So, I’ve been dating more of late. Averaging one date a week these days, and it’s all right. Nobody has yet made me pitter-patter, but we’re getting better on the averages here.
My big sexual misadventure of a couple of weeks was the classic case of pulling the trigger way too soon (in more ways than one) largely because I stupidly gave in when instinct said “Stick to the script, girlie. Use the door.” Ultimately the blame lies with me because I’m the person who probably had better perspective that night, but hormones said “Get thee LAID.” Not what I had in mind, but.
Now, though, that’s not the problem. I’m not “going there” for the hell of it. Getting laid is nice, but I’m not doing it if anyone’s getting hurt, or if it’s just flat-out dishonest. And I just don’t feel taking advantage of situations for my hormones, either. It needs to be genuine, and the right thing for right then. As it turns out, I seem to be doing all the rejecting these days, which is new, which is good, but the guilt sort of sucks sometimes.
Like, Monday I had a date. To be brutally honest, I was disappointed to see he has a bigger weight problem than I thought, and that’s a big problem for me at this point in my life.
Here’s where I have to clarify: Hard bodies don’t interest me. Never have. Some are hot but in that “I’d fuck you but I’d never, ever trust you” kind of way. Is that bigoted toward excessively pretty people? Sure, but it’s going on the averages I’ve come to see in my own life. There are always exceptions, of course.
But like I told my date tonight, it’s about health and strength. I’m not strong enough to be around someone who loves food, and all the wrong kinds. I can’t. I’ve lost 50 pounds, gone from a 22 to a 16, and I can’t go back. Won’t. Dad almost died of diabetes. I was heading toward a future of heart disease and diabetes and premature death. I had the “This isn’t good” chat with the doc. I was filled with self-loathing and felt like I was out of the loop with life. I’m so much better than that now. I like this girl. I like her a lot.
And why wouldn’t I? I have changed everything.
So I had the decency to say I’d keep an open mind and if I saw him trending toward health and fitness, I’d develop an interest… most likely.* Which is true. He’s certainly of the “type” I gravitate toward. Very much so. But not at the price of putting myself around a life of excess, not anymore.
Bodywise, that “type” however tends to be guys just carrying a literal few extra pounds. Maybe 30, 40, 50 pounds overweight, depending on height and frame, just of the mildly “doughy” and comfy but nothing more than that. Kind of maybe at a max to the extent that I myself am presently overweight.
Cushion for the pushin’ and a little extra to soften the blow? Works for me.
But you got to know, I’m not keen on bones gnashing into me during sex. I dig madly the slap-slap-slap sound of flesh hitting flesh in the act. Thin-people sex doesn’t sound as fun. They need a little more slappin’. I really love skin, but more importantly, flesh. I’m all about the meat of it. Good firm meat, of course. Like firmness. Excessively jiggling meat, not so good.
But when I say “doughy”, I’m talking more in a Steven Page of Barenaked Ladies, not Jack Black. Geeky and softish but in proportion. What can I say? I’m that type, and I like that type. Says a lot about the light I see myself in, if anything, I guess.
Now, me, personally, I ain’t aiming to be slim and trim. Not in my goals at all, whatever you think of this weightloss quest. I see my ass being perfect at about a size 10-ish. Face it, in life and on this blog, my personality’s larger than life. “Slim” doesn’t compute when one throws it up against “Steff”. I mean, really? Foodie-sensualist-scooter-riding-feminist-geeky-sex-fiend girl? Thin? No.
I like myself a little on the soft side. Just not as much as I was. 🙂 That problem’s solved anyhow. Like I wrote yesterday, waxing about the new loveliness of my thighs. Smooth, firm. Lovely! I like this. Shaving is so much more fun. Yet, my ass is amply grabbable. S’all right.
If my proportion stays as good as it is, but I just slim up a little more, then I’ll have what I think is the perfect body. Fuck the media, fuck size two, fuck DDs, fuck it all. I’m cool with a B-cup 10. The ever-perfect 10.
But I’d feel like shit if I just slammed the door of possibility on this guy, who has a lot to offer, but lives a different lifestyle than me right now. I’ve been that person. A little faith would have done me some good.
And it’s like that bumper sticker. “I may be fat, but you’re ugly, and I can diet.” Exactly. He’s cute.
Good people are good people, whatever their size. But they say your social situation dictates your fitness. Hang with overweight folk? You’ll be overweight. Why? They eat fat food, don’t exercise. Hang with thin people? You’ll lose weight. Why? Because they tend to eat better, exercise. Nature, nurture?
It ain’t science, it’s just environment. And given how much a glutton I am when the lovin’s good, given my foodie-sensualist bent, I need to be a very careful girl these days. Let’s nibble wee bits of wonderful cheese and lots of fruit, maybe a crumb of excellent dark chocolate, but nix the pizza. Choice is a wonderful thing.
And that’s the way that low-fat cookie crumbles. As did my date. With whom I’ve vowed to stay in touch with, and get to know, either way, with an open mind. Since he aims to “prove it”. Because good people are good people.
*Steff note: I should add he says he’s up to my challenge and says I should stick around. I said sure. We’ll see.
Category Archives: Journalling
Get to Know Yer Blogger #2:The Sex Edition
I did the first Get to Know Yer Blogger because I was too exhausted to think in linear fashion. But then I had fun doing it.
I figure, what the hell, let’s keep this wagon wheel rolling. I don’t live the wildest of lives, but it’s interesting enough. And writing these sorts of snippets all hodge-podged together is pretty fun for me.
Keep in mind, of course, of my sort-of policy of not revealing intimate particulars about my encounters. So, these are all very allusory — skimming the surfaces. You just don’t need to know, although I know you want to. But that’s the stuff I like to keep all secret to myself. What can I say?
The most recent stuff in my life is all variations of themes begun in the earlier years, so most of this is pretty distant from my world of now.
Without ado, skimming the surface of my sexual life…
• The best outdoor sex I’ve ever had? In the absolute pouring rain, middle of a stormy November night. My trench coat was lain down over a muddy patch (but the least wet in the area) under a gigantic elm tree by a river. It was after midnight, no one was around, we got soaked, somewhat dirty but mostly just really wet, and got through it in record time, but it was fucking fantastic. Or fantastic fucking. Both, really.
• One of the best nights ever with a lover was when we went out on a cliff, at the end of a forest path in the North Shore mountains, to catch the sunset… and when we tried to get back, it was too dark to find our way. We stayed until the sunrise, huddling together on a small jutting bit of cliff, conveniently flat, but barely larger than our two reclined bodies. Overlooking the Pacific, surrounded by rainforest. Got home six the next morning, snuck in before Mom awoke. Blissed right out. Until she “woke me up” at 7 to say Grandma had died. Weird. Highly memorable night on both counts. Really sore back. Great night.
• Longest ever stay-in-and-fuck “weekend” in which pretty much nothing else was accomplished? Five days. And thinking about it still makes me grin. I need me a chance to break that record sometime. Best thing ever, all-sex weekends.
• Most sex in a night? I don’t typically count. Six times that I know of, maybe more? Once is just wrong. Besides, it’s not about the number. It’s, can you handle more? Are you at the point where no amount of lube in the world is going to make this easy on ya? Then it’s probably a good time for a break.
• What ever happened to sex outdoors? Now that I have an apartment, I just never get around to outdoors sex anymore. Sex on floors, however. Shit, it’s been a decade. That totally sucks. Holy to-do list item, Batman.
• Sex under the stars. A lover had a rooftop patio in an apartment that was taller than the other buildings around. We’d pull the mattress out and shag ourselves silly out there, under meteor showers and anything else you can think of. If you’ve never had sex on top of an apartment building? That’s your to-do list item, then. Highly recommended. I should put a personal ad out for penthouse owners, seriously. I love the heavens.
• First time I ever had casual sex or, rather, sex I knew would be a fling at best? I was 27. He was a fella I’d met travelling in California. He’d had a girlfriend, but we spent the whole night talking at the Sacramento youth hostel. We wandered around the whole town, talking until five a.m., even happening upon the band Cake rehearsing for a show at 3 a.m. and we sat in the deserted street and listened to ’em and kept chatting. Awesome chemistry, but even though he was away from his gal, he wouldn’t cheat on her — which made me think he was even hotter. Kept in touch by emails after our travels, and when he became single, he booked the world’s fastest plane ticket. He was Mr. Five-Days-Indoors. Then I showed him a little of the town, then we shagged more. His visit was for 10 days. Never spoke again, for whatever reason. But no regrets. Not a one. Had a nasty UTI after all that sex, but like I say, not a regret.
• The older I get, the more aggressive a lover I become. Not sure why that is, but it is. I don’t mind, but the younger guys seem to. Silly.
• That said, my biggest fumble in bed? Just assuming everyone likes variety in sex. The men who can’t handle any agression at all make me want to bitchslap them and kick them out of my home. I’ll show you some fucking aggression, boy-o. Happens a little too often. My screening is becoming more intense. Men need to be fucking be honest when they say they’re looking for a woman unafraid to say or do what she likes, ‘cos I’m that woman. Such as the guy featured in my rant The Kid and the Long, Long Night.
• First time I ever played You-Show-Me-Yours– I was seven or eight and had no idea nudity was bad, since, as hung up about sex as my folks were, we always saw them naked. It was a neighbourhood boy and we were suitably in the forest before we dropped our drawers. He wanted to see how girls peed, too, but I took a pass on that. Thank goodness. I’m so not the golden showers type.
• My eyes get me noticed on here, I guess, ‘cos they’re that feisty green us Irish girls play off so well. But I think my lips are my best attribute. They’re full and soft. And strong. And they serve me well. My teeth have a gap in them, not in the centre, though, off to the side. But they’re clean and white. I wrote about what my face “means” in the art of “face-reading.”
• I’m deceptively shy when I meet a new guy the first time. Shy, but kind of confident. But once we’ve become acquainted, the hesitation and shyness goes right out the window.
• Sexiest thing a man has ever said? Probably “Thank you.” Lots of sexy things get said in the moment, and most of them are just “said in the moment”. But it’s geneuine appreciation or after-the-fact conversations that really stick in my mind. Once every blue moon there’s that sex that’s so awesome it feels like an out-of-the-world gift to you both? And a “thank you” after that, laying spent with each other, just blows my mind. Genuine gratitude and appreciation is so fucking hot. Sexiest thing I’ve ever said? Couldn’t tell you. Not a clue. I say a lot in the moment, and remember little of it after.
• I chipped my tooth. I was blindfolded and bound. A lover decided an ice cube of his really wanted to meet my clit. I spazzed and shot up in shock — unfortunately he was leaning in for a kiss. Our teeth collided. Mine chipped. We made sure we were both okay, and the sex took off from there. One of the top three sexual encounters in my life, but probably greatly romanticized because it was 15 years ago. I don’t mind. I love the memory.
• I’m an outted blogger working in an office where everyone knows I write about sex. In fact, every single person in my life knows I write this blog. Most of the reason I wanted to write it was to get past my sexual hang-ups. What better way to do that than being honest about your identity? So, yeah. It’s cost me a job or two in the past, but that’s not an issue anymore. Fuck ’em. I won’t work where it’ll be a problem. My life’s too short.
• Now, violence-free! I’ve never been assaulted, and have never hit anyone, in a relationship — or in life. I consider myself blessed. And intuitive about when to get the fuck out. Complacency kills, baby. Besides, I tend to take an even split in wrestling matches with lovers. I’m a strong, strong, tough gal. Just try me. No, really. 😉
• Most erogenous zones? A reader asked. My neck and inner thighs. Having kept my hair short for several years now, I think of it as an unwitting gift to men. I used to have really long hair and it annoyed me that, while men loved the hair, they focused on it and not my neck. My neck’s where the focus belongs, boys, believe me. Problem solved. But they now pass “go” that much quicker as a result. Inner thighs? Need I say more? Oh, well, let’s say this: I was on the couch last night in short shorts, and it occured to me that my thighs have never been this smooth and firm. They don’t even rub together when I walk anymore. I love these thighs! I want to show them off more.
• When I think of you, I touch myself. The first time I ever masturbated, George Michael was my inspiration. I wrote about it, too. You can read that here.
• I still have my Catholic school kilt. Better yet, I’m one or two sizes away from fitting it for the first time since ballooning up since I was 13. How exciting. In other sexual stereotypes: Along with being a former Catholic school girl, I’ve also been a leader in Guides, a bookseller, a candy-striper, and a librarian. Christ, I even sang in the choir. That said, I’m good enough to bring home to Mom, but bad enough to keep it all very, very interesting. Plus, that penchant for voyeur sex might just make Mom’s hall closet a good place to try playing. Just be very, very quiet.
• The older I get, the more my mind opens. Things I nixed only a couple years ago are now proving more and more intriguing to me. And this is why I judge nothing. Well, except golden showers and scat and stuff. Never going to happen. More thinking along the lines of advancing into BDSM and areas like that, really. Depends entirely on partners from here on out. Will they inspire exploration? That’d be nice. I’m sure you’ll hear, either way. (Here’s my Bondage for Beginners, if you’re interested.)
stop the world! lemme off!
today’s a mental health saturday. two solid weeks of insomnia finally broke for me last night at 9 when exhaustion washed over me like november rain. every part of my body collectively sighed and said “we give up” and i fell asleep on the couch at 9:30. on a friday night. i know, eh?
but my god was it great.
right before i crashed, i had been writing about how horrible the insomnia had been. i estimated my total sleep over the course of 14 nights to be in the neighbourhood of 50 hours. i wrote about how dark a place insomnia becomes as you pass the tenth night. every hour after that tenth night becomes a bleak kaleidoscope of doubt, confusion, fatigue, frustration, and even angst.
when you’re constantly deprived of the ability to completely reset yourself after your day, yet you can’t slow your life down, it just stops being fun in a hurry. every night that continues, the damage becomes exponential.
as an official Smart Cookie, i take my mental faculties pretty seriously. worse yet, i have one of those jobs that, while totally flexible and fun and stress-free, requires a great deal of mental acumen to navigate the course of my day. girl has got to be on the ball.
and i doubt there’s anyone out there who takes greater pride in doing a good job, doing it on time, and doing it to the best of her ability more than me. i love my job, i love the people i work for. so, when i feel like a mental loser, well, it’s just a hit on more levels than i care to experience.
couple into that the fact that writing, for me, is like breathing. even if none of you people were reading me, i’d write. it ain’t about you. i just love the feeling of writing. it’s quick and organic and fun for me.
i have a quote framed, kicking around on this desk somewhere, that sums it up for me. “writing for a living is a privilege, not a god-given right, as the opportunities are few though sought after by many. there are years of rejection that serve as a crude winnowing process, after which those left standing are those who simply must write.” that’s the novelist richard ford in an interview with writer’s digest.
back in my 20s, i had six long years of writers’ block. that’s the world’s longest story to get into, but suffice to say i felt like a fraud and a lie for about six years. writing, since then, is the single most important thing in my life. and i don’t care that i don’t make money from it. i’m not trying to, i guess. i suspect i will. i’ve had other priorities. [shrug]
this week, i’ve just felt somewhat dead writing-wise, thanks to the insomnia. and there’s nothing i loathe more than feeling apathetic towards writing, or feeling that the notions fail to connect to page. when you’re failing at what you really and truly are, it’s pretty hard to feel good about the day-to-day. i don’t really know what else i am, but i know i’m a writer.
that just is part of what the whole dirty beast of insomnia is. the robbing of self, the robbing of clarity.
there’s a reason sleep deprivation is used as a tool in torture and interrogation.
and there’s a reason why most people will probably list a great sleep as being one of the great joys in life.
last night was one of the greats in mine. a nap soon looms, too. operation sleep-in continues. perhaps a spa afternoon… a nice oily bath, facial, shaven legs. today, it’s all about me. 🙂
Get to Know Yer Blogger
I feel like telling you random things about me, mostly because I’m too fucking tired to string coherent thoughts together, so “abstract” works spiff for me. And I’m not writing about sex today, so, y’know. Mental break. 🙂
So, in no particular order, some of the things you probably don’t know about me and my life.
• When I was six years old, my family and I were in Tijuana, Mexico, for a day of shopping away from Disneyland. Somehow, I wandered off. My folks thought I’d been kidnapped and sold into slavery or something horrid, because I was gone for a whole three hours.
Then they found me. Much to their surprise, I’d managed to barter with a street vendor for a cowhide cowgirl’s vest, then also a watch, with some of my candy money, and had bought candies and was hanging out with a bunch of Mexican kids on the street, sharing my goods. Me, I had a great time. My folks, though, got robbed of $500 in cash while waiting to talk to the cops in the police station, so they were pretty mad at me. Impressed with my loot, though, and my shrewd six-year-old negotiation skillz, and hugely relieved, they let it go pretty quickly.
I still remember the smile the vendor had, being so amused at me bartering for my cowhide vest, that I loved for the next two years.
• I moved to the Yukon when I was 21 for a year. Because I was a Northern Exposure fan, and because “seeing the Northern lights” was high on my to-do list for life. The first time I ever saw ’em? Blew. My. Mind. Still do, when I luck out and catch ’em every few years.
• I ran the election campaign for a guy in my college who was running for the position of Women’s Issues Liaison. He won. How’s that for being a feminist? (Favourite conversation with him ever: Reaching the conclusion that the old looped “holy shit handles” hanging from the ceiling of his ’71 VW Beetle were “fuck straps”. Good for feet or hands, depending what part of you should be suspended, he figured.)
• I was the youngest person in my college class, 17 years old, journalism. 18 when I ran Mike’s campaign. We made the BC evening news.
• I won a car once. It was a 1979 Chevy Monza. Covered in doghair. Broke down on a bridge. But that’s just the beginning of the long winding story that you’ll find here.
• I have officially ridden so long, and so far on my scooter… (Yamaha Vino 49cc, pictured here, but now has camouflage-duct tape for a seat cover. Heh. I’m a pragmatist.) …that my 41,000+ kilometres is the equivalent of riding around the world at the Equator. Cool! Let’s do it again!
• I’ve fallen down a flight of stairs, have been thrown off a horse mid-jump over a fence, have had a scooter accident… (that hurled me off my bike, destroying mine and my friend’s, and sent me sprawling into an intersection. My friends all thought I was dead. The story is here, on my “journal” blog, The Last Ditch.) …have had three cars totalled with me in them… and I have only one scar on my body, it’s on my right nostril but I got it in grade 2, not in any of those incidents. And I’ve never, ever broken a bone. My body alignment, though, heh, is a whole ‘nother story. But I’m tough!
• I’m a decent public speaker, dare I say even good? And it doesn’t terrify me. Dentists, however, do.
• When I plan my roadtrips, I take special care to figure out where I can be for a great sunrise. I don’t know what it is, but something about driving somewhere new, great music on the radio, and a sunrise looming in an exotic new spot, why, that’s one of the best things in life.
• When I was nine and mad at a boy in my neighbourhood, I took my cowgirl boot off (loooved my cowgirl boots!) and hurled it across the yard at him, and hit him smack in the head. I was so proud. My mother heard me screaming that he was an “ASSHOLE!” and came running out as the boot met head. That went over well.
• The sex fantasy I’ve had since 16 is that of shagging in an anti-gravity chamber (think NASA). I have that filed under “unlikely”. But it’s probably my biggest sex-geek factoid. “Ooh, sex at NASA! Lift off!”
• My dream vacation I want to take when I get some more weight off and really adopt the physical lifestyle I want? Learning to surf in Morocco. Can’t help it, love the idea of a feminist sex-writing chick from Canada learning to surf in an Islamic country. And, Morocco? Ohhh. Oh!
• In keeping with the cowgirl boots and cowhide vest, as I type, to the left above my bed is the caricature/cartoon drawing of me done in Disneyland that summer of my misadventure in Tijuana — me as a six-year-old cowgirl, rodeoing on an electric riding horse.
• I sold Michael Hutchence of INXS a bunch of wooden toys for his kid when I worked on Granville Island. Three weeks later he was found dead of auto-erotic asphyxiation. (Other celebrities I’ve “served” in the retail industry are a pretty insane list, since this is MovieTown — David Duchovny, Tim Robbins, Malcolm McDowell, and way many more. But I’ve never been starstruck, so. Whatever. Malcolm McDowell though? COOL as can be.)
• I had the uncanny luck of totalling one of my cars on a snow day, on a mountain — and was caught on camera by a news cameraman. The story’s probably one of the best things I’ve ever written, about 5,000 words, in two parts, on my journal blog. Part one here, part two here.
• I’m fabulous at throwing dinner parties. But I never throw them anymore. Hmm. Oh, right, got tired of being broke off my ass after feeding everyone all the time. Broke sucks. But if I had the money? I’d be doing it weekly. Love that. Love, love, love. Bistro Chez Steff.
• I kinda always wrote a bit now and then as a kid, but it was because I wanted to be friends with a particular chick in Grade 11 that I joined my first creative writing class. My teacher, upon reading my journals I’d write while working nights in a laundromat, describing the paradoxical characters on a quest for cleanliness, and she encouraged me to start writing, and suggested I look into journalism for school. I blame this blog on her. Ms. Phelan rocks my world, even now, almost 20 years later.
sleepless thoughts
insomnia… when you’re alone, you feel more alone. when you’re not, embracing a little mischief goes a long way. some thoughts of mine just now:
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3:59am. insomnia. and i’m thinking of you.
a distraction. that’s what you’d be. plain and simple. a way for me to take my mind of what i’m really wanting, sleep.
if i can’t have that, maybe i could have you. you’d do. but you’re sleeping.
still. you could just lie there. i entertain myself well, a body at my disposal.
where to start? i have notions, but i’m open to suggestion.
Sex & Food: Together Again?
I’m a foodie. Yes, I am.
And I got to tell ya, he prospect of regular sex has begun to loom, and this excites me considerably. Sets me all a-flutter, truth be told. But, you know, for all those strenuous hours of fun that potentially loom, one requires fuel. Enter food.
So I’m not sure what excites me more at this point — the prospect of regular sex, or the possibility of having someone to cook for again.
I’m a sensualist in every way. For example, my apartment is great and comfortable and is geared to stimulate every sense and look good whilst doing it. Loves me some music and candles. My food tastes run from down-home to exotic. I have a sophisticated palate, technical skill, and can invent food on a whim that’d blow your mind. I came damn close to going to culinary school back in the day but realized I didn’t want to work THAT hard for a living.
I’m also a Slow Food fan. I believe life moves quickly, and that food is important to us. I think we lose soul when we stop valuing food. I think we lose passion when we stop eating things that excite us.
I love the notion of Slow in all aspects of life — from sex to food to living. I’m present here and now in all areas of my life. I want my food to be of my time, I want to eat fresher, eat more clean food that I know I’ve prepared from scratch. I want local produce, quality meats and fish. I want artisan treats. That’s Slow.
But… when I’m single for too long, then a nice meal becomes the exception. I take shortcuts. I embrace things like Hamburger Helper and Sidekicks or sandwiches/panini or soups I eat for six days. I mean, it’s flavourful-functional, at best.
When I’m involved, however, I’m both a sensualist and a show-off. Perhaps a Moroccan chicken pie with organic greens? Maybe risotto and lamb? And while the lover of mine gets to enjoy the dividends… my life is richer for it, too.
Even better yet is when said lover is similarly a skilled foodie, because then we can tool around in the kitchen and spend the night nibbling fantastic things along with each other, and savouring good drinks. My god, does that titillate me.
There is absolutely nothing in the world I enjoy better than staying home with a lover and locking the door for a weekend, cooking fantastic food at lazy intervals between real-frequent and varied sex, napping when necessary, and catching up on movies during meals and lulls. The original rinse-and-repeat experience. And repeat, and repeat.
With the right company? Fuck, there’s no better time to be had. At home, anyhow. It’s the poor person’s vacation.
People who don’t think sex and food are intricately linked… y’all are doin’ it wrong.
It’s not a matter of taste. You’re just wrong. Flat-out. Inarguable.
(Sex + food) is like (peanut butter + chocolate). It seems like it’s always been a winning combination, and always will be.
Whether it’s Cleopatra feeding Anthony grapes from a silver platter in ancient Egypt, Adam enticing Eve with an apple, or you slipping your lover chocolate-dipped strawberries in the here and now with a champagne kicker, food hits a different kind of erogenous zone, but it hits, baby.
Besides, it’s fuel. Fill me up and watch me go-go. Sigh. Oh, the possibilities.
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*PS: Yes, I’ve lost about 50 pounds. I don’t feel like I’ve been dieting. I work out a lot. I could lose more weight faster by eating less and pretending cheese and alcohol don’t exist. But why would I do that? Fucking hell. Diets are for people who like to take pain. Just silly. Instead, make healthier choices and be aware of calories burned v taken in. Simple. I’m better at math than I thought. 🙂
If it takes me another year to lose the other 50 pounds (this 50 took 8 months) but I’m eating cheese, pizza, sausages, and drinking booze regularly, then fucking A. All the power to me. I’d much rather health-fully indulge (my choices are better and when I do go off the hook, it’s in moderation) and feel like I’m alive than feel like I’m cutting myself off from life with deprivation. I don’t do deprivation well. So, eat? I will. Might even have seconds. But I’ll deal with it the next day. See? Work ethic! 🙂
What's He Building in There?
It’s laundry day. Unfortunate. I need something cute and adorable to wear to the beach party tonight, and right now “cute and adorable” is filthy.
But my terrorist neighbour — which is just a term of affection conjured by GayBoy and I — beat me to the washing machine and now it’ll be a challenge to get my cuteness cleaned in time for being cute.
My “terrorist neighbour” is just the exotic-looking Eastern guy on the first floor who has the most spartan of furnishings and is always building something strange in his living room, very high-tech weird stuff that has the rest of us a little curious. Word on the street is that he’s inventing a new kind of weaving machine. Weaving? Really?
This is the guy that Tom Waits wrote his awesome track “What’s He Building in There?” about. But he’s a nice guy… apart from being an alcholic who staggers quizzically up empty alleys at midnight for seemingly no reason. And building strange things that confuse us all.
But, after nine years of living in the same building, we’ve never really chatted. Now that I’m 50 pounds lighter, dude’s giving me the eye as we almost collide in the halls.
Maybe I should. Then I could see what he’s building in there. You know, be all Mata Hari and seduce it out. I could get in touch with my inner Encyclopedia Brown fan and solve the mystery.
But it’d mean hanging out with a drunk who has a hairy back and serious anti-social tendencies. Hmm.
Or I could just listen to Tom Waits. And stop reading so much fiction.
Heatwave Tip!
Vancouver’s caught in a beautiful sexy beast of a heatwave that has me dreading cyclerides to work… but loving it at the same time.
GayBoy taught me this trick a year or two on a barbecue of a day, and it’s awesome to use at times.
Just put 5-6 inches of cooold water in the bathtub and stand in it in your bare feet for a few minutes. Bliss! Cools you down completely. Without wasting a lot of water. (Think green, people!)
Better yet? Bring a beer and a book and take a seat on the side of the tub. (Naked works.) I’m saving this trick for before bed. Sans beer, sadly.
Further Notes on My Underwhelming Weekend Sex
Yesterday, I made rather not-so-subtle reference to the fact that I finally got laid last weekend in this posting. I wasn’t going to say anything, really, because I was decidedly underwhelmed by the experience.
But then, you know, I thought, “It’s for the greater good! People must know!” So, without getting into detail here, let’s talk about it again.
I was quite looking forward to this particular fellow and thought it would be great because he made it sound like “play” was something he enjoyed.
For a number of reasons, that wasn’t the case. DP commented on yesterday’s posting to kind of defend the honour of men all over this fair planet. He said, more or less, that men invariably suck the first time they’re sleeping with someone new.
Not a newsflash. Every guy I’ve been with has been pretty disappointing penetration-wise on the first try. I generally try to tell myself it’s a compliment, they’re just so EAGER that they have no control. Which, of course, is pretty often the case.
So I’ll never judge a guy on the sex itself, not the first time. No, I take other things into consideration. Does the kissing wow me? How was foreplay? Was it rushed and done only as a means of instigating sex, or was foreplay itself enjoyed for what it is — play? Was it fun? Was he as thoughtful of me as he should have been? And when it came to AFTER sex — was one orgasm all that mattered to the guy? Did any other affection and after-play take place? Was there even a conversation? Was it fun? Was it about intimacy and play, not just orgasms?
Unfortunately, my weekend encounter failed in every single department.
Here’s a tip, men. When it’s your first time with a woman, do not be a fucking twit and get completely drunk. Why? A), It’s offensive. Let’s see. Fucking me, or getting a hangover, and you choose? B) Your performance when fucking is going to SUCK anyhow, so why are you impeding your performance even more? C) Booze you can buy any day of the week, but these legs opening for you? Priceless.
Now, since I’ve been around the block enough to know that men obviously don’t perform well the first time, I should be able to compare this time to all my other “first time” encounters, right?
Right, and this is the first time I’ve ever, ever been left anywhere near as frustrated as I was when this fella left. And it’s too bad. I wanted to like him. But if all I’ve got to go on is that he got drunk, barely got me off, got himself off as quick as possible, and then never touched me again?
Yeah, failed that mission, pal. And, besides, when it’s the first few times I’ve usually got to push the fellas out the door and fend off a few more kisses and gropes and groans on the way. This was just… so not that. I thought I was being Punk’d.
And you, dear male readers, need to learn not to make the same mistakes. Foreplay and afterplay are where you compensate for your performance. If I’m kissed like there’s no tomorrow, and toyed with in any number of ways that arouses me and/or satisfies me, and inspires me to see the fella again, then I’ll completely forget about the first encounter’s disappointments and only remember how much it set to stage for playtimes to come.
Except this encounter, of course. Pity.
And, believe me, I am disappointed. I wanted to like this fella, but I just haven’t got it in me for drunken fratboy lovers when I’m pushing 35, even if they’re cute, smart, and fun. No. I want men.
Women, what say you? Men, how do you feel like when fellas like this are doing the representin’ for your race?
AFTER THE FACT: So, upon thinking about this this morning, I realize this posting might sound sexist, as if it’s only men who underwhelm on the first encounter. I, of course, know this isn’t true. So, tomorrow (or Friday) I plan to write about how *I* might underwhelm (and possibly other women) on the first encounter, and why that can’t be expected to accurately reflect the lover I am after that first night. So, check back later this week for that little ditty.
And don’t forget, you can follow me on Twitter now.
[Note: So I did a Google search for “unsatisfying sex” images, and after scouring 17 pages of results, nothing represents “unsatisfying sex” but god knows if I search for “hard cocks” it’ll be thousands of pages of results. Is this somehow suggestive of the fact that unsatisfying sex is a myth, and hard cocks are over-abundant? Hmm. Yeah, I don’t think so.]
A Moral Reckoning? Rethinking Open Relationships
I’m thinking about crossing that line in my moral sand.
I’ve always been the one-guy-one-gal type, but I’m starting to wonder if maybe it’s just the old Catholic/societal brainwashing, and whether, maybe, I’m really built a little differently than what “tradition” often serves up.
I think I ultimately prefer monogamy. But I think the notion of having that kind of commitment, and dare I say obligation, in my life right now scares the living shit out of me.
Seriously, I just don’t want to have the grief that comes with serious devout commitment right now. The need to worry how they’re doing, the obligatory Fridays & Saturdays spent together, and all of that. I just don’t have it in me to give that much of myself to anyone right now. It’s hard enough to give it to myself.
I’ve considered the “friends with benefits” option, but I have to say, the responses I’ve gotten are essentially from, well, sexual babies and morons. You know, the eager-beaver types who claim they want oodles of sex and all that.
But, really, all they want is just to get laid. Most of these chumps wouldn’t know how to handle a woman with real libido if the Energizer Bunny came and gave ’em an all-night seminar and a schwack of caffeine to get the job done. Continue reading