Sadly, there are countless British Columbians who feel much like I do tonight. There’s a quiet satisfaction in knowing we’re entering phase two of the largest murder investigation in Canadian history. It is the eve of the Robert Pickton trial. At long last, one of the most sadistic murderers in Canadian history is on the verge of meeting with his accusers.
Pickton was arrested five years ago for 26 (formerly 27; one charge dismissed due to lack of evidence) murders dating back to the mid-90s.
Pickton and his brother ran a so-called “non-profit” charity called Piggy Palace Good Times Society. According to Wikipedia, their society’s mandate was to “organize, co-ordinate, manage and operate special events, functions, dances, shows and exhibitions on behalf of service organizations, sports organizations and other worthy groups.”
Which is to say sponsor drug-fuelled parties at their pig farm, featuring the most disenfranchised sex trade workers in this province, the Downtown Eastside prostitutes. The girls at the Pickton farm would be murdered, then fed to the pigs. The crime scene investigation of his farm became the largest criminal forensic investigation in Canadian history.
In the last two or three decades, there have been more than 60 DES prostitutes go missing or cornfirmed as murdered. Some speculate Pickton had his hands in more than a few, and possibly even others in other PNW cities.
The sex trade may not be everyone’s favourite dinner-table topic, but, really, as long as there are people living in denial about the world’s oldest profession, a good majority of those workers will continue to be marginalized. With that comes vulnerability.
Yeah, everyone’s up in arms about the whole NIMBY scenario. “Sure, legalize it, legislate it, but not in my back yard.” Tough. It’s already in your fucking back yard. You’re just choosing to avert thy eyes.
Do I have a constructive solution? No, not beyond the “bring back the brother, institutionalize the madam, legislate the health and hygiene” mantra you’ve heard so many times before. What’s the big deal? It’s going to be a lurid industry no matter how you slice it, but the reality is, women will continue to be victimized, tortured, beaten, raped, and killed unless somebody steps in and accepts that this is part of the dark side of society, but maybe with some proper controls in place, we can make it a whole lot less ugly.
But what do I know. I’m a stark raving liberal with a heart sewn on her sleeve. I get all boo-hooey at the thought of women killed for no better reason than that of society forgetting they existed at all. Call me crazy.

A reader did something today I wish more of you would do. She sent me a news story that had her, I guess, fuming. Her thoughts? “This is un-fucking-believable, really.”
Colour us simpatico, then, because my sentiments at first glance were, “Holy MOTHERFUCKER.”
If you’re one of the number who calls America “the Land of the Free”, it’s time you check your thoughts, pal, because it seems to me to be “the Land of the Paradox”, and that’s putting it lightly at best.
The gist of this story is simple: Cheat on your spouse, and face 1st degree criminal sexual conduct.
I wanna know why the Court of Appeals is allowed to smoke high-grade doobage when no one else is.
Look, I’ve been cheated on. My longest lover ever was sleeping with someone before we split, and after we split, he was married within nine months. Do the math.
Did I hate him? You’re fucking right I did. In some ways, I suspect I still do. I’d certainly never trust him again, as a lover, as a friend, as anything. Would I wish he’d be imprisoned for what he did to me?
HELL NO.
He fucked up. I know it, he knew it. That’s the way the game goes. I took the chance of following my heart, but it seems my compass needle broke long before I got out that door.
We’re talking about passion, matters of the heart, all that. I don’t believe in infidelity. If you’re unfaithful, you deserve getting your ass kicked to the curb. If you aren’t kicked to the curb, there’s your hard proof that your lover’s nth degrees better than you are—they’re giving you an invaluable second chance. Don’t fuck it up.
But JAIL? Criminal prosecution? All because you followed the tick-tock of your heart in one weaker-than moment?
And this is from the nation that claims it’s the GOLD standard of “freedom”? Yeah. Right.
I’ve never been unfaithful. God willing, I never will be. I honestly don’t believe I have it in me to hurt someone like that. But I’d never stake my life on it. I’m a passionate person. I’m impetuous. I’m the very definition of spontaneous. And I’m human. I err. It’s what we do. We make mistakes, then we pick up the pieces and struggle to carry on. I’d be a liar or a fool to claim it’ll never happen to me. I just don’t know what kind of sparks I’m destined for, in a relationship or out. None of us can know that. We’re human. We’ve all erred.
But we sure as fuck don’t need to round up a lawyer for fear that the law is going to stick our asses behind bars ‘cos we didn’t know how many martinis were one too many on a quiet night in a piano bar with one too many beautiful, lonely companions.
Unless, of course, you’re a member of the Appeals Court of Michigan, where, apparently, creativity and the ability to read between the lines is a rarely-seen quality in the legal minds of the day.
Fuck, man. I don’t even need to argue this. Unless, of course, you’re some holier-than-thou religious type who’s never taken liberties or fucked up on a lonely night when the thought of being not-alone was far easier to bear than the reality of being just that.
The Land of the Free. Let’s amend that. How about “The Land of the Mostly Free, Provided You Follow Every Law And Every Legal Sub-section Therein”?
Nah. Not too catchy, now, is it?
Get fucking real, Michigan. I can only hope, and pray, and dream, that the High Courts in that State can get a grip.
Like I say, I think adultery deserves a royal ass-kicking. But by the maligned Significant Other, not some fucking holier-than-thou court appointee. There should be no legal basis to decide these matters, at least not to this degree.
Here in Canada, Pierre Elliott Trudeau, our infamously rebellious prime minister at the time, declared in 1969 that the government had no business in the bedrooms of consenting Canadians. Yet here we are, nearly four decade later, and the American jurisprudence still seems to think it omnipotent in all matters of American life. When is someone going to clue them in, anyhow?
This erosion-of-freedoms thing is clearly getting worse before it gets better. And you, my fair American friends, where the fuck are YOUR voices? These are your voted representatives, and yet your indignation is nothing but a muffled whine in the corner. Speak, or forever hold your piece. After all, this is clearly the bed you have made for yourselves. Or is it? You still have time to be heard, I would think. There’s one more circuit of judges for this case, if only you would deem it necessary.
After all, take it from me, a fiercely proud Canadian: Sometimes, the most American thing you can do, is to question the powers that be.
After all, we Canadians learned it from the very best. But sometimes we Canadians have a very pressing question: Where, exactly, are “the best” now?
Well?

Although it didn’t escape my notice, it did slip from my radar with the manic days of the Christmas season. Maybe you missed hearing about it, because I haven’t seen it get much mention outside of the back page of my town’s major paper.

This is a good thing, though, as I have found more comprehensive information since.

In late December, news reports emerged from Rome and Milan, leading fashion hotbeds of the world, in which the Italian industry has stated that they now intend to self-regulate in order to ensure that health is not sacrificed for the sake of style.

Meaning, no more anorexic models. Or so they say.

The catalyst? The mid-November death of an anorexic Brazilian model, Ana Carolina Reston, who weighed just 88 pounds at the time of her death. She was 5’8.

The Italians are no stranger to anorexia, where it is the leading psychiatric cause of death. Statistics suggest that more than three million Italians suffer from anorexia, approximately 1 in 20 people throughout the nation. In fact, more than 60% of children between the ages of 12 and 16 believe they’re overweight and need to lose weight. Of those, approximately 11% are reported to possess eating disorders.

The Italian fashion community is covering its ass a little, though, as they’re not implementing rigid standards. It’s self-regulated, meaning those who ignore the new guidelines will simply have less desireable showtimes and things like that. Insiders claim these are heavy punishments, but, really, are they?

And what are those guidelines? Well, they are banning models under the age of 16 now, and any model suiting up for work will have to have a medical certificate saying she is of good health mentally and physically. (And we all know certificates can be believed in HappyHappy/JoyJoyland, where no one ever lies and “forge” is not a verb. Stickgirls will still be allowed on Italian runways if they have this magical piece of paper.)

Nevertheless, it is a start. Not nearly so good a start as Spain got last September, when they passed a decree legally banning models with a body mass index of less than 18. (Body mass is “a ratio of height to weight squared”. Yeah, that clears that up. I hate math.)

But it’s a better start than they’ve had in France, where the talking heads of the fashion world stated that anorexia is a “social” problem and not something that can be solved with “regulation”.

Right. Uh-huh. ‘cause when you’re hiring them and telling them they absolutely must fit into a size zero dress, that’s got nothing to do with the problem. And when the media only projects images of beauty as being size two and under, that has nothing to do with the social ills. Fuck, man. Can someone teach these people remedial math, or what?

At least Italy’s on the gangway if not fully onboard. They’re going to start making larger sizes available for the shows. What they consider “larger” has not been stated. I suppose they’ll get wild and crazy and throw a two or, god forbid, a four into the mix.

Still, it’s a start. Maybe if I keep telling myself, I’ll find a way to start believing it.

It’s when I think about the fashion industry and the shitheads printing the magazines filled with airbrushed Barbies that I get pissed off, because now and then I need to write something like the posting below about the Perenially Disappearing Ass that I see just how much these fucked-up beauty ideals are fucking us up.

We’re talking about one of the nations with some of the best food and wine in the world, and some 5% of the population possesses eating disorders (anorexia or bulimia). That’s just fucking criminal.

Insecurities stay with us for life. It’s easy enough to develop them all on our lonesome without needing magazines and fashion pointing out just how flawed the rest of us are. I don’t know about you, but my makeup routine doesn’t yet include an airbrush.

But it’s not about reality, they’ll tell us. Fashion is about the ideal of beauty, not the reality. It’s what we can strive to be, yet not necessarily are.

Yeah. Tell that to Ana Carolina Reston. She thought beauty was worth dying for, and she won’t be the last. I suppose it’s ironic, but she literally did die in vain.

At least it seems her death wasn’t totally for naught. Italy’s starting. Now we just need Paris, London, and New York to get onboard. As for New York, well, let’s just say I’m not planning to hold my breath. In the meantime, I’ll be over here, pondering the irony of the fattest country in the world perpetuating the myth of the bone-thin beauty. [scoff]

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.