Overreacting, or Right On The Money? TWITTER SPAT!

A Twitterer I was following, who has hundreds of followers, made a couple comments in the last couple days in which he’s using homosexual terms to insult others, like “gay” and “faggot”.
Strikes me as a very grade-five thing to say, and I call him on it. Publically. He called me politically correct and blocked me.
Here’s my Twitter feed’s archive. Now here’s the exchange.
Greg Scott’s initial comments:

Professional soccer players are such faggots.

When I call pro soccer players faggots I am referring to their repeated dramatic displays of injury, the most disgraceful in all of sport.

And, the next day:

Pink tie against a pink dress shirt with a grey blazer. Good gravy. The CBC National weather guy has every right to dress gay but why?

So, I said:

First some athletes are “faggots” now this guy dresses “gay”? Wanna get a 21st century vocab and ditch the homophobia?

To which he wittily retorted:

Your fear of language and over reaction to words evokes a stifling political correctness I’d prefer you not share with me.

And I got blocked. Dang, Hilda, when am I gonna learn to play nicely with others?
Mm. Yes. I’m just SO politically correct. That’s all this blog smacks of, all day long. Political correctedness. Its predecessor was called The Cunting Linguist but when I got interviewed on San Francisco radio and they couldn’t say the blog name, I thought, “Well, that’s no good.” So here we are at Smut and Steff. Politically correct? My fucking ass.
Wanker. In the world’s largest language, with more than a million words, you have to use “faggot” and “gay” as your adjectives? Your definition of “faggot” as it pertains to the soccer players, for instance, sounds more like a word I know as “actors” or some would even say “hams”, and I’m not opposed to insulting pigs.
Also, I think the fashion-challenged meteorologist sounds more “effeminate” or even “sissy” than gay, since most of the gay men I know can kick most straight mens’ asses. As Jon Stewart says, “Gay goes to the gym.”
But, really, as long as we’re living in a world where people are still carrying placards that reads “God hates fags” and are dressing their kids in shirts like these? Yeah, I’m going to make a comment when fuckwits banter about words that sound a little laced with hate and judgment and 1960s mentality, thinking they’re all witty and cute. Somebody should. And I fucking VOLUNTEER.
When you’re using it as an insult, pal, you’re saying it’s a bad thing, you’re judging. And itmakes you an ass, even if it’s just you in your smug urban-hipster posturing.

But hey. I’m just a politically correct cunt with an itchy Twitter-finger. So what do I know?

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. 🙂

My Reader, Oraless-For-25-Years, is Getting Oral!

So, remember the reader who wrote me a couple weeks back to say that her hubby sucked ass at oral, and had for 25 years?
Now, a bunch of guys wrote comments, saying, “Well, maybe it’s not all his fault”, but what I’d neglected to say was that we’d exchanged about a half-dozen emails or so about the topic before I posted. I don’t like commenting when I don’t know the shit, ‘cos it’s so easy to hear 12 facts and think you can offer a solution. I actually like dialogues, so when people email me a question, they can expect that I’ll clarify points, and to respect people’s privacy and my blog space, I truncate in posts.
Well, the dear reader wrote me back today! Good news! We LOVES good news!
Turns out, she decided everything else in the relationship was fine but she was fed up with the bullshit. She told him his rules were stupid and that he completely sucked at it and it wasn’t worth the hassle and emotional turmoil it put her through to ask for it. She said, “I told him I never, ever wanted it again.”
I guess that was the reality-check he needed — he shaved his facial hair to show her that he wanted to try harder, and went down on her, breaking his own rules about how long since intercourse — and it was apparently fantastic! He said it became a matter of pride, and now he’s proud of himself for reducing her to orgasmic puddle of bliss. She says he’s strutting around like a peacock, going, “I knew I could do it!”
As she says:

He told me that I smelled clean, and also KISSED me afterward. I think there’s an alien in my hubby’s body, but he can stay!

And, you know, I’m just over the moon that it worked out. I’m thrilled she got back to me and filled me in. I’ve asked her to let me know a few weeks down the line if he’s keeping up with it.
This is why I love getting emails back afterward, though. Because it goes to show you that, there’s only so far all this nice, polite, please-and-thank-you shit goes. Life’s too fucking short. Sometimes, you just have to say bluntly that they ain’t getting the job done. If you’ve tried and tried, but you’ve always been nice, it’s time to get rid of the tact and diplomacy, and throw down.
Like Jack commented last week on a posting about the guilt after disappointing sex, he was surprised I didn’t call out the fuckhead who failed to give me the knee-quaking sex I so richly deserve.
Yeah, I was totally surprised too. What a total lack of character for me. I figger it’s only because I’d gone so long without a good shagging that I had this surreal, “Did I imagine all that good sex?” But I also confused the issue — I thought, “Well, he’s a nice guy, just…” But then it clued in the next day. No, he’s a selfish lover.
And it was a good learning lesson. But if I’d said something, I might’ve stuck with that fellow, and I’m hoping this Quest For Good Sex can be much, much better than I think he’d have mustered anytime soon, even with all my willingness to help.
(I’m tired of edumacatin’ the boys. I want me a good sexual equal. So, I’m holding out and scoping still, dates loom. I am NOT settling.)
Be blunt. Embrace the power of speech. Say what you really, really want.
Hell, you might just get it.
Image found on Chagrin/Tumblr.

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.

Unprotected Sex: What if Condoms Make the Guy "Soft"

I am militant now, in my “old” age, about protection during sex. The question is, why isn’t everyone?
The images, albeit creepy and disturbing, are some very effective AIDS-awareness posters from France. I thought they illustrated this posting well.
A reader named Helen left a great comment today on a posting I think everyone should read, personally, called Getting Laid, Getting Tested, Getting AIDS,* that I wrote two years ago.
(Proof that I see every single comment I get, so start commenting more, peeples!)
Helen wrote:

What really irritates me is that guys still ask for [sex] ‘without a condom’. As soon as I hear that now, it’s such a big turn-off, as I know they’ve done that before, and probably don’t give it the concern I do. Even if we use condoms, yes there’s still a risk of herpes, warts, there’s still contact. And I end up thinking about that too much. Why do they ask?
Of course, the worst is the guys I know who seem to lose it as soon as the condom is on. You’re all turned on, gasping for it, and it’s gone. It’s like being held to ransom. He’s feeling bad, you want sex, it’s all too easy to give in and make it alright. Do you have any tips for this? Because it drives me crazy. I know it sounds weird, but can’t they try to masturbate with them, or somehow try to associate them with sex? I know it doesn’t feel as good, but there’s clearly a mental element too that they could work on.
I just wish they found the prospect of HIV as much of a turn-off as me.

And condoms can break, so even then you’re not guaranteed protection, which is why I “sleep around” very, very objectively, even with condoms. 99% ain’t 100%.
I had a sexual “professional” in the escort biz email me once to say she’d used a condom EVERY SINGLE TIME she had ever had sex, and somehow wound up pregnant. This development left her absolutely terrified to continue in her profession.
As for Helen’s example, I’ve had that happen, that when a guy puts a condom on, he suddenly deflates. He tried to use the “Yeah, well, I’ve been in a relationship for the last 11 years, so I just can’t get used to it” bullshit excuse.
And that’s MY problem, how? “Wear the fucking condom, or we don’t fuck. You can’t wear it? Your loss. I have vibrators. I’m better off without fucking someone like you, anyhow, because now I can’t trust you,” was my response to him, and the night came to a very premature close.
My advice, Helen? Stay the course. If men want to argue against wearing condoms, then fine, let them. But don’t give in. Never, ever give in. It takes ONCE. Just once. See my addendum at the end, because my friend who knows the night he was infected, he’s dying as a result. From once, just once.
You’re absolutely right — the ones who ask for bareback ARE the ones who’ve done it with others. They’re the ones to be concerned about. Just because they’re charming and got that far with you doesn’t mean they’re safe. It’s the excessively charming guys that worry me more, to be frank.
I have a male friend who just recently decided a couple months of seeing this chick meant it was a nice, committed relationship, and he felt he could trust her. They had unprotected sex, and the next day, literally, he happened to see a text message on her cellphone in which a guy texted her “BTW I think I came in you the other night. Too late for a morning-after pill?”
My friend told me he ran to the washroom and vomitted, since he’s never been a promiscuous guy and only recently got out of his 12-year marriage, and has been just gutted with worry the last month.
The day BEFORE he told me that, I’d been to my doctor and was talking about getting tested again, for my bi-annual test, whether I’m sexually active or not. Doc told me rather darkly that he’d just finished testifying in a court case in which a FEMALE patient of his KNOWINGLY infected a male patient of his with HIV.
We want to believe everyone’s as ethical as we are. We want to believe they’re not fucking with skanky people who use no safe practices. But that’s just naivety at its finest.
There are untrustworthy people out there. There are mean people out there. There are people with no scruples nor standards. There are destructive people out there.
Vigilance is the only thing we have to protect ourselves with, aside from condoms, and neither are 100%.
God, since the late ’80s we’ve heard the slogan “No glove, no love” and you’d think people would get it by now. Particularly these men who want to keep asking for bareback sex.
You think condomless sex doesn’t feel better for women, too? Of COURSE it feels better. I LOVE BAREBACK SEX. Love, love, LOVE. I just never have it. Why? Because it’s so fucking 1970, man. Jesus.
Women have more at risk than our random male shags might. We could get pregnant — which often is a greater motivation than protecting oneself against AIDS and other STDs, and is stupid, but there you have it. If that’s what it takes for women — who are the fastest-growing demographic for new AIDS & HIV infections — to start forcing partners to wear condoms religiously, then I’ll take it.
Guys, if you’re one of these selfish pricks who has a fucking problem wearing a condom, THEN GET OVER IT. Whiners.
It’s a MENTAL problem and YOU need to deal with it, not US. If it means jacking off with condoms as practice, then do that. I don’t know what you but-I-can’t-wear-a-condom, you-can-trust-me men need to do, but you got to fucking figure it out. We’re your lovers, not your mothers, so figure your shit out without burdening us with the hassle.
And to all the men who are religious about wearing condoms: We love you men for making this easier for us. You have no idea the bullshit every single woman has dealt with over the years from those ignorant, dumb-ass men who are selfishly thinking only of getting off, and not taking our well-being (or theirs) into consideration.
AIDS isn’t over. In fact, the picture is even less rosy than it was just weeks ago. Why? The CDC in America has released a study in which they report that they think their estimates for new annual AIDS/HIV infections are a whopping 40% TOO LOW. Instead of 40,000 new cases a year, it’s 56,000, and growing.
In fact, Ronald Johnson, the AIDS Action Deputy Director, says, “This is not just another set of statistics. There are people behind these numbers. People are becoming infected with a disease that is preventable. We know how to prevent HIV, but we have been fighting this epidemic with one hand tied behind our back, reflecting a disturbing dismissal of HIV-prevention as a public health priority. The new, higher estimate is yet one more wake-up call to our national leaders that they need to do more, starting with developing and implementing a real national AIDS strategy.”
I’m gonna guess that strategy is that of educating ignorant people about wearing condoms.
Personally, I think that, even if you’re in a longterm committed relationship, and you even THINK your partner is cheating on you, you should demand condoms be used. Ain’t a conversation I’d be keen to initiate, but when your life’s literally at stake and trust isn’t what it used to be, that’s a conversation that needs having.
What can I say? The lack of sexual responsibility used by some segments of society leave me absolutely paranoid about who it is I should or should not sleep with, and as much as I trust my instinct… I’m no fool.
Neither should any of you be. Why chance it?
*NB: The friend I’ve mentioned that contracted AIDS from a night he could pinpoint is not doing as well as he was in the posting I originally mentioned. He’s now made a will, has become incredibly depressed, has isolated himself, and his health is spiralling downwards, filling fear in us all, because we think he doesn’t want to fight. While life can be sustained longer than ever with the drug cocktails now prescribed for AIDS, the quality of life is often difficult.
As I wrote in that original posting, a little too presciently for my comfort, “The virus is not the same in everyone. It is a living, breathing thing, and like all evolutionary beings, it can – and will – adapt to new and different environments. Some people will be to HIV like a match is to a stick of dynamite. You really think you’re invulnerable? Go ahead. Roll that dice. But every risk you take, you subject another to, and, that, you have no right to do.”

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.