you find his rhythm and you respond.
I don’t care if he’s 280 pounds – you should be strong enough to start doing some thrusting in sync with his. Every time his pelvis lifts, yours sinks back into the mattress. When he lowers to thrust into you, you raise your pelvis up into his. You thrust as hard as you can, on beat, every time.
It’s easier to thrust on the bottom if you have your knees bent and your feet planted — or with legs wrapped around him — but as you exercise those lumbar muscles and lower ab muscles, you’ll start getting stronger and better at thrusting in nearly any position you find yourself in. If you learn how to move from the hips themselves instead of using your whole groin area to thrust, you’ll find the movements to be sharper, more intense, and with more payback at his end (and thus at yours).
And it’s important to get your muscles stronger so you can thrust in any position, because there’s not a lot of men who don’t love the feeling of having a woman’s legs wrapped right around their waist during sex.
What’s really great about wrapping your legs around a guy, when things are heating up and you’re really into the moment, you can use your legs to pull him as tight and hard and deep into you as possible. Your legs will be wrapped around the small of his back at this point. After he’s thrust down into you, squeeze and hold him there, tight. For men, I’m told most of their sensation’s both at the head of the penis or the base of the shaft, so when you’re pulling him in hard, he’ll be really, really enjoying the moment. Keep your legs there but release some pressure, and let him resume thrusting, but if you want to be playful, you can cutely instruct him, “Mine. Stay!” Or something along those lines. Get dirtier if you want to, since I find that fun. Be careful, though, because this could feel TOO good for him and you might prematurely end your fun.
The thing about talking during sex, though, and I’ve been guilty of stupidity on this front like almost everywoman in the world, is that it’s important to try and steer away from routine things. Keep the sentiments short and to the point, and keep the focus on action, not conversation so much.
Say things, but don’t expound, unless it’s about something happening then and there that can be improved or changed.
The more you say, the more you run the risk of saying the wrong thing and wrecking the mood. Let’s face it, during sex, our brains aren’t getting nearly the blood nor oxygen it desires, so let’s not overwork the thing, shall we? Keep the blood where it belongs. Flowing in your loins.
Back to using your legs. It’s funny that so many women think there’s nothing they can do being under a guy. It’s just a silly thought.
Using your legs defines how everything feels. Using your legs to change your body angles even slightly affects the way his cock feels (to both him and you) as he slides in and out. Some positions allow you to feel him even deeper, harder.
The thing is, you need to get into those positions, you need to explore them.
Wrapping legs around the hips, a great start.
So’s intertwining your legs lengthwise with his and locking them into place via scooping your foot under his shins or something can allow you to use your muscles then to clench everything in your abdominal and vaginal and anal region. This can really make it a nice, tight, arousing fit for your man of choice. It tightens all the muscles so he’s getting more of a vice grip on his shaft, something most men’ll tell you is a good thing – but, AGAIN, too much of a good thing can result in him blowing his load early, especially if having you involved is a shock to his system.
Therefore, don’t let the moment become a marathon, hey?
One of my all-time favourite moves, and I’m not sure quite what I like about it so much, but it’s probably along the lines that it has an awful lot of deep sensation and is closest to some of the classic moves like doggy style, is the one in this photo. All you need to do is either push him back a little or ask him to kneel for a second, then pull your legs up in front of his chest and put your ankles over his shoulder. This position feels so goddamned good but you need to be a little flexible to pull it off. (I’m not some size 6 with yoga classes under her belt, but yeah, I can bend. You might surprise yourself, too. Try it. If it hurts, you can always stop. Bet it feels purty good, though.)
Personally, I find it excellent for low-back problems, but that’s not going to apply universally. If you can handle it, do it, because men have a lot to love about this position, too. Guys are visual and they absolutely love watching their penis slide in and out of a woman, and this position not only gives them the vantage point from which to see that, but unlike doggy and a few other positions, it allows them to see your face as they take you to the edge – and your breasts as they bounce side to side and up and down with every thrust the men make. Seeing the face, though, there’s something undeniably amazing about knowing it’s you who’s caused that look of agonized ecstasy to spill across a person’s face, and I suppose it’s one of the factors I enjoy about this position. I love watching him watching me.
Finally, the easiest, and still one of my faves, and allows for some of the sensation of the above position without you having to ask him to move, is while he’s thrusting, simply use your hands to pull your knees up to your chest (by his shoulders) in a classic knee-to-chest leg-stretch. A lot of feeling, allows for a really deep thrust, and he’s guaranteed to love it. You can alter the sensation here, too, by moving back and forth between allowing your back round out (sort of like the cat pose in yoga) and then arch away from him. It’ll drastically affect how it feels, but definitely be careful if it’s your first time trying those, since it could be a bit challenging on a virgin back. But, yeah, back and forth — arching, rounding — subs in for thrusting, giving him the same amount of contribution from you, but in a sensationally different manner. Give it a go.
As your legs tire a bit, you can take breaks by letting your legs wrap around him again. I advise going back and forth between these positions during a single session, if you’re looking to change things up a bit. A moment or two in this position, a moment or two in that.
But, hey, there’s a lot to be said for seeing one thing through, too. Every time is different. And should be.
Just GO with it. Stop thinking! Start feeling! Ignore society’s advice to act on logic, not emotion. Feel the moment and let it take you where you should go. That’s all it takes.
And don’t worry — “feeling the moment” will take you to newer, bolder, more different places as time passes, because the lover you are within will change and grow as you lighten up and think less. Being the best lover we can be doesn’t happen over night, it takes years, decades, because it’s not just about skill — it’s about being truly open and comfortable with yourself, and that’s the journey we’re all after for the whole of our lives.
And here’s where it really starts to take hold.
There’s more on this topic to come.
(The photo is from SexyFX.com, an awesome site.)

There are few books I own that mean as much to me as The Soul of the World, “a modern book of hours,” by Phil Cousineau and photographer Eric Lawton. From Lao-Tzu to Langston Hughes, the writings in this anthology really tap into some of the deeper recesses I know. The photography, god… makes me long for some other life, makes me know how much I’m missing. Still, I love it still, though it’s sadly out of print.

Today, I’m officially unemployed. This is the one writing I keep in my mind, the one that makes sense of the notion of walking away from financial security for a few months, for “mental health” reasons. Funny, we think we’re so civilized. The so-called “savages” are smarter than we’ll ever be.

“A white explorer in Africa, anxious to press ahead with his journey, paid his porters for a series of forced marches. But they, almost within reach of their destination, set down their bundles and refused to budge. No amount of extra payment would convince them otherwise.

They said they had to wait for their souls to catch up.”

Bruce Chatwin, author & explorer (1940-1989)

Today, I shall endeavour to do everything more slowly, more deliberately. I want my soul riding shotgun this fine day.

*The link to Lawton’s site above allows you to buy prints of these and other phenomenal images by this photog, who is among my all-time favourites.

A Note from the Management

Soon, my life will be completely different. Like, tomorrow. I’m cutting the net, flying solo without a harness, and taking a chance to quit my job and focus on a few things like writing and photography for a bit. I guess I’m putting my money where my mouth is and living the unexpected life I try to urge others to do. I’ll tell you about that down the road, but for now, I’m still internalizing.

It’s a little daunting, though, but exhilerating. Today’s my last day at my film industry job that’s been like family for six years. Tomorrow, the net’s gone. Whew. It’s one thing to know what you need, it’s another to actively take it. Oi, is it.

Now I can get back into the habit of writing every morning. I love morning writing. Coffee, night-thoughts, the world busying itself beyond my windows. The light. I love the morning light. My apartment faces east, so my apartment is buttered in light on the sunrise mornings. It’s a lazy, casual world.

I’ve never written here about my home, but I imagine that among us sensualists in the world, there’s more than a few who share my need for a cocoon. I bathe myself in the comforts of home and I just love my pad. It’s best described as an eclectic professor meets hipster artist, I guess. Lots of rich colour, lots of bold accessories, walls and piles of books, but it all comes together for a casual pad that’s great to lounge in (with requisite beanbag chair, in cow pattern). My upcoming days and weeks will be spent turning a nice home back into a great home after months of neglect. I just need a splash of paint in the hall, and this… I need to figure out what the hell to do in my bedroom / writing office, which has been “near completion” for a couple years running. But, ah-ha, I have a notion. Ka-ching.

But when I begin cleaning and painting, I’ll tell you one thing, the topics on here are going to swing wildly in many directions, I bet. That’s when I start sifting through all my piles of papers I try to ignore for six months at a time, and in those piles, scraps of papers with notes of mine about oddities of all kinds. Like this:

“32 cm cock casts shadow across the room. All you see is shadow. Long, rigid, erect-cock-type shadows. Condoms creep out of the storm drain. They whimper and snigger and giggle, bouncing happily, until some sort of Gremlin-esque scenario (the smell of natural cock?) turns them into Killer Condoms, and they roar and flash their teeth, gnashing angrily at the erect member!”

Which would be notes about either two things, one, a conservative think-tank plan to cut down on promiscuity, or, as the case happens to be, two, this horrible German shocker-thriller movie in the ilk of the Killer Tomatoes and the Killer Bees, rather originally called “The Killer Condom,” which I bought six years ago for my buddy GayBoy. The slogan? “The rubber that rubs you out!” One night of drinking and debauchery and nothing to do but stargaze from his roof on an autumn night, we put the stupid disc in and watched it. I kept laughing so hard I’d occasionally spray beer. Oh, was it bad. (There’s a segment where a drag queen, for instance, lipsyncs “Killing Me Softly” in a sexy fuck-me-now kind of way, except for the fact that it’s the ugliest frickin’ DQ ever, with the syncing being more than one second off-time with the the actual lyrics. Yo, can we get a dubber in the house! This movie’s got worse sound-sync than the Asian martial arts movies of the 1970s, man.)

I took notes, thinking I’d write on it, and never, ever did. There’s hundreds of these notes scattered about. All this effort to think about writing and yet these convenient notions abound.

Anyhow. Just an update on the ongoing chaos that has been my life. February has been as tumultuous as it gets. Tomorrow, it all slows down. I toldja last month, I gotta get slow — fast. And now I am. I look forwards to the creativity it brings me, is what I’m saying. A fun ride, I should think. Come with.

Unleashing Your Vixen: Some Serious Thoughts

Do you ever have those moments when clarity comes up behind you with a baseball bat and beats the hell out of you?
You get up, groggy, woozy, disoriented, but shit, you know better now, man.
I’ve been avoiding getting into this Vixen thing. The problem with procrastination is that you avoid things so much that you fail to even become aware of why the avoidance is there in the first place.
But then clarity comes along with that fucking bat and, sooner or later, you clue the hell in. Like I did about 30 minutes ago. For some reason, today I feel like I’m Frodo walking across that marshland with all the corpses under the surface of the pondwater. I feel like I’m about to go under, like there’s some kinda tether wrapped around my heart and strung to the reeds below the surface, tugging me down and trying to seduce me into the dark.
It sounds really intense, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. Sure, it feels like that, but it’s a really surreal feeling, like there’s a bubble around me, like there’s all these dead little faces floating around me of people who think they’re alive, but really just aren’t. That I’m sitting around in utter silence on a freezing day in February might be adding to those Dali-esque proportions, so maybe I’ll just browse my iTunes here and stoke up a change of pace. When in doubt, go with the Butthole Surfers, that’s my policy.
This week, the week that follows Valentine’s Day, is the least favourite of my year. In a span of six days falls the anniversary of when the docs found a grapefruit-sized tumour in my mother’s belly and her birthday. Yes, that’s been on my mind. She has been on my mind an awful lot, particularly in relation to this topic. I, more than anything else in her life, am my mother’s legacy, and that’s not arrogance, that’s the admiration of a daughter who had a mother deserving of it. I am my mother’s daughter – in most ways.
If you met me in real life, you’d see a lot of similarities to the person on these pages. I’m boisterous, brazen, demure, open, scathing — whatever you want to call me, I’m an awful lot of those things. But my mother blazed that trail, baby. She was a model in her youth, she was hot when she died, didn’t look over 50. She had red hair, green eyes, and she was a risk-taker and a daredevil. She sold real estate, raced yachts, and wasn’t afraid of a fucking thing (most of the time).
She was never open about sex. I doubt she ever became a vixen. I bet she never trusted a man enough. I don’t think she ever got past the shame of what sex symbolized in her demented little worldview on the subject. My father and I were recently talking, musing about whether she had been sexually assaulted at age 12. My father grew up in her neighbourhood, they were friends all their lives, and he remembered when she changed, as if she just broke. He said something was never the same after she was 12, that day they came home to find her scantily clad, rocking barefoot under the farm’s kitchen table, shaking and sobbing.
This Vixen thing… it’s a personal mission for me, really. I’ve been the legacy of dysfunctional views on sex. I’ve seen what a loveless marriage does not only to the participants but the children involved. I’ve seen what happens to men (including my father) who get neglected and taken for granted, what happens to women forgotten by their lovers, and it all breaks my heart. It’s a really sad thing to behold, the loss of someone’s sexual side.
When I was young, I fell for that fascist Ayn Rand, and one quote stands out after all these years, that “avoiding death does not equal living life.” We’ve somehow fallen into this trap of “surviving” life. Yeah, you go right ahead. Survive. I’m gonna live, thanks.
And that’s the problem, most of us are content to merely survive our jobs, survive our relationships, whatever it takes to make it to the other side with the least resistance.
Being a vixen, or in the case of the men out there, an attentive, daring, open lover who’s receptive to his lover’s needs, takes guts. It doesn’t happen from just thinking it’d be nice to go there. It’s about actively pushing your fears and apprehensions. It’s about saying you’re not scared about being judged. But mostly, it’s about trusting this lover of yours you claim you trust. It’s about putting your money where your mouth is, baby.
It’s too late for my mother, and I caught the bus last decade, man, so I’m good, but there are a lot of folks out there who must learn how much more fun life is when they learn that being vulnerable doesn’t necessarily mean becoming hurt*, it means sucking the marrow out of life and taking the chances you’ve been resisting.
Mostly, though, it’s about really having great new experiences. So, you know, like they says, you better get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’, but make your fucking choices and stop just letting life happen to you. Being a dead fish is simply the personification of all those other little fears you have inside. Confront them.
Me, being a vixen underlies EVERYTHING I do in my life. I take chances, I go with the moment, and I may not have the fancy car and the retirement package some of my conservative friends have, but I’ve got experiences. Very cool experiences. So far, dying tomorrow, I’d have few, if any regrets, and knowing that is the greatest thing I can say about who I am.
*And even if you get hurt occasionally by becoming vulnerable, I’ve discovered firsthand that the richness of everyday experiences far outweighs those occasional bumps and bruises along the way. Like mountain biking or something, sometimes you fall, sure, but at least you’re out there having the experience most of the time… and hurts always heal. I take my lumps and go again.

I Blame It All On George Michael

Creativity’s an organic process; I know what I want to write for y’all, but I can’t help it if something flicks the switch and something else comes out. This morning, I was sweeping the kitchen, dancing around, listening to cheesy ’80s music, when this posting occurred to me. Remembering some of this fodder made me laugh out loud, and I’ve still got a grin on my face. So, hopefully you find the diversion fun. I’ll deliver on the Vixen thing.
When I was in Grade 4/5, Wham! took the world by storm. As always, I was a latebloomer, and I fell for them in Grade 7. George Michael made me swoon. Those lips, those eyes, and oh, my god, that ass.
I would dance around my pink bedroom with Freedom playing on full blast. I dreamed of nothing more than somehow encountering my idol and having an affair. Surely he liked 13-year-old girls, I thought. I mean, eight more months and I, too, would be 13. We would kiss. Madly. Sex wasn’t something I’d be considering much for at least another four or five years, but kissing…
A year or two after that, I saw him walking down the street in Vancouver with this Asian woman on his arms. A few months down the road, she’d come to fame as his lover from the video I Want Your Sex, the famed torso upon which the pop star would write, in lipstick, “Explore monogamy.” I clued in pretty fast, guys like exotic chicks, not 13 year olds, and they liked sex, not kissing, and they liked flat little torsos, it seemed.
But that didn’t faze me. I still loved my George. When I discovered masturbation, George was there with me, that sexy bare chest in those little shorts he used to wear. I didn’t even have to imagine George doing anything to me. The fantasy was an album signing. He looked up. Our eyes locked. I creamed my pants. One glance from George, it seemed, was enough to do me in. Oh, George! (gush) Naturally, masturbation then consisted of dry-humping an interesting pile of teddy bears and pillows contoured in, frankly, very strange places, while holding a little teen magazine with the latest male hottie with a perfect smile on the cover. (Oh, GEORGE!)
Honestly, when I was young, I missed the bus to Hipville. It took me a while to grow out of dorkness. My mom was a bit of a hippy, and my clothes were often homemade and things like that, or just badly chosen. It wasn’t until I left private school (Catholic… think kilts and knee-highs, boys… ooh, tartan) and did public school that I finally found a clue.
George kept me company in those dark years. Corey Hart kinda helped, too, and Michael J. Fox. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve been a Johnny Depp girl since 1991.
The best thing I ever did for my sex life in my teens, though, was to buy a pair of Doc Martens. My first weekend in them, Josh. Oh, Joshie, Joshie, Joshie. German and Japanese. What a fucking studmuffin. (I always remember my friend having to explain what a studmuffin was to her confused father. “Why, Daddy, it’s a stud you can really sink your teeth into.”) Josh was built for lovin’ – he was 6’4, broad shoulders, and lips that made for smothering, baby.
Yep. One kiss from Josh and I figured, huh, these boots are something. See, he spots me at a party with all our mutual friends, me and my 13-hole docs, and beelines over, commenting that cherry was always the sexiest colour for him. “Oxblood,” I corrected him. Our lips locked shortly after that for the ultimate in gropefests on the back steps. It was the first time a boy ever grabbed my boobs and squeezed and groped, the first time I knew what it felt like for a boy to fumble as to tried to get under the bra and over the breast, and the first time I ever had the distinct feeling of being moist in public.
Naturally, Josh told the world that it had been us who was making the camper a-rockin’, and a classic teen “But I’m not a slut, that was SUZY!” drama unfolded. But I learned something important then. Image was everything, and George wasn’t doing me no favours. I started experimenting with music and quickly found U2 and Front 242, and learned that bad was good, and haven’t looked back since. These days, I’m a punk rock poser-girl some of the time, but usually just a nitty-gritty indie rock kinda gal. No, no Docs these days, but my Skechers are kinda cute.
Funny thing, though. A while back, I had this guy I was sorta wooin’ after dinner. We were interacting, on the cusp of sex, but the nerves were in the way, so instead we were standing too far apart, with that invisible awkwardness barrier repelling us. My iPOD developed a mind of its own and suddenly Wham! spun on.

“Wake me up, before you go-go
Don’t leave me hangin’ on like a yo-yo”

Next thing you know, the boy and I were bouncing around the kitchen, laughing and singing, washing dishes, cleaning up, and naturally, a spot of water on the floor yielded a well-placed slip, and we collided into each other, against the counter, collectively gasped, locked lips, fumbled about, and the rest unfolded exactly as it should, upon my bed.
I guess our liabilities aren’t always what they seem, and the past is never as far away as we’d like to think. But is that so bad? That night, it wasn’t.
PS: Incidentally, of all my teen idols, GM’s the only one I still find sexy. Not my type per se anymore, but still has “it”.

What?

Do you like it when I use those dirty words? All those verbs, and always, always me? Or do you like it better when I whisper lewd things I could be doing to you when we’re in a crowded place? Is it the willingness to do all those inappropriate things in all the wrong places? Or maybe it’s that eagerness to try new things? What about that list I’m keeping of all the things we’ve tried together? In writing, in order, you like that, don’t you? My attention to detail? The ever-increasing imagination?

Oh, I know what it is. It’s this crazy inconspicuousness, the way you can introduce me to anyone, and they’d never, ever guess.

That’s your favourite thing.

A Ramble: Valentine's Day

This day, the 15th, is one of my least favourite days of the year for private reasons. I fucking hate it. So, I got to thinking last night as I smoked a joint and continued to write, and this is the rambling ode I had about being single on Valentine’s day, and I dedicate it to all those who rolled out of bed alone today and didn’t feel badly about it.
I’m at home on Valentine’s night. There’s a Dr. Phil show on, about how to “love smart.” It’s a primetime special. Ever noticed how the matchmaker sites go onto full boil around this time of year? Notice the fix-up services advertising more these days? It’s like the world conspires to tell you you’re a loser if a) you’re single or b) your lover doesn’t spend enough on you or c) your lover doesn’t put out.
I’m reveling in my singleness this evening. I made garlic bread. With extra garlic. And spaghetti with meat sauce, something the wise would never eat in front of a date. I’m wearing my cut-off shorts and a fleecy sweater. I’m having an awesome night of relaxing, writing, cooking, watching a little telly, and reading. And deep down inside there’s this niggling of “But they think you need a boyfriend. Do ya, honey?”
I know I had a moment of weakness last week, that’s what I do know. I seized a moment with someone and let things go further than they should have, but for that night, regardless of what the future did or didn’t hold, companionship sounded like a good idea. There are people you know you can trust, even if you can’t imagine really being with them for the long haul. And there are weak moments.
Ultimately, though, I do love being single. I admit, I am alone. I’m not lonely, though. Not usually. (Weakness, it happens.) And I resent Valentine’s Day (and the media and society) for seeming to think my lack of desire for a real, true relationship is anything less than healthy. I want a relationship, but I want the right relationship. Anything less than simpatico is just not worth my time, grief, or efforts. The right man, he gets it all. I’ll drop anything for the right guy, you know. I’m just a diehard romantic. But I scrutinize with the best of them, and I just want the right combination.
Otherwise, I’ll keep my Sundays for reading the paper in my boxers and a t-shirt. I’ll get up when I want, sleep where I want, eat what I want, and do what I want. I won’t have to check to see if “our schedule” is clear, I won’t have to worry about any of that. Like I say, when it’s right, it’s worth it, but when it’s not absolutely right, it’s infringing on my space.
That makes me very male in some ways, I think. I’m not sure why more men feel that way than women, but perhaps it comes down to how comfortable they are alone. It’s interesting, I’ve seen an increase in the media, people bringing up something I’ve long believed: One of the worst things you can say to a lover is what they said in Jerry Maguire, “You complete me.”
If you cannot be complete on your own, you are not a whole person. If you do not have a sense of self, you have nothing. If you cannot love yourself, who else can? These are clichés, and for good reason. They’re as true as they can be.
If you don’t know yourself when you fall in love with someone, you’re going to have the very, very rude experience of cluing the fuck in to who you are somewhere down the line, and that person you’ve committed yourself to is going to find out that they no longer fit the bill. Who you love must complement who you are, not complete it. We’re foolish when it comes to love, we put the cart before the horse.
I long ago discovered that my “fuctedness,” as one pal would say, needed solitude. Every time I got into a relationship, I lost more and more of who I was. I became this person who needed to have that approval from “them” in order to have that sense of self. Now, I couldn’t care less. I know that the right people, the ones I want around me, they dig me. The ones who don’t dig me, don’t get me, and won’t have me, and that’s just fine. Don’t fight it, man. Go with the flow.
But when you really learn to dig yourself, you don’t need anyone anymore. You see people for what they are: Icing on a fuckin’ fab cake, baby.
See, the difference between those of us who enjoy being single and those who do not is pretty simple. Those of us who enjoy it, we’re optimistic about love. We figure, hey, if the time’s ever right, if the cosmos ever aligns, then maybe we’ll come out of that with something/one we just can’t get enough of. Until then, we’re alone, and we’re going to enjoy it, ‘cos when that love comes, aloneness goes. And it’s more than aloneness. It’s solitude, quietude. There are some things you will never, ever experience if you don’t command your time alone. Some of the most profound experiences of my life have come to me in moments spent completely isolated from the world.
I moved to the Yukon for one year when I was 21, and it was a profound experience all the way around. Before then, I was a popular gal and always had plans, always was out. I moved there and discovered the true art of being alone and loving it, and it changed my life. I remember a night right around summer solstice. It was daylight then from three in the morning until two in the morning, just an hour of dusk in between… fucking sublime. Sigh. You could sit and watch the sunset followed by the sunrise in the time it took to slowly nurse a single beer. I was having one of these profound days – a day in between nights at the bar, preceding a long weekend away, where we’d be camping at the foot of Mount McKinley and Mount Logan, the continent’s highest peaks. I remember thinking, “I’ve got it pretty fucking good. This will be one of the best times in my life, and I will never, ever forget these experiences. But tonight I got to slow it down and keep it all to me.”
I packed up a few things… a joint, a couple of beers, some Robert Service poetry, and a sweater. I drove the car out of the city (of 15,000) into the nearby country, Miles’ Canyon, the Yukon’s mini version of the Grand, through which the Yukon river carved a wide and tumultuous path. I did a hike out to the edge of the canyon and found an isolated spot above the river where I sat leaning against an alpine fir and facing northward, where I could see the sun dead ahead, just slightly left of the magnetic north. It was midnight and the sunset wasn’t far off. The mountains lay before me to the north (and to the south and east and west) and the land was all reds and browns and greens and yellows with this beautiful deep blue sky. The light, as that incredible northern light is, was absolutely preternatural. There’s something angelic and sweet about the late eveningg summer’s light up there that bathes the world in buttery goodness. I did what I often do, I just sat there and watched how the light changed and shadows shifted on the landscape. There’s something profound about sitting there literally watching time pass by.
So all I did was sit there, consider my life, my place, the potential in my future, who I was and who I would become. To this day, that moment stands in my top twenty, if not my top ten, in my life experiences – and still, stacked up against international trips, true rites of passage, it holds its own, my friends. I was with no one. Nothing really happened. It was quietude in its finest. Not a human voice. Not a plane. Not a vehicle. Nothing electronic. No wires. Nothing. Just me, the gods, and the earth. And it was fucking incredible.
And when you’re afraid of aloneness, you miss out on moments like that. Moments when you sit around and connect with nature on your own time. A guy once said to me, Cities are built for distraction. Meaning, they’re there to help us forget all the things we wish for, that we’ll never have. So too are the wrong relationships, Valentine’s day be damned.
When you spend more time alone, when you get really honest with yourself about what you ought to be valuing, you gain this inner contentment about what it is you’ve got, and you often develop clarity about what it is you need, and how to attain it. These are things, qualities, that many of my fellow (wo)men need to find.
I wouldn’t say that being single leaves me in a state of nirvana, but I’m in a place that I really dig, and it’s because I’ve come to feel that I’d rather be alone than in a relationship where I’m not fully… I don’t know, what, plugged in? I’m charged, he’s charged, it’s all good? I mean, I’m damned good company, most times, so I’d really have to value a guy to keep him around, is what I’m saying. Life’s just too fucking short.
So, yeah, Valentine’s day. I digressed a lot there. Love’s hard enough without cheapening it with commercialism. If you want romance, celebrate it always. If you want love, keep it year round, not because a calendar tells you it’s that time again. And love ain’t about what you can buy, people. These expensive gifts… really. When did generosity become about the almighty dollar? When did it stop being a thing of spirit, of gesture? I just honestly find that buying into this Valentine’s day bullshit really helps to make people forget what relationships ought to be about. The little things: The qualities shared, the words said, the actions done. Not the things bought. Not the fancy places we go.
But the very best thing about being a content, whole person in the search of love, is that when you find someone who really does deserve a shot at fitting that bill, it’s so incredibly rewarding to just drink them in. They’re not fulfilling you, they’re just nurturing all that is good about you. Then, it feels like a gift, like something you should cherish. Something you want to cherish. Not a job, not an obligation. And isn’t that how things ought to be?

Unleashing Your Vixen: Using Notes Pt. 2

This is the first installment of my new series, Unleashing Your Vixen. Please check that out before you read this. The next installment will probably be on Thursday at some point. That’ll have actual moves in it. This is sort of a tease towards that.

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Ah… smell that? That mix of spring and long-stemmed red roses and perfume dangling on the wind? It’s spring (well, unless you live in New York, you sorry bastards). More importantly, it’s Valentine’s day.
I have issues with Valentine’s day and I’ll share that with you some other time. For now, though, it’s a nice thought that more people will be getting laid tonight than any other night of the year. Far be it for me to rain on your love parade.
In keeping with the Unleashing Your Vixen notion, these are a couple small ideas to put in the arsenal of their education. Preliminary to moves is the act of initiation. Vixens must take initiative from time to time — if not half or more of the time.

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So, you’re on a first date, it’s going well. He’s cute, he’s sexy. Every time he smiles, you imagine what it might feel like to glide your tongue along the edges of those pearly whites. But you’re just a vixen in training. You don’t want to be the good girl who gets a kiss at the door tonight. Nah, right now, you wanna lay a smacker on this guy and see how challenging you can make it for him to have to walk to that door in two or three hours.
But how do you make the first move?
Have you ever noticed that guys almost always head to the john before they start making out with you on the couch? There’s like this switch: They usually relieve themselves before they get all worked up. It’s a pragmatism thing. So, you go before that happens.
Wanna be cute? Put some vivid-colour Post-It with a cute little double-entendre like “Help yourself!” on your prominently-placed bottle of mouthwash.
I mean, if you’re dating and you don’t have a prominently-placed bottle of mouthwash, then you’re doing it all wrong. Tasty kisses are nice, but only when it’s chocolate, wine, etc. Mouthwash is key. Guys’ll help themselves to the mouthwash 90% of the time anyways, but a little note? An itty-bitty green light? I doubt there’s many fellows out there who’ll pass up that chance. Now you just wait.
The “take me now” note always works nicely, in all its varying states. Another fun way to use notes to break the ice when you don’t know how to say what it is you want – say, for example, you’ve been in the relationship for a spell, a couple weeks or month or something, and you don’t want to wade through all the niceties and cuddling and such. You want sex, you want it hot, and you want it now, but you’re not confident enough yet to answer the door a little moist and oily fresh out of a bath, and naked, when he rings. So, a smaller step is needed.
You’re at home, you’re having a nice meal in. Just put a note under the plates at dinner, and ask him to clear the table for you while you step into your bedroom for some silly reason. Try something like, “If the dishes are working for you, continue, but if you’d rather be taking me doggy style, come and get it.”
You can be as dirty as you want to, but the fact is, a little dirty with a little nice is always sexy, always classy, and always lets you feel like you’re as bad as you need to be, without crossing too many lines in your so-called ethical sand.
Hell, you can include a note in your Valentine’s day card that has a list of things you love your partner doing to you. “Things I love that you do to me: Nibbling the back of my knees, biting my inner thighs, when you switch to a more aggressive thrust as you get closer to climax, when you nibble my ear while fingering me…” and anything along those lines. Exchange cards in a restaurant. Let him get all flustered and aroused. Take it a step further and put a couple things on the list that you’ve never done to him, but wouldn’t mind trying, and see where that takes you.
Being a vixen or a rockstar lover means doing little things like this. It means taking initiative sometimes to let him know that you’re wanting this as much as he does, if not more. Too many guys are left feeling like their lovers fuck them out of obligation, not desire, and your job as a vixen is to lower that average. Let him know. Let it be unmistakable: Sex is what you want. No, he is what you want.
Being a vixen, yes, it’s about the moves, the know-how, but it’s also an attitude. It’s a confidence you need to find in yourself, an awareness of the sexy being you have inside, and it’s a desire to let that part of you shine. It’s not about being a size four or wearing a Chanel dress or being a barstar at the club. It’s more real, more innate than that. Being a vixen is about being strong when you need to be, being demure when it’s called for, and knowing what cards to play and when to play them. Being a vixen doesn’t happen overnight, but one night can drastically impact your progress and really spin you in the right direction. Taking small steps like this could be a crack that springs a raging river from the dam that has been your sexuality up till now. Embrace the fissure, and don’t worry, it bursts wide open faster than you might expect.

Unleashing Your Inner Vixen: Breakout Moves Pt. 1

I bet Isaac Newton was the bomb in bed. I bet he was sitting under that tree, fantasizing about hiking up Mathilda’s knickers the night before when that apple came toppling down out of that tree.
After all, Newton’s famous Third Law of Physics, “Each action must have an equal and opposite reaction,” should be every lover’s credo.
Recently, I wrote a little piece I playfully called “Fishies: Wake Up and Smell the Pheromones,” about “dead fish” lovers who lie there. Woman On Bottom wrote, asking:

So… the chick is on bottom, the dude is on top and they’re having sex. He’s thrusting like nobody’s business. The age-old question remains: what is she supposed to be doing? Scratching his back? Moaning? Wrapping her legs around him? Rocking against him? Talking dirty to him?
How does she avoid this whole “dead fish” syndrome guys always complain about? What skills should she posess? And, is there a difference in the “woman on bottom”‘s job from fucking to lovemaking?

Well, Bottom, it was funny you should ask. I was kicking this idea around for a few days before you asked, and since then, I’ve just been giving it some thought.
See, the problem with a lot of women in your position (hardy-har) is that you simply fail to realize the potential that being on the bottom offers. What, you can’t move your legs when you’re under there? Sure you can. You ask about scratching – hell, yeah!
The normal, healthy, sexually active male will be in his glory if he thinks he’s inspired you to become this sexually insatiable beast who just can’t get enough of his lovin’. If you’re digging your nails into him, moaning, and locking your legs around his hips, well, he’s gonna think you’re having a good time. More importantly, he’s gonna think he’s The Man, and that’s gonna get him more involved too.
Being on the receiving end of true desire always, always feels incredible. If your man’s never felt that desire, it might explain away a lot of changes in his behaviour, or a reduced focus on his appearance or attention to you.
I’ve encountered what happens to men when their women fail to get involved sexually, and the outcome is always this sad, seemingly fractured man who simply seems to have ‘something missing’ in him. Sure, passion.
It’s really, really, really important women learn how much they can offer sex, even if they’re stuck on the bottom. By changing that up, showing you’re interested, it’s likely you’ll take it to the next level and learn a whole schwack of new positions.
Before any of this goes anywhere, you’ve got to understand Newton’s Law. Every little thing he does to you should provoke a reaction to him. If not, then why’s he bothering? Every little thing you do to him will also provoke a reaction. This is the sexual circle. One reaction gets another gets another gets another gets an orgasm. Something like that, but there’s a few more moves in there, I think.
Your first step in releasing your inner vixen? Kegel exercises. Now, I just don’t care enough to keep looking until I find a site that agrees with my views, so keep in mind, that site thinks men don’t really have to do Kegels, that women offer more by learning them – WTF? YES, MEN HAVE TO DO KEGELS. Shit, man.
Yes, guys, learn to do Kegel exercises because we want you to be able to break the mold and enter into the 15+ minute zone of loving, thanks. We want every one of you to be a rumoured super-lover-man that Sting is, and HE does HIS Kegels. Jesus Christ. Oh, the work I have yet to do!
But I do digress. Every time you squeeze your vaginal muscles, he’s going to feel it. More importantly, every time you squeeze them, you know you’re contributing, you’re impacting things a bit. Most importantly? Great exercise for the abs.
If you want the best reason of all for being a rockstar lover – it’s the exercise. You’re supposed to get 30-minutes of exercise a day, right? Well… what if I told you that you could have better abs, a tighter ass, a stronger lower back, tight inner thighs, and improved endurance, all from 30 minutes of exercise every day, without ever, ever having to leave your bed? You’d call the FCC and try to bust my ass for fraud, I’d bet.
But it’s true. Fuck your way to a better ass, says I. Hell, it might even help your bust if you do enough with your arms. Yep, Tony Little can take his Gazelle and shove it, man.
The next step towards Rockstar-Loverness:
Put on an aural show. Start moaning and gasping a little. It’s interesting, I think there’s enough fodder to do a couple postings on the importance of moaning. You go back and you look at this site, you’ll find the second or third posting I did was about moaning and such. It annoyed me. But then, right after posting that, I was talking with a lady I know and she told me about the bad old days when she was in an sanitarium in the Czech Republic for “sexual dysfunction.” There was a woman there who’d used to be a real tiger in bed. She and her husband moved into the city, and her sexual enjoyment went to nil, and it’d been years since she orgasmed.
What did they discover? She had to scream when having sex. They moved from a quiet countryside farmhouse into a small, thin-walled apartment, and she went from screamer sex to silent sex, and lost the orgasms to go with it.
It got me thinking. I started to wonder if the silent sex I was having was somehow psychically reinforcing any of the old hang-ups I had from my Catholic youth, et al. Since then, during the sex I’ve had (including masturbation, actually), I’ve made myself be much more vocal, and oh, my God, it’s just so much hotter! I was really surprised that I’d feel less self-conscious as a result of it, but that was the case. I started feeling more dominant, confident, and willing to do what it took to make myself really enjoy the moment — moreso than ever before. It was a conscious effort for the first five minutes, but then it became natural, just putting a voice to all those things I’d already been feeling.
So, here I was, always championing the “shut up and fuck me” approach, but I’m a big girl and I can admit my personal discovery that moaning audibly, inserting dramatic gasps that really convey my surprise or delight, muttering a bit to my lover, etc, really allows me to get into the moment and be a player. I think it’s the conscious shunning of all that repression and backwards sexual thinking I’d had foisted on me since my youth.
I think you really need to open your mouth a little and get involved. If you just lie there, silently, every single time, you’re going to find it easier to slip into a rut. But if you groan, moan, or gasp whenever your lover changes a move or something, it’s the early warning system to your pleasure or pain. It clues your lover in: “She wants more of that. Wow, I’m hot.”
Unleashing your inner vixens & rockstars will continue next time around, and I’ll divulge a few specific newby moves for converting the boring old Missionary Position into the start of a whole new thang for you. For now, really focus on the Kegels and the notion of having a voice during sex. They’re small things, but they’re huge, huge foundations for this thing, this new lover, that you’re building here.
NOTE: The photo is of a position some call the Bamboo. It’s a slight deviation from the Missionary Position, and, uh, a real good time, if you know what I’m sayin’. There are a couple other slick positions like this for the starting rockstar to engage in, starting in the Missionary, on bottom. That’s next time.