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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ay yi yi.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boy, oh, boy, oh, boy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Comic from www.simpleton.com)

Where’s the “smut”, you ask? Good question.
I just haven’t been in the mood to write about sex. I’m not getting laid. It’s been far too fucking long for no fucking. Gah! Poor me. Woe is me. That I should be NOT having sex is truly a disservice to mankind. Truly.
I’m on the verge of the dating scene but I face that classic conundrum: Meeting the Man of My Dreams. My job’s about as anti-social as it gets: I sit at a desk with headphones on as I pore over television shows frame-by-frame-by-frame. Yeah, I don’t meet people through work. This past year has been spent just trying to keep up with the speed of life, so, no, I haven’t been meeting new people through activities or clubs or anything like that. That’s about to change. Big time. (I’ll tell ya all about it as that unfolds.)
Someone said what happens before the date? How do you meet ‘em? Well, sorta fucked if I know, you know? My city’s known for being hard to tap into new groups. It’s a strange town, man.
But, yeah, for me, I’ve been putting ads up on dating sites, which is pretty fucking pointless thus far. I’ll probably resort to Craigslist when my life’s settled with finding a new job and all. Joining clubs and such is a great notion, but it can be an expensive prospect and doesn’t always yield the results you want. Making eye contact and smiling at strangers is great, but then that’s just a lookie-see method of attraction and doesn’t speak to who you are, what you love, and things in the mental/emotional categories that really need to be clicked upon for a true connection. Me, I’m too smart to not include mental acumen as a primary attribute in a mate. Smart cookies only need to apply, thanks.
No matter how you slice it, meeting someone new takes risks. Whether it’s the risk of taking a chance and asking them out on the spot in a café or something, or whether it’s the risk of meeting some new stranger off the internet. It’s a risk. Yes. You may very well fail, you’ll probably get hurt and rejected, and that’s just the way that goes. Will you spontaneously combust and become a fragment of yourself after rejection? Only if you let their “no” matter.
I was terrified to start dating after a prolonged period of abstinence after my mother’s death. I’m talking years of licking my wounds and only one sexual encounter in all that time. I went and placed an ad on Lavalife eons ago, and then I went and used an 8-year-old photo because I had such low self-esteem and thought I was completely unwantable. I don’t know where that headtrip came from – probably from all the drinking and drugs and self-isolation that I put myself through. I really don’t know.
Then I had a date. A date with a guy who drank five beers in 90 minutes. Nice, but way wrong for me. I went home and realized that it was an okay date, I had a free meal, nice guy, wasn’t right for me, and, you know what? I was all right with that. I did it again. Another date. Not bad, not right, so I moved on.
I suddenly realized it wasn’t such a big deal to date. I could head out, meet new people, and if it didn’t work out, it didn’t work out. Yeah, I’d get fucked over by dishonest guys and all, but it ultimately didn’t matter. Me, I will actually accept more dates than I probably should, because I’ve learned a long time ago that there might be more than meets the eye. If I was looking for friends, for instance, and read some kind of profile on my best friend, GayBoy, and saw his grammar and spelling and all that, I’d just walk away. “Not my type,” I’d think. Not a reader, etc. But he’s my best friend – 15 years strong now.
I’ve heard certain people claim you should never turn down a date. Do I agree? Nah. But I think there’s no harm in taking the chance. Who knows when it’s going to work, you know? Besides, my motto in life is “why not?”.
And I’m pretty shy in real life, I have trouble with the whole meet-a-strange-guy-in-a-café thing, but once I’m in an environment where everyone’s communicating, I’m in there like a dirty shirt. Bound to make you snort your drink or choke on a cracker at some point or another ‘cos I’m funny without trying IRL. One of my New Year’s Resolutions is to start smiling more at sexy guys who I find checking me out. Must be more brazen. Note made.
But, y’know, with the online thing, I’m not too scared to contact guys. I do it. They don’t respond? Who cares. They do? Great. Let’s see how that shakes down.
It’s funny. Six billion people in the world, and most of us are sitting around trying to figure out how to meet ’em. And they’re everywhere. Loneliness, I find, is one of the greatest ironies ever, but it’s a symptom of our society – our society of walls and distance and noise. We’ve created a culture of disconnection, thanks to all our electronic gadgets and time constraints and the cars that keep us hostage and separated from others, and now we’re trying to find out how to reconnect. It’s a bump-in-the-night, lucky-if-you-get’em scenario, and it’s all about keepin’ on tryin’, and keepin’ it real when you meet ’em.
Roll them dice and see where it gets ya.

Dating! I was peer-pressured into posting a “dating tips” thingie last month and, ever since, I’ve been sort of avoiding posting a continuation. Why? What, you want the loaded answer or the honest one?
So happens, the answer is both.
Dating tips are bullshit. Anyone who tells you there’s a sure-fire method to snag the one your heart desires is so full of shit they ought to open a Port-a-john franchise, all right?
Don’t believe ’em! They’re trying to sell their book, themselves, what the fuck ever, but what they ain’t selling you is the truth.
It’s all about personality and instinct and timing and chemistry. It’s about things we’ll never grasp. It’s about the other person and you, how the clickage transpires, or whether it doesn’t at all. And it’s also about luck and how willing you are to look past the little things that might be tempering the encounter — a bad day beforehand, distressing news about a loved one, an upcoming payment they’re short for. Who knows.
And the worst thing about dating tips is, they’re unrealistic. They’re never going to work for everyone, and if they do work, they could be doing you more harm than good. So, you go out, you follow “the Rules”, and they like you. Then comes the hard part. You have to stick to what they liked in order to keep them. Meaning, you have to be something you’re not. How realistic is that? You want a future with them, yet you’re trying to craft yourself into something that will mesh better with them, just because you think you need that person? Yeah, there’s some smart thinking. Fuck, man.
Like I said, it’s bullshit. The trouble is, most relationships are doomed. “Dating tips” and their like tend to just allow you to postpone the inevitable with someone who’s not even seeing the real you in the first place.
I don’t exactly get a lot of second dates. Why? Because a) I’m real, and b) I’m pretty in your face. I don’t tend to watch what I say, I don’t flatter the male ego, I don’t try to pretend I am what I’m not, I don’t try to make myself all girlie-girl and demure. (Though I have my moments.) I am what I am, and if they don’t like it, they’re not right for me, and I don’t want to bother with that. Simple.
Dating tips are like recipes. They’re great for people who don’t know what to do without ’em. If you need them, use them, but remember to keep it real or you’re never going to be able to maintain what you’ve begun.
Statistically, most relationships fail. Be it because of communication, sex, money, whatever, it ultimately comes down to reality and odds. Somehow, some way, the media makes us feel like failed relationships are a reflection of us. We failed.
Or did we? As if saying the right things and doing the right things could keep a relationship together. If that was the case, there wouldn’t be a staggering 50% divorce rate or a 90% likelihood your relationship has a limited shelf-life before you even make out on the couch. If there was an easy solution to relationships, don’t you think someone woulda figured that out by now?
So, yeah, dating rules? Bullshit. Take from them what works for you, what you think are good standards. A lot of these have worked for me. But they’re not one-size-fits-all like a ballcap. They’re adjustable, flexible, and even expendable. Don’t marry the rules. Don’t marry any sort of a credo society tells you is a cure-all. There are none in any realm of this existence. Life is a figure-shit-out-as-it-goes deal, and the more you’re willing to be flexible, the better your experiences will be, in dating or out.
So, now, if you really need some kinda dating enlightenment, then here’s the continuation of my last posting, found here. If you think it’s all crap? Fine. Won’t hurt me none. I told ya to go by your instincts in the first place, and I stick by that. Fuck my rules, and fuck anyone else’s. Be yourself.
Oh, and I had planned to add more to these, but now I can’t be bothered. See above if you have issues with that. 🙂

• Remember, this is someone new in your life. Don’t expect them to be your Spackle when you’re feeling blue. If you’re feeling empty, find the filling of life elsewhere. It’s too much to ask that anyone, even a lover, make you feel whole. God knows it’s killed relationships for me, coming and going.
• Women, women, women! If you’re on a dinner date, don’t order a fucking salad. What, you think that he’s going to suddenly see you as being 15 lbs lighter because you ordered a salad?! Eat healthy, by all means, but don’t just order a salad for dinner. Some guys really love seeing a chick actually eat food, let alone enjoy it! It’s a cliché for a reason. Food is sensual. Allow it to help set the mood for your evening. Share it.
• Men, men, men! Watch your drinking! I once had a date with a guy who had five fucking beers during our dinner. As far as I was concerned, the date was done long before the cheque arrived. Have a drink, maybe two. Anything more, and you’re looking to get judged silently.
• Always treat the wait staff or any employees anywhere with respect and be friendly with them (but not too much so, it’ll look phony or effusive). This lets your date see that you’re a good person with a friendly personality.
• Remember, on a first date in particular, you’re going to get judged for anything you do. We’re all looking for signs that our date’s right or wrong for us. Don’t let stupid things take you out of the running – don’t be an aggressive driver, don’t be a messy eater, don’t be cheap, don’t swear too much (if at all), don’t be loud, don’t be rude. Et al. Save your flaws for later, eh?
• If it’s a “You had to be there” moment type of story, then save your breath. It’s just going to fall flat, and you’ll feel like an ass.
• Body language is everything. Don’t cross your arms. If interested, lean forward towards your date, not away from them. Touch them in ways that doesn’t cross boundaries – a brush of the hand, sitting closer than you maybe ought to… little things.
• Make eye contact, particularly when you’re saying something revealing or personal. It works great to meet their eyes as you’re sipping your wine, leveling them over the rim of your glass. After all, you’re using your lips and tongue, and tasting – all rather sensual things. Eye contact brings them into the moment.
• Don’t interrupt. It’s an annoying habit. (One I’m personally trying to break. Ha.)

There’s a stalwart Vancouver band who’ve been bringing music to Canadians for a couple decades now. A few years ago (meaning more than a decade in over-30 speak) they released a rock anthem called “Love You All”.

(It’s off the CD “Trusted by Millions” and it’s a highly energetic, positive, pop-rock number that’ll have ya wearing out the fibres in yer rugs when you get a groove on.)

And right now, in my mind, I’m playing that for you people. You people who’ve kept reading me through all my shit, all my drama, all my chaos. Thank you.

I suppose, to some extent, that’s part of the draw of this blogging thing: Real people living real lives enduring real things and taking the time to say something real about it. Some tend to be more real than others, but I suppose that’s what we’re all looking for, one way or the other — authenticity.

I try to be real. I try to reveal everything I’ve got going on inside. This past month has been hard for me to do that. Somewhere in the midst of everything that’s transpired in the last year, I lost track of who I was as the year wore on. I’ve been struggling to refind myself before the calendar met the dustbin, and now I suspect I’m on that path. I probably never really left it, but there had to at least be a fogbank in my way.

Ever since about the end of November, I’ve been pulling punches and trying to come to terms with some of who I am and some of what I want. I suppose you could be punny and say too I’ve been considering the sum of who I am and the sum of what it is I want. Either or.

But who I was wasn’t working for me anymore. Who I was was someone from my past, and I realized something needed to change. I was treading water in the cesspool of life, and I wanted to break into a solid swim. I just didn’t know how to recalibrate myself. And I sure as shit didn’t want to let you people in on the messy bits.

So, as the month wore on, I shut myself off from the world. I smoked a little too much dope, played the records of my life on the turntable of my mind, and decided how I’d set about breaking that stale record in the days and weeks and potentially even years to come.

And I still don’t know that I’m sure of where I’m going. I’m still not sure I even know I have a destination. All I know is Where I Wanna Be ain’t Here, and somehow between now and there, I’ll have to find my way back on track.

Today, though, it feels like I’m on my way. I’ll try to be more open about the journey I’m about to undertake than I’ve been in the last month or so.

Metaphorically speaking, I had a sign on my door that said “Finding self. Be back after lunch.” And no, I haven’t yet found myself. Probably never will. But looking’s half the fun. I do think I found a change of address form, though, and that’s promising. At least the mail will get through. 😉

So. Thanks for sticking around. Come back for more. Here’s hoping happy anticipation has come your way, as well. Happy 2007, my good peeples. Enjoy the new template, by the way.

I am an incurable romantic. That I am also an incurable pragmatist poses some significant challenge.

But don’t let me digress.

I cashed in a gift certificate today. Ah, holiday bounty! You sexy, sexy thang. The yield? An on-sale collector’s edition of The English Patient. I love romance but wish it was done better most times. In this movie, though, my god. Be still my beating heart.

I’ve been wanting this on DVD for years. I remember seeing it by sheer fluke on opening day back in 1996. It was Vancouver’s Park Theatre, where it would play for weeks and weeks. I went in thinking it’d been good, but came out thinking I’d seen one of the best depictions of love ever filmed. What a splendid use of a torrential rain Thursday afternoon after a day of pasting up the college newspaper. I couldn’t have designed a better day.

But, again, digression. It’s romance I wish to address. I emerged from that feature head-over-heels in cinematic love. Now, a decade later, it reminds me of some of my own “here, now, forever” sinful moments, against which all other encounters will forever fail to rank. (Don’t worry, my pragmatist disagrees and thinks a few others are in the making. The mind is a powerful thing. I think I can, I think I can…)

A couple relationships back, it was a torrid, furtive thing. A smattering of days, a series of bodily collisions. Dirty things done often in confined spaces. I needed many showers. I haven’t really written about that encounter yet. It was too short to amount to much, but, boy, could it have amounted. I’m loathe to write about it. I crave a second chance. Doubt it’ll happen. Doubt it should, too. Hoo-boy.

Despite that, every now and again I sit back in my 30-something body and I give some serious thought to “what am I gonna know then that I don’t know now, and how the fuck can I get around that?”

Seriously. I’m 33, and I know I’m smart six days to Sunday, but I gotta wonder. How much smarter do I get? What’s the coolest tidbit I pick up, and how the hell long am I done gone gonna be waitin’ for that to transpire, huh?

The sex with this guy was something to never, ever write home about. Nuh-uh. Some things just don’t have to be known by those near and dear, you know? Thanks to a healthy combination of pillows, Vellux-brand blankies (there’s a reason they’re in motels everywhere), and a cushy wool rug underneath, much use was made of the living room floor. For more than a couple days of seclusion. Locked indoors, overpaying for delivery, you know how it is. Who needs vacations anyhow? All I need is my dirty mind, a playmate, a clear schedule, and a variety of surfaces.

Sigh, but it was a classic too much/too soon scenario. Oh, a tragic demise! Fuck, makes me want to sing that trashy old teeny-bopper Tiffany’s song. “Coulda been so beautiful. Coulda been so right.” What’s next, Debbie Gibson?

But, yeah… I’ve made me a lot of mistakes in my time. Something about trusting my heart and going with the flow tends to get me in whole lotta-lot of troubles. Do you hear me griping? Fuck, no. Reminiscing something fierce, you bet.

See, I have this feeling I get it about kids and why they’re so upset when we send them to bed early. I think they’re all too aware of just how much life they’re missing by going to bed early. I kind of feel that way about having lived much of my life so cautiously. Now and again, I get the chance to stop saying “what if” and instead lunge for a “why not”. So, I do.

Why the fuck not?

No, no, none of this “carpe diem” crap. Put your prep school English-teaching idols back in the archives, where they belong. I’m talking about why the hell not?

I’m not the first to make this argument, and I’m damned if I’ll be the last. Bears repeating, it does. If you play it safe and you’re little cautious person, sure, you’ll live a nice safe life. Long one, too. Taking too many risks, why, that’s just fucking with the oddmakers and you know your books are gonna bust. But, you do your homework right, read the signals right, and hey. Maybe you cash in for a change. It’s about calculated risks. Sometimes, right? That’s why they call it playing it safe. You’re trying to be safe, but at least you’re playing. Good deal.

(Which reminds me. I owe you part deux de Dating Tips and my little intro rant about why you should ignore everything I’m saying instead. I had forgotten. Yes. Busted. Doh. Etc. Fuck off. Now I remember. Will make good. 😛 )

But, yeah, I’m a sucker for romance. Throw some fluke occurrences (or well-crafted ones together) and I’ll be sworn that it’s “meant to be”. Maybe not “meant to be forever” but at the very least, “meant to be experienced”. And why not? Indeed.

I wrote once of when I kissed a boy, or rather, he kissed me, sitting on a little footbridge, in Vancouver’s Queen Elizabeth Park. Just then, the lights in the park shut off simultaneously, and poof! Awash in the light of a full moon. That kiss melted into forever, our tensing and embraced bodies falling back on the 1×2 slat wall, a stream trickling beneath us, the dampness of a dew-fallen spring night enveloping us.

To this damn day, I walk there and get the shivers. The kiss of a lifetime. Or, as it turns out… one of many. But when you have moments like that, it’s so hard to turn away from the “this seems so right” mentality that can overtake us. Sometimes I never want to turn away from thinking thoughts like that. I like having my “let’s pretend the world is ending in 23 minutes and this is the LAST GUY I’m ever gonna get to make shiver!” There’s a good inspiration. (And yields good results. Wonder if they ever realize that’s one of my “Go Steff!” motivational tools? Huh. Betcha “no” there.)

And the English Patient is the perfect example of seizing those moments of random possibility and making the best of it. I’m not a fan of adultery, never have been. (Busted a guy once. Had it happen to me at least once that I know of.) But, I tell you, if I ever have one of those “here, now, forever” potential loves-of-life just suddenly appear out of nowhere, well, I don’t know if I’d have the wherewithal. Passion does downright crazy things to some of us. Not sure I ever want to stop it taking over me. What a sham of a life that’d be.

So. What was my point? Did I mention I bought a bottle of red wine, too? It’s a killer good surprise I’ve found for the ridiculously low price of $13.99. It’s French. La Something-or-other. Sometime, when gravity isn’t such a foe of mine, I’ll tell you what it was. Tasty little beast of a red. Mreow.

My point: The English Patient. Makes me swoon and swoon and swoon. ‘Cos it reminds me of all those little moments in the past when the world outside of me and that guy of the moment just melted the hell away. It was a sense emporium. Far too good to be believed. Too lofty to maintain for longer than those furtive moments, hours, days.

And even if it couldn’t have been, at least it was, even ever so briefly.

I propose a toast to all my imperfections and my ever so wondrously good lack of judgment. Without it, life could never be so sweet. And, in keeping of the night that’s upon us and the start of the new year, may you find a way to embrace all your judgmental lacks and imperfections, too. And god bless us every one. Ahem.

(And no. I did not get my job. That’s another story for another time. And look, I’m happy and having fun despite it. ‘cos that’s how this life thing’s done, boys and girls. Or it’s something to strive for at the very leastestest.)

I’ve got the post-Christmas hang-over. The get-me-the-fuck-away-from-those-stores blues.

I’m that breed of individual that shops because it takes care of necessities. I don’t need the latest gadgets. I do spend more than I should because I’m also a snob – about just about everything. Still, I hate shopping.

The problem with shopping is simple: People. A lot of them. The kind that missed the brief lessons spent on things like “Excuse me” and “Thanks for holding the door”. I know, I’m a geek, but I was in class those days. I’m so polite it hurts. I’m also blunt, unapologetic, brash, and unexpected, but with a nice air of manners about me. Yes, I know, a catch!

Snicker.

Shopping. Oh, dude, I’m so burnt out from people. I’m sick of the masses, tired of the shoving, and fed right up to here with the stupid people who keep standing in the middle of my fucking aisle, staring at some unlikely object, as if some trance is going to unveil for them whether or not the 40% off sticker price compensates for the absolutely total LACK of reason to buy the fucking useless thing.

I’m at that point now where I find myself standing around and looking at my kitchen in the hopes that some unwitting culinary masterpiece lies in wait behind those doors. A-ha! With just ever so slightly the right combination of “Gee, I wouldna thunk it!” and “In an alternate universe, this would be the bomb!” I might just be able to concoct a mystery dinner and not have to go to the store. Sure, I’m out of bread, eggs, milk, cereal, and vegetables of all kinds, but I swear to God, there’s enough for a meal in there… somewhere. Isn’t there?

There’s no fucking way I want to step into another store today. So, today I will not. Instead, I will bravely – no, brazenly – attack Foodland Canada, aka the Granville Island Public market, tomorrow morning in order to whip up something delectable for dinner tomorrow.

Grudgingly. I know: What was I thinking? Invite people over and actually cook for them? Not many, just three, but still! I’ve not had a dinner party of any sort in months… or at all in 2006. Holy shit. At all? My bad. See, deep down inside me lurks a combination of Martha Stewart and Rachel Ray and punk rock, but I’m much cooler than either of them. I can put on a dinner party like no one’s business. I’m a terrific hostess ‘cos my mommy raised me right. I grew up in a house where my mother would single-handedly throw a party for 40 and not even break a sweat. And the dishes would be cleaned before bed!

Now, I know, tis the season for socializing and public love-ins, but really, it’s also the season of the remote control, all right? And I’m torn between wanting to be social and wanting to curl up in a ball under a bunch of blankets and hide from the remainder of the year.

A friend of mine was going through the whole “oh, god” fear that sets in shortly after your first kid, when you realize how much of your life you’ve signed away, except he’s bought the house, the car, the wife, the kid, all within three years. Happy, yes, but a little longing for the simple times of old crept up on him. I wrote him an email that said, “Sure, I’m sitting around in my boxers and a t-shirt, my feet up on my coffee table, a giant bowl of Chinese on my lap as I watch whatever the fuck I want, but, really, it leaves a little to be desired.”

But I lied. Sitting around in a t-shirt and some boxers with an endless supply of leftovers, noplace to go, a stack of DVDs for the TV, and the phone turned off sounds about as sexy a night a girl like me can handle right now. I’m in an Atwoodian “woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle” phase. I’m on the cusp of a new job, a new phase of life, a possible relationship might loom, and things seem on the verge of drastic change. You’re fucking right I’m enjoying slowing this train down long enough to be chained to the couch with a remote in hand. I’m loving it.

It can’t go on, of course. A life needs to be lived, and this is no way to live it. But it’s a fucking great way to spend a week!

I’m thinking. A lot. And I’ve nothing I wish to share with you. As I see it, my life may possibly be drastically changing in the very near future. I’m taking a page from Ferris Bueller and stopping to drink it all in. Very, very privately. However, as is usually the case with dinner parties around this neck of the woods, much of that will likely come tumbling out during a good, smart, open dinner conversation tomorrow night. I suspect I’ll be needing to write afterwards. I wonder what I’ll have to say. As of now, I wouldn’t even know where to begin… probably why you’ve seen so little from me in the past couple of weeks.

I have that sensation of standing completely still and having the world spin around me. Sort of the opposite of finding your land legs at the end of a long sea voyage. Everything’s moving so fast that I just can’t believe I was ever able to keep the pace. Now, though, it’s starting to feel even odder. Like I’m on a train and it’s starting to take off at a nice speed, while the world’s starting to slow down, and soon, I think the speeds will match, and I’ll be lost in the motion again. It’s a nice thought. For now, though, this train’s still at the station and everything is before me. I know how rare these moments of “yet to come” are, and I’m enjoying this while I can.

December 6th passed by without my noting it. Dreadful.

On December 6th, 1989, Marc Lepine, a disgruntled man of 25, let his rage overtake him as he stormed through the halls of Montreal’s Eqole Polytechnique, slaughtering 14 women and injuring 13 others.

He had once applied to the school but was rejected for reasons not listed.

He entered a classroom and separated the men from the women, sent the men running, and before he opened fire on the women that remained, he screamed “I hate feminists!”

It took 45 minutes to burn itself into my brain for what will be the rest of my life.

I knew then that I could never, ever let the struggle for women’s equality fade away from my mind. What has had so high a price paid for us to have the lives, education, opportunities, and freedoms we have now, that needs to be remembered, honoured, and upheld.

So that then leaves me with two problems.

One, that I absolutely deplore, despise, and loathe girls of the generation coming up today (and I thank god there are exceptions) who persist tossing away ambition and smarts, or at the very least playing down their smarts, in an attempt to be seen as sexy, and in an attempt to get by. As Pink said, “sexy and smart don’t need to be oil and water.”

You wanna sleep your way to the top? You go, sister. But at least take your five-dollar, five-syllable vocab with you and get prepared to intellectually throw down if you must. C’mon, fucking be someone more.

And two, I want to assert right here, right now, that I can indeed be a feminist while celebrating the best parts of what masculinity is. (C’mon, there are aspects of being female I think I could do without, and there are aspects of masculinity I absolutely know I could do without, all right? I call ‘em as I see ‘em.)

I despise feminists who seek their power through the erosion of masculinity. If you need to tear someone down in order to build yourself up, I assure you – you are building on shaky ground. It’s not right. It’s not something I’m cool with. I love strong, conversant, brash, assertive men. It’s hot. It’s sexy. I don’t need some quivering metrosexual so I can feel more secure in my quest for presence in the world. You know what I’m saying?

But, hey, be what you want to be. Just don’t demand others be less of who they are so you can feel accommodated. That’s penny ante bullshit. Raise the stakes. Be all you want to be and respect them for their best attributes, too.

Sure, we could all use a little changing. Let’s just ensure it’s happening for the right reasons.

All I know is this – the sexiest kind of woman I know is one who’s secure in who she is, knows what she wants, can articulate it, and can celebrate it while celebrating those around her.

It’s a rare breed, and I wish it wasn’t.

Fourteen women died, 13 more were injured, and countless other lives were lost because someone thought chicks had it easier. This isn’t about quotas, though. It’s about hoping one day we’re all going to be able to see the best in each other and accept it, regardless of gender, of sexuality, of race, of class.

I think there’s good to be found in remembering what was lost that day, especially in proximity to Christmas, a time of joy and rebirth. I try to remember that in the smoke of that gunfire was borne a new kind of feminism. I like to think some part of me is a product of that day.

It’s the only way any of it can ever make sense.