I want to be a sex goddess.
I know: I’ll buy teeth-whitening strips. That’ll do it.
Skill? Who needs skill? Communication strategies? Pshaw! No, I just need white teeth.
This is what the media would have you believe, isn’t it? Hey, she must be an all-American girl. See how white her teeth are? Geez. She really is the driven snow, but hey, I’d let her drive me.
Ahh, the media and beauty. If ever there was a more bastardly combination. Sigh. Where to begin? Where, oh, where, oh, where, oh, where?
Well, let’s go back from whence we came. Teeth-whitening. Well, I’m a cute gal. I’ve got a gap-toothed smile, though, you know. Just one gap, and not in the centre. I like it, actually. Character. I also have this one eyebrow with a crook in it, which leaves me easily delivering “devious” gazes in times of seduction. Those, and a small scar on my nose from when I had a tete-a-tete with a paintcan in grade two, are my flaws. But despite those, I have pluses. I’ve got warm green eyes that emote brilliantly, decent cheek bones, and even with their itty-bitty flaws, my teeth are pretty darned white, ergo I have a nice smile, and I’ve got nice, plush, full lips to frame ‘em. I’m all right, gap and all, ‘cos I’m just who I’m supposed to be, right?
Still, I did it. Those fuckers sucked me in. I bought them. I did. I justified it, though. ”I’m buying generic. I’m not a sheep. And hey, it’s on sale!” And I forked out $25 of my last dollars to pick up the fabulous, oh-so-now box of GLAM, BABY. Yeah, I bought the strips. What’s more, I bought the possibility of a less-flawed me. That’s what they’re really selling, after all.
Have you done this shit? Seriously. All right, we all know that getting sexy is an ugly, ugly business. Hair removal? Not attractive. Some ugly things go down when we’re alone and trying to get all sexed up. The things we inspect, the preening we strain to do. Oh, dear. It’s a wonder we come out of that with any self-esteem at all (even more mysterious considering those who willingly use the 10x magnification uberflaw-exposing mirrors — shudder).
But these strips? Dear, god. Insert them, and become a drooling mass of incoherence, a moisture monkey. Sex factor? Nil, man. I did one individual set of strips a couple weeks back and haven’t been back to do another set since.
I swear, you drool like Lenny when George has let him pet the rabbits too much. “But, George, I like to pet the rabbits. They’s so soft, George.”
Slurp, drool. It’s repulsive, really. Do not do this around your lover. It’d be so inconvenient to have them conjure a drooling-mass in-coital image of you arise to shatter — mercilessly — any hope of orgasm for that foreseeable moment.
And this ain’t no “God, I’m being pleasured ORALLY!” slurp of sexual satiation we’re talking about here. This is along the lines of “Granny’s having soup again, put her teeth on the counter”. So, unless you’ve a geriatric fetish…
But you know why they keep sucking us in? Insecurities. Beautiful means loved means admired means successful means laid, laid, laid. Oh, yeah, I’m in for the Kool-aid. Gimme some of that.
It’s our insecurities. I mean, hell, if you could find the ego as a bodypart, you could go and put an X for “hit me here” right on top of it. Our psyche’s one big soft spot. We’re all vulnerable in one way or another. We’re all judging ourselves a little on the harsh side, some people excessively so.
All our lives, we’re told to be better. Doesn’t matter who you are, where you are, you’ve been told one of two things: Be better, or conversely, forget better — you’ll never be any better, you’re trash. It’s all the same, still boils down got to look better, act better, live better, do better, speak better, better, better.
The cosmetics industry is playing that up like you wouldn’t believe. And now they’ve gone and gotten the boys all worked into a frenzy now, too. The last bastion of oblivion has been shattered, giving way to the rise of the metrosexual. Such pretty boys. I hate to admit it, I do like ‘em. They got that ready-to-eat look that conveys “yummy” and “sink teeth in” to me. Come on, you know what I’m talkin’ about. Some people are edibles. Some have “food group” and “recommended part of a balanced diet” all over ’em.
But there’s a lot to be said for rugged men, too, though. They clean up, and well. I like doing the cleaning, too. Rinse-and-repeat. Mostly repeat.
But you see? This is what they’re doing. Men are getting as compartmentalized and as stereotyped as women have always been. It started a couple decades ago, probably even as early as the ‘70s, but it’s blown out of the water in the last five or so years. Now guys are getting just as silly as the girls have been, via spending insane amounts on cosmetics and other beauty fixes. (Surgery, anyone?)
I’ve always been that type. My insecurities seemed tethered to my expenditures. “But it’s expensive, I’ll be beeyootiful the instant it touches skin!”
I’ve spent so damned much on the myth. I’ve always had a little bit of problem skin. I’m of Irish descent, so my complexion’s really fair, right? So, I’d often get blackheads on my nose. Every product I bought would do jack all about the problem, and I was spending $40 a bottle for this crap.
These days, I use a variety of skin cleansers, but when I want to exfoliate, I throw some sugar into it and lather up. My skin’s the best it’s ever been, my rosacea is completely gone for a more porcelain (ergo more corruptable, ergo good) look, and I’ve been looking five years younger since I started cheaping out. And my face is softer now, too. Truly. (Which is no mean feat since I ride a scooter and get exposed to the elements year-round.)
The irony is, They (the Man, et al) used to tell men that sugar was a great face scrub. I always thought, “Damn men, they’ve got all the luck.” I was gullible. But I put two and two together when the Queer Eye for the Straight Guy guys came along. At the start of the series, they’d tell the guys to scrub with sugar. It didn’t take long for them to be selling the “men’s exclusive facial care products” crap to the guys, though. “But it’s crushed avocado seed. It’ll give you…” rosacea, actually. Geez. That’s not exfoliation, that’s abrasion, dudes.
It took being broke to give me the best complexion I’ve had since my teens. Fuck H20, the Body Shop, and everyone else. Some things are worth spending money on, for sure, but I think the face-washing thing’s getting a tad out of control. My skin’s proof.
And this rant all started from me brushing my teeth before bed and eyeballing, guiltily, the box of whitening strips. My point? It’s a sad fucking thing that our insecurities cost us so much both financially and chronologically. Ah, if only being a sex god was simpler.
Category Archives: Dimestore Philosophy
Hey, Got A Cam? Cybersex and Masturbation.
show me ur tits. squeeze em.
oh, yah, baby. ur so hot. hard now.
Ah, the internet: Where the flame of romance never dies.
I’ve been talking about masturbation for the last 10 days or so. How can I possibly ignore cybersex?
The butt of many jokes, cybersex is still vastly overlooked for its potential to destroy the modern relationship as we know it. But that’s changing. Mental health pros are finding themselves inundated with sex addictions these days – more than ever before. It turns out that cybersex is the crack cocaine of sex addiction.
It’s changing the dynamics of human relationships. Communication was already doing pretty shitty before this, but now it’s plummeting to all-time lows.
Now, I’m not trying to be an expert in double-speak here, but I gotta revisit earlier claims that masturbation wasn’t addictive. Let’s qualify that. In the same way that marijuana is not addictive, so too is masturbation not.
Dope, you can get pretty compulsive about. Hell, I’m first in line to admit to marijuana compulsions. It’s “not really” addictive because it can be kicked with a little self-control. I think masturbation’s the same. You can be compelled to do it far more than you should be doing it, yeah. Absolutely. But that ain’t addiction, that’s a user malfunction. It’s a user with an addictive personality, someone with lacks somewhere, who’s trying to fill the need with a substitute of choice.
Hell, that’s life, most days. That ain’t a candybar, honey, that’s a need for affection and someone’s lovin’ arms around ya. Same deal. The only thing is, masturbation’s so much easier to paint with that brush of judgement than, say, having a second helping of pasta. “Oh, but’s a cream sauce, I get it. I can relate.”
Needs are needs, and sometimes we fullfil ‘em the wrong way, but we all got the needs, and we all got compulsions.
I’ve done cybersex. Sure. I masturbated when I did, sure. But he had it better at his end, ‘cos after all, cybersex is all about the verbs. Me, I got verbs. Girl’s got vocab, baby. So, I was left a little unquenched, but thank god I was in good hands: Mine.
And that’s the beauty of cybersex. It’s sex on demand, and you know it’s gonna deliver – every single time. With every click, every page, appeasement, baby. You get to fill your own needs, so you get off, fully, completely, each and every time. It leaves everything up to you, it’s more selfish, intensely personal, voyeuristic, and ultimately, it’s all in your head.
Just like every drug I’ve ever had. Personal. Selfish. Imaginative. Voyeuristic. All me. That’s drug use for you, whether you’re into cocaine or Jim Beam, so when anyone tells you cybersex ain’t just like a drug, tell ‘em for me that they don’t know shit.
I think there’s nothing wrong with a little cyber-dallying. Do I? No, I don’t. It’s not my bag – repetitive, uninspiring, and has the feel of those dirty jeans you find on the corner of the floor in a jam – does the job, takes care of the moment’s needs, but a little too loose’n’easy for a real good fit. However, if the right lit man came ‘round with a suitably sexy repertoire of vocab, I’d find myself curious how he’d play through words, sure.
Cybersex worries me, it does. I see dire times ahead for human relationships. I see a time when we’ll be unable to ask for sex in a healthy, seductive kind of way. I see romance and foreplay taking wrong turns. I see communication growing increasingly truncated, and I see us becoming far too introspective and inward-driven to really know how to interact in a meaningful way anymore. In that way, the masturbation is the enabling act that makes it feel “real” when it’s so not.
It’s freaky. I heard about Isaac Asimov’s Robot series and how, in one of the books, he predicted cybersex would transpire – in 3500 AD. Here we are, only 50 years later, doing exactly that — communicating through screens, performing for each other instead of being real, using shortcuts for dialogue instead of fully expressing what’s on our mind. As science fiction, it’s interesting, as reality, it’s disconcerting.
I think it all comes down to balance, really. Masturbation’s awesome, but if you’re sitting around your apartment masturbating all day (must be nice to have such resilient skin and tissue), you might want to consider if it’s doing as much for you as you’re letting yourself believe. It’s about reality checks and knowing when too much of a good thing’s too much. It’s about remembering that your home comes with a door, and when you open that door, a world is at your heels. This virtual shit, well… “Virtual” says it all, really: Nearly real, but, like, not.
I always love to say, “It is what it is.” In this instance, cybersex, masturbation, remember, it ain’t what it ain’t. I ain’t never gonna be what you want it to be. If you’re aware of that, then you’re fine. If you forget that, or lose the desire for the real deal, then you’ve got to take a look at yourself.
Slowing Down The Speed of Life and Love
This is more of a fantasy than anything I’ve written in awhile – slowness, that’s all I want right now. I’m about to stop reading everything, and I’m on the verge of radically trying to change the life I’m living. I’m stick of the manic pace, I’m sick of the demands on my time, and I’m sick of feeling like I’m stretched in a million directions, just like my pal Gumby. I’m about to re-read Carl Honore’s In Praise of Slow (or In Praise of Slowness for you Yankees). I read it before, and it helped me make choices that got my life into a place I loved, but that was a while ago, and my world’s been turned upside down for awhile now.
There’s a movement out there in the world that has no flash, no PR, no glory, and it’s called Slow. The movement embraces everything from real cooking with real ingredients and long, relaxing meals with real conversation, right through to Tantric Sex. It’s about finally deciding this world around us just doesn’t make any sense anymore, and taking back control over your life.
We’ve drunk the Kool-aid, man. For the last 100 years, we’ve been told that every new piece of technology would help us better our lives. Cars would get us there faster, cellphones will mean you can get your work done on your time, your portable laptop computer will mean you can work anywhere you want.
It’s bullshit, of course. All it’s done is made it possible to get ahold of us anywhere, anytime.
I have this nightmare, you see. I dream of one day doing a trek through the wilds of Africa, and there on the Savannah floor, the tall grasses of the veldtland blowing in the plains’ winds, the distant sounds of elephants trumpeting their majesty, lionesses roaring with pride over their conquests, and some fucker’s polyphonic GPS-ready cellphone starts to ring to the tone of Softcell’s “Tainted Love.”
I’m sick of this. I’m sick of being a yuppie in the middle of all this crap. But I left the commune a while ago, honestly. But they pulled me back in, just like the fuckin’ mob. Now, I work almost daily, my cellphone’s always charged, I do everything I can to fit as much into my week as I can, and I can tell you this much: The only thing I really know is that I’m beginning to feel soulless.
A year ago, I was living the Slow life. I’d opted to work three hours less per week, and as a result, wound up with three-day weekends weekly. I worked on my terms, my way. I had a little less money, but I couldn’t have cared less. I looked at my friends with their new houses, new cars, and the bags under their eyes and the need to do overtime, and I laughed, sat on beach, read a book, and couldn’t have cared less.
I took the time to cook from scratch, which really doesn’t take much longer, or much more effort, than a lot of the packaged shit in the world. I turned my cellphone on deliberately, not automatically, not 24/7. I let my answering machine get my calls if the phone rang during a meal. I’d take the slow, long, scenic way home. I’d do whatever it took to enjoy the moment I had. My home and my self, both were oases away from the world.
And now? I feel like I’ve been bought and sold by The Man. I got to the beach on Saturday, and did some photography, which I absolutely love to do, and it was the first time since the early fall I’d done so. There was a time when nary a week would pass without the taste of salt air coating my throat.
Slow means doing everything you can to enjoy the moment. It means not rushing to the orgasm. It means exploring Tantric Love. It means rolling over in the morning and actually deciding what you want to do, instead of feeling like the world’s got demands on your time. It’s about knowing that sometimes, a quickie’s exactly what the moment calls for – whether it’s sex or some McDonald’s fries – but that it’s a choice, not a necessity.
It’s about turning off your daytimer, your cellphone, and realizing that you have control over your world, and that you can say “no” to others.
I’m looking for work now, sick of this hodge-podge of jobs I’ve been doing, the complications needed to keep all the shit straight in my head. I’m tired of feeling like I need to apologize for not having any time, when the fact is, the world’s made me this way… but only because I let it.
I had actually gotten an email yesterday that asked me, “Why are you working so much, do you like it?” No, fuck no. An ideal life for me is books, a beachside home, and the ability to travel and live on my terms. I’ve hit a cosmic hiccup that has left me maxed out for six months now, and the time is here to put a stop to it.
Fact is, modern life is bullshit. There are aspects I love, (iPOD!) but our lack of time, lack of independence, lack of control… it’s really tearing us apart. I remember a guy on a ferry saying to me once, “Cities are built for distraction… to distract you from where you’re not, and who you’re not.” And it’s true. I get comments sometimes about my “insight” or whatever it is people like in my writing, and I have to tell you, you too can be your own little guru, but only if you come over to the Slow side. My writing, I guarantee you, will improve if I stop all this shit that’s pulling me apart. My Slow time spent living in the Yukon, and my travels, and my lifestyle I had a year ago, these are the things that plug me into my cosmos. It keeps me happy, makes me in tune not only with the world around me, but with myself.
Being sucked into this vacuous existence of stop-and-go-and-go-and-go has left me feeling like my soul’s long gone. I know it’s not, it’s just on pause, but I remember the feeling I had last year. I was single, my life was entirely on my terms, my schedule, and nobody but nobody could take it away from me. Until they did, and now, here I am.
I’m not worried about it, though. Now I know the problem, I also know the solution, and I know I’ve been able to make those life changes before, and I will again soon. And then, then it will be summer, and life will again be all blessed out.
Every now and then, a person needs this anger and frustration, because it reminds us what we want, and urges us to aggressively seek it.
I gotta get Slow. Fast. And you do, too.
(Photo’s by a dude called Mike Verna. It’s exactly what I wish to be doing today. I’ve cancelled all my work today, just have one appointment, and I’m finding my way to the water today. Rain’s back. Oh well. I’ll be writing about sex soon, I promise. I just need to deal with some things on my plate, first. Thanks for staying tuned.)
Marriage: I Still Don't, But…
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.)
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.
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.
_____________
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.
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.)
Christmas Night Musings of Aloneness, a la Bridget Jones
(Ed. Note: In my semi-drunken/contented state last evening, I wrote this and spontaneously published it without editing it. I awoke, and suddenly thought “what have I done?” and then saved as draft, suspecting I might’ve been too open. I’ve since received some very thoughtful, considerate emails, which leaves me thinking I should keep it up… although I’m not too comfortable with that, but it’s really great to get comments like those. Thanks. If you interpret this to think I’m really lonely, then don’t — I’m not. I’m just aware of my aloneness, and that’s an altogether different matter. Without further ado…)
Steff is drunk. Why, a Christmas tradition, no? GayBoy and I get together each Xmas eve to drink, and eat, and be merry, and to watch an “anti-Xmas Xmas movie.” What is that, you ask? A film that contains Christmas, but is not about it. For example, Gremlins, Die Hard, etc. This year? Bridget Jones’ Diary.
Some days, I feel like Bridget Jones. I belt out alongside classic “Ain’t you lovin’ me yet” type songs, just like Bridget. I flap my lips and say the most inappropriate things at the worst times, oh, so fucking often, really. “Flippant” is an adjective which often precedes my name. I have gotten into boatloads of trouble for saying what occurs to me in each and every job I’ve ever held. I watch cheesy films, drink a little (much), and sometimes wallow in my singleness. I often deliberate before a date about whether it will result in getting laid, and whether I should wear the sexy panties, or the “granny” panties that will hide my figure under my clothes, but be oh, so unattractive should said clothes be peeled off in a heavy makeout session on the floor.
BJD is one of those “time of the month” classics with obscene insights into the single girl. I remember working in the bookstore, and whenever someone was looking for a gift for a 25-40ish woman, I’d simply open the book to any random page, scan it, read a short snippet, and presto, sold. Why? Because it’s true. Because as many good things there are about being single, there’s ultimately something shitty about not having a warm body next to you in bed. That’s not pessimism or cynicism, it’s realism. There’s something blissful about having warm skin within reach when you’re under the covers, and we all know it. That smell, that feel, that knowledge… it’s all so very good.
And there’s no worse morning to wake alone than on Christmas, as Armistead Maupin wrote in his San Fran classics, Tales of the City. But you know what? 24 hours passes, and it’s Boxing Day. Presto, life goes on.
Although there’s nothing I want more than to not be single right now, I have to say, I’m all right with it. I’d love to wake up on Christmas with some 6’+ god of sinewy pleasure lying next to me, with an orgasm on order, but there’s something appealing about rolling out of bed on my own, to a hot bath and a pot of coffee, and not one iota of bullshit to deal with, lazy clothes at hand, and the ability to be my “worst” self on a day that really deserves laziness.
You all read this blog for whatever reason you’ve found to be here, and that’s great. Welcome to it. I write it for my own reasons. In a lot of ways, this is a journey to a new place for me, regardless of where I’ve been before. That place isn’t really something I’m comfortable sharing as of yet, and I’m proud that I know where to draw the line when it comes to divulging the secrets of Steff, despite my quest to become vulnerable at will during this past year.
I’m caught up in the spirit of what I consider to be this season, that of self-reflection, but also, that of willing change — what with New Years and its resolutions fast on our heels. While I’ve been reflecting plenty on here of late, there’s been far more screaming in my mind that I’ve kept to myself, and will continue to do so, for the short-term, at least.
Whatever the stressors, whatever the frustrations, there’s something unforgettable that I love about this season, single or not. I love the feeling of being conscious of my values, of knowing my wants, my needs. I love the spirit of giving that comes this time of year. I’d love to share that giving in every way with a man who deserves a little getting, but since I can’t, I’ll have a hot bath instead, and maybe indulge some dirty thoughts I’ve been nursing.
And y’know what? That’ll be just fine.
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.
A Nibble Here, A Bite There…
Food and sex, two of my favourite things. The two, really. Perhaps I’m secretly male. Maybe a hermaphrodite. The Caramilk secret of Steff. Who knows.
Anyhow, suffice to say that I don’t really get into porn, so I settle for Food TV. Oh, my freakin’ god, the goodness. Tonight’s a good Food TV night, and since I’m sexually frustrated and sort of on a diet, it just makes sense. I have a couple observations to make.
One. I was watching a pissy British cooking show, and I was marvelling at the importance of communication in the kitchen. If a chef wants to successfully pull off a night of cooking that results in totally satiating his clientele, then he absolutely must do a few things well. First off, he really needs to know how to season. He’s got to keep it just spicy enough. He needs to know how to control the temperature; when to kill the heat and bring her to a simmer. He needs to engage in conversation when necessary in order to know exactly what’s going on in all regions of his domain. I won’t insult your intelligence by explaining the commonalities between a good chef and a good lover. You can do the math.
Two. There are as many kinds of restaurants as there are breeds of sex.
- For starters, the slow’n’easy ones that cater to all your little desires and never, ever rush you.
- Then there are the always-safe, purely utilitarian fast food restaurants where you get in there quick’n’dirty, like one of the masses, and when you’re through, it may not set your heart afire, but it whetted your appetite and you will have gotten exactly what you were expecting.
- Don’t forget the avant garde, with the crowds who follow the trends and seem to be around for a while before fading back into the masses, something for a time, and good while it lasted, and definitely always interesting, but somehow never really felt real.
- Then there are those that leave you stunned at their constant reliability and seeming perfection. They’re the pinstripe-suit of the restaurant industry; always classy, always fulfilling, always reliable, and always safe, but in a reasonably good and comfortable way.
- And who doesn’t love the exotic? They take you to a place you’ve really only read about, tap you into a different culture and a different flavour, in every sense of the word — and leave you somehow feeling just a little more cosmopolitan because you’re there then.
- Who says you can’t go home? There are the down-home, c’mon-in-and-sit-awhile establishments that keep you feeling like yes, I really can go home and thank god, I can leave. It’s good for awhile, but then you remember why you left in the first place: Something different was necessary.
- Finally, there are my favourite, the unassuming type you always have your suspicions about, but leave you utterly surprised at how masterful they are, even in their simplicity. They’re quiet, out-of-the-way, with a casual, confident appearances that belie the full intensity of their real deal.
It’s a beautiful world of flavours out there, and I unfortunately have far too great of appreciation for each.
My, I wish I was doing a little dining this evening. Well, ironically, I could have been, but as geared to go as I may be, I absolutely know I’d let myself down. It’s called honesty. 😉 A smart night in.