No, Really. It's Coming.

In case there are freaks out there with homing signals and metal detectors who've already found this secret-secret site o' mine: Keep yer bloody shirt on.

It's coming. Really. Soon, this will be an actual functioning blog. Unthinkable, I know, but true. Really.

On Freedom and Fallacies

This is take two on this topic. I’m starting fresh a couple hours later, after a glass of wine and, um, two helpings of my homemade chicken pot pie. You only wish you could make pot pie like mine. In yo dreams, suckah.

It’s the second take because this topic is really important to me and I don’t want to fuck it up.

Thank god I have quality guidance like that of Fame. Yes, you heard me, the ‘80s arts school drama. It’s on, and I’m chilling. Defragging my mind, as I like to say. Fluff is exactly the right fit.

Funnily, a girl in the episode scoffs at the notion of writing her private thoughts and dreams in a diary. “If I wrote down my dreams,” she says, “I’d get arrested.”

Yeah. Funny dat. About that, take note of the week that was in the world of the wide web. Proper fucked, indeed.

A Montreal guy writes some shit in a forum then figures rifle + college = a good afternoon. Like the motherfucking coward he was, he went out and tried to kill a bunch of people. Realizing he couldn’t even do a massacre right, he deprived us of the fun of letting cops kill him. The coward took his life. Fucking better off dead, anyhow. But he wrote in forums. We shoulda seen it coming.

A dickhead in Seattle decides he’s going to act like a fucking 13-year-old and reposts another city’s craigslist ad by some dirty-minded femme, and gets a couple hundred responses or something, then figgers he’s got rights to publish that private correspondence in an attempt to expose those apparent sickos to the world. But they answered a public ad. They shoulda seen it coming.

A young mother in Florida writes her secret other self dark thoughts on a public blog, and then her child goes mysteriously missing, improbably snatched from their window. Young mother kills herself 16 days into the toddler’s absence. But she wrote dark shit on blogs, then her kid vanishes. We shoulda seen it coming.

A video diarist on the world wide web is exposed as a professional actress working off a script. The show is produced, directed, and written, yet has duped the majority of its viewers, primarily through YouTube.com, into believing the so-called lonelygirl15 was a teenaged girl looked in her bedroom and homeschooled by orthodox religious parents. Doh. She’s a fake. Like ohmigod. But she, like, really talked to us, man! You shoulda seen it coming.

It’s happening. It’s really fucking happening. You know what I’m talking about. For some godforsaken reason, it’s starting to occur to people that this, like, internet thing might just be a way of seeing what’s really going on in the noggins of little people everywhere.

And, um, uh-oh, but what’s going on in those little people's noggins everywhere is something that’s not very pretty. Some people, it would seem, are angry. Some of them even feel disenfranchised. And, look. They’re acting on this shit.

Yeah, well. When the odds are stacked, you ought not be surprised at the outcome. Probability and logic being what they are and all, yes?

I’m part of the generation that got schooled in Orwell’s classic 1984. We were raised to believe that someday, one day, the government would hear every word we would utter, and freedom would be a thing of the past.

I'll be honest, the digital age scares me. The ease with which people can access information about me is frightening. It should frighten you, too. Unfortunately, the time is coming nigh where voices on the web are not just an anonymous blur with little impact on the real world. Now, we’re not so anonymous, and now this world is more real than it is virtual.

There’s coming a time where what you say here is going to come home to haunt you. This is the age of insinuation, and anything you say can be manipulated and used against you. Decide now if you plan to live in fear of that, or if you have the balls to play the game my way, and own your ability to say what you think and how you feel.

In forums such as this, someone such as me might decide to write a little bloggie in which the entire contents of our deepest darkest other selves are posted up on virtual walls for the world at large to indulge in. In essence, it’s a voice. I have a voice, you have a voice, we all have voices. It’s idyllic. A virtual Utopia in which we’re all given voices and identities, something that ironically clashes with our seemingly democratic lives – lives spent living in societies that claim to be governed by the people of the people for the people.

Only they're not like any people I've ever known. And I don't feel like I belong. And I'm tired of feeling this small because I'm just an ordinary gal. I thought I'd take my voice and use it. I'm not alone. You're doing it too. And him, and her, and hey.

We all took our existences online, where we thought we’d have the right to say what we think whenever the fuck it pops into mind.

Unfortunately, when such vocal freedom is enjoyed by a world at large, some of those voices will be beyond dissent. They will be voices of rage and fury and vengeance. Or maybe they’ll be coolly quiet. And that’s a risk we take by allowing open dialogue. Every now and then, though, those voices will be warning signals. Intervention might occur, and it might segue to prevention.

Just because assholes and the disenfranchised like these can use the web to serve their fucted means doesn’t necessitate that the rest of us should have to watch our words.

Sadly, the voice of reason doesn’t seem to resonate these days. I fear that the talking heads of today might soon decide that there is such thing as too much free speech and they will indeed succeed in legislating the internet.

In which case now might be the time to, like the good hunter Elmer Fudd suggests, be vewwy, vewwy qwiet.

Only we’re not hunting rabbits.

On Why the Saga of J is Doomed to Remain Incomplete

One of the first things I ever began writing on this blog was The Saga of J. (See the sidebar under "Stories and such.")Not a month goes by that someone doesn't email me or ask me to finish the fucking thing. I've kept thinking, "Oh, maybe I'll get around to it," but you know what? I won't. I simply will not. Now it's a choice, not an inevitability. Ain't gonna happen, boys and girls.

When I was writing the story last summer, I was in a course that had me fired up and remembering the Gloried Days of Old. I began to realize I was living in the past with some idealized memory of something that wasn't necessarily all I was touting it to be.

The thing with memories is that they're always stronger than they probably ought to be, and the thing with the present is it's always less appreciated than it ought to be. At the time, when I hooked up with J, it was pretty intense. What I didn't know then was, he was lying. He wasn't single. He was going out with a friend of mine and having some relationship issues. He told me they'd been done for some time, and since I hadn't seen her, I believed him. But then things were complicated by the fact that he'd been casually pursuing me for two years by then.

"BUT WHAT HAPPENED, STEFF?!" What you probably need to know is, within the next five minutes after the point where Saga of J Pt. 3 ends, an errant ice cube found its way between my legs and inside me just as J was leaning in for a kiss, me still bound and blindfolded, and I reacted with my whole body. I sprung up, my head rocketing forward, me all shocked and cold, and our mouths collided. I chipped a tooth, and he bloodied his lips where I cut him.

The sex pretty much ended then, since I'd been so jarred out of the moment with the errant ice cube. He untied me while we had a good laugh, then hung out examining my injuries in the bathroom before we playfully headed into the shower and lathered each other up. That was that.

We had a few more sexual encounters that week, both our parents being out of town, and by the end of it, well, it was the end. A lot of sex, a short period, a good friendship. We were never friends again. I've spoke to him once in probably the 12 - 13 years that have lapsed since then.

When I was writing parts 3 and the never-gonna-hit-daylight part 4, I had just ended a tawdry and short-lived relationship that really evoked a lot of what I'd had with J. This was a brief and intensely sexual affair I had last October. The sex was fucking incredible, and probably remains the best of my life. We both had had a hard year or so of being sexually denied and we took it out on each other time and time and time again, in very, very good ways.

That short-lived relationship ended rapidly after one particular orgasm when he was kneeled looking down at me on the floor with this blissed-out grin, and -- WHAM -- I could've sworn I was looking up at my brother. Spitting fucking image, man. It creeped me right out and I lost all attraction towards him. Then came another guy on the heels of him, someone I had an intellectual connection with but couldn't get passionate about, despite wanting to feel that way towards him. Suddenly, I was lost and confused in the realm of sex again. So, I wrote more about J, living out an old "safer" and "less complicated" part of my life.

But, suddenly, I felt it was unhealthy, and I really couldn't give a fuck if people all over the place want the end of the story.

And finally, another reason is, I just don't want to reveal exact particulars about my sex life to you people ever again. No offense. It just feels wrong. I don't mind alluding. I don't mind mentioning brief snippets, but to lay out a whole tale from start to finish just feels incredibly violating. It really does. I can't do it. I won't. Prices get paid and lessons get learned.

(No, I'm not swearing off writing about sex again. How I've been writing since December's right on target with what I'm comfortable with. The Saga crosses the line. Very much so. I have repeatedly considered deleting it, but on principle will not do so.)

Whatever you may think of me, there are aspects of myself I've probably never told anyone and probably never will. This is a challenging forum -- being open but not splayed is a hard balance to attain. Somewhere along the way, writing that story, a boundary became apparent that I no longer wanted to cross. And when it comes to boundaries, you get to decide which ones to respect. Well, I have chosen.

And now it doesn't help, either, that an old friend has crawled out of the woodwork who happened to be J's longtime ex-girlfriend (and not the one he cheated on to be with me, thank god) and who happens to have been reading me for some untold length of time now. It's strange to learn of that.

So, moral of the story? You know what you need to know, and no, that story is not being written for you, but aside from the few details I've shared, is kept locksafe inside now. I'm just not that kind of girl after all, it seems. There's only so much kissing and telling I'm willing to do. Who knew?

Reader Asks: Where are the Manners?

Every now and then an email comes in that's the exact right email for what's going on in my life. That happened Friday. I'd had an incident earlier in the day that had me seething with rage, and his email hit right home. So, first, the email, then I'll tell you what happened, and then you'll get my two cents. Sounds like a plan, no?

I was wondering if there was a certain age where teenagers or
adults realise that manners are important and can learn to appreciate them?
Because I've been trying my whole life (I'm still a teenager, but still) to
be a gentleman (opening doors for others, asking if the elderly need help,
speaking politely, etc.) and to be helpful as much as possible, but it seems
that it is not appreciated at all. So far throughout a few years of high
school, I've tried to help others boost their marks with assistance on their
homework, but they can't seem to understand that others have morals and
won't cheat for them. (again, turning into a rant i suppose..)

I guess I'm really just sending this email to ask another's
opinion about manners and whether or not it is truly appreciated in today's
society. I've asked a few teenage girl friends and they say that it is good
to have manners and it's something important they look for, yet I see them
going out with lowlife guys who are despicable and need to learn manners.
Is this just a teenage thing to do that you overcome later on and realise
it's importance and learn to be grateful for it? Or is it completely
dependant on the people's standards they've set.

Now, what happened to me the other day was when I was riding over to my brother's place. He and I live in absolute opposite ends of the city -- he in the most northeastern section, I in the most northwestern section. I work smack dab in the middle, downtown, and between there and my brother's is 30-square blocks of what's essentially some of the poorest and most underprivileged in Canada. If you know where to avoid, you can go without ever seeing any of these people.

I don't try to avoid it, I just go through. I always see really tragic things when I do and it keeps me appreciating the little I have. This time, though, I was stopped at a light and this old guy, about 70, was in a wheelchair, completely unable to use his hands, and could only pull himself forward using the toes on his right foot. He was literally moving about 2 feet a minute. Naturally, the light turned red with him in the middle of the street, and I got a solid green light to go. Meanwhile, he's stopped, looks like he's about to cry from exhaustion, just can't go any further, and all these fucking people are walking past, ignoring him.

I was in a RAGE. I pulled my scooter over, got off, cursed, "You people ought to fucking help! Where the hell are manners gone?" Then I leaned over to the man and said, "May I push you across the street, sir?" And he went soft with relief. He just sighed, "Please?"

I had a bit of an argument with a couple punks on the corner after that, who seemed to think I was flaming them, and yeah, you know, I was. Just fucking standing there, doing nothing.

When I got over to my brother's place, I saw my nephew standing there, and I sat him down. I said, "If you ever see a little old lady or a little old man who can't get across the street or they're taking too long, you HELP them. You hear me?" I made sure he knew the distinction between "stranger danger" and helping a senior citizen who really does need the help. After all, that's how I was taught.

In MY world, I was raised to help people. I was raised to give a hand and do the right thing. I was taught to say please and thank you, and I was told to hold doors open for others.

And I KNOW life moves fast, and I KNOW people are more rushed than they used to be. You know what? I don't give a fuck. *I* find the time to still be polite. I find the time to thank people and make pleasant small talk. Why the hell don't they?

So, kid, I say keep going. The thing about being a polite person and not behaving politely just because you're not getting it in return is that you start to get bitter about it. It changes you. Cynicism finds you and apathy makes a home in you. Stay true to the person you are. Help others, be polite. You'll one day be surrounded by a better class of people, by people who appreciate that in who you are. It will be a deciding factor on the kinds of engagements you're invited to and the kinds of experiences you have. You're still a kid, you're in high school, and you're stuck in a social world you have little say in. In a few years, that all changes.

I know I will not date a man who has no manners. I will watch how he behaves and treats others, and I'll note whether he expresses gratitude for the little things I say and do for him, and if I don't like what I see, I will walk.

Life's too short to be with people who just don't understand basic human decency. I figure that eliminates about 60% of the world from eligibility for my bed, but whatever. I'm fine with having high standards. Are you?

Lousy Lover Syndrome

DirtyTalkingGirl (DTG) over at Pussy Talk recently posted this about her lover’s stubborness in wanting to get her off through oral:

I have to say that M gave me his best last night. He went down on me unasked, made all the right moves with tongue and lips, pulled my thighs over his shoulders, changed position and bent in over me from the side, tried every angle of oral approach and entry. He was textbook-perfect.

All to no avail. I couldn’t come.

At one point, I apologised. Told him it wasn’t him, I just wasn’t in the mood, time of month, blah blah. I added, I’d rather you fuck me. I wanted the penetration.

He said, “No, I want to make you come this way.”

As he laboured on, putting fingers here and thumb there and vice versa, I felt like a lawnmower that wouldn’t start.

This posting set me off, for some reason. I began thinking, “If someone as skilled in and open about sex as DTG felt this frustrated and this much like a failure when her lover plodded through what he thought was his money routine, then where would that leave a “lesser” lover?”

Feeling pretty fucking negative about sex, I suspect. And that’s not fair. In fact, it’s downright cruel.

Our bodies are enigmas. Some things work brilliantly sometimes, and sometimes they fail. That’s just the way it goes.

DTG went on to say that maybe a switch hadn’t flicked in her mind, that the mood hadn’t hit her, and as a result, she was left unswayed by his “best.” She asked to be fucked doggy style, and was again rebuffed. Her lover stuck with his seflish intent of having her reach orgasm his way instead of the one way she thought she’d be able to reach it, considering her somewhat uninspired state.

I’m here to tell you one thing and one thing only: I don’t give a shit if you’re the king or queen of the world with your skills. If your lover tells you it ain’t working, that they want to have you try X method, and you rebuff them because you’re somehow intent on bringing them to climax through your present approach, then it doesn’t matter what skills you have.

You’re a lousy fucking lover.

Listen. Listen. Listen. I’m always saying “listen for aural clues -- a switch in breathing, a moan,” whatever it takes, right?

Well, when someone flat-out tells you what they want, and they tell you they’re having trouble “getting there,” and you disregard it, you’ve broken every damned rule in the book.

Me, I think that when the mental baggage started to come into the picture, DTG should have told him to stop. I think she should’ve made him realize that he was starting to make her feel bad.

But that’s just how it goes. It’s so overwhelming when we’re in the heat of that moment and all those inner bells and whistles start tooting: “You can’t come? What are you, frigid? You’re good at this. Hell, you don’t even need to do anything. The ride has come to you! Come on! Orgasm! Squirt, baby!”

We can logically dismiss it, but the hurt’s still going to find its way in, and we start thinking we’re being selfish AND a failure.

And the truth is, it’s not us being selfish, nor failures. It's our lousy fucking lovers.

This applies to both sexes. Listen to your lovers, and don't let your pride and inability to concede defeat leave them feeling like crap (and unsatisfied).

It’s wrong and it’s cruel. And it's just plain bad sex. Wake the hell up.