I’ve been writing a lot more lately, but not that you would ever know. Scattered everywhere are partially finished works, almost none seeing the light of day. I’ve had everything and nothing to say of late. I’m thinking too quietly, too privately.

It’s been a strange month, year, life. Despite technically being laid off yesterday, I’m still very positive at times. I feel like things are still on the verge of getting better fast. It won’t take a lot for me to have a stunning change of fortune.

I’ve been thinking about a lot today. I sent in a resume about four days ago and now have a phone interview Monday. I’m told they receive about a thousand resumes a month, and even getting a phone interview is a great thing, let alone within the first week of applying. So, I’m feeling oddly good about myself.

I’m researching the company today, and I’ve been watching a movie called Born Into Brothels, about children in India born into marginalized prostitution, and I keep thinking how fortunate I am to have prospects at times like these. But, yeah, prospects. All over the place.

The job I’ve applied for is a stable, solid one in a respectable industry, but there’s an air of sales to it, as well. Damn straight, I can sell like no one’s biz. Trouble is, I don’t believe in sales per se, because it’s pretty simple: If you need to sell it, it ain’t worth selling. If it’s worth having, it sells itself. Most jobs, you can’t get away with living by those principles. This one, I’ll be encouraged to think in those terms, and that’s something I dig. I’ve come this far without selling out in life, so let’s see if I can take it a little further and find yet another employer I can actually believe in. (“You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.”)

So even though it can sell itself, sometimes it just needs, oh, an audio track, and then I get to provide the words. Do the math. 😉 I once was ringing in a $9 sale at a toy store job, and through conversation during the ringing-up, I wound up turning that $9 sale into a $1900 sale. It took all of five minutes of talking. Shit sold itself. I was just the mediator.

And the thing is, the online resume for this company, it was one of the few that seeks out your attributes and all. In writing mine up, I remembered all the great things people have said about me over the years, and I found myself thinking more about their intentions when they told me these things. And all I could think of was, they just wanted me to know. What do they really get out of telling me how or where I shine? Not much. The only person with something to gain has been me. For too long now, I’ve discounted what has been said to me, choosing instead to believe they were “just being nice”.

How disrespectful of me. It belittles others to think everything they say is merely in effort to be pleasant. Aren’t most of us striving to be a little more real every day? I think of all the times I’ve gone out of my way to compliment someone just because I feel they deserve to know they’ve done well or simply deserve a compliment. I know I wasn’t trying to be pleasant. (I’ve written about this in a relationship POV recently; if you can’t (or don’t) trust a lover who’s complimenting you, then maybe you just don’t trust them at all.)

Y’know, I have a bulletin board on my bedroom wall. To it, I tack phone numbers, dates to remember, and even quotes that strike a chord. One reads, “Believe the hype, baby!”

Watching Oprah recently, I saw Patti Labelle on there. She’d just been asked a question: “If you could go back and talk to your younger self, what’s the most important advice you could give her?”

So, Patti says, “Believe the hype, baby.”

And that struck me so hard. So, so hard. I get people telling me more often than I deserve just how much they like me, whether it’s here in the cyberverse or out there in the real world. And so often I choose to ignore it (hence why it’s more than I deserve). Deep inside, I think of all my flaws, all the mistakes I’ve made, believing that this troubled life I lead is a result of my troubled management. I keep choosing to believe the wrong damned thing, I guess. And the thing is, how much further could I be going if I actually started believing what people have said of me?

So, I’m choosing instead to believe the hype. Baby. Tomorrow, at 2:00, I will be repeating the hype so I can get employed by one of the highest-rated employers in this country. Whew. Here’s hoping.

**

Something else I’ve been thinking a lot of this week is sex drive. Mine has been out of gear since last summer. The depression sort of kicked my ass, sexually speaking. I’ve been wanting to get back into dating, but I had no desire to do the whole sex thing. (Makes writing about it a real chore!) All of a sudden, I’m getting my drive back. That gear’s slipping into place now, I’ll tell ya.

It’s probably because I’ve been exercising a lot lately. I’m excited to see I have a pulse returning. It’s that blood flow thing. Gotta get pumping, right? Let’s hear it for free weights.

But it leads me to believe what I’ve been doing wrong in the job search is, I’ve had no job interviews after riotous sex. Last week, I came across a New Scientist article in which they did a study that found that some 70% of those who had full-on intercourse before doing something nerve-wracking, like public speaking, performed far better.

I’m starting to think that rug-burn + job interview = unbelievably successful (not at the same time, of course!). The problem is? I’m still single. But now I’m motivated. Aha. A girl on a mission. See, I need to go in there all bubbly and glowy and blissed-out, then I won’t care, and presto! I’ll be the “it” girl!

It’s ironic though, because the job search thing is so much more distracting than it deserves to be. Ah, well. Sooner or later, I’ll figure it out. Balance, Grasshopper! Balance!

So, I was asked recently what the best sex I ever had was, and why.

This guy, right off the bat, had something about him that I trusted. This was a fling, nothing more, but there was that connection and some moment-seizing got under way pretty quickly after we met. We decided the next weekend we’d take no prisoners, lock ourselves away, and go on the perfect quest for rug burn.

Much to his surprise when he showed up at four on Friday, I answered the door wearing only a oversized dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, barefoot with painted toenails. It was a robust welcome, and things certainly improved from there. We had a late dinner of steaks and risotto, then laid around naked watching movies and drinking wine and not keeping our hands to ourslves. The rest of the weekend, till about 7 on Sunday, was pretty much that — constant nakedness, food, and sex. Getting clean periodically and playing dirty the rest of the time.

I jokingly called it the “poor man’s weekend away”. But it’s like the David Mamet flick says, “Fun? Doesn’t everybody? Everybody makes their own fun. If you don’t make your own fun, it’s not fun, it’s entertainment.”

I’m a writer girl. Fun’s in my budget, entertainment ain’t. Ha.

Anyhow. So far my weekend’s excitement comes in the form of getting laid off. Whee, fun. I have prospects, though, so I’m giving it a week before I pop my gasket. I shall be cool, calm. Sex doesn’t look like it’s in the picture. Sad.

But that doesn’t need to be the case for you. Say, don’t YOU feel like getting away? What, you can’t afford it? Oh, you silly! Have I got just the thing for you! But wait… there’s more!

Okay, okay. Seriously now. Put your money away. Buy a couple frozen pizzas, some wine, okay, scratch that, a lot of wine. Stock up on eggs and breakfast goodies. Get some nibblie bits. And stay in for a self-imposed rainy-day weekend.

In case you want to get up to old tricks with a bottle of chocolate sauce or a tub of golden honey, I’ll share a little trick with you. Make use of those crockpots and rice cookers. You’ll need a “low” or “keep warm” option. Plug it in next to the bed, put some warm, damp towels in there, and when you’re all deliciously sticky but spent, you can just lie there and towel each other off. The warmth’s a pretty awesome thing at that stage of the game, AND you don’t need to get up. If you plan ahead with a couple bottles of water and a plate of strawberries, you’re set.

*But don’t be fools and put the towel down on the bed ‘cos you’re getting all riled back up during the “here, let me get that for you” antics and all. That’d just be dumb-ass. Put the towel back in the thingie-thing, or toss it unceremoniously against the wall. Let’s just avoid conjuring more wet spots than are necessary.

So, I was watching the god that is Jack Bauer in the latest episode of 24.

Hey, I was a teen in the late ‘80s, and I have to tell you, I never would have imagined the bad-boy Kiefer Sutherland that was the murder capital of the USA’s evil teen lead vampire in 1987’s Lost Boys, would be the sex symbol du jour in 2007?

Hell, Lost Boys was pretty much soft-core porn for us teen girls. You had your Jason Patric (who was brilliant in 1998’s acerbic Your Friends and Neighbors), us wee girls had our Corey Haim, then there was that snooty bad-ass Canadian, Kiefer for the odd girls. He wasn’t mainstream back then. He was that shitty older brother to the then-tubby Jerry O’Connell in Stand By Me, and you just thought he’d treat ya like dirt if ever… you know?

BUT that was then, this is Bauer. Now how do they make the Canadian men so damned sexy when they’re assertive, huh? Is it all those hours of Margaret Atwood discussions in high school English? Is it the microbrew? Whatever. It’s working.

Here’s the thing, though. Seriously.

For some of us, the definition of what’s sexy in a man has shifted a bit since the day those planes took out the Twin Towers. I still remember that day, you know? We saw firemen screaming in anguish with tears ripping wide swaths down their dust-covered cheeks. We saw cops doing everything they could to protect and serve when the people needed them most. It was an awesome yet heart-breaking display of just how incredibly selfless and sexy a man being a man could be.

Yeah, there are still women who want their little metrosexual boys, and fine, you know, you can take your Justin Timberlake and find a coatcheck closet, honey.

Some of us, for a while there, we saw just what an awesome thing masculinity at its finest could be. And I do so love that manliness. I think it’s a hard time, however, to be either sex. It’s confusing. We’ve redrawn the lines so often since the dawn of the 20th century that it feels like we’re hamsters in a wheel.. What an exciting time it’s been. In that span of decades, we’ve gone from near-Puritanical morals and a patriarchal society to an almost even playing field. We have indeed come a long way, baby.

But for all the strength we women have gained, men have lost their perspective. These days, you have guys who don’t know how strong is too strong and when empathetic starts to become pathetic. The just don’t know how to soften the edges of manhood. It’s all or nothing, it seems.

The balance of sexual power these decades past has been like that of a boat in a storm. Every time you think you’ve got your footing, along comes another movement.

And, you know, there’s Jack Bauer. A guy who loves his country so much, so deeply, he’ll do just about anything he can in order to protect it. He’s easily one of the best television anti-heroes ever, if not the best. He takes it to cruel extremes yet still keeps you tethered to him. A guy who turns a lamp cord into a shock-therapy torture device, or bites a chunk out of a guy’s neck, yet still keeps you thinking he’s a sweetie?

I don’t know, guys. You want your Zen master for how to be the kind of guy who toes the line, look at Jack. Tough yet secretly a double-agent marshmallow of affection. Who knew. Lost Boys!

And all the things Jack is good at, these guys are failing dismally at.

Sadly, there are countless British Columbians who feel much like I do tonight. There’s a quiet satisfaction in knowing we’re entering phase two of the largest murder investigation in Canadian history. It is the eve of the Robert Pickton trial. At long last, one of the most sadistic murderers in Canadian history is on the verge of meeting with his accusers.
Pickton was arrested five years ago for 26 (formerly 27; one charge dismissed due to lack of evidence) murders dating back to the mid-90s.
Pickton and his brother ran a so-called “non-profit” charity called Piggy Palace Good Times Society. According to Wikipedia, their society’s mandate was to “organize, co-ordinate, manage and operate special events, functions, dances, shows and exhibitions on behalf of service organizations, sports organizations and other worthy groups.”
Which is to say sponsor drug-fuelled parties at their pig farm, featuring the most disenfranchised sex trade workers in this province, the Downtown Eastside prostitutes. The girls at the Pickton farm would be murdered, then fed to the pigs. The crime scene investigation of his farm became the largest criminal forensic investigation in Canadian history.
In the last two or three decades, there have been more than 60 DES prostitutes go missing or cornfirmed as murdered. Some speculate Pickton had his hands in more than a few, and possibly even others in other PNW cities.
The sex trade may not be everyone’s favourite dinner-table topic, but, really, as long as there are people living in denial about the world’s oldest profession, a good majority of those workers will continue to be marginalized. With that comes vulnerability.
Yeah, everyone’s up in arms about the whole NIMBY scenario. “Sure, legalize it, legislate it, but not in my back yard.” Tough. It’s already in your fucking back yard. You’re just choosing to avert thy eyes.
Do I have a constructive solution? No, not beyond the “bring back the brother, institutionalize the madam, legislate the health and hygiene” mantra you’ve heard so many times before. What’s the big deal? It’s going to be a lurid industry no matter how you slice it, but the reality is, women will continue to be victimized, tortured, beaten, raped, and killed unless somebody steps in and accepts that this is part of the dark side of society, but maybe with some proper controls in place, we can make it a whole lot less ugly.
But what do I know. I’m a stark raving liberal with a heart sewn on her sleeve. I get all boo-hooey at the thought of women killed for no better reason than that of society forgetting they existed at all. Call me crazy.

A reader did something today I wish more of you would do. She sent me a news story that had her, I guess, fuming. Her thoughts? “This is un-fucking-believable, really.”
Colour us simpatico, then, because my sentiments at first glance were, “Holy MOTHERFUCKER.”
If you’re one of the number who calls America “the Land of the Free”, it’s time you check your thoughts, pal, because it seems to me to be “the Land of the Paradox”, and that’s putting it lightly at best.
The gist of this story is simple: Cheat on your spouse, and face 1st degree criminal sexual conduct.
I wanna know why the Court of Appeals is allowed to smoke high-grade doobage when no one else is.
Look, I’ve been cheated on. My longest lover ever was sleeping with someone before we split, and after we split, he was married within nine months. Do the math.
Did I hate him? You’re fucking right I did. In some ways, I suspect I still do. I’d certainly never trust him again, as a lover, as a friend, as anything. Would I wish he’d be imprisoned for what he did to me?
HELL NO.
He fucked up. I know it, he knew it. That’s the way the game goes. I took the chance of following my heart, but it seems my compass needle broke long before I got out that door.
We’re talking about passion, matters of the heart, all that. I don’t believe in infidelity. If you’re unfaithful, you deserve getting your ass kicked to the curb. If you aren’t kicked to the curb, there’s your hard proof that your lover’s nth degrees better than you are—they’re giving you an invaluable second chance. Don’t fuck it up.
But JAIL? Criminal prosecution? All because you followed the tick-tock of your heart in one weaker-than moment?
And this is from the nation that claims it’s the GOLD standard of “freedom”? Yeah. Right.
I’ve never been unfaithful. God willing, I never will be. I honestly don’t believe I have it in me to hurt someone like that. But I’d never stake my life on it. I’m a passionate person. I’m impetuous. I’m the very definition of spontaneous. And I’m human. I err. It’s what we do. We make mistakes, then we pick up the pieces and struggle to carry on. I’d be a liar or a fool to claim it’ll never happen to me. I just don’t know what kind of sparks I’m destined for, in a relationship or out. None of us can know that. We’re human. We’ve all erred.
But we sure as fuck don’t need to round up a lawyer for fear that the law is going to stick our asses behind bars ‘cos we didn’t know how many martinis were one too many on a quiet night in a piano bar with one too many beautiful, lonely companions.
Unless, of course, you’re a member of the Appeals Court of Michigan, where, apparently, creativity and the ability to read between the lines is a rarely-seen quality in the legal minds of the day.
Fuck, man. I don’t even need to argue this. Unless, of course, you’re some holier-than-thou religious type who’s never taken liberties or fucked up on a lonely night when the thought of being not-alone was far easier to bear than the reality of being just that.
The Land of the Free. Let’s amend that. How about “The Land of the Mostly Free, Provided You Follow Every Law And Every Legal Sub-section Therein”?
Nah. Not too catchy, now, is it?
Get fucking real, Michigan. I can only hope, and pray, and dream, that the High Courts in that State can get a grip.
Like I say, I think adultery deserves a royal ass-kicking. But by the maligned Significant Other, not some fucking holier-than-thou court appointee. There should be no legal basis to decide these matters, at least not to this degree.
Here in Canada, Pierre Elliott Trudeau, our infamously rebellious prime minister at the time, declared in 1969 that the government had no business in the bedrooms of consenting Canadians. Yet here we are, nearly four decade later, and the American jurisprudence still seems to think it omnipotent in all matters of American life. When is someone going to clue them in, anyhow?
This erosion-of-freedoms thing is clearly getting worse before it gets better. And you, my fair American friends, where the fuck are YOUR voices? These are your voted representatives, and yet your indignation is nothing but a muffled whine in the corner. Speak, or forever hold your piece. After all, this is clearly the bed you have made for yourselves. Or is it? You still have time to be heard, I would think. There’s one more circuit of judges for this case, if only you would deem it necessary.
After all, take it from me, a fiercely proud Canadian: Sometimes, the most American thing you can do, is to question the powers that be.
After all, we Canadians learned it from the very best. But sometimes we Canadians have a very pressing question: Where, exactly, are “the best” now?
Well?

Although it didn’t escape my notice, it did slip from my radar with the manic days of the Christmas season. Maybe you missed hearing about it, because I haven’t seen it get much mention outside of the back page of my town’s major paper.

This is a good thing, though, as I have found more comprehensive information since.

In late December, news reports emerged from Rome and Milan, leading fashion hotbeds of the world, in which the Italian industry has stated that they now intend to self-regulate in order to ensure that health is not sacrificed for the sake of style.

Meaning, no more anorexic models. Or so they say.

The catalyst? The mid-November death of an anorexic Brazilian model, Ana Carolina Reston, who weighed just 88 pounds at the time of her death. She was 5’8.

The Italians are no stranger to anorexia, where it is the leading psychiatric cause of death. Statistics suggest that more than three million Italians suffer from anorexia, approximately 1 in 20 people throughout the nation. In fact, more than 60% of children between the ages of 12 and 16 believe they’re overweight and need to lose weight. Of those, approximately 11% are reported to possess eating disorders.

The Italian fashion community is covering its ass a little, though, as they’re not implementing rigid standards. It’s self-regulated, meaning those who ignore the new guidelines will simply have less desireable showtimes and things like that. Insiders claim these are heavy punishments, but, really, are they?

And what are those guidelines? Well, they are banning models under the age of 16 now, and any model suiting up for work will have to have a medical certificate saying she is of good health mentally and physically. (And we all know certificates can be believed in HappyHappy/JoyJoyland, where no one ever lies and “forge” is not a verb. Stickgirls will still be allowed on Italian runways if they have this magical piece of paper.)

Nevertheless, it is a start. Not nearly so good a start as Spain got last September, when they passed a decree legally banning models with a body mass index of less than 18. (Body mass is “a ratio of height to weight squared”. Yeah, that clears that up. I hate math.)

But it’s a better start than they’ve had in France, where the talking heads of the fashion world stated that anorexia is a “social” problem and not something that can be solved with “regulation”.

Right. Uh-huh. ‘cause when you’re hiring them and telling them they absolutely must fit into a size zero dress, that’s got nothing to do with the problem. And when the media only projects images of beauty as being size two and under, that has nothing to do with the social ills. Fuck, man. Can someone teach these people remedial math, or what?

At least Italy’s on the gangway if not fully onboard. They’re going to start making larger sizes available for the shows. What they consider “larger” has not been stated. I suppose they’ll get wild and crazy and throw a two or, god forbid, a four into the mix.

Still, it’s a start. Maybe if I keep telling myself, I’ll find a way to start believing it.

It’s when I think about the fashion industry and the shitheads printing the magazines filled with airbrushed Barbies that I get pissed off, because now and then I need to write something like the posting below about the Perenially Disappearing Ass that I see just how much these fucked-up beauty ideals are fucking us up.

We’re talking about one of the nations with some of the best food and wine in the world, and some 5% of the population possesses eating disorders (anorexia or bulimia). That’s just fucking criminal.

Insecurities stay with us for life. It’s easy enough to develop them all on our lonesome without needing magazines and fashion pointing out just how flawed the rest of us are. I don’t know about you, but my makeup routine doesn’t yet include an airbrush.

But it’s not about reality, they’ll tell us. Fashion is about the ideal of beauty, not the reality. It’s what we can strive to be, yet not necessarily are.

Yeah. Tell that to Ana Carolina Reston. She thought beauty was worth dying for, and she won’t be the last. I suppose it’s ironic, but she literally did die in vain.

At least it seems her death wasn’t totally for naught. Italy’s starting. Now we just need Paris, London, and New York to get onboard. As for New York, well, let’s just say I’m not planning to hold my breath. In the meantime, I’ll be over here, pondering the irony of the fattest country in the world perpetuating the myth of the bone-thin beauty. [scoff]

So, onward with readers’ questions. An unpaid writer’s work is never done. Mmph. Ha.

I find this next letter to be interesting to me in a couple ways, but a bit of a sticky wicket.

Here we have a young couple who’ve been pretty in love for more than a year. Despite a pretty good love life, he’s never seen her ass naked. Let him tell it.

My girlfriend never lets me see her ass. Never. She’s not fat or heavyset by any means, but has a bit of a ‘ghetto booty’. But when we’re spooning, or doing I’m in her from behind, or we’re showering together, she never ever lets me see her rear. She always turns around real quick or puts a towel or blanket over herself. I ask her about it and she says that she doesn’t like it and doesn’t want me to see it.

But this feels strange to me. We’ve been seeing each other for over a year now. We’re used to each other’s bodies, we don’t have sex under the covers or in the, so it feels like she doesn’t trust me or something like that to see her butt. Any thoughts or suggestions or ways I can help her feel better about her butt?

(And in a later email on the same subject):

When we’re laying together under the covers after sex, I caress her and tell her that I think it’s beautiful, and ask her why I can’t even get a peak at her rear, and she tells me that she hates it and thinks it’s too big, and then makes sure I’m not going to be able to see it. It’s weird… I thought we had grown pretty comfortable being around each other. She’s comfortable enough to fart around me, but not enough so to let me even see her ass.

I know she has some body image issues, even though she really shouldn’t. Her legs muscular, her stomach is flat, she goes to the gym 3x-4x a week, has a gorgeous body, and all that, so I don’t understand.

Ay yi yi.

Me, I’m actually overweight. I have a right to be self-conscious about my ass, and I am. Yet I’ve never hidden it from a lover. Maybe it’s because I’m inherently lazy and that sounds like a lot of work, being on the ball like that all the time, trying to sneakily hide a rather conspicuous body part. And, yeesh, after sex, too? Oh, boy.

You hit the nail on the head, though. It’s a trust issue. She doesn’t trust you. Now, waitwaitwaitwait. Don’t freak out. The good news is, she probably doesn’t realize that that’s the case. I bet that she’d feel horrible if she realized the full implications of her actions.

Basically, with her body language, she’s telling you that she doesn’t trust you – not necessarily “you” you, but she doesn’t trust that you’re going to be man enough to see beyond what she perceives to be a hideous physical attribute. She thinks that if you see her for all her flaws, that you’ll decide the whole package isn’t worth the shame of having a woman with THAT ass.

Now, the insanely stupid part about that, is this: What does she think, when she has a pair of jeans on she’s magically enacted some kind of high-powered cloaking shield so that you only see 67% of the bootay?

It’s incredibly dumb. Highly dumb. But there you go, that’s what insecurities are.

This, I remind you, is coming from someone who’s had to get medieval on her own insecurities. I spent my life engulfed in my insecurities. I remember someone describing me as “average” when I was 15, and I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I wasn’t butt-ugly? I wasn’t some toad?

In fact, when I started this blog two years ago, I was in a world of different headspace. I decided I would not post any pictures of myself for fear that if anyone saw I was just a normal chick writing about sex, they wouldn’t take me seriously. In the two years since, I’ve had a drastic change of mindset. One, I realize now that it’s exactly because I’m a normal chick that I’m taken seriously. Two, I now believe I’m a cutie-pie, but I refuse to post pictures because I want my words taken at their value, not because of how I do or don’t look, which, I think, is cute! (‘sides, anyone with half a brain and a nose for digging around certain major websites would be able to find three or four images of yours truly, if not more.)

But my point is this. When we’re victim to esteem issues, we don’t see the big picture. We see only our flaws, and we feel that if we can hate ourselves and our flaws as much as we do, then it ought to be just as easy for you to do so.

Then there’s the point of history. You don’t know her past. You don’t know if some family member or ex-lover always instructed her to move her “fat ass” or not.

I could tell you a million different things to say or do, but ultimately it comes down to her having a change of headspace. If you’ve never told her that you’re hurt and feeling rejected because she can’t be big enough to trust that you’re being true with her when you say that you love her and her “big” ass, then you need to do that. You need to say that you love her, you find her incredibly beautiful, but that you’re feeling incredibly rejected and distrusted because she can’t she the best in you, and that it’s ultimately getting in the way – because that’s what happens when one lover can’t trust the other.

All you want to do is love all of her, and she’s not allowing you to do that. In fact, though she probably doesn’t realize it, she’s insulting you and telling you that you’re shallow. I doubt she means to do that. I suspect she thinks you’re such a wonderful guy that she wants to do everything in her power to ensure you stay by her. Little does she know, she’s doing the opposite.

You need to tell her you feel distrusted, insulted, and even unloved. You need to explain that you understand her fears, but that she’s not even giving you the opportunity to prove that you’re more man than she maybe even suspects.

Remember – you might be getting hurt in this instance, but that’s not her intention. She can’t see that. She’s trying to protect herself. Don’t be angry at her and try not to feel too hurt, but at the same time, try to make her understand that she is, essentially, hurting you by failing to trust that you’re a better man than those in her past, that you love that squeezable ass of hers.

A final thing to note is that there are people who are clinically diagnosed to be self-loathing. They could be a runway model, but what they see in the mirror is someone hideous. Therapists have a very hard time breaking their will, too. They’ll do exercises like having the person draw a life-sized outline of their body on paper, then the patient will lie down atop it and have their actual body traced, and the outline of their real body is half the size of their perceived outline, and so forth. So, what’s happening is that they have an illness causing them to distort their physical reality. Methinks it’s more common than we think, and methinks it has to do with the endless barrage of air-brushed, unrealistic beauty in magazines, but that’s another story for another time.

Like I said. A sticky wicket. Anyone out there able to share how a lover helped them overcome such an insecurity?

Yesterday’s tip, in which I suggest women should masturbate themselves to the brink of orgasm and then stop, just before a date, in order to leave themselves in a heightened state of arousal for an evening that they know should culminate in sex, provoked an interesting comment from Figleaf.

I’m dubious that the tip would work for men, as I suspect too many guys would have, as Fig called it, a hair trigger after the fact, resulting in underwhelming sex due to premature ejaculation. But I know some men have great staying power, and it might just work for them. Figleaf’s comment on the matter spoke of just that, but then he went on to ask how I would feel if a guy informed me of it. But, here, read Fig’s comment, and then I’ll tackle his question:

Masturbating to the edge and then stopping before a date sounds like a great tip, Steff. Mentioning it to your date is *definitely* a great tip. (It’s way more direct that “I’m not wearing panties,” which shows up in so many how-to lists its approaching cliche status.)

As for whether it would work for men too I started out thinking it wouldn’t be such a good idea since it might put you on a hair trigger when you finally started having sex. I used to really worry about premature ejaculation so, perhaps ironically, since I also recover quickly I’d usually take the edge off by masturbating to orgasm before going out.)

Now, though, I think I was probably missing a wonderful opportunity to seethe all night the way you like to. It couldn’t possibly hurt to try it.

Ok, and one last question from a shy-er than I sound man: would a partner letting you know he’d done that work for you as well as you telling him does?

I think that’d depend on the relationship. ‘cos, I’ve got to admit, I’m shyer than I sound, too. I think, if it was at the beginning of a relationship and we’d only been together a couple times, it might put me on my guard.

That being said, if it was a little further into a relationship and I knew I trusted the guy and he’d seen me behaving badly — y’know, answering the door naked but for a men’s dress shirt, having administered bondage, that kind of stuff — I might even go so far as to demand him to do that before getting together with me at some fairly inocuous evening with friends or something, where we’d have to behave publically before going home for a sin session.

I think that the best way for a guy to bring that up with me would be to ask if I’d be all right with him trying it with me next time we were going out or something. I have a lot of conversations about sex and behaviour when I’m with a partner, so I’m sure any guy I was with would feel comfortable bringing it up in a post-coital chat or something. If he did, well, I’d greenlight it the whole way. I’m the sort of chick who likes to count on sex happening in advance because I love the thrill of anticipation finally meeting the happening. It’s like Christmas all over again. Knowing there would be a new thing in the mix, him denying himself that edge, might make me a little hotter and more bothered before the fact — particularly if I get in on the who self-denial act.

Lord knows I’ve prebooked pre-dinner quickies in the past. Not much of a stretch to do the deny-wait-deliver plan, either. For some reason, I’ve never talked about the denying-self plan with a lover before. Maybe it’s time to do so for the next loverman that comes my way.

In light of yesterday’s posting, a quickie post with a tip that I don’t think will work for men, but I know has worked for me and might work for a lot of other women out there, too. But it might work for men who have difficulties coming with their lovers through oral or manual means, and could be worth a try. (I would think a lot of guys would be premature if they tried a stunt like this, though. Just a thought.)
Before you get ready for a date or evening in which you have plans with a lover that you know will culminate in sex, masturbate to the brink of orgasm, then stop. Leave yourself unsatisfied, and you’ll remain in a heightened state of arousal for the rest of the night, until things start happening with your lover. You can bring him into the fun and games by whispering to him now and then at, say, the dinner party you’re at, or in the movies, and letting him know you’re wet for him already — or even produce evidence by guiding his hand up under your skirt. You probably will be wet if you tease yourself in advance.
From my experience, the orgasm is more powerful and, if I’ve clued him in to let him know how bothered I’ve been all night, it tends to have been more animalistic sex. Also, I’ve always behaved a little more mischievously on those occasions, too. It’s good to be bad.

I’ve had a few emails over the past couple of months that I’ve had neither the time nor inclination to respond to – what can I say? Life gets demanding at times, and this, ultimately, pays me sweet fuck all, so yeah, y’all’s questions get neglected by whim from time to time.

But things are getting back on track in a hurry, and if the first week’s an indicator, 2007 looks like it’s going to be a good, good year to be ME. So, then, let’s talk about you, or a few readers in particular, shall we?

The interesting theme that ultimately underlies the three letters I plan to answer over the next week or so is insecurity. One letter’s from a woman who doesn’t understand why her guy can’t come from manual or oral stimulation – only from sex when he’s on top – which I plan to answer today. Another’s from a guy who’s been with a woman for more than a year, and he’s never, ever seen her ass naked because she refuses to let him see it. The third’s from a guy with big insecurities about being not-so-big in the penis department (so he thinks, anyhoo, but to the rest of the world, statistically, he’s slightly above average… and boy, have I got something to say about that).

I was thinking that, hey, all these letters being about insecurities makes them the perfect letters to respond to in light of the New Year and the inevitable resolutions to improve self that we’ve all probably made in the last few weeks.

Without ado, here’s the meat of the case involving the Man Who Couldn’t Blow His Load.

This letter comes from a reader I’m going to call Little Girl Blew who wishes she could blow her boy’s horn to kingdom come and back again… But, here, let her tell it. (I’ve removed any identifying information.)

…Sex has always been fantastic. He makes me feel so special and he knows just what to do in bed to get me going. Problem is: He cannot come from oral or manual stimulation. Nor can he come if he is not on top during intercourse. I have always known this about him – but of course I thought I’d be the one to change things. Obviously this hasn’t happened. I have tried every technique I can think of, done lots of searches on the internet and I check sex blogs almost daily. After all this time, I guess it’s starting to get to me more all the time. We have discussed it. I try to not to bring it up too much for fear that he will be self conscience. I don’t think he realizes how much it bothers me. He says, “it’s just him” and that I am doing everything right. Sometimes I feel so selfish in bed getting all the rewards (oral and such) from him and offering nothing in return. Don’t get me wrong, I still try to please him but not as often or as hard as I used to. I get so frustrated. I know that I shouldn’t let it consume me but it does.

Steff, I mentioned my age (Steff note: 30s, as is he). I’ve dated quite a bit my whole life and I’ve been told I give amazing blowjobs. I am very sexual and there is never any doubt that I am aroused. I would like to think that his “problem” is not because of something I am doing or not doing. I often think about cheating just to see if I still know how to please a man. I love to give head and I love the taste of cum and my boyfriend cannot give that to me. I’d even be happy giving a simple hand job. Are there any fool proof methods you can offer?

Boy, oh, boy, oh, boy.

Fool-proof? Yeah, well, if I had that, I’d be doing some kinda infomercial at 2:30am on channel 8, selling my sure-fire Screamer methodology in DVD-form, raking in cash like a farmer on his crop at harvest. Ain’t nothing fool-proof in this world, honey. Pity, I know.

I’d be a hypocrite if I said there was a solution to your problem. Guys are always trying to find out how they can make their woman come, and the answer I always give is, “Communicate. Talk about what’s working and what’s not. Go slow. Keep trying” and more and more and more. It’s the same shit in almost every scenario.

The difference is, some 40% of women don’t masturbate, and many of those have hang-ups about sex, and they don’t even know what it is they want. You’re in a different boat. He masturbates, he says it’s never worked when it’s being performed on him – orally or manually. Then there’s the whole sex-on-top scenario, too.

You’re not in a situation where it’s ignorance causing an inability to climax – clearly you both have mad skills. It’s not about that. I speculate that, if nothing has changed the situation now, you might never see a change in results. Can you handle that? You need to decide.

You say you don’t think he realizes how much it bothers you. I say try talking to him about it, but that could open new cans of worms if it starts making him feel even more self-conscious about it and starts putting even more pressure on him to “be normal” and orgasm.

The biggest problem that I think people overlook sexually is just how much our early experiences temper how we are with lovers in the future. If our trust has been abused, if we’ve been abused, if we’ve been mocked – all these things tend to influence our ability to psychologically relax.

This is where I have to remind you that I’m just some chick with opinions spouting off about my two cents – I’m no expert, I have no certification. I’m well-read and an enthusiast, that’s it.

Now that the disclaimer’s out there, I’d say there’s a very strong possibility your fella’s had some form of abuse in his past. Think about it – can’t be satisfied either orally or manually, and the one time he can indeed blow his load is when he’s in classic male-dominating-female missionary mode. Sounds to me like a security position more than anything else, a position of power, really, and a position of true intimacy, as he can see your face, your eyes, and knows you’re in a submissive position underneath him.

Or, who knows, it could be any number of other things – like blood flow issues, health concerns like early stages of diabetes, poor nutrition, too much drinking, smoking, and so forth. Has he ever brought this issue up with his physician? If not, he should. Has he ever spoken to a shrink about it? If not, he should. If it’s psychosomatic, though, and he knows it and doesn’t want to face it, well…

Therein lies the rub. So to speak. Does he even care if this issue resolved? If he’s happy with his sex life and doesn’t have any concern about ejaculating during oral or manual, then he’s not going to pursue this. If he’s able to enjoy the sensation without producing results, then why should he be worried?

You see, ultimately, what this is about is that you’re trying to make his problem your problem, and he may not even believe his problem is a problem – not if he’s able to enjoy a full and rewarding sex life in spite of it all. You want him to ejaculate, you want him to be demonstrating in inarguable terms that he absolutely loves what you’re doing – you want visual, physical reassurance. You want proof. You’re making it about you, not about him, and that’s where you’re going wrong. It’s his problem, but you want to provide a solution, and you can’t, because you’re not getting enough information about what’s causing it to begin with – and if he’s not concerned or is just unwilling
to take the issue to professionals, then, well, honey, I think you’re shit out of luck.

And I think you just need to believe him. It’s him, not you, and as much as it might hurt your ego, you need to let it go and decide if you can live with letting it go. (Oh, I know it’d crush my ego, too, so don’t think I’m talking down to ya – I feel your pain, I just know that, as much as you wish it weren’t, this is one thing that’s out of your hands – especially if you know you’re using all the right tricks of the trade.)

Sure, I could tell you to go and use my handy-dandy hand-job and blow-job techniques, which you’ll find on my trusty sidebar, or I could pass along GayBoy’s advice of “finger him; a finger in the ass always does the trick!” and “the prostate is the happy button!”, but I know better than that. When he’s saying it’s him and not you, he’s probably telling the truth more than you might ever know.

But, hey, last time I looked, I lacked a penis. Anyone have anything they could add to help Little Girl Blew stop being so blue and frustrated?

(Comic from www.simpleton.com)