Oh, the can of worms I’ve opened with yesterday’s posting. Part of my thing on marriage was tongue-in-cheek, but the other part, probably far too ground in my own past.
First of all, it’s not too often that I don’t explain myself clearly, but I guess I didn’t want to get too into things in that posting. It’d been a long night of insomnia, too many thoughts racing in my mind, and those little words, “I don’t” popped into my mind, and I thought, “Hey, let’s have some fun with that.”
Unfortunately, that “fun” has left me lying in bed for the last couple hours, thinking about just how wrong my parent’s marriage was. How much they lacked, and ultimately, how long it was all so bad. I hate the marriage that my parents had. I hate the way its demise wrecked both their lives. My father’s still a shell of a man all these years later. I’ve seen what a bad marriage can do, and even this morning, I’m left awash in sadness at the thought of it.
I often remember being in grade 7, on a cold, dismal morning, and my father was supposed to drive me to the schoolbus, which would drive me all the way out to my private school in the valley. An argument had begun just after breakfast, and it never really resolved before the drive was supposed to begin. Those fated words, “Go outside, I’ll be there in a minute,” were spoken by Dad, and the good girl I was, I went out on the frost-covered porch and began the wait.
In those days, I was in my Catholic school tunic and long socks. I must have stood on that porch for nearly an hour. The bus? Missed that. Dad had to drive me all the way to school that day, and he himself was late for teaching. I remember the anger and uselessness that seemed to emanate from him on that drive. But mostly, I remember the shame and bewilderment that 12-year-old girl felt as she stood out there in the frozen morning, listening to the angry shouting and the hurtful words being hurled in that house. It’d been that bad for three years, and would stay that bad for another three, but honestly, it was never, ever good.
No, I never witnessed a healthy relationship. I remember being aware, as young as grade four, of just how pathetic my parents’ marriage was. They never touched each other, never joked, and never seemed romantic. That said, they were both people with troubled pasts and generations of distant family behaviour before they set foot in that marriage.
The legacy of hurt, I think, tends to be established long before the rings land on the finger. It’s not marriage that’s bad, and I’ve not meant to suggest that. But this notion of saying “love, honour, and cherish,” and that will somehow be enough to get the ball rolling, that, to me, is a joke. It’s laughable. Marriage will be – and should be – the hardest, most challenging thing for a person to commit to in their lives.
We hear lip-service to that effect all the time, but that point needs to be driven home. People need to understand all the challenges they’ll face in relationships. Most people enter the “institution” with ignorant, idealized perceptions of what it is, and the vows and ceremony do sweet fuck all to affect that.
Honestly, I’m a romantic, I want nothing more than to dedicate my life to a guy who deserves it, and I want to know I deserve all that goodness to be repaid in kind. I believe in karma, I believe in respect, I believe in sharing, in trust, and in faith.
What I don’t believe is that one general definition of what marriage is, is the right way for our society to operate anymore. I don’t believe the vows say enough. I think we need to expand our perceptions of how marriages can operate. These days, there are new commuter marriages and even “open marriages.” Me, I’m more traditional than that. Yeah, I’d like to maintain separate bedrooms, but that’s because I’m at heart a pragmatic woman… and I can be a real night-owl and I suffer insomnia. It’s pragmatism, not cynicism.
Maybe if I’d been raised in a house where love ruled, maybe I’d be a different woman today. I know I would be. But let’s face it, I’m not the exception. I’m an average girl who was raised in an average marriage that fell apart in an average length of time. I’m a statistic. I’m the mean and the median, and I’m here to tell you, it just ain’t working.
But then, what today is? Relationships of all kinds need better guidance. People everywhere don’t know how to communicate. Whether it’s with a business client, a boss, or a lover, we really need to get our shit together. We need more respect. We need more understanding. But we also need to set a broader, more encompassing groundwork in all those relationships. We don’t know what the words “honour and cherish” mean anymore. We can’t even commit to buying a fucking cell phone, for god’s sake, and you want to talk lifetime commitment?
No, marriage as it stands today is not something I would enter into. Its recent history is one that is predominantly uninspiring. Love is all you need, right? Right, sure. It’s too bad, but most marriages detonate like a time bomb. People enter into marriage based on the models they know – the vows they speak, the parents they’ve had, the little they see in the media – thus, so many end so poorly.
I’m not saying a pledge of undying love is cheesy or antiquated – I’m just saying that marriage needs more. It needs much, much more, and none of that is suggested by the ceremony of old.
And I couldn’t even begin to suggest how to fix it. All I know is, the marriage I see around me is not the marriage I’ll have. I probably will marry in some way, but it sure as shit won’t be the routine marriage the media wants us to believe is still laden with love and affection. THAT is the anomaly, and yes, its rare occurrence is worth defending and fighting for. The few of you who have that, speak loudly, because the rest of us do indeed need to see it’s possible. We need to see something more real, more lasting than the bullshit like Bad/Jen/Angelina that the media wants us to idolize.
Love will never, ever be dated. Commitment will never, ever be antiquated. But the societal rules and the ceremonial approaches can be, and are, out-of-touch with the world at large. Marriage is broke. When 60% of them die on the vines, it’s time to find out where the fuck we’re going wrong. This is no time for romantics. There’s nothing sadder than watching a marriage die, especially when you’re a kid in the mix with front-row seats.
No kid needs to stand in the frosted air outside their house and hear the reality of a failed marriage, its insults and coldness, being hurled back and forth inside. No kid needs to write in their journal wondering when in the hell the yelling and name-calling is finally going to end, wishing for a divorce. Society needs a reality check. Kids deserve something better than the average marriage and the pettiness most marriages dissolve into.
And I wish I could suggest what that might be, instead of pointing my finger at the obvious. But just don’t tell me that marriage is a slice of pie. I’ve seen otherwise, and I know there’s a hell of a lot of people who can empathize with my experiences. That, in itself, is every bit as tragic as all of what I’ve had to write on this topic, but seriously: Ain’t it time we get to fixin’ this mess?
(This is long, but I just don’t have the heart to edit it. My folk’s marriage devastated me as a kid, and I suppose I’m still a little too in touch with that reality. But fuck this, I’m gonna have me some breakfast and coffee and pretend it’s not on my mind anymore.)
Category Archives: Best of Steff
Marriage: I Don’t.
(This could go on at length, I assure you, but I cut it down to just a few key points. Trust me, I have many more thoughts on this matter, but I’m sparing you.)
I don’t have anything against others’ marriages, I just don’t think the “institution” is right for me.
Love, undying love, lifelong commitment, sharing a bed, these are not things I resist, not in the least. I might even see myself living with someone, though I do prefer the idea of maintaining separate bedrooms, if not separate (but nearby) homes.
Carol Burnett once said something to the effect of her notion of the perfect marriage being one with a best friend who was a great lover, and who lived next door. I couldn’t agree more.
Too many people lose themselves in their marriages, and we’re supposed to think it’s beautiful and wonderful when people “complete” each other, but it’s not. It’s childish and stupid. Being a whole person is the greatest thing you can achieve in your life. To be absolutely certain of who and what you are will be something you can never, ever regret. Our goal should be to find someone who accepts and embraces that, all of that.
I imagine the married lives of friends – the chaos and demands of everyday life, how overwhelming it all is. And yes, climbing into bed with someone who makes it all go away for just a little while, that can be an incredible feeling. But sometimes, having the option of rolling out of bed and walking away to your little corner of the world, where all the noise and craziness can bleed away into silence and space… it can be the tether that keeps you bound to reality.
I don’t want to upset the masses by declaring marriage, as it stands today, an antiquated notion, but let’s face it. It is.
Chris Rock has a skit he does on marriage where he mocks the notion of marriage today being held “sacred.” He lambastes the resistance to legalizing gay marriage by saying that a country that makes “The Bachelor” and “Who Wants to Marry A Millionaire?” a national phenomenon doesn’t even begin to hold marriages as sacred. He is, essentially, calling it hypocrisy. Again, I couldn’t agree more.
I agree with all these things. I think the institution of marriage, with its “love, honour, and cherish” vows is, I hate to say it, absolutely bullshit in this day and age.
If only devoting your life to someone could be as pathetically simple as that.
What we need is a reality check. Nowhere in the marriage vows, for instance, is the subject of sex even mentioned. Nowhere does it say, “I promise to keep giving you head, so long as we both shall live.” Nowhere does it say, “I promise to always keep seeking new ways to make you feel like I value you.”
Nor does it discuss communication. Nor does it mention learning complete vulnerability with your spouse-to-be. Nor does it mention anything at all about working together to ensure financial stability in the relationship. In fact, it says the opposite – that you’re obligated to stay, in richness or poorness. Right. You put me in the poorhouse, baby, you’re out the fucking door – that’s the reality.
If the “love, honour, and cherish” bullshit was working, maybe we wouldn’t have a divorce rate that has climbed steadily for the last three decades.
I have no doubt – none whatsoever – that I will eventually have a relationship that consumes me with passion on every level: intellectual, sexual, emotional, and possibly even spiritual. I’ve been there before, I’ll be there again. But I will never, ever insult them or what we share by submitting to marriage as it now stands. If I do “marry,” it will be in a civil ceremony that’s likely not going to be legally binding, and the words will be of my choosing.
I’m a product of divorce. I’m the product of a marriage that disintegrated over its 22 years. Money, food, and a lack of sex drove them apart. That’s not an anomaly. Hell – that’s the modern way, baby.
Everyone’s all so up in arms about standing in front of a crowd of family and friends and declaring their love for one another. What about also declaring the pursuit of a healthy life together, and demonstrating that passion in take-it-to-the-bank raw physicality – and often? What about promising to stay on the same page financially, to maintain open and honest communication in every single way, from dollars to doubts? How about making trust and vulnerability not only ideals in the relationship, but also required?
Some people will say, “Hey, well, that’s implied.” And implying it is working so fucking well, isn’t it?
Yeah, I’m opposed to marriage. Frankly, I’m holding out for something better.
For those counting, that’s 30 consecutive days with rain here on the Wet Coast. The sun’s lingering for a minitease this morning, tho. Praise be.
Early Sexual Memories
One of the things I pondered on the weekend as I rode the bus to avoid getting drenched on my scooter, was early sexual memories.
I’m not talking about first kisses, first fondles, that sort of thing. I’m talking about a few particular memories I have that sort of crystallized some of the really stupid hang-ups I’ve worked hard to overcome over the years that have since passed. There are two I’ll share here tonight. I sometimes wonder how those early moments shape who we are in the decades to come, so I suspect I might take a look at this theme more in the future.
The first was when I was seven or eight, standing in the bushes behind Tyler & Devin’s house, with a round of “you show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.” After proposing the afternoon’s antics, Tyler got things rolling and tugged his jeans down around his ankles. I dropped my little shorts. He pulled down his Y-fronts. I dropped my little pink panties. We looked at each others bits and parts. But then…
The woods served as a shortcut to most of us kids in the neighbourhood, particularly en route to the Holy Land – 7-11 and Dad’s Ice Cream Shop. Except, of course, the portion with the haunted house. We all avoided that, of course, its broken windows and battered wooden siding, that constant smell of mold and must, all of it warding us off before we’d land foot in that unkempt yard.
It was just when we had revealed our bits and parts that a few kids in the ‘hood came crunching through the forest and discovered us in our exhibitionist glory.
“You’re a dirty girl!”
“Ew!”
“Ha-ha! I’m gonna tell!”
“Oh, I hate girls. Gross, Tyler!”
We shimmied our pants back up, blood rushing to our faces. Tyler started grinning, wandered over to the other kids, and me, I scurried out of the forest, ran under their treefort, and raced that half-block on home.
That lesson taught me that showing your body was something to be ashamed of, something I’ve kind of gone through the motions of explaining how I’ve gotten in touch with it since.
The second “profound” moment was a Friday night when I was about 12 and my friend Meghan was sleeping over. We were in the kitchen, popping popcorn the old-fashioned kettle-on-the-stove way, never a quiet venture, when I had to run upstairs to ask my parents a question that has long since escaped me. I barged into their bedroom only to discover my hefty 300-lb father rolling back and forth on top of my mother, naked, in bed, like a beached whale trying to will itself back into the wet folds of the ocean.
The light streamed in from the hall, illuminating the horror on my mother’s face and the amusement on my father’s.
“Oh… shit.” I muttered, slammed the door, and bounded down the oak staircase to the kitchen. “Forget it,” I told Meghan. “Let’s watch TV.”
About three minutes later, my dad rather unsubtly wandered into the kitchen in his robe and nothing but. “Popcorn ready?”
Unbeknownst to him, Meghan was far more savvy about sex than I was then. I didn’t have to tell her what I’d just witnessed, but we’d exchange horrified tales in the dark of my bedroom as the night progressed.
This was the first time it’d ever occurred to me that I wasn’t a test-tube child or a present from a stork. The notion of my parents fucking wasn’t something I couldn’t comprehend, but instead one of those thoughts I never wanted to entertain. Meghan, though, had no choice. Her parents never realized the amount of noise that came from their bedroom when they’d fuck, nor how thin their walls were, and every Friday night, without fail, they’d go at it. Which, of course, was part of the reason Meghan began staying over at my house, every Friday night, without fail.
There were more formative memories… many, many more. When you’re raised Catholic, I assure you, they come in droves. But that’s all you get, for now.
I’m having a rare moment: I have no idea how to wrap this up. But there it is. Funny now, but psychologically-scarring then. Part of the reason for this sudden “I don’t know where to go” is that I’ve just remembered something my mother once said to me about sex with my father, something that fucked me up and made me dread ever having sex, something that left me angry at her for a time. There can be issues with becoming friends with a parent, and this was one of them. It’s incongruous with the above, so I won’t share it tonight, but it’s fodder for another time.
On Sun, Rain, Sex, and Serial Killers
Tthe following lofty tome struck me as I was unable to get back to sleep with sunlight spilling through my cotton blinds. It rambles a bit, but indulge me. When I started this, the sky was filled with azure blue, birds singing, soaring, and the gorgeous sunlight I’ve been longing for. It’s an hour later, now, and merely a band of sunny light remains, splitting the now-gloomy onslaught of non-descript grey and charcoal clouds spreading out towards the east.
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It’s a sunny morning, a rare thing here on Canada’s West Coast in this, the doldrums of winter. A news report out of Seattle yesterday commented that it was the 22nd consecutive day with rain, and though the morning has gotten off to a beautiful start, I expect that here in Vancouver, the pattern of wetness will continue by day’s end, if the weathermen have their shit right.
Weather’s something we don’t often look far into. Rain is rain, sun is sun, and you’re lucky when it’s the latter, right?
But there’s so much more to it. It shapes us, who we are, how we act. If one was to look at population densities, for example, here on Canada’s West Coast, we’re not nearly as populated as Eastern Canada. BC has a fraction of Ontario’s population. What, then, explains our absolutely disproportionate number of serial killers?
Vancouver’s one of the most beautiful places in the world in the summer, and in the winter, one of the dreariest. This past month hasn’t been an exception. The depression that spreads through this city is insane at this time of year, and makes one think of all the strangeness that unfolds at times.
This morning, I’ve been lying there, having been conscious of the sun’s upping for the last 45 minutes, thinking. Thinking at first about public sex, and how spring evokes for me that want to get outdoors and be active, but also the passion that comes with warm, fragrant spring nights and dewy grass with flowers on the cusp of blossoming. Despite those thoughts, I found myself remembering one Vancouver winter night years ago when a lover and I threw down my trenchcoat and had mad sex atop it on the muddy river banks of the Fraser, under a soaring giant oak tree, as torrential rains fell without relent. Yes, indeed, a true west coast girl.
But then I began thinking how my mood of late has struggled to stay up, as it always does in the dreary darkness of this season, and how connected our psychologies are to light, warmth, and weather. And I thought of how sex is one of the few activities one can really enjoy at this time of year, if they’re not into snowboarding or the like.
And I thought of those who haven’t the option of just acquiring a lover the good old-fashioned way, those who need to purchase sex. And how the continued need to do so must evoke some sort of anger or bitterness in the purchaser. To tell the truth, prostitution has been on my mind a lot thanks to a fascinating novel I’m reading about a 43”-high dwarf living in Ireland’s County Cork, a beautiful book with titillating language and brilliant observations, that will probably fuel at least a couple postings on this lowly rag of debauchery.
But I thought most about that absolute bastard, Robert Pickton, Vancouver’s notorious Pig Farm Serial Killer who’s presently facing charges, with a ban on the press, for the murders of 27 women since the ‘80s, though some suggest the fucker’s responsible for the deaths of up to 60 local prostitutes – all disadvantaged women from Vancouver’s Downtown East Side, forced by life’s circumstances to work in the sex trade.
Pickton apparently lured these disenfranchised sex-trade workers to his home out in Surrey with the promise of drugs and cash, then brutally killed them after what are said to be lurid parties on his isolated pig farm, and fed them to his pigs. The recovery operation for DNA evidence on his sprawling farm and its troughs was one of the largest archaeological digs in Canadian history.
If you look at this part of the world, the beauty, the nature, the geography, it speaks mostly to being God’s country. Some years, the weather’s reprehensible, though, and you wonder what it does to people with less stability than someone like myself. I recall the year I spent living in the Yukon, where though the days were short in the winter, the sun would emerge daily and fill the air with the brightest, cleanest, most mesmerizing light I have ever seen. There, I’d met a lady who’d lived in Vancouver all her life and she said to me, “I just couldn’t fucking handle the winters anymore. The year I moved here, it was 45 days straight of rain. I felt like crying every morning by the end of all that, and nothing I could do would change my mood. I’ve never been so hopeless, so desolate…” She moved there, and had never felt that way again. I noticed that I had no depression that winter, a first for me in my life, and the only time I’ve escaped winter sadness since.
It’s no coincidence that off the British Columbian coast is one of the top 10 sailing destinations in the world in the summer… but the region was clearly discovered in the winter, since its name speaks volumes: Desolation Sound.
Pickton’s not the only legendary killer from this region, and not the only one to prey on sex trade workers. There’s the Green River Killer who worked not only in Washington, but occasionally here in Vancouver. A classmate of mine in elementary school, his sister was killed by the GRK. Robert Clifford Olson, another Vancouver man, killed 11 boys that they found, but he wanted authorities to believe there might’ve been dozens more, though he refused to cooperate on his alleged conquests.
The murders are disproportionate to the populations, and to the violence found here on the whole. We don’t get a lot of gun violence or random killings, with an average of 30 murders per year, with most of those being gang- and drug-related, but when it comes to serial killers, we’ve written the book. And nothing, for the life of me, can explain it away, except for the dark, dreary, depressing weather we get from October through to April.
So… though I should be sleeping a little longer, the notion of missing what may well be the only sunny morning for another week or two, and the first in more than three weeks, well, that’s just unforgiveable. My coffee’s brewing, and all my blinds are up, to soak in the little natural light I’ll see in the days to come.
I’ve touched slightly on the local sex trade in this posting, and it’s more just setting the scene for what will be a bit of a focus at some point in the next couple weeks. We prefer to think of the sex trade as escorts with standards and high-price call-girls, but here in Vancouver, with dozens of lowbrow prostitutes disappearing off our streets, dying horrific deaths, being fed to ravenous pigs, or other debauched means of disposal, I assure you… we’ve seen it all in a more dreary light. And my little wheels have certainly been turning. It’s another reason I felt I wanted to write on promiscuity last week, since all these things combine in a strange circle of life.
Port-a-John Porn — The Main Event!
The first part of this can be be read here.
I’ll tell you what, I ain’t never gonna be a Zen Buddhist. My patience level? Sweet fuck all. So, this one’s for all those out there who are just like me: Greedy, impatient, and far too curious. I said I’d post it tomorrow, but why wait, right? I’m the she-wants-it-when-she-want-it-how-she-wants-it type, really, so it’s somewhat hypocritical to deny you.
Besides, I received a few very ego-strokey emails today and yesterday that leave me wanting to appease others. Impatient, AND a big ol’ softie. Gotta love a girl like me. 🙂 So, without ado, part two.
So, this photo here is the stadium where all this transpired, at the University of BC campus (home of Canada’s only totally nude beach, too, so, you know, gotta love the higher-education types). Along the right side of the stadium seating (where no one is ever seated in the…
Urm, so, this is interesting. My neighbour (the one with the Canada flag in his window, GayBoy) is presently fucking his girlfriend with the blinds open, on the sofa. Hmm, fitting timing. HeLLo, NEIGHBOURS! They’re in boxers and stuff, so I don’t see much skin, but I know those moves. They’re opting for tha fast-n-furious brand of fucking, it would seem. That, or a CD’s skipping and they’re keeping pace.
…seats — since vomit’s easier to hose down on grass than clean up off the bleachers, ha) is where we found ourselves, up near the top, in those bushes, sitting on one of the bases of the pillars you can see there. A bird’s eye view on it all. The johns were lined up on the stadium floor directly in front of us, with the backs of them facing us, with about 18″ between each john, just wide enough to squeeze through.
(They just left the living room. Fuckers (literally) and I was enjoying that! I should keep my blinds up more often.)
So, the story continues–
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There was something different about the couple. Something about them stood out as they wovetogether, hand in hand, through the madding throng of people below us. I spotted them and began to watch with interest. There was a physicality in how they moved and something about it aroused me.
They had a cadence to their steps, an intimacy with each other in the casual, matter-of-fact way they held hands and moved singularly through that crowd. They were zeroing in on the hand-sanitizing basin by the long wall of port-a-johns, and I could tell something was up. I grinned, nudged GayBoy, and said, “He’s gonna get himself laid.”
GayBoy started watching them. If there’s one thing my friends know about me, it’s that I’m strangely good at picking things up about total strangers.
Sure enough, it took less than a minute or two for the couple to casually wander behind this wall of johns. Now, this rear wall, you could see behind it where we were, in the stands and beyond, but it wasn’t visible from anywhere else in the stadium.
They stopped about four johns into the line, and stood behind the unit, still visible to us. She leaned against the wall, he leaned into her. His hands splayed against the john’s wall, on either side of her head. They began making out, but his hand slipped down between them, and seemed to prep things for the soon-to-begin telltale thrusting that started as Econoline Crush, a local metal/rock band with melodic yet driving hooks, took to the stage. He jacked her up a bit against that wall, and there was no mistaking, even at our distance, that this wasn’t innocent dry-humping.
The guy’s thrusting got more intense as the music heated up, and the sex was as hot as the day’d become. Oh, if I only had a handicam. I was getting hot just watching, but GayBoy was just bothered since it was too hetero for him.
While the sex was interesting, what unfolded around them was absolutely entertaining.
This couple was oblivious to what was happening around them–the sex was clearly everything at the moment. Maybe they just didn’t care. But the sex pretty fascinating for others, too, as a small crowd was gathering.
At these outdoor gigs at Thunderbird Stadium, guys would always squeeze between the johns and emerge at the back, where they’d relieve themselves au naturel in orderf to avoid the interminable lines for the port-a-johns. The ones who were doing so now, most didn’t even notice the against-the-wall sex going on nearby. Some, though, did.
One particular guy emerged between two johns, eagerly did his bladder relieving business, zipped up, turned, and then noticed the couple. He started watching them for about two, perhaps three minutes.
This had been going on ten minutes now, so the sex was fully unbridled at this point–hard, rhythmic thrusting, and absolutely zero inhibitions.
So dude’s watching the show, grinning like a school kid on a professional day, when he suddenly about-faces and walks. About two minutes later, dude returns with five friends, all holding beers, smoking cigarettes, as they lean on the bleacher stands’ base wall, staring in fascination at the sexual escapades continuing to unfold, their heads banging to the beat of the music and so too, with the rhythmic thrusting.
It’s then that the security guards approach, and the sex has been ongoing for more than 20 minutes. (But for those of us (aka: us) who’d been noshing magic mushrooms, swilling vodka, then beer, and smoking excessive marijuana, it’d seemed like an hour. And so pretty.) The guards tap the couple on the shoulders, and the couple stops. The guy zips up. A conversation ensues, and it’s clear the guards are more amused and file this one under “too bad, but I gotta do my job,” since who can begrudge a guy whose girlfriend’s willing to go the distance in bright daylight with a crowd of 15,000 around?
Everyone breaks up amiably. The couple wander again to the hand-sanitizing bath, and you can tell by the tilt in the guy’s head that he’s watching as the guards wind their way back through the crowd, looking for real trouble to deal with.
As the “Security” shirts fade into the countless bodies buzzing on the stadium floor, the guy takes the girl’s hand and he leads her back to the row of toilets.
Within 90 seconds, they’re back to having full-on sex.
The guys with the beers and the cigarettes? They never really left. They came back and caught the rest of the show.
Another twenty minutes of top-notch, if unsanitary, sex continued to unfold there until the unseasonably hot April setting sun. The couple finally climaxed during the last song in the band’s set, and then diasppeared back into the crowd.
The moral of the story? You may think you’ve got the best seat in the house when you’re in front of the stage. Sometimes, though, sitting in the nosebleeds gives you a view of a show you never thought you’d catch.
Port-a-John Porn: Classic Steff
Readers of my other blog know, GayBoy (aka @mr_tits_pervert) is my best friend, with whom I’ve been bad the most. Occasionally he graces us with a wacky comment here.
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Arts County Fair is a local rite of passage. It’s a spring concert that’s unleashed on the last day of classes for the University of British Columbia, one of the largest universities in the country.
This year was year 11, and though me and my friends have stopped attending, in the early days, we’d seen nearly every show in the first nine years.
GayBoy and I always went together. The most notable ACF for us? The spring of 1999.
The concert lineup wasn’t anything special, but they never really are at ACF. The student union body puts the concert on as a celebration at the end of the school year, the very last day. It’s a license for insanity, with some listenable tunes on the side.
And sometimes it’s the insanity that makes it all worth while.
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I never needed to blow off steam like I did that spring. At the time, it seemed like my mother had had a close call with death but was going to recover from her cancer. I was upbeat but trashed and needed an outlet for my stress. She never would recover, instead, she’d die less than four months later, but I didn’t know that then, whatever my suspicions might have been.
Like anyone would, I just needed a good party.
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Enter GayBoy and his vodka-filled watermelon. (GayBoy has a fondness for injecting fruits with vodka for outdoor concerts. This was the penultimate: More than a mickey had gone into this bad boy. He uses a hypodermic syringe and painstakingly does the work over several hours.)
Also enter a few packages of Scooby Snacks. Back then, there was a brief craze here where Scooby Snacks were all that. They had Mexican magic mushrooms, guarana, and ephedrine. They were mushrooms for the rave crowd and the ephedrine gave you a little kick.
Responsible writer note: They were fun for a while, but after a few instances of trying the cutesy-named “Scooby Snacks,” it all went wrong for me. The ephedrine did what they say it can do — my heart felt like it was going to explode. When you’re on highly hallucinogenic drugs, the last thing you need is to feel like heart-rupturing is a potentiality. Ephedrine can be a kick, but is scary as shit when it goes wrong. Don’t bother.
Fortunately, that day, everything went perfectly. We had fine dope. We had the Snacks. We had the vodka. We had mini-donuts and a beer garden. This was seasonal bliss: a fine early summer day that would soon result in sunstroke for these thousands of concert-goers.
__________
Did I mention the insanity? The beer garden would be churning out hundreds and hundreds of kegs of beer to these students. By the end of the day, there’d be lost lunches puddling the perimeter of the stadium. There’d be guys relieving themselves against every wall they could fine, in order to avoid having to stand in the endless lines for the port-a-johns.
This day, though, the spectacle had gone insane by the third act, the legendary Odds. It was The Odds’ last performance as a band that day, and those of us who’d been along for the ride were glad they were here to say goodbye in their hometown.
Music fan note: If you have no experience with the defunct Canadian band the Odds, Heterosexual Man was a classic, and MTV and MuchMusic couldn’t get enough of the video, which starred the Kids in the Hall. Total thumbs up for song and video.
GayBoy and I had amped up our drugs before their set and we were very hallucinohappy by this stage of the gig.
__________
By the end of the Odds, it was obvious that well over 50% of the stadium was having trouble controlling their alcohol on this crazy-warm sunstroke day. The vomiting was getting hard to take.
GayBoy and I weren’t ready to throw ourselves into the pit at the front of the stage, not yet. Econoline Crush, the next set, weren’t our favourites. (They’re not too bad, but nothing spectacular, just standard-issue grungy alt-rock.)
No, we’d hang back. Find a seat with a view. We made our way to the back of the stadium, where we found a spot to perch right next to the stadium’s seating, which was always inexplicably cordoned off for these concerts. We sat at the base of the massive roof’s pillars, and from there, we could see everything unfold.
Which was good, since we’d soon be treated to a full-on sex show.
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT TIME.
A Reader Asks: What is Promiscuity?
I like sex, a lot. A lot more than I have it, tragically, and that’s not for lack of opportunity, but, rather, because I have moral preconceptions and perhaps even fears that I just can’t get past (IE: STDs, my Catholic youth, etc.).
I’ve said before that anyone can get laid if they set their standards low enough. I still believe that, and doubt that will change anytime soon. But I went and made a comment in response to one of my readers’ comments a couple days ago and have since received an email asking me my definition of promiscuous. That alone would have given me pause for thought, since definitions are generally arbitrary, but the moral semantics of it, that’s a different beast altogether. But then the reader went on at length and that then left me utterly flummoxed. This is the hefty tome I received:
What makes one promiscuous? It seems that promiscuity has a negative connotation; Is this because of a description based on religious, cultural, moral or philosophical matters? IE: Experiencing sexual desire is limited to procreation only; monogamy; one man with one woman… And if this doesn’t fit the scheme, are we sinning or acting amoral? Is it gender related? If a woman sleeps around, more than likely she will be considered a slut. Say a man has the same amount of sexual partners… “well, boys will be boys and need to be experienced.” I don’t think a man would be “accused” of sleeping with too many partners — oh, maybe in the gay community. Okay, so what is it – the quantity? How many times with different partners – 3, 10, 25 – what is the cut-off number? Or is it a matter of timing/frequency – a different partner every month? I know some people can’t even remember the names of their lovers! And are you promiscuous if you (even just once) sleep with someone for other reasons than “just” making love? I am thinking about a “sugar daddy”, IE: financial gain other than prostitution. Or is it then a matter of feelings and emotions; consequently, the lack of emotions and/or just a fulfillment of desires and needs? Would a married family man be considered promiscuous if he (once) had sex in a swinger club — kissed the wife good-bye in the morning, and in for a quickie with another woman the same night?
What, are you trying to make me work for a living? Hardy-har-har.
Here’s what the dictionary wants us to believe, for starters:
1. Having casual sexual relations frequently with different partners; indiscriminate in the choice of sexual partners.
2. Lacking standards of selection; indiscriminate.
3. Casual; random.
First things first: I’m not here to judge anyone, for anything. That said, I think the point of the definition above is that anything outside of a regular relationship, as soon as casualness or randomness enters the picture, is promiscuity. However, the tone that the word takes on depends on the perspective of the speaker. Are you judging the behaviour? If so, then the word is a negative one. Are you simply stating fact? Then it’s merely a pragmatic, honest descriptor.
Fact is, I’m actually a pretty old-fashioned girl, in some ways. I want one guy to shower with affection, and nothing more. (Although I don’t wish to be married, but that’s another posting for another time.) I don’t want to experience a rainbow of lovers, I have no interest in that. I feel a sexual relationship gets better the longer you’re in it, provided you maintain open communication and a willingness to experiment. If a guy cheated on me, I’d probably walk. That’s just me.
Have I slept with a guy on the first date? Yeah, absolutely, and that was promiscuity. Have I had sex outside of a relationship? Yeah, I have, and that was promiscuous. Would I have sex with someone other than a lover I was presently involved with? No, I doubt it. Would I consent to being the other woman? In the past, no, I haven’t (and I’ve actually busted a dude who lied and said he was single, when I knew his girlfriend). In the future, I really don’t know, but I’d find it hard to justify being the “other woman.”
I don’t think you can argue the literal definition of what promiscuity is. I think the nature of the sex you have (with emotions, without, with a commitment, without) defines whether it’s a promiscuous act or not, and that’s not really a matter of semantics, but rather, simple fact. The question then is, is that amoral? And what’s the answer? Then, dear reader, you’re absolutely entering into a philosophical debate, and a difficult one, at that.
Is morality subjective? That is, does the morality of an act depend on the situation and the beliefs of those involved? The majority of the world will tell you no, that morality is not open for discussion, because X religion deems that virtue as being Y. It’s one of the oldest arguments known to mankind, except in polygamous/polyamorous societies, and one that there’ll never be a proper answer to, and certainly nothing definitive will ever tumble from the fingers of this lowly writer.
A lot of people will comment that it’s not the act itself that indicates morality or the lack thereof, but rather, the underlying intention. Yada, yada, fucking yada.
Ultimately, I think what it all boils down to in life is, can you sleep at night? When you wake up in the morning, do you feel a little more whole, or a little less so? Are you satisfied with who you are, with what you do or have done? Can you own up to your actions on your own terms? (Owning up to things in a social, public forum is not necessarily an indicator, because there are a lot of judgmental assholes out in the world, whether it’s Pat Robertson or the dude down the street.) Granted, sociopaths have their own little club where they feel none of these questions apply, and then you indeed have to look at what a moral median might be for society at large, which is how we get laws in the first place.
I know what gets me to sleep, I know what keeps me up nights. I know what leaves me tinged with disgust, I know what leaves me with warm fuzzies day in, day out. I have few illusions of the moral high-ground I’ve set for myself, and while those standards are ones I strive to hold true to, I wouldn’t judge another for failing to meet them – unless they were involved with me, because then it should become an understanding, something to strive for together, something to embrace. Ah, proof: A romantic at heart, I is.
Promiscuity simply is what it is, sex acts committed in a random, casual manner; a hedonistic enjoyment of the flesh. And that’s not all bad, particularly if both parties are on the same page. When people get hurt, when disease gets spread, when irresponsibility transpires, then it’s something I frown on, that I judge. The rest of the time, well, we’re all adults, and if there’s agreement, then that’s all that matters. It’s the interpretation of those acts that get us into these arguments of semantics. The definition is clear, but it’s the moral interpretation of what “random” and “casual” mean that have you asking your question. Semantics, my friend, are indeed a bitch.
But what do you think of promiscuity? What do you think of my two cents?
1. (I’ve been asked in the past what I think of polyamory, and perhaps the above gives those askers a little perspective on my response, but I will likely do an entire posting on that at some point as well, because it’s an interesting topic, and one that I feel is largely misunderstood, though not quite my cup of tea.)
2. (And in regards to the posting below, yes, I’m still broke, yes, I’m still scared a little since my financial safety net has disappeared, and yes, I could still use help. Feel free to pitch in, at any amount. Thanks!)
3. (How come I never saw that episode of Warner Bros.’ Saturday morning cartoons, hmm? I guess that was before TiVo.)
Q&A: Seducing A Straight Same-Sex Friend
An American broad abroad in Germany who calls herself a devoted reader wants to know:
How do I seduce my straight female friend? Or consequently, how do I deal with falling for someone not available?
When I wrote her back, I said rather bluntly, “What part of straight is so hard to understand?”
We all fall for someone we can never have. In fact, I’m about to listen to “Something I Can Never Have” by NIN. I’ve done it, and I’ve lived with the reality check I’ve had to cash. That’s just life. Most of the time, I think we fall for the unattainable because, on some level, we’re not consciously aware of the fact that we’re not ready to emotionally commit to anyone. We’d rather be lonely than really take the chance of being vulnerable, because being vulnerable means admitting your weaknesses to yourself and to another. It means taking a risk.
So, we cop out and we put our desire to be loved onto someone who we know will never respond to it — it’s kind of like never really trying to obtain your goals and dreams, but still being able to say, “Well, I never really tried, so I’ve never really failed.”
No, but you just haven’t played the game at all, have you?
We’ve all done this, and anyone who says they haven’t is just kidding themselves. It’s human nature to play it safe some of the time, particularly when we’ve been through emotional trauma, and you, dear reader, have been through exactly that, and you & I know it.
So, with shrink-mode off, let’s get back to the initial question. How do you seduce your female friend when she’s straight? I think it’s safe to say that the odds of a gay chick seducing her straight female friend are much higher than if the respective players were males. For chicks, there’s nothing threatening about being in the lovin’ arms of another woman. We don’t have to go through as much psychoanalysis to get past the experience as a guy who (feels he) needs to then examine whether he’s a “real man” or not.
Society, too, is more forgiving of lesbian encounters anyhow, since we all know most guys would throw down a sizeable wad of cash if they got to be the fly on the wall of a couple hot chicks exploring the lesbian side of things. In fact, it’s probably safe to say that most people just don’t take lesbians that seriously, considering they’re using strap-on dildos and all.
Let’s take me, for example. I’m out-and-out as straight as they get. I love all the aspects of being with a man, and can’t imagine myself ever being a lesbian for the longterm. But I very well might get playful with a girl… if all the pieces fell into place. What pieces, you ask? (But if you want some perspective on my little lesbian fantasies, read this and this.)
Back to the “pieces.” You’d have to get me good and drunk, for starters. Not because I wouldn’t know what I was doing, because I always have some self-control, but because I would want to have a really good excuse when I woke up the next morning. “Pfft, I was drunk, it’s all good… It was fun. I’ll never, ever drink again…” Heh. That said, there’s a part of me that wants to have the experience. I secretly want to have a woman come onto me, and the more I hear from chicks, the more I realize that this is a pretty common feeling. It’s something we won’t go out looking for, but if it should happen… We might just give in.
That said, let’s say you have that experience. Let’s say you pop a cork on a great bottle of wine, have a great “girl’s night” in, and you accidentally surf the channels and land on that great lesbian love-fest, The L-Word, and you somehow start sitting a little closer on the couch, et cetera…
We interrupt this broadcast to state that seduction’s seduction, whether it’s man-woman/woman-man/man-man/woman-woman. It’s all the same. You just need to get a little closer and see what happens, that’s all. Test the waters. How would you seduce anyone? Same difference here. It’s just a taboo, that’s all. We now resume the topic…
So, you kiss. If it doesn’t work, you get embarrassed, blame it on the wine, say you’ve just been a little lonely lately and you’re being dumb, and apologize. If it does work, then you make a move to the classic caress, and maybe it escalates.
I’ll say one thing, though — I think if you’re talking about crossing the lines of sexuality with someone who’s not a player in that game normally, it’s an all-or-nothing shot. Meaning, you get ‘em into a kiss and they’re responding, then THAT is the night you take it all the way. You will more than likely not get a second shot at it, so seize the opportunity while you can.
So, the not-getting-a-second-shot thing takes us to the next topic: Love’em and leave’em, except you’re the one who’s gonna get left. More often than not, they will take you up on the experience, but they will not let it develop into anything more. You run the risk of having a really incredible night where you get to passionately introduce them to same-sex love, and because the experience of teaching someone about sex is such an incredibly large turn-on, and a psychological mind-fuck in some cases, you also run the risk of having your heart absolutely shattered when it turns out that, for them, it was nothing more than trying something new at the buffet of love. For you, it will always mean more. If you’re able to accept that it will end in something that you’ll never have — and worse yet, you intimately know now exactly what you’ve lost — then I say go full-bore ahead and take that chance.
OKAY, let’s have a discussion, shall we? What would it take, if you’re straight, for someone of the same sex to seduce you? Have you thought about it? Do you secretly wish someone would make a pass at you? Have you ever tried to drop hints? How far would you be willing to go? Would it become a skeleton in your closet? Why, or why not? Speak to me, oh, hordes of lurky people. Enquiring Steffs want to know.
Beyond Fat Girls
Labbie wrote a piece about weight and self-image recently. I enjoyed it. Then, later the same morning, I was watching my previously-taped episode of “Rescue Me” in which firefighters, Probie Mike and Sean, are making their way up the stairs to the flame-filled fifth floor, talking about a recent date, which ended in the Probie getting laid with this apparently model-thin chick.
“It was like her hips were cutting into me,” he said, continuing, “I’m afraid to get on top of her. It’s like I hear this cracking sound or something.”
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I’m part of the bonus-lover plan. Yeah, I’m carrying extra, for sure. I’m told “I wear it well” and for the first time, I believe them, most of the time. But I do know I’m cute, at the very least. I’ve got punky short light hair and green eyes with a sly grin, and I’m pretty comfortable with myself when I put an effort into lookin’ like a cutie. And hey, I even get a little approval streetside.
I’ve written before about overcoming insecurities in order to love yourself for who you are. It’s been a long road for me. I was always very sexual, but I never really believed it about myself until the past three or so years. This year, though, has been the year of the my greatest emergence. I am what I am now, and I know it. The journey has been a long and interesting one, the journey of becoming sexual, not just seeming sexual. It’s fabulous.
My weight always held me back. I always tried to say the right things. I always tried to toe the line and be the proper chick, so I wouldn’t offend too many people. I played it safe. One day, I realized that I felt like a fake, and I started saying exactly what was on my mind. I stopped appeasing everyone. I slowly started to work on my self-image. Simple things, like trying a new kind of clothing, pushing myself in physical exercise, losing a little of the weight, talking to someone seemingly out of my league. There are days I forget how to be the Better Steff, days I forget about being the strong, proud, sassy chick I know I am. It happens. But it always passes, too. I suspect, however, that there’s something universal about that.
The biggest part of my transformation came from finally accepting myself for what I am, but more importantly, realizing that my faults and weaknesses weren’t nearly as sizeable as I had feared. I learned to look at myself as someone on the street might; if I met that woman, how would I judge her? Not nearly so harshly, I thought.
In finally being open enough to talk about my body image with the guys I have seen or considered in that way, I realized that the men I’d found seemed to nurture a very different impression about weight on a woman. They felt exactly as Mike the Probie would — that a woman with a few extra pounds was someone you could play a little more roughly with, someone you didn’t have to worry about harming if things might escalate a bit between you.
Soon, I realized something great: The thing that I always thought held me back in the bedroom was the thing bringing me exactly the kind of physicality I enjoyed — sometimes rough, always unrestrained.
It’s interesting how perspective can alter your enjoyment of something, but there’s an incredible shift that occurs when you really begin to embrace yourself in your lover’s presence.
I think this is part of the dilemma that lays behind the number one complaint I hear from women — their inability to orgasm at all, or the difficulties faced when eventually achieving one. We’re so wrapped up in our body images, trapped in our insecurities, concerned with public perception, and inundated with the pressure to come, that we just can’t enjoy sex. It takes years for women to get past this shit, and I personally believe that it’s why we do not peak sexually until the average age of 32.
I happen to now be 32. If any of my friends had known the kind of sex I was already having in my early 20s, their perception of me would have been wildly different. In that regard, I was definitely advanced for my age.
I began having bondage with sex at the relatively young age of 19. I had sex in very, very public places the first time at the age of 18. By the age of 21, I had no qualms having sex in a semi-public private room where anyone could walk in without warning (but I’m secretly glad they never did). Voyeurism, for me, was a two-way street, and I liked to travel on it. All that said, though, and I still never really embraced my sexuality until this year, my 32nd.
Sex, for me now, is better than it has ever been — and not because of my lovers, but because of the roles I’m willing to play, the brazenness I bring to the bedroom, because of my changed perspective. My god, had I even begun to suspect it would be like this, I’d have ditched those insecurities years ago.
The rewards of youth aren’t nearly as great as we’ve all been led to believe. Sex improves with age, despite the hundreds of millions of dollars the pharmaceutical industry spends to make you believe otherwise. Sex isn’t just about hard cocks and screaming orgasms. It’s the one language that transcends geography. It’s an otherworldy experience you can share where you need nothing but skin and sweat and stamina. We’re so hung up on needing to be hard, needing to come, that we’ve forgotten everything that happens in between — the places in which our mouths can linger and toy; the dexterity and flexibility of the hand; the thrill of warm, sweaty skin against our own; the scores of peaks and valleys found in that symphony of gasps and moans.
With age and maturity and realism, we’re able to begin letting go of those hang-ups. When we allow ourselves the freedom of being beautiful to that one person, we find ourselves experiencing things we never thought we’d feel. And that, that’s the ultimate goal to have in any sexual relationship: the absolute ability to lose all apprehensions and fear, the evolution of trust and willingness.
If only it were that easy. It’s hard. Very. But the reward is worth the struggle. Oh, so very.
Words, words, words: To Speak or Not to Speak?
At 1:27 am I turned the television off and found myself alone in the dark. It had been a long time since I’d last just sat there in that darkness, that silence. The day had been long, frenetic, and while good as a whole, was the kind of day that prevents you from getting the shit that needs doing done.
Suddenly, silence. Calm. Through my large sliding glass doors, the clouds have that murky coral-tinted charcoal look of a dreary winter night. But the city behind that glass is absolutely silent.
Know that old joke, why do you keep hitting yourself in the head with a hammer? Because it feels so good when it stops, the guy responds. This was one of those moments. The throbbing concussive pain that has been my life of late had momentarily ceased to be.
My head-hitting has all been of the cerebral sort, though, of late. My mind’s been in overdrive and I’ve had no outlet for it. I’ve actually been writing some of late, I should confess. It’s been the literary equivalent of the quickie. Fast’n’dirty, when time permits. Stolen moments, hoarded words.
I’ve yet to go back and read any of it. Tomorrow, today rather, is a day off. My plans include laziness and self-indulgence, perhaps self-pleasure. That’s a double-entendre, kids, since sitting around and reading your own work is about as intellectually masturbatory as anything can get.
I’ve been doing a lot of soul-searching about this sex writing gig of late, folks. I’ve had cause to do so. A recent opportunity arose in which I could try to do a certain quantity of writing in a certain form for certain people who happened to be of a certain religious persuasion. The opportunity would essentially mean I would receive a stipend weekly, with guidance provided in order to aid me in being completely self-sufficient (read: no more corporate whoring) over the next year. The only stipulation? Certain envelopes being pushed would constitute my possibly being uninvited from the party, and the cash cow going bye-bye. (IE: Big Brother and censorship rear their ugly heads once again.)
For a few days, I held off on writing or posting on here, the very politically incorrect “Cunt,” because I wanted to toe that line. I wasn’t sure whether it was in search of simply getting money for doing what I wanted to do, or simply “holding back” with the same goal in mind. Holding back, I can handle that, I thought. It’s not like I really take it all that far, I thought.
Or do I?
But in the last couple days, I’ve woken the fuck up. I can’t toe a line. It’s hypocritical. Shit, man, I can’t even get within a sidewalk’s breadth of that line, dude. How ass-backward would that be?
Pretty goddamned, I’d say.
I think the biggest thing wrong in North American relationships today is our almost Puritanical approach to talking about anything sexual. We have so many hang-ups and inhibitions when it comes to sex. We got to get past this, people.
We refuse to talk about it. Or most people do, that is. It’s shunned. We talk about things surrounding sex — the flirtation, the outfits, the seduction, the wining’n’dining, the commitment, the logistics — but never the nitty gritty, the real stuff that affects us on an individual level.
Face it, the whole notion of sex conversation tends to be along the lines of the boring and uninvestigative, like, “Do you like that?” You know what rule number one in the world of journalism is? Never, ever ask a question which can be answered with a simple “Yes” or “No.” If you want to know your interview subject, you always, always investigate for long, thorough answers.
You’re trying to bring your partner the best pleasure they can possibly experience, and all you’ll ask is “Do you like that?” Jesus. And people wonder what’s wrong with sex today? Worse yet, even today there are a lot of women who will NOT even ask their man if they’re likin’ it. That’s a whole other issue that I just won’t address right now.
The human body isn’t one-size-fits-all. It’s complicated. We need to talk to each other. You wanna improve your sex life? TALK to your partner. Get to know what’s working and what’s not. Asking’s the only way to do it.
Be a scientist. Gather evidence. Learn. Study the subject in as many conditions as you can. Experiment. Document your findings. Verify. Rinse. And repeat.
So, then, I ask you: How could I possibly live with myself if I began to censor myself just for a meagre stipend so early in this game?
Throw a few more digits at me, though, and maybe we’ll talk. For now, no whoring’s good enough for me. Hand me that megaphone, will you? And go talk to your lover.
I’ll have a few more things to say about conversations regarding sex in the near future, a couple examples of ways to go about doing that, for those who are a little awkward on just how to find out what’s really working. It’s so damned important.