So a reader sent me a left hook in the ol’ email bag recently.

You used the quote “Love is full of stupidity” and said how true that was but in many of your postings – I can’t say all since I haven’t read them all – I don’t see any references to, or definitions of, love. There is sex and dating, friendship and loving yourself, although predominantly the difficulties with that, but there is never a clear understanding of love. So I would be indebted to know how you are using that word and how you are consistent with applying that definition to sex, dating, friends, yourself.

Oy vey. What, you trying to make me work for a living?

Unthinkable.

You know, I don’t write about love. You’re correct. Je n’écris pas au sujet de l’amour. That’s the easy part. It’s the why that I’m not wanting to get into, but fuck it, here goes.

It’s been a long, long time since I’ve been in love. Some days I wonder if I’ve ever experienced it. Lust and deep caring, yeah. Double-yeah on the lust bit. Love? I don’t know that anyone has ever truly laid claim to this ol’ heart o’ mine. I haven’t really even had unrequited love love in god knows how long, either.

My social wheels are back on track and dating really actually looms again, but whether any will connect on that level’s really dubious. Trust has always been a challenge for me, the giving of it. I’ve been burned far too many times in this life of mine, but I keep thinking how playing with fire’s just too damned fun not to give it another go, sooner or later. I’m better at trusting now, but I’m still highly skeptical of… I don’t know. Life? Fate? Destiny? Yeah. Them.

I’ve come close to love, though. I know what to expect. I’m positive I’ll find it. I’m optimistic it’s out there, I’m just not entirely sure now’s the time of my life it’s going to get found in, you know? I’m not in the biggest hurry, but I’m beginning to be impatient.

What’s my take on love, then?

Usually, when I’m using the word, I tend to mean in a general sense. Matters of love. Affairs of the heart. Elements of lust. All of that. It’s not a weighty word for me. Perhaps it ought to be. Contrarily, it’s a very weighty word for me in relationships. I’ve used it with one man. Ever.

Part of me believes in the love of a lifetime, that one person who makes you swoon and falter with a mere part of their lips. The other part of me believes it’s more a biological and psychological pairing than it is that of any profound happening. Meaning, we’re all bound to latch to someone for whatever psycho-social reasoning, that it’s not some cosmic clicking of our tickers that’s making our hearts beat and pulses race. I’d rather believe in the once-a-lifetime love of no compare, though. I’m a passionate woman and I want my choices to be governed as much as a matter of the heart as it is of the mind.

Sometimes it feels like relationships are like jeans. You keep tryin’ ‘em until there’s one that fits oh so right.

Still, I’m looking for love. I’m looking for earth-quaking, knees-shaking, heart-aching love that hair bands sing about. I’m sure that if anyone can find it, I can.

Y’know, I was watching a rather bad movie and saw one good scene. The guy says to the girl something to the effect of, “When you love someone, when is enough finally enough?”

She sputters some long-winded blah-blah and he tells her she’s wrong. The answer, he says, is “Never. It’s never enough.” I’ve been thinking of that lately, and how every guy I was ever really serious about made me put a shelf-life stamp on how long I’d let it go bad before enough was enough. Those shelf-life expiration dates were never very far off for me. Looks like my threshold is low. Or maybe they were just not of the never-enough variety in the world of Steff.

When I tell a man “I love you” again, it’ll be said with a world of different emotion, I suspect. I’ll be keeping that phrase to myself until I really feel it to be true. When I think of “love” love, I think of Johnny and June Carter Cash. I think of Catherine the Great and Potemkin. I think of Casablanca. I think of Tristan and Isolde. I think of looking in someone’s eyes one day and knowing without asking that he’d do anything for me, and I’d do the same, as cliché as it sounds.

Because I believe in that.

I don’t think I’ve never found a guy I could love, though. I’m sure I’ve had a few. What I never had then that I have now was this self-love that comes only through certain self-defining moments in each of our lives. I’ve had a lot of them in the last five years and I feel down inside that I have a hell of a lot to offer as a person. I finally know my value. I think that, when we don’t know our value, when we don’t truly love ourselves, our relationships are untrue as a result. Who we think we love when we don’t love ourselves is an entirely different calibre of person than those we fall for when we’re at our personal best.

I dunno that I’m at my personal best yet. I’m pretty sure I’m far from it. But I’m closer to it than I’ve ever been, and I know I’ve got some road before I get there, but at least I know GPS system’s finally tracking again and my destination’s on my horizon.

These days, I know I deserve love. What’s more is, I finally have it in me to give. Before, I never thought I was worthy. Now I believe I shouldn’t settle for anything less. Hell, I know I’ve earned it.

I’m not sure that I’ve answered your question, but feel free to kick the can again if you want me to try another take on this.

[Photo’s by Alexia Berry, found here.]

Not too long ago, I rearranged my bedroom. For the first time in the seven years that I’ve lived here, the layout really, really works. I’d been hesitant to move my 7.5’ long self-designed writing desk from the window, as I always enjoyed looking out at the world when writing. Finally I realized it wouldn’t ever allow for a good bedroom layout, because it meant my bed had to be positioned in the centre of the room, taking up too much space.
So, much to my chagrin, I moved the desk against my south wall, a chocolate-brown accent wall. I moved my beautiful antique window-frame/mirror over top the desk, and figured it was just an aesthetically superior choice and nothing more.
The strange thing is, though, that now whenever I’m stuck, I either stare into the chocolateyness of the wall or I tend to stare into my eyes in the mirror.
I was sitting there just now, staring, and thought that if there’s one thing I dislike about my eyes, it’s my short little eyebrows.
I then remembered that there’s some alternative theory that you can tell about a person by their facial features. So, I looked it up. According to Chinese face-reading theory, my short eyebrows tell you I have few siblings (1) and that my life would enter a period of extended personal and professional grief from the ages of 31 to 34. I’m 33 now. I’d say that’s pretty dang bang-on. The fact that they’re straight eyebrows apparently reveals that I am a person with incredibly strong convictions, and a tendency to argue fiercely for them. No, you think?
That they’re low-arching/straight tells you that, one, I’m impulsive, and two, that I have both an aesthetic and sensitive temperament.
Other eye-reading beliefs say that because my eyes are exactly one eye-length apart, it means that I have a clear and fair perception of the world, and balanced judgment. Hmm!
If the extension of the eyebrow is the indicator, then I have deep-set eyes. Apparently this is common with many writers, and also often means the person is “romantic to the core”. My relatively square-ish chin apparently dictates that I’ll be a more pragmatic romantic than a fluffy, skittish one. This is kind of creepy it’s so accurate. I mean I would NEVER scatter rose petals on the bed! There is no so-called “romantic” bit of décor I think is more idiotic than scattered rose petals. Christ, a flower had to die for that. A dozen of ‘em! And I don’t want them stuck in the crack of my ass. Really. Who wants to stop to pick that out, eh? “Pardon me while I… Okay, carry on.”
My shade of green in my eyes apparently conveys that I’m a very inventive and enthusiastic person. Hmm. Somewhat.
My full lips tell you I’m caring and sensitive, and I have rather luxurious tastes in life. That my upper and lower lips are relatively the same in thickness indicates that I have a well-meaning, communicative personality. My cut of jaw belies my stubborness and my pragmatism.
My cheeks state I am “a forceful individual who is combative by nature. [I am] reactive to the circumstances and people around [me] and am learning the lessons of graciously living and letting live.” Okay, I’m learning the lessons, I don’t actually know ‘em yet, all right? Work In Progress should be my middle name.
My nose, now, it tells you I’m cordial, I’m empathetic with others, and I set high standards for myself and I’m both well-mannered and warm. Hmm!
My very thick hair apparently speaks to my physical prowess (heh heh) and my natural resilience. Ooh!
Who knew it was all in your face? Gotta love the internet. Remember back in the day, if you wanted to know something, you either had to go to the library, or look it up in your encyclopedia. (I still have my complete 1986 set of Funk & Wagnalls.)
Now I’ll stop fretting about my short eyebrows. 🙂
(Here’s where I found the neatest stuff.)

I’ve had a story opened up in a tab on my browser for two days. I’ve been trying to figure out where I stand on it. I think I sort of know, but I can’t decide if it makes me a bigot.

The gist of it is this, in Quebec (Eastern Canada’s French province), the powers that be in a small town called Herouxville have put laws in place that are essentially aimed at immigrants.

The new laws decree that it is legal for boys and girls to exercise together, that women are allowed to both read and vote, that women may not be stoned or killed in “honour” killings as a matter of law.

Then it starts going further and says people should only be allowed to cover their faces at Halloween. (This is likely to stem the more orthodox Islamic tradition of obscuring women’s faces with veils or whatnot. I suspect our Charter of Rights might be cause for dispute.)

I support some of what this town’s trying to do, though they’re probably morons to tack this tact, and think some of it is going too far.

I understand people’s hesitation to accept veiled faces, especially in this modern culture of fear and face, where we think a person’s face is their most important attribute, and we believe that what we can’t see is what we need to be afraid of. As if there’s some sort of bogeyman behind that veil.

I admit, I have troubling getting behind a religious conviction that inspires women to completely hide themselves, but then I don’t get the fuss about why widows, nuns, or brides wear veils, either. And I’m not religious. But if these women believe that modesty and selflessness helps live up to their convictions, then so be it.

I get the sense that this town’s not exactly too concerned with respecting the Charter of Rights, though. I suspect they’re just carrying on the stubborn Quebec tradition of trying to protect their culture from incoming hordes of barbarians. It’s not like France is all that friendly with its Islamic contingent anyhow. Maybe it’s a French thing. Down with the Moorish hordes or something. Maybe they don’t understand that Islamic women aren’t as oppressed as we’d like to think.

There’s a funny new series on Canada’s CBC that’s pretty timely, considering this brouhaha, called Little Mosque on the Prairie. It’s about the Islamic community in a small prairie town, and it’s busting open guts and stereotypes. It opened with the new young Imam (the leader of a mosque), a 30-something cute Islamic guy, standing in the airport, talking about his decision to his urban Toronto world for the Prairie life.

He’s in line, and we cut to this out-of-context statement, “I’ve been planning this for months, it’s not like I dropped a bomb on him. If Dad thinks it’s suicide, then so be it. This is Allah’s plan for me.” Naturally, the woman behind him’s gaping, and quickly he’s escorted off by a guard who claims today’s not his day to meet his maker.

I’ve known some pretty cool Muslims in my time, so I’m happy to see this show coming out and showing that this veiled, mysterious faith is a lot less extreme than most of us think it is. Pity about the extremist factions, but hey.

A town like this, you know, passing some of these laws, I can’t really argue with. Some of the laws are obvious. No burning to death of women. Kids can exercise in co-ed environments. All right, sure. Does it need to be said? I mean, the people who are going to be truly the kind of people the laws are trying to confront, they’re likely not going to give a shit that a bunch of white people in a French town passed these namby-pamby laws.

I haven’t had a look at the law books to see what it de facto states in regards to domestic abuse and other things like that, so I don’t know if they’re being duplicitous by highlighting the cultural differences of some more extreme immigrants. What I do know is, it can’t really hurt to have what are essentially very, very big tenets of our society put in ink in our law books.

I’m a big fan of multiculturalism. I like the fact that I live in a city with incredible Asian and Indian food. I like the contrasting cultures in my world around me. But make no mistake about it, I live in Canada. Land of the free, land that I love. It’s a place known around the world as being the kind of friend you can count on in harder times. We’re humanitarian. We talk, we solve problems, we broker peace. It’s what we do. And we take great pride in our constitution and rights.

I figure, you choose to move here, you have to abide by the moral code that is the code of this nation. If you wish to add to it, please do so. But don’t contravene it. That’s all.

But Herouxville is certainly insulting the average immigrant. To believe that these more extreme things, like honour killings and stoning and death by immolation, are widespread in the Muslim world is like suggesting we have Branch Davidians, radical Mormons, and self-flagellating Opus Dei/Jesuits on every corner. They’re around, but they’re not exactly mainstream.

What do you people think? Had you heard about this already? You want to see more of this happening? I admit, the feminist in me supports it, the open-minded Canadian is a little taken aback, tho.

Dating is an exercise in idiocy. I can’t tell you how often I go awry in the dating world, nor how many foolish, stupid things I do the rest of the time. Talk about being a fool in love. And life. And art. And, and…
I could try to share with you any number of poignant analogies, but let me tell you instead of the slapstick time I was simply ELATED to have been suddenly, without explanation, cancelled on.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. This was a couple years ago, back when I had long hair. These days, as you might surmise by the short, chunky bangs in my eyes shot over there, my hair’s pretty short. Possibly with good reason! Again, I’m getting ahead of myself.
I was pretty excited about this date. He was one of those rugged Latin-looking guys that makes me get all twittery an’ all. I had this really great, hard bike ride, came home, stretched, had this wonderful hot, hot bath, and when I was walking around, feeling really sorta sexed up, wearing this little shimmery nighty number and all that.
Now, you should probably know that I’m only just getting back to dating here after a very long, self-imposed no-dating period thingie. My first official date had been mere days before. He had five beers in 85 minutes. He said he was nervous. I wanted to say “Being an alcoholic can do that to you” but managed to bite my tongue. Because, after all, he was nervous. And thirsty. With an admirably large bladder.
So, by the time the post-bath slinking-about-in-shimmery-bits thing transpired, I was feeling like there was no possible way this date could be that painful to endure. It had to be a bit better.
And being the poofy romantic I am about having tealights burning on date days and such, I had tealights burning.
For some incredibly lame reason, I dropped something I couldn’t be dropping, and did that moved-like-Superman-after-a-falling-woman super-duper fast shit, caught whatever the hell the apparently entirely forgettable object was, and tripped.
I stumbled forward. The coffee table stopped my fall but my arm got in the way, so my head didn’t crack open and kill me (whew! saved the blog again!). I was all bent over the table, about to breathe a sigh of relief, when, in the corner of my eye, suddenly I saw fire. Fire.
My hair was on fire. My hair!
“MOTHERFUCKER!” I grabbed a pillow from the sofa with one hand, batting my head as I fumbled for the tumbler of water on the table. I threw it at my head, heard a sizzle-poof, smothered my head with the pillow, and stagger-ran to the bathroom.
Gasping, I then began to whimper as I sniffed the air. I smelled, I imagined, like the rooftop at the end of Ghostbusters, where the giant doggy-demons get flamed and it’s all burnt doghair and Stay-Puft marshmallow everywhere.
I must find a way to get rid of that stench before my date! I swore. Fortunately it didn’t look as bad as it smelled. It was a 1/2″ diameter patch that burned all the way down to only 1″ from the scalp. All the long, thick, wavy hair around it didn’t do a whole lot for the nubbly little burnt patch. I had this cute “ohmigosh that’s so embarrassing” ha-ha moment-thought with my soon-to-be date play in my mind. We’d stumble on the new nickname for me, I thought. “Nubby.”
Ding-ding. I had an instant message. “I can’t do this now. I’ll explain some other time. Later.” That was all the dude said in cancelling the date. Boy, I was pissed!
I started to take a deep breath. “Why, that bast–” I stopped with a whiff. Dog. Burnt. With a side of aloe baby oil scent. But dog!
Sometimes, it ain’t a loss. Just a rainout. And sometimes it’s not such a bad thing. That whole “not meant to be” thing is a comfort crutch in moments like, ooh, those one has when they’ve turned themselves into a human fire trick in the middle of their living room. “Why, Dave, I’m thrilled you think it’s a Stupid Human Trick. No, it’s just something I stumbled on…”
The only thing I can say is, I’m sure as hell glad I didn’t grab the glass with pre-date rye & 7 when I was dousing myself out.
Now that I’ve made a mockery of myself, why don’t you share some tales of your own? My stage is yours. After all, with all this nauseating Valentine’s Day crap everywhere, humiliation and illusion-shattering bitsies might not hurt anyone.

I really think that romance without great food is just a waste of everybody’s time. Really. Love, sex, passion, with… reheated leftovers? Bland boiled dinners? Decarbonated generic brand soda?
Oh, please. Love, sex, passion, they deserve good wine, ripe, succulent fruit, tender meats, chocolates, and oh, so much more! When I think of passion and romance, I think of places that are married to my epicurean fantasies as well — Venice, Tuscany, Paris, ad nauseum.
So it should come as no surprise that I consider breakfast an important skill I’ve learned in my repetoire as a femme d’amour. Hash browns? Got ’em down. Scrambled eggs? Cracked those. Hell, I even make homemade bread these days. Being able to make love, sleep late, and eat the food of love, breakfast, is something high on my list of priorities when it comes to terminating the single thing.
While I cannot live without my eggs and bacon with upscale toast, there are times when practicality can offer a really sensational detour from the norm.
I’m giving you a recipe that I modified and funkified. It’s a sour cream & coffee double-chocolate – chocolate chip banana loaf. Oh, yeah, it’s all that.
But here’s how you make it work. You’ve got the thick, moist slices of this dense, rich banana loaf, and you serve it with a really enchanting assortment. Maybe some slices of whiskey-infused cheddar, or a candied-ginger white stilton, some ripe strawberries, a few blueberries, some mango, something exotic like dragonfruit, fresh vodka-soaked pineapple (good morning!), and lime-drizzled slices of pear, and you slice it all up and arrange it on a couple platters. You have a carafe of coffee, and presto, you have some pretty tasty contentment.
The spread’s designed to be picked at and enjoyed over the course of a morning or early afternoon. Lie around and play board games or with each other, nibbling when a pang strikes you.
This recipe made a little less than my altered end version makes (originally 1 large loaf versus two medium loaves now) and didn’t have as much banana or chocolate in it, and no coffee, so I decided to make everything right with the universe and decided to take it to some new places. It’s moist and it’s better on the second day, so make it before you get together. I think it’s relatively idiot proof, so have at it!
I recommend this as a Valentine’s weekend-spread item. Takes 10 minutes to prepare!
Steff’s Sour Cream & Coffee
Double-Chocolate – Chocolate-Chip Banana Loaf
Preheat oven to 350.
In a big bowl:
1/2 cup margarine or butter
1 c. sugar
2 eggs.
Cream these ingredients with a blender or mixer until all fluffy-like.
Mix in:
The flesh of 4 mashed bananas (the blacker the ‘nana’s, the bettah)
2 teaspoons vanilla
Get it really well mixed.
In another bowl, combine:
3 tablespoons dark, bitter cocoa
2 cups unbleached flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
Add 1/2 cup sour cream (lowfat works!) to the banana/moist mixture.
Add 1/4 cup dark coffee (I used leftovers from my French press. Dredges.).
Mix well.
Add dry mix to the moist mix, and combine only until all the flour is mixed in. (The less you mix, the fluffier the loaf. More you mix, the heavier and tougher.)
Add 1/2 – 1 cup of chocolate chips, and mix. (Again, easy on the mixing!)
Split batter into two well-buttered 9×5 inch loaf pans. Bake at 350 for 40 – 50 minutes, until a toothpick inserted in the centre comes out clean.
This is crazy moist, and only gets better the second day. I sprinkle the tops of my loaves with more chips before I put it in the oven. It’s a nice touch. And if you want to make it ever nicer, just sprinkle the slices with icing sugar before serving.

IN EXCITING NEWS — It looks like I finally figured out my fucking archiving settings on Blogger! You can now read my archives month-by-month as listed on the sidebar. Shit, Bob, this is a real, live, functioning blog now!

So, I had the world’s longest email from a guy a while back who has reconnected with a girl he was in love with some 15 or so years ago. Sorry, reader, for both the response delay and the wisecrack about the email. 😉

He’s about to move across state lines to be with her, and he’s having massive insecurities about his size, which is 6.5 inches hard. (Which is slightly above average, statistically speaking.)

I’ve written about penis size before, and my bottom line is “get over it.” You have what you have, and that’s that, says this down-to-earth, potentially naïve girl.

(It should be noted that I recently heard that, for every 35 pounds a guy loses, he gains an inch in cock size. I’ve seen no hard evidence, pun intended, but it’s a good motivator at for the boys wanting to watch their weight.)

The problem is, this chick was married for a few years to a bad boy that she supposedly had unbelievable sex with, but little else. The divorce happened, the two reconnected, and now he’s questioning himself for the first time ever because he’s madly in love with her and wants to be the best thing she’s ever had, in every sense of the word.

Here’s just a brief snippet of his email to me.

Let me ask you something, having been with someone outside the range considered average, have you been, or will you be disappointed now with less – at least a little? Do you respect a man less sexually a bit because you experienced a larger man? I’m aware that there can be great sex with average to smaller, and there are other factors contributing to the experience, but… And size must have some impact for chicks, being that most will “check out our packages” to see what the future holds.

Whew.

Well, then. Let’s talk about my perspective on this, then, shall we? Yeah, I’ve been with smaller men. I wouldn’t be happy with a guy under 5.5, and 5.5 is only “just” enough to satisfy me. But, yeah, it’s that old cliché of “it’s not what you have but how you use it” and it’s more than that. So, let’s backtrack a bit.

My first real lover was a guy I was with off and on for seven years. I’d never had anyone else so I didn’t realize he wasn’t that big, but he was probably 5.5 inches, in hindsight. He was a great lover – though I’ve had far better since.

In the years that have passed I’ve asked myself a million and one ways why I stayed. It was an emotionally abusive relationship, I could’ve had other men and in the time that I was with him, I did (as we often broke up for spells then got back together, ‘cos we kept doing the whole “let’s be friends” thing but would fall into ex-sex patterns that just reignited the relationship, et al).

And in my older, wiser years I’ve come to realize that sex is the greatest illusion of them all. When the sex is great, we women (and even men, I’m sure) can lie to ourselves and make believe that the relationship itself is working if the sex is. God knows I fooled myself. It’s even worse when the sex is great and frequent – we had sex, literally, every single time we saw each other, and usually multiple times, as many as six times in a night. We were antisocial, stayed in, and fucked. When you do that, it’s pretty easy to ignore everything else that’s wrong.

But some of us grow the fuck up. We learn that, yeah, something seems to be missing. Sometimes we even get wary of ever having a relationship where sex is so prevalent again.

In the years since, yes, I fell for a “smaller” guy, and fell reasonably hard, too, but he offered so much in all the other areas that I felt it was a no-brainer. And he wanted to please me and did everything he could to do so. Would it have been better if he had a larger cock? Well, of course! Would I have been over the moon to have that in addition to everything else he offered? Well, of course! But he couldn’t offer that. And while it might have been a thought I had from time to time, it wasn’t an issue. I cared about him, I trusted him, and I, in turn, did everything I could to please him.

Yeah, you’re insecure, there, fella. And I bet that the fact that you’re about to make a big move is no small part of it. I think you’re subconsciously redirecting fears and anxieties about that big change – and why not? That’s a huge commitment! You’re not just putting your money where your mouth is, you’re leaving everything you know for this woman. Damned right there’ll be anxieties someplace.

You know what the ray of sunshine is? It’s obvious you’re in love. You wanna be everything for this woman. Know what? You’re probably going to fall short of your goal, but that’s okay. You’ll probably still be the guy she dreamed about for 15 years through all those crappy times with that lousy guy who only offered one thing – being good in bed. You, though, bring a package. She can trust you, enjoy time with you, know that you’re that uber-combination of a friend and a fuck buddy, all mixed in with the reliability of a life partner. Score!

Yeah, you need to get over it. So do most guys. There are things you can’t change (or maybe you can – with great pain and anguish and lots of money) but there are other things you can. Ask her what she wants. Get creative about it. Buy her a nice journal book and ask her to transcribe her wildest fantasies for your eyes only, and set about making them happen.

What you PERCEIVE that you don’t have in size – even though you’re slightly above average – you can make up for in passion, in love, in understanding, in communication, in what you do “the morning after”, and what you do in times of difficulty.

Because, I’ll tell ya, it never lasted with me and the guy who was the largest, technically “best” lover I’ve ever had, and it never could have lasted because of who he was. The relationships’ demise I most regret tend to be the ones with whom the emotional connection was the strongest, never mind what happened between the sheets. But what happened between the sheets, because it was with them, was, in its own way, truly special and unforgettable. And, YEAH, that sounds incredibly cheesy, I know!

It’s obvious that some people are far better company than others will ever be for you, and it’s why we tend to pair-bond with them. Some, though, fit our bodies like a glove, and we might wish like all hell that they’d be perfect in other ways, but that usually doesn’t tend to happen. For most of us, we can’t settle for that. But if it’s the other way around? Yeah, that’s something most of us will settle for.

Sounds to me like you’re half way towards that, if you can forget about yourself and focus on the moments you’ve been fortunate enough to have been given.

And I bet 90% of women would agree with me (but don’t just sit there, girls, comment or something!). A lover who’s obviously trying to please us, who listens to what we want, knows how to melt us with a kiss, is kind and loving and doting towards us, but lacks an inch or two of Ideal Cock? It’s almost a no-brainer.

Besides, that’s why you have a tongue and fingers. Use them. Feel the Force, Luke.

One last, flippant comment? This paranoid insecurity guys feel about their cocks is r
ight up there with that bullshit you hate to hear from us — “Does this dress make me look fat?” (My all-time favourite response, from Sealab 2021, I think, was “No, but your ass does.”) You guys think we need to get over whether we look fat? Yeah, well, get over your cock issues and then maybe we can talk about that. 😉

(As for the photo, shit, man, I couldn’t resist! Beats the heck out of “make love, not war”, even if I agree with that motto.)

A couple weeks back, I received an absolutely beautiful new sex book. The Sex Bible by Susan Bakos is the first sex book I’ve seen in a long time that makes me really want to sit down and go through it. I haven’t yet had the time, but it’s definitely on the list of pressing to-dos.

I’ll definitely be sharing my thoughts on this book with you, and I can tell you already that it looks to be blowing that Nina Hartley Guide To Total Sex that I reviewed last fall right out of the bloody water. It has breathtaking nude photography throughout (but all photographed in the right way so you only see ass or tits and so it can be sold in nearly any store) and the little I’ve read seems really well-written and full of insight.

A book like this could prove to get a lot of use out of younger couples or couples looking to make their sex life a little more rounded and a little less standard “vanilla”.

Personally, I think there’s nothing better for a couple to do than to talk about their sex life. The more you talk, the more you’ll realize just what it is you’re wanting and why. It lets you understand your motives and needs in a way you may not have realized before.

I had one of those moments of clarity the other night when I was having a chat about sex. About a year and a half ago now, I had this terrific fling with this guy and the sex just boggled the mind. I’ve never been so spent after a weekend, and the question I was asked that made me think was, why was it good sex? I realized then that it was the first time I was really secure enough that I didn’t care how much noise we made during the act. Turned the stereo up and worked with it.

It’s so amazing how one little thing, like having to concentrate on how loud you are, can detract from the intensity of an experience. That one experience, for me, really spoke to that. I just let go and I was the lover I kinda always thought I had inside. I dropped the façade and really clicked with someone on a new level.

I think it’s easy to forget just how much our hang-ups hold us back. It’s why I believe in things like therapy, or writing, or talking, because getting it, whatever “it” is, out there is the first step towards being able to really own that and then move past it.

Every couple should, in my humble opinion, sit naked on the couch, enjoying some wine, and just start a conversation about sex. If you don’t have the freeform abilities to just take the topic and run with it, then grab a quality book on sex, like this incredible The Sex Bible, and discuss the contents with your partner as you flip through the pages or scan the index together. If you’re the kind of people who aren’t so great at making mental notes, then have a pad and paper or a notebook in which you plan to keep track of things you’ve discussed, your thoughts on them, and whether they deserve ranking on your to-do list.

Draw pictures if it helps, or leave notations on page numbers in corresponding books, but make it a work book of things you want to achieve sexually as a couple. It doesn’t have to be all fluffy and beautiful, either. Make it dirty if you want, write lustful notes to each other in it between book viewings. Whatever it takes to make it a fun project. Do what’s comfortable for you and your relationship, and make a point of having FUN.

We all hit boredom patches in our sex lives. If it was a football game, the coach would be throwing a new gameplan on the chalkboard. It it was a mid-career crisis, management would call us in for a review and an establishing of priorities for the coming months. Yet when it’s our sex life hitting a dull patch, we think that the problem’s all ours or that our partner won’t get on board. We don’t implement steps to shake up the mix. Well, why the hell not?

Something like this book would serve beautifully in the drink-and-discuss sexual review project. All the photographs give a lot of food for thought, and could even serve to provide a little steam to the proceedings. I mean, case in point: see above photo.

I’ve written about sexual reviews in relationships in the past, and I still think it’s a fantastic thing to do. Plan to set aside a night where you’re going to talk about your sex life, the things you’ve done that you love, that didn’t work for you, why, what you’d love to try, what a goal might be for you to reach together, and maybe even what it is your partner does that makes you feel most powerful or appreciated. You can return to your notes a few weeks later and discuss which ones you ended up accomplishing and how you felt that worked out for you, and discuss what you’ve yet to do, and possibly its importance to you and why.

You can have these evenings be fluffy, romantic nights, or you can cut through all the puffery and just lay things out bare, as it were. Me, I favour keeping it simple: Nekkid, wine, a few candles, and say it like you mean it. Dressing it up or worrying about wording things right is a hassle. Keep it real.

Of course, if you’re like me, you just talk about sex all the time and you don’t need a review because you’re big on instant feedback and all. Still, it’s nice to make an evening of it. Show and tell, as it were. I’m always fond of an excuse to get naked and drink wine and fondle a warm body, myself, but then, I’m a lush.

(The above photo — man, I need to get a bigger shower! — is from the above-mentioned The Sex Bible. Now I need a shower.)

I’ve been writing a lot more lately, but not that you would ever know. Scattered everywhere are partially finished works, almost none seeing the light of day. I’ve had everything and nothing to say of late. I’m thinking too quietly, too privately.

It’s been a strange month, year, life. Despite technically being laid off yesterday, I’m still very positive at times. I feel like things are still on the verge of getting better fast. It won’t take a lot for me to have a stunning change of fortune.

I’ve been thinking about a lot today. I sent in a resume about four days ago and now have a phone interview Monday. I’m told they receive about a thousand resumes a month, and even getting a phone interview is a great thing, let alone within the first week of applying. So, I’m feeling oddly good about myself.

I’m researching the company today, and I’ve been watching a movie called Born Into Brothels, about children in India born into marginalized prostitution, and I keep thinking how fortunate I am to have prospects at times like these. But, yeah, prospects. All over the place.

The job I’ve applied for is a stable, solid one in a respectable industry, but there’s an air of sales to it, as well. Damn straight, I can sell like no one’s biz. Trouble is, I don’t believe in sales per se, because it’s pretty simple: If you need to sell it, it ain’t worth selling. If it’s worth having, it sells itself. Most jobs, you can’t get away with living by those principles. This one, I’ll be encouraged to think in those terms, and that’s something I dig. I’ve come this far without selling out in life, so let’s see if I can take it a little further and find yet another employer I can actually believe in. (“You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.”)

So even though it can sell itself, sometimes it just needs, oh, an audio track, and then I get to provide the words. Do the math. 😉 I once was ringing in a $9 sale at a toy store job, and through conversation during the ringing-up, I wound up turning that $9 sale into a $1900 sale. It took all of five minutes of talking. Shit sold itself. I was just the mediator.

And the thing is, the online resume for this company, it was one of the few that seeks out your attributes and all. In writing mine up, I remembered all the great things people have said about me over the years, and I found myself thinking more about their intentions when they told me these things. And all I could think of was, they just wanted me to know. What do they really get out of telling me how or where I shine? Not much. The only person with something to gain has been me. For too long now, I’ve discounted what has been said to me, choosing instead to believe they were “just being nice”.

How disrespectful of me. It belittles others to think everything they say is merely in effort to be pleasant. Aren’t most of us striving to be a little more real every day? I think of all the times I’ve gone out of my way to compliment someone just because I feel they deserve to know they’ve done well or simply deserve a compliment. I know I wasn’t trying to be pleasant. (I’ve written about this in a relationship POV recently; if you can’t (or don’t) trust a lover who’s complimenting you, then maybe you just don’t trust them at all.)

Y’know, I have a bulletin board on my bedroom wall. To it, I tack phone numbers, dates to remember, and even quotes that strike a chord. One reads, “Believe the hype, baby!”

Watching Oprah recently, I saw Patti Labelle on there. She’d just been asked a question: “If you could go back and talk to your younger self, what’s the most important advice you could give her?”

So, Patti says, “Believe the hype, baby.”

And that struck me so hard. So, so hard. I get people telling me more often than I deserve just how much they like me, whether it’s here in the cyberverse or out there in the real world. And so often I choose to ignore it (hence why it’s more than I deserve). Deep inside, I think of all my flaws, all the mistakes I’ve made, believing that this troubled life I lead is a result of my troubled management. I keep choosing to believe the wrong damned thing, I guess. And the thing is, how much further could I be going if I actually started believing what people have said of me?

So, I’m choosing instead to believe the hype. Baby. Tomorrow, at 2:00, I will be repeating the hype so I can get employed by one of the highest-rated employers in this country. Whew. Here’s hoping.

**

Something else I’ve been thinking a lot of this week is sex drive. Mine has been out of gear since last summer. The depression sort of kicked my ass, sexually speaking. I’ve been wanting to get back into dating, but I had no desire to do the whole sex thing. (Makes writing about it a real chore!) All of a sudden, I’m getting my drive back. That gear’s slipping into place now, I’ll tell ya.

It’s probably because I’ve been exercising a lot lately. I’m excited to see I have a pulse returning. It’s that blood flow thing. Gotta get pumping, right? Let’s hear it for free weights.

But it leads me to believe what I’ve been doing wrong in the job search is, I’ve had no job interviews after riotous sex. Last week, I came across a New Scientist article in which they did a study that found that some 70% of those who had full-on intercourse before doing something nerve-wracking, like public speaking, performed far better.

I’m starting to think that rug-burn + job interview = unbelievably successful (not at the same time, of course!). The problem is? I’m still single. But now I’m motivated. Aha. A girl on a mission. See, I need to go in there all bubbly and glowy and blissed-out, then I won’t care, and presto! I’ll be the “it” girl!

It’s ironic though, because the job search thing is so much more distracting than it deserves to be. Ah, well. Sooner or later, I’ll figure it out. Balance, Grasshopper! Balance!

So, I was asked recently what the best sex I ever had was, and why.

This guy, right off the bat, had something about him that I trusted. This was a fling, nothing more, but there was that connection and some moment-seizing got under way pretty quickly after we met. We decided the next weekend we’d take no prisoners, lock ourselves away, and go on the perfect quest for rug burn.

Much to his surprise when he showed up at four on Friday, I answered the door wearing only a oversized dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, barefoot with painted toenails. It was a robust welcome, and things certainly improved from there. We had a late dinner of steaks and risotto, then laid around naked watching movies and drinking wine and not keeping our hands to ourslves. The rest of the weekend, till about 7 on Sunday, was pretty much that — constant nakedness, food, and sex. Getting clean periodically and playing dirty the rest of the time.

I jokingly called it the “poor man’s weekend away”. But it’s like the David Mamet flick says, “Fun? Doesn’t everybody? Everybody makes their own fun. If you don’t make your own fun, it’s not fun, it’s entertainment.”

I’m a writer girl. Fun’s in my budget, entertainment ain’t. Ha.

Anyhow. So far my weekend’s excitement comes in the form of getting laid off. Whee, fun. I have prospects, though, so I’m giving it a week before I pop my gasket. I shall be cool, calm. Sex doesn’t look like it’s in the picture. Sad.

But that doesn’t need to be the case for you. Say, don’t YOU feel like getting away? What, you can’t afford it? Oh, you silly! Have I got just the thing for you! But wait… there’s more!

Okay, okay. Seriously now. Put your money away. Buy a couple frozen pizzas, some wine, okay, scratch that, a lot of wine. Stock up on eggs and breakfast goodies. Get some nibblie bits. And stay in for a self-imposed rainy-day weekend.

In case you want to get up to old tricks with a bottle of chocolate sauce or a tub of golden honey, I’ll share a little trick with you. Make use of those crockpots and rice cookers. You’ll need a “low” or “keep warm” option. Plug it in next to the bed, put some warm, damp towels in there, and when you’re all deliciously sticky but spent, you can just lie there and towel each other off. The warmth’s a pretty awesome thing at that stage of the game, AND you don’t need to get up. If you plan ahead with a couple bottles of water and a plate of strawberries, you’re set.

*But don’t be fools and put the towel down on the bed ‘cos you’re getting all riled back up during the “here, let me get that for you” antics and all. That’d just be dumb-ass. Put the towel back in the thingie-thing, or toss it unceremoniously against the wall. Let’s just avoid conjuring more wet spots than are necessary.

So, I was watching the god that is Jack Bauer in the latest episode of 24.

Hey, I was a teen in the late ‘80s, and I have to tell you, I never would have imagined the bad-boy Kiefer Sutherland that was the murder capital of the USA’s evil teen lead vampire in 1987’s Lost Boys, would be the sex symbol du jour in 2007?

Hell, Lost Boys was pretty much soft-core porn for us teen girls. You had your Jason Patric (who was brilliant in 1998’s acerbic Your Friends and Neighbors), us wee girls had our Corey Haim, then there was that snooty bad-ass Canadian, Kiefer for the odd girls. He wasn’t mainstream back then. He was that shitty older brother to the then-tubby Jerry O’Connell in Stand By Me, and you just thought he’d treat ya like dirt if ever… you know?

BUT that was then, this is Bauer. Now how do they make the Canadian men so damned sexy when they’re assertive, huh? Is it all those hours of Margaret Atwood discussions in high school English? Is it the microbrew? Whatever. It’s working.

Here’s the thing, though. Seriously.

For some of us, the definition of what’s sexy in a man has shifted a bit since the day those planes took out the Twin Towers. I still remember that day, you know? We saw firemen screaming in anguish with tears ripping wide swaths down their dust-covered cheeks. We saw cops doing everything they could to protect and serve when the people needed them most. It was an awesome yet heart-breaking display of just how incredibly selfless and sexy a man being a man could be.

Yeah, there are still women who want their little metrosexual boys, and fine, you know, you can take your Justin Timberlake and find a coatcheck closet, honey.

Some of us, for a while there, we saw just what an awesome thing masculinity at its finest could be. And I do so love that manliness. I think it’s a hard time, however, to be either sex. It’s confusing. We’ve redrawn the lines so often since the dawn of the 20th century that it feels like we’re hamsters in a wheel.. What an exciting time it’s been. In that span of decades, we’ve gone from near-Puritanical morals and a patriarchal society to an almost even playing field. We have indeed come a long way, baby.

But for all the strength we women have gained, men have lost their perspective. These days, you have guys who don’t know how strong is too strong and when empathetic starts to become pathetic. The just don’t know how to soften the edges of manhood. It’s all or nothing, it seems.

The balance of sexual power these decades past has been like that of a boat in a storm. Every time you think you’ve got your footing, along comes another movement.

And, you know, there’s Jack Bauer. A guy who loves his country so much, so deeply, he’ll do just about anything he can in order to protect it. He’s easily one of the best television anti-heroes ever, if not the best. He takes it to cruel extremes yet still keeps you tethered to him. A guy who turns a lamp cord into a shock-therapy torture device, or bites a chunk out of a guy’s neck, yet still keeps you thinking he’s a sweetie?

I don’t know, guys. You want your Zen master for how to be the kind of guy who toes the line, look at Jack. Tough yet secretly a double-agent marshmallow of affection. Who knew. Lost Boys!

And all the things Jack is good at, these guys are failing dismally at.