Of Vampires and Lovers: A Halloween Posting

There is no part of my body that better acts as a go-directly-to-“go” beacon than my neck. A pair of lips and some teeth and tongue on it just sends me into the stratosphere.

I’ve kept my hair short for three or four years now, and I’m hesitant to grow it any longer than my jawline for the sheer fact that I love having it easily accessible by the men in my life. I melt when it receives their attention, and I’ve seldom met a man I can’t melt when I give his neck a little of my own attention.

The neck is chock full of nerve endings, and it’s one of the tenderest parts of our bodies. Personally, one of my favourite ambushes is approaching the object of my affections from behind and dragging my teeth over his neck as I suck and nibble and flat-out bite my way across it. Maybe it's a throwback to my teenaged Anne Rice addiction. I don't know.

If I had to choose a supernatural creature I’d most like to run into in a dark alley, hands down it’d be Dracula. Preferably Lestat, though. I’d be sure to have a low-cut blouse and plenty of neck access available for the Count. Have at me, I’d plead. The sunrise is hours and hours away, I’d promise.

Lips, teeth, and tongue all push different buttons on a neck. From the nape to the jawline, every area of the neck reacts a little differently. Me, I don’t like anyone to focus on one area. Be an explorer. Visit all of me, you know? I’m sure I’m not the only person who’d like a lover to take out a Eurail traveller’s pass on my neck, shoulders, and ears. Hell, revisit as often as you like. I’ll issue you an all-access pass, if only you promise you’ll explore every nook and cranny.

Wow. I feel impossibly single right now. Me and my lonely neck. Fortunately, it’s All Soul’s Night and my chances of a supernatural visit are a smidge higher than they might normally be.

Where’s a Transylvanian count when a girl needs one, hmm?

Happy All Soul's Night, friends. Photo is from a Berlin play, Tanz Der Vampire.

Happy Halloween!!

Here's something a little more fun. Snapped by yours truly at one of Vancouver's favourite annual events, the Parade of Lost Souls. And this is why you ask people if you can take their photo! :) Happy pumpkin day, people. I know, I'm early, but I like this picture and had to share it. You may repost it, but only if you provide credit and a link back to my bloggie! Thanks. And if you don't, I'll send the Headless Horseman after ya. He's a friend of this dude's, so.

Another HIV/AIDS Prevention Tip

Do NOT floss or brush your teeth before performing oral sex. If your gums bleed, it can really increase risk of transmission/infection. Do not re-use anyone's dental floss. Do not share toothbrushes. Do not share razors. Seriously. But before you get paranoid, read this list of how you cannot get HIV/AIDS, all right? Folks with either do not deserve to be shunned or treated like outcasts. Blood tranfer's the only way to get this.

I'm off to enjoy one of Vancouver's best annual events, the Parade of Lost Souls. Halloween... Shpooky! Have a very scary weekend, boys and girls.

Getting Laid, Getting Tested, Getting AIDS

Being on the verge of the dating game once again, I know important chats loom. Not just the happy-happy topics like what flavour of ice cream is agreed upon or whether taking it from behind’s an indulgence that’s approved of, but that of testing and diseases.

It’s not really a fun topic to think about, if you’re not an open person, but it’s an important conversation to have, and is important to have before you go knocking knees together.

I haven’t had sex since my last test and I know I’m as clean as can be. I was nervous before I got the results, because shit happens and you just never know, but I was elated afterwards. My doctor, because I live in an area with a lot of Asians and other high-risk hepatitis-B factors, encouraged me to get inoculated. I hate needles but decided I would. Didn’t hurt a bit. Better safe than sorry, right? I go for the third part of the inoculation right around Christmas. What better gift for myself than the gift of self-preservation?

And “better safe than sorry” is something that’s ingrained in me as deep as can be now. In this past year, a friend of my best friend’s found out he was HIV positive. Worse than that, he was able to pinpoint, down to the night, when it happened. Some drinks, some passion. Some real fucking ignorance. And, then, news that has profoundly shaped his life. And I think there’s a little part inside of him that really, really hates himself now. I can understand why.

Despite that, he’s lucky. He’s a healthy, athletic, food-conscious guy who got tested regularly and was diagnosed early. His odds are far higher than they’d be if the virus was left out of check for a longer period, and because he’s been a health nut for years. That’s how that game works.

One night, and a lifetime to pay for it.

The thing that strikes me the most about a horrific thing like HIV or AIDS is that it’s almost entirely preventable. Through your actions, you can ensure that you are very likely to never, ever contract it.

And what horrifies me is that, for some insane fucking reason, ignorance (and infections) of HIV/AIDS are on the rise. HALF of all new infections are in youths under 25. Young, immortal? Think again.

If you’re one of these people who thinks there’s a cure, then get your head out of your ass, because there’s not. It’s no longer a death sentence, but that’s only the case when you exercise, eat well, and take the meds. The medications, I hear, are no picnic. And, also, you gotta be lucky.

The virus is not the same in everyone. It is a living, breathing thing, and like all evolutionary beings, it can – and will – adapt to new and different environments. Some people will be to HIV like a match is to a stick of dynamite. You really think you’re invulnerable? Go ahead. Roll that dice. But every risk you take, you subject another to, and, that, you have no right to do.

There’s that old cliché – no glove, no love. If it’s a casual relationship or early in a new relationship or if you even for a moment suspect your lover’s cheating on you, and there’s no condom, there should be no encounter. Period.

I hate condoms. I do. I haven’t tried the new generation of condoms yet, I’ve always done the latex thing, so maybe they’re better. But I’m not the only girl who’s seen a mighty penis deflate because a condom wrapper was a finicky bitch. And, sure, that sucks. Such is life.

The thing is, though, that there are moments and moments can be a powerful thing. I’m sure I’m also not the only girl who’s thrown caution to the wind for an incredible fuck without protection, but that was then, and this is now.

And I know, it’s really fucking hard to deal with someone who’s intent on having sex without a condom. You have to stand your ground. Don’t compromise. No really does mean no. Unfortunately, too many women believe their partners will become uninterested, leave them, or will physically abuse them if they insist on condoms. I really don’t know what to say to these women, but, if you’re one, you have to ask yourself whether that risk is better or worse than the potential of coming down with a disease that’s hard and expensive to fight, and more likely to end in premature death than not.

And far be it for me to agree with the religious right about anything, but let’s say instead that I’m agreeing with, oh, say, Las Vegas oddsmakers, okay? Abstinence is the only guarantee. If you have sex, you’re opening yourself up to the chance of contracting not only HIV or AIDS, but other things that condoms can’t protect you from, like herpes and Chlamydia. (And one in five people has herpes, which is incurable.) Not having sex, well, you haven’t rolled the dice, you’re not even in the game. You’re safe. That’s a fact. Not very fun, but it’s a fact.

Some quick facts, all right? And don't think it even comes close to ending here.

• AIDS is now the leading cause of death among African-American women aged 25-34, and the 6th leading cause of death for all women in that same age group.
• AIDS has now killed more people than the Black Death/Plague ever did.
  
• Heterosexual sex is the cause of 78% of all those new cases of HIV/AIDS. (The rest were largely IV drug use.)
• More than 15% of the cases of female diagnoses of HIV/AIDS are between 15-24.
• 47% of those afflicted in North America are African-American.
• 40,000 people contract HIV daily. Half are under 25.
• More than 1 million Americans are living with it as I type.
• More than a QUARTER MILLION Americans ARE infected, and DON'T know it. (You gotta ask yourself: Are you one? Your partner?)
  
• Nearly 40 million people in the world are living with AIDS/HIV right now.
• More than 4.1 million people were diagnosed last year internationally.
• Nearly 3 million died from AIDS last year.
• Experts predict more than 60 million will have died from AIDS by 2015, if not more.
• AIDS is just beginning to erupt in China, India, and Russia, and the future there looks dire.
• In 2003, more than 40% of Chinese nationals could not name a single way to prevent AIDS.
• Nearly 70% of young women in developing world do not know a single means of AIDS prevention. Gotta wonder, how blissful is that ignorance anyhow?
  

Now. Do you really wanna be a statistic? Put the fucking condom on. This isn't just a disease. It's a pandemic. It's the new normal. Put the condom on, and then have yourself a little fun. (And, from personal experience, I know that if you’re having trouble keeping the condom on, a cock ring’s the way to go, and darned good fun, too, to boot. Just a thought.)

(My facts have been taken from both the cdc.gov, unaids.org, who.org, and youth.aids2006.org as well as from this excellent page of information and resources at the New Scientist Magazine's site. The graphic is from CBC.ca.)

Yet Another Posting on the Importance of Talk

I’m always talking about how important communication is.

I always hear from women who are complaining that their lovers don’t do what they like, or from men who wish they knew what their women want. It goes both ways. I think the biggest problem tends to be, though, that a lot of women feel really uncomfortable talking about sex in basic, blunt ways. Said it before, and I’ll say it again. I know it’s the case because I, too, used to feel all dirty inside when I said things like “sex” and “orgasm” and
“erection.” But lookit me now, ma! Sex! Orgasm! Erection!

I was asked yesterday by Fran from Ireland whether or not I find myself being perceived as being slutty merely for the fact that I write about sex. I answered that no, I don’t tend to find that. I’m sure it happens, though. A lot of men, however, seem to really appreciate the fact that I’m sexually aware of what and how I like sex to be.

I have conversations with my lovers. They know what I like. I’m not afraid to interject in the middle of some steamy session and say what I want. (Naturally, it needs to be said rather sexily or it can deflate a mood pretty fucking fast, too. Emphasis on “deflate.”) But the conversations often happen long before I wind up under the covers… or on the floor, or in the back seat.

There’s a world of difference, I think, in my writing matter-of-factly about sex compared to, say, someone writing about dripping hard cocks and getting fucked silly in the backroom of a party. Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those, of course. Heh. But the same thing goes in conversation.

You can talk about a movie? You can talk about sex.

I ran into a quote today that is more about life in general, but that I find to be profoundly apt when it comes to talking about sex, something I think every sexually timid person needs to hear. It goes like this:

Be who you are
and say what you feel
because those who mind
don’t matter
and those who matter
don’t mind.

To that end, I once had a letter that I spoke of on the old bloggie, from a Marine whose wife had been writing him all during his service in Iraq. Maybe he still reads this. (Say hi, if you do! You promised you would.) Somehow, some way, despite all those thousands of miles between them, being apart brought them closer together. They had to actually really say things now because all they had were words. She was writing him letters and they started getting into the topics of sex. Along the way, she found the courage to tell him that she was having rape fantasies with him being her attacker, and she wanted to know if they’d be able to bring them to fruition when his tour finally ended. He felt touched that she trusted him enough to finally admit this thing that was wracking her with guilt. He was worried about how to pull it off, because he really wanted to make it happen in a way that would be worth the wait.

And I hear that from most men who finally have partners who trust them with their innermost fantasies. They’re proud that they’ve been entrusted with this and they want to do it justice. Or so has been my experience both through correspondence re: this blog, and in real life with my own lovers.

It’s like I said yesterday in my writing about suicide. Some secrets aren’t made for keeping. What you want to experience will never, ever happen if you don’t have the courage to speak of it. Sure, it’s hard. But it gets easier. And the more you do it, the more you won’t need to say in the future.

I swear, I’d give a money-back guarantee if your communication about sex improves, and your sex life does not. The two go hand in hand. Talking = Better Orgasms. It’s about as remedial as math gets.

Sex is the only time we get to be who we really are. Our soft underbellies get exposed and our animalistic interiors come out to play. It’s supposed to be that way. What the hell are you ashamed of? Come out, come out, wherever you are, and indeed – be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter won’t mind.

(It turns out it's none other than that sage bard, Dr. Seuss, who wrote the above quote.)

Invisible Scars and Being Alone in the Dark

A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…

My mother attempted suicide.

I've never written about this, and I would have liked to delve into it in a more literary way, but this is merely a public service announcement. I'm scared of going too into the moment. Even now, all these years later, even with her dead (from cancer) for seven years, it still hurts in places I'm not sure light will ever, ever find.

It’s a very long story about a 16-year-old girl who had a nice day out with a nice boy she liked and who got a kiss and came home happy. I had had a fight with her earlier in the day over something stupid – I was at a girl’s house whom she did not like in the least, and she tore a strip out of me on the phone when she knew I was over there.

For the first time ever, I didn’t run right home and try to make up with her. Instead, I spent the whole day walking all around town with this guy I so liked. Inevitably, I returned home. The blow-out fight occurred, and instead of my being the peacemaker I’ve always been, I said, “Fuck it. She’s out of control.” And then I played on the computer for an hour or two.

She barked at me to bring her some sherry. Obediently, I did. And then I went off and did my thing. I was pretty pissed, but after about a half-hour or so, I decided I couldn’t ignore the fight and resolved that I’d go in and smooth things over and explain to her what really happened, if she’d only get a grip and finally listen.

I opened the door to her bedroom to find her seated cross-legged at the head of her bed with a hand full of her sleeping pills and the bottle of sherry in the other. She shoved them into her mouth, not seeing me. I leapt across the room and belted her across the face, sending the pills flying. She was stunned. I grabbed the booze from her and started picking up the pills, and that’s the last thing I remember of that day. All I remember now are the emotions that found me then and dug a deep, deep hold on me in the months and years to come.

I told no one in my life. I kept that dark secret for far, far too long.

The thing about suicide is that there’s a real stigma. There’s a lot of shame, as if you’re some kind of damaged product because you couldn’t hack it in the real world. How much of that is societal versus internal is really debatable, depending on who you are and where you are.

As a bystander, a family member or friend, as someone who loves them, you feel the need to protect them by keeping the secret. God forbid shame come upon them. If keeping that secret means they don’t have to deal with shame on top of the horrible depression that drove them to that, then by god, that’s what you’ll do. Right?

Wrong. Don’t. I did. I hurt every goddamned day as a 17-year-old. It was more than two years before I stopped wondering. “Where the hell is she? She’s supposed to be home. There’s no note. Did she drive the car into a telephone pole? Jump off a bridge?”

I’d panic daily. That’s what we do when we’re scared for the welfare of a loved one. If you’re involved with someone delving deeper into depression, if you know someone is suicidal, that’s not a burden you need to carry alone, especially if you’re feeling overwhelmed by it all. There are crisis lines. They provide a world of help when you think there’s no place else to turn. Me, that’s the only place I turned. They told me to talk to her doctor, and I wish I had. I didn’t.

It would be two years later, when violent rage overtook my mother for no good reason, and she hurled this heavy metal block at my head, missing me by an inch. The wall was cracked open where it hit. I can’t imagine what it would’ve done to me had it hit me.

Being a well-read girl, though, I had heard about this drug called Halcyon, and I finally realized my mother was having a chemical reaction to her sleeping pill. I confronted her, we threw the drugs out, and while she’d battle depression until her death, it never again got out of control like that.

The only time we ever discussed that attempt of hers was about nine years after it happened, in the weeks leading up to her death. I’d just taken a three-week long road trip solo through the western US and got a lot of thinking and writing done. At the time, we didn’t know her death was imminent. I told her how much it’d fucked me up and for how long, and how I discovered I was still angry that she’d used me in that way, and told her so.

Her response? She apologized, but said she remembered nothing. Not a thing. Most of those two years were lost in a fog.

I guess my point is two-fold. One, don’t assume that someone has meant to bring anguish to you through their selfish actions. Sometimes, they’re just in such a disconnect that they don’t know any better. Sometimes, forgiving needs to happen on your part. (But if they’re hurting you repeatedly, or physically, you need to seriously consider walking. She had two events, and that was all. Between those, we had a good life together.) Two, you cannot expect to carry burdens alone. Some secrets are not made for keeping. Reach out to friends, and if you feel you can’t, use the crisis line. Had I done so, my mother wouldn’t have gotten violent when I was 18.

But we live and we learn, and sometimes we’re just lucky enough to hear about someone else’s experiences before we have to endure them ourselves. Learn from mine. Don’t be alone when you don’t need to be.

ADDENDUMS:
1. Crisis lines are found in almost every city of every province in Canada, and I would assume the same to be true for the US and many other forward-thinking countries.

2. I now never, ever let an argument fester. I never, ever go to bed angry. I talk through everything. Time heals all wounds? Conversation’s a pretty good start, too. You never know when someone's tether's gonna come undone.

3. I cannot recommend William Styron’s brilliant book Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness enough. In it he chronicles his chemically-induced descent into suicidal tendencies. I think it should be mandatory reading for anyone confronted with depression -- theirs or a loved one's.

Updates and Transfers and Such!

HEY! What up, my good people?!

I'm happy to report that I finally got off my plus-de-derriere and updated my damned "best of" stuff. I've added a schwack of new links to my list of stuff. Have a boo, in case you've missed anything. For those subscribing to Bloglines and Feedburner and such, sorry for weighing you down with a hundred or so postings, but HEY, it's gotta get done. I think that's about all I'm bringing over. I think the Cunt can stay as a main archive. For now. :)

(PS: If you haven't been watching the show Heroes, shit, are you missing out. One of the coolest damned series ever. It's like Saturday morning cartoons for adults... with lotsa blood and coolies shit, and great writing. I say woot, indeed. Just got my fix, and now I can't wait for the next episode next Monday. But-but-but!)

The Ugly Side of E-Dating

(Okay, a disclaimer. I will NOT be posting the private info of anyone who has contacted me through Craigslist. Everyone will remain anonymous. I will, however, air certain message contents if it illustrates a point, such as: There are people who say mean and crass things for the hell of it. One might wonder why I feel such things need to be illustrated, but the fact of the matter is, e-dating scares a lot of people, and one or two bad apples may turn that person off the e-dating for good -- and may well mean they remain single and lonely. And THAT would suck. So, for all those out there with skin not so thick as mine, this is a post for you, all right?)

It’s nice to think that we have this big, shiny world filled with rules and manners and protocol, but the reality is, they’re all guidelines, and it’s a choice as to whether or not you want to join the party of good, decent folk. Sadly, some opt out of that party.

E-dating’s kinda like dating on steroids. Bigger, better, faster, and able to smother you in a blinding second. It’s even worse if you’re female.

I haven’t been inundated with responses to my ad, I’ve had about 60 responses in about 36 hours, but this time I had the smarts to post on the weekend, and by the time the workday rolls around and office slackers everywhere are looking for time to kill on Craigslist, my posting’ll be buried down low. Not quite as fresh of meat, so to speak.

And that’s just fine with me. Fact is, a lot of guys seem to have form letters they send in response, and you know it's the case because they say NOTHING about your ad. Ignore those. Then there're the bright guys who send a "You're interesting" note with two lines and a phone number. And there are the ones who don't include photos, even when it's bluntly stated I won't respond without one. There's a lot of crap to wade through, is what I'm trying to say.

I find this whole thing rather overwhelming. The trouble is, you need to believe you’re everything you’ve said you are. I do, kinda, but I also remember all the voices in the back of my mind from the folks who decided to opt out of the party, and that’s the part that makes it so much harder.

Let’s put it bluntly. There are some real bastards out there in the world, people who are petty, or have the wrong intentions, or just have chips on their shoulder that make ‘em lash out.

Me, I’m a good gal. One of the nice bunch. I say what I mean, mean what I say, and try to be as nice as I’m able. I’ve been trying to send nice rejection letters out, since there are men who’ll never fit my mold. Most guys are really cool and take it well and wish me all the best. Hence the saying “Take it like a man”, you know?

But assholes abound, nonetheless. Let me give you just a few examples of the ones I’ve encountered. But, here, if you haven’t read the comment and don’t know where my ad is, why don’t you go ahead and read it, then? Click here. In it, I mention I blog, but since Craigslist won’t allow URLs, I had to be coy about where my blog is, et al, by way of giving my Scribe handle and telling ‘em to Google it.

The first notable dick was a guy who took time out of his clearly busy, involved life, to let me know I’m a legend in my own mind (my mind appreciates the notice since it appears to have missed that memo) and that a search of my name yielded just three or four hits. Yeah. Okay. (Google tells me it’s just under a thousand, not a huge number, but still cool.) Whatever. I didn’t claim I was Hemingway or some brilliant writer. Instead, I’m a chick chasing a dream. Some people clearly take issue with such naïve pursuits.

Then there’s this guy, “You seem to know how to write, creative and such, but than you focus on Partner in crime,.......... what the heck does that really mean, is that just a loss for words, but you being the writer, must be a writers block. To me that means, lazy, no thought, non creatative and so on.”

I decided to leave his shitty grammar in because I feel like being petty. “Partner in crime,” Mr. Brilliant, means someone I plan to do a whole lotta-lotta sinning with. Lock the doors, turn off the phones, close the windows, call the coppers, ‘cos something nasty’s gonna go down.

Then there’s the guy that sent a few coy one-liners, including after I sent my photo, who I then politely told I was uninterested in because he didn’t know how to volunteer information. So, he responds, “All you have to do is ask, Kittycat.” Well. I don’t want to have to ask. I like a man who can express thought unprovoked. Naïve? No. I’ve dated them before. Functioning braincells, operational voiceboxes, powers of articulation. You know. The expressive man is not the Loch Ness Monster; he does truly exist. So, I said so kindly, at which point he said, “No skin off my ass. I lost interest when I saw your pictures.” Oh, that’s why you persisted in sending more responses? Right.

So, the moral of the story. If you post a public ad, develop a thick skin. There are jerks who will treat you badly. I, wisely or otherwise, posted a public ad that connects to something with my name attached – this blog. I’m trying to take the high road and respond to everyone politely ‘cos the last thing I need is someone spreading rumours that I’m a complete cunt. I recommend staying anonymous, if you can. I’ve done this publically before, and I’ll do so again. If I get a few extra hits, then that’s just spiffy.

But, in the midst of the dicks are some guys who offer a lot of promise. It’ll be hard figuring out into whose baskets to drop my eggs, but we’ll see how it turns out. I’m going slower this time. Last time, I cut off the competition on day two when a sort-of face from the past emerged. Ironically, if it’d been just two weeks later, he’d have shattered his leg and we’d never have met. There are some good aspects to that – I might’ve had an easier time of it at times and so forth, but I don’t know that I’d change anything that happened. I’d have gone through less hardship had we just been friends, but I’d have missed out on some good stuff, too.

So, now I’m going to take my time and see how things progress. I wish it were a little simpler, and wish I could be the heartless cunt that doesn’t let guys down gently, if at all, but I’m not. So, I’ll probably still get some more hate mail. I could be a total bitch and post them publically for all y’all just to get you rallying around me, but that’s beneath me, as I indeed travel the high road.

Sugasm #50

It's that time again-- Sugasm! I've missed the deadline for submitting for this week AGAIN. Man, oh, man.

It's a concert night tonight. I get to see a good gig, but it's the sit-down variety, and that has me bummed. Literally, too. What's my ass supposed to do when they get their swing groove groovin'? Just SIT there? Fuck, man. Dance, motherfucker, dance! Platoon, 1986.

Ah, well. It'll be a good thing, I'm sure. This little writer needs to get out and play. Here, read something. You'll feel better.

The best of the sex blogs this week by the bloggers who blog them.

This Week’s Picks
Dear Diary - Part One (http://wetbeyondbelief.blogspot.com)
The Lure of Darkness (http://www.easilyaroused.co.uk)
Flash (http://gentlygently.blogspot.com)

Mr. Sugasm Himself
50 Simultaneous Bloggasm’s… (http://sugarbank.com)

Editors’ Choice
Let go, just let go (http://sugarbutch.blogspot.com)

Sex News and Sexy Reviews
Anastasia Probes the Pornos of Michael Ninn (http://blog.johnqafterhours.com)
Doc Johnson Dick Rambone Cock (http://www.orgasmarmy.com)
Free whores of warcraft video (http://sultry.naughtyblog.net)
How to invent a sex toy - week 4 (http://sextoysinsider.com)
The Secret Porn History of Mahna Mahna (http://www.quirkysex.com/blog)

NSFW Pics
Cum Shot HNT (http://stilettodiaries.blogspot.com)
Crazy Bitch HNT!!! (http://texasspitfire.blogspot.com)
Half-Nekkid Hottie (http://www.tarasnaughtyshop.com)
HNT 31 - Are You Paying Me For Sex Edition? (http://everythingoze.blogspot.com)
Lingerie Battle (http://myhotbox.blogspot.com)
Nora Marlo Nude (http://eroticandy.blogspot.com)
Pornstar Legends (http://www.internetisforporn.com)
Thick booty with a wedgie (http://phatbootysolos.ilovejulienight.com)
Valia - Vision (http://hotboxbabe.thumblogger.com)

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
50 Ways To Leave Your Lover (http://saphirsatya.blogspot.com)
The “backdoor”, I went in. (http://wanklog.blogspot.com)
Big Dicks (http://www.model-chat.com)
Celebrity Sex Tapes (http://www.teen-porn-site.com)
Cock size & male ego size… a balancing act? (http://faltenin.blogspot.com)
Cocktoberfest - Day 9 (http://shayssexcolumn.blogspot.com)
From Working The Fields To Working The Streets (http://virtual-sex-tourist.com/index.php)
The Girl Inside the Steff (http://smutandsteff.com)
Longing for a Woman’s Touch Part II (http://www.taratainton.com)
The next best thing to hotel sex… (http://hard-and-fast.blogspot.com)
Of fluffers and cake frosting (http://www.jessicagoldharalson.com)
Perfect Porn Part (http://alwaysarousedgirl.blogspot.com
Sexual Thoughts–I’m “Coping!” (http://totalsensuality.blogspot.com)
Somebody not too bright but sweet and kind… (http://lumpesse.com)
Wrap Around (http://www.seskuality.com)
You Say Pain, They Say Play (http://cuntinglinguist.blogspot.com)

BDSM and Fetish
Are you sure? (http://www.blog.sex-mad-witch.com)
Boris called me this morning (http://thediaryofanenglishrose.blogspot.com)
Darth Vader spanking (http://darkside-journey.blogspot.com)
How does that ass feel after Me raping you??? (http://www.caramelvixen.com)
I Need A Spanking! (http://accidentalmistress.blogspot.com)
The Importance of Correct Attire (http://adelehaze.com)
Knots (http://ourdreaming.blogspot.com)
Mecca-Streisand of Traffic (http://spankingkatiespades.blogspot.com)
My Tiny Dick Poll Question (http://www.spoiledebonyprincess.com)
Next day (http://bratmaster.blogspot.com)
Nothing Says Innocence Like…… (http://aliceinawonderbra.blogspot.com)

Sex Work
L.A. Trip Part 2- Mismatched Whores (http://radicalvixen.com/blog)
Stimulating me…..the right way (http://www.justcalllauren.com)
A Whore By Any Other Name … (http://lipstickexplosion.com)

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Actually wanking outside (http://orgasmcurious.blogspot.com)
Almost in real time… (http://dontwakethekids.blogspot.com)
Beachside encounter (http://skyoto.blogspot.com/)
The Beauty of the Beast (http://principles-of-lust.blogspot.com)
Birthday Gift (http://confessions112.blogspot.com)
Claiming A Friend’s Pussy (http://dirtydetails.blogspot.com)
Cowboy Cocksucker (http://theholidaylife.blogspot.com)
Desperate (http://pick-up-pieces.blogspot.com)
Goose Bumps (http://masterenigma.blogspot.com)
Home cooking, part 1 (http://erotischism.blogspot.com)
Island Love (http://mandyseroticlife.blogspot.com)
Joint: The Cyber Seck Convo (http://totalgeeklust.blogspot.com)
Mr Henry is a voyeur (http://junohenry.wordpress.com)
My First Taste (http://talktovanessa.com)
Nature Hike (http://wantonyou.blogspot.com)
Sugar Stick (http://makemycopcome.blogspot.com)
There’s Something About Tristan (and Dana) (http://lustylady.blogspot.com)
Who I Wished It Was (http://nyc-urban-gypsy.blogspot.com)

Hi, Sexy

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Taking a Look Behind the Packaging

It was suggested that I might want to write about the Dove Campaign for Real Beauty.

I’ve thought about it off and on for a while. The phrase “It’s not personal, it’s business” keeps ringing in my head, though, because this, baby, is business.

First, the campaign is brilliant. I relate to a lot of what it suggests about the media and the false ideal of beauty – how beauty is really a thing made these days and not a thing born. It’s an industry, beauty, but so too is advertising.

While I applaud the campaign, and I do rally behind its message, and I do think it’s high time someone said something, I won’t for a second pretend I can’t see some of the hypocrisy of just who’s being the messenger in this scenario.

Dove, a very nice soap indeed, is a Unilever brand. More than 150 million times a day, Unilever’s website states, someone somewhere in more than 150 countries internationally reaches for a Unilever-brand product.

They have a very big network of products – from Dove to Axe Body Spray to pharmaceuticals. They’re a very powerful player in the game of global industry. If their campaign for Real Beauty is serious, if they follow through and begin some kind of movement, then that’s wonderful. But they’re selling us Breyers Ice Cream and then marketing Slim Fast to us to take that ice cream off again. Some of their products have great mandates. Some, however, are perpetuating the very problem they’re pointing a finger at, like Axe Body Spray. If anyone ever used sex and idealized beauty as a sales tool, it’s the folks at Axe.

So, then, knowing full well who’s doing the talking (and, let’s face it, it could be worse) and all that preamble, let’s talk about the message.

It’s about time someone finally pointed out that the ideal of beauty in the fashion industry is more of a, well, let’s call it The Photoshop Factor, shall we? If you’re more pedestrian and like to use your HP Image tools, they’ve been so kind as to dumb down the latest greatest photographic trend. You betcha. It’s the “thinnify” action. Hell, all ya had to do before was reduce the width by 3-7%, but I guess they had to go and create the “reverse the 10 lbs” button.

Let’s face it. If being thin is so hard that not even models can pull it off, so they need to be “thinnified” then how in the hell is the majority of the population gonna pull off the ideal, huh? Who the fuck are they selling to, anyhow? And why are we putting up with it?

Models in magazines were airbrushed for forever. Now they’re CGI’d and gussied up in Photoshop. There is no real beauty. It’s a figment. Boys with their opaque view of sexuality got it into their heads that doing a little thinnifyin’ was the way to go. Oh, and get rid of that scar. No, no freckles. Can we give her a bit of a tan? Green eyes would pop on that skin, huh? Yeah, change it all and have the file uploaded by 3.

It’s a factory, is all. Like the old Heart song goes, they can’t sell ya what you don’t want to buy. You want the unreal beauties. You want the plastic Barbies. Something about a plain ol’ girl with freckles and jeans is too normal for you. So, instead, our media’s littered with false ideals. It’s like a Babylon on the rise. Crazy shit, man. Falsehoods abound, but, hey, the public’s buying.

Demand more. If it means getting behind a corporation that’s doctoring for itself a big ol’ bleeding heart love-thy-fellowman-and-thy-big-ass image, well, it’s probably better than the alternative.

And, sure, some of Unilever’s products sell themselves with sex, but they seem pretty straight and narrow, for the most part. Could be worse, you know, as far as big bad conglomerates go, that’s for sure.

The message in the Campaign for Real Beauty is one that needs to be heard, even if the messenger’s a little on the dubious side.

And while we’re talking about this, let’s mention that one of my readers smartly called me out for saying I needed money to become the person I wanted to become. She said I should know better than anyone that a woman’s glow comes from within, et al. Yes. Well. Perhaps so. I should know, yes?

I also know what it looks like when your clothes hang off ya or are too tight, and what a bad ‘do looks like, and so forth. In an ideal world, a woman’s glow would cut it, but if I’m a semi-vain human who knows where to draw the line, well, that’s a start. Beauty does cost money. We’re beautiful creatures and there’s nothing wrong with a little paint to enhance a good canvas, you know what I’m saying? But I don’t buy brand names and I think a $50 hairdo’s as good as a $300 and I’ve even bought clothes second-hand. There are different kinds of vain. Mine requires a budget, but it’s doable. I know what my style is, and I take nothing really from the media by way of influence.

‘course, I’d kill for a new leather jacket, too, eh? It’s about feeling good, yeah. Sometimes you need to spend some dollars, and most of us tend to be reasonable on that topic.

[Now anyone can comment. Sorry, had it switched to 'registered users only.' The management has been shot, the apes have taken over, and all is now well.]

The Girl Inside the Steff

I’ve always been a tomboy.

When I was a kid, my most prized possession was my cowboy boots. Yep. I still remember the rage I felt that provoked me to take the extreme step of yanking off one of my beloved boots and hurling it across the yard at Devon’s head, when we were 8 and 9. I hit ‘im, too. Direct hit. That’s how much of a tomboy I once was. I’ve never thrown like a girl. He deserved it.

I never listened to the same pop music my contemporary chicks listened to. My movie collection looks like a guy’s. I never did the make-up parties. I never did “girl talk.”

Honestly, I’ve always wondered why I’m not a dyke, and the best answer I can come up with is that, well, they’re girls. I always liked playing rougher with the boys, so hey. Game on, y'know?

Back in the day, I despised going to Catholic school as a kid for a number of reasons, and at the top was that I had to wear tunics, then kilts, for more than a decade – daily.

There was a time in my late teens when I wore skirts recreationally, you know, outside of school and all. Then, I just stopped. I just swore off them. I hated skirts, I guess, for a number of reasons – insecurities, body image issues, a whole world of dumb-ass reasons have prevented me from wearing skirts since my youth.

In the last month or so, three or four skirts have been given to me. I’m mortified. I don’t know what to do now. I do know one thing, though: I’ve been rebelling against the whole tomboy thing for a while.

I last had my haircut at the end of July. I tend to like to do drastic things after a relationship ends when it comes to my hair, so I tried that this time, but with little success. The woman hacked off my bangs and a few other things that underwhelmed me. I was going for more of an Isabella Rosellini short-hair look, but it failed. I’ve been keeping my hair short-short for about three years now, and something in the last 6-8 weeks has snapped. I’m tired of it. I want to feel like a girl.

I’ve not had my hair cut in nearly three months now and it’s getting longish. Another three or four months and it’ll start looking like a bob, if you need a reference. My natural wave has returned and my hair’s doing some things I’ve never seen it do, despite having worn it down to my ass back in high school. (I once had a stranger approach me and say, “I’m married, so this isn’t a come-on, but you have the sexiest hair I’ve ever seen and I hope you never cut it.”) Stupidly, I did cut it, and it never grew back right since. Until maybe now.

I’m loving it, actually. My eyes are popping now, my lips look fuller. This hair’s working for me, so I now need to decide how much further I want to take it. And in there are some real identity issues. Something about this hair is reminding me of being 9 and 15, some pretty formative years. It’s having me ask a lot of questions of how I went from what I wanted to be to becoming what I am today, and just... you know. Am I happy with myself? I was, for a while, but now I want more. I want to be better. Inside and out.

I’m on the verge of revamping my identity both internally and externally. I’m really trying to change the way I feel. I don’t think I should be so repelled by the thought of being feminine, and over the last year, I’ve taken baby steps. I play cuter for the boys when the thought crosses my mind. I get how to be that little kitten-ish type female, but I can still dial into the girl within me, the one who throws like a boy.

The most recent major step in this revamp was to buy pointy-toed high-heel shoes. Yep. Some serious clickers there. I’ve always been the Doc Marten-boot or clunky-heel chick. The type who wears cargo pants while vamping up with eyeliner and painted lips, you know? Some days work better than others. But real, genuine heels have never been in my wardrobe. Sure, nice cute flats, etc, but never heels like these. These are the kinda heels a girl wears when she knows she ain’t comin’ home alone tonight, you know what I’m saying?

I’ll tell you what prompted me. I may be straight, but I appreciate the aesthetic of the female body. Do I ever. I was going into my new/old job and on the first day, a couple weeks back, and I came to a stop right behind this chick on a bicycle. She had these cute tight faded jeans rolled to mid-calf, a light white sweat jacket fitting smartly on all her curves, and she’s got her left leg down for balance – on the back of the calf, a nice tattoo of a broken heart, and then she had a 3” heel on either foot. Never have I wished I had my camera more than right then.

Fuck, man. That was h-o-t. I just thought, “Shit.” That’s the kinda gal I’d get all tangled up with if I went that way, you see. And I’m not it. I’d never have those heels on that bike. And why not? That’s precisely the kind of rule I love to break, and, in a way, it completely suits me. But I’m not it. Yet.

Doesn’t it make sense, though? You want to feel and look the way you think “hot” is defined, don’t you? I’m never, ever gonna be hot in the Britney Spears sort of way, and never do I want to be. I’m more turned on by the girl next door from your childhood who can really kick your ass now. You know the type. You're secretly really wishing to lose a wrestling match with her? Yeah. That’s my style. I’m working towards that.

I guess I’m getting to that point, though, where I feel like I’m moving past all the troubles that have been my 2006, finally, and I feel like I want to have something to show for it, externally. I’d like to get a tattoo sometime next year, for instance, and I want to master these new high heels I have. I’ve never gone higher than 1.5 inches before. I have height issues. What can I say? I’m a pussy.

Starting this weekend, I’m taking my new heels on walks for the next week or two. Then, I will have to arrange a girl’s night on the town and see if I can play a good little skirted girl for the masses. There’s this cute pink-and-cream skirt I want to show off.

Now I’m in a strange headspace. I’m acknowledging to myself that I’m not really what I find attractive. I’m close, but I’m not quite there. To get there, I need more money. Sigh. But maybe I can fake it after all.

And then there were two: The birth of this blog

This is the new, improved World of Steff.

Consider this, then, Steff v2.0. Steff on "go" juice. Okay, no, not that. This is my new home.

The long and the short of it is pretty simple: I was interviewed on the radio and the hostess couldn't use my blog's name because it had a durty word in it. I couldn't get listed in any non-sex mainstream blogs because I had a durty word in the blog name. Ironically, it was the name "Cunting Linguist" that first brought all my curious readers.

"Why, who's putting the "cunt" into "Cunting," I wonder?"

Me! Me!

Sadly, the gig is up. The name Cunting Linguist took me as far as I could go, and if I want to make a living from this, I need to take a fresh stab at things.

What kind of content will you get here? Well, much the same as at the Cunt. If anything, the posting freqency might go down, but that's because I work 40 hours, have a podcast to record, and am now beginning to be more conscious of quality versus quantity, and I'm wanting the former but have been achieving the latter. The tables are due for a turning.

Issues that I consider of greatest interest to me, myself, and I include:

• The unlikely ideal of beauty as portrayed by the media.
• The struggle to love oneself and the importance of understanding your body image in the "grand scheme" of things.
• Sex in politics.
• Politics in sex.
• Education.
• Putting my spin on the world at large.
• Having fun.
• Playing safe.
• Overcoming adversity/disappointment.

And some things I've not tackled enough: Life after abuse, coming to terms with what you deserve, having the courage to take chances, and some more things gathering cobwebs in the attic of my mind.

Yes, the Cunting Linguist will one day cease to be. For now, I'll be first posting here and shadow-posting on the Cunt. But if you could update your links sooner rather than later, I would be an appreciative Steff.

Thanks for all the loyalty, people. It really rocks.

And speaking of the podcast: After three solid months of having one stupid technical problem after another, I have finally solved the issues. I'm now beginning to record, so it's finally starting to feel like a reality. I'm sorry it's taken so long, but since this is to be our first time getting together aurally, I wanted it to be something special, and I'm trotting out all my tricks in order to try and bring the bang I feel such a union deserves. Stay tuned. Thanks for your patience.

Only The Lonely

The greatest gift the internet provides us with is universality. Through it, we have become Hillary Clinton's Global Village. Through a series of microchips and fibre-optic wires, a person in Nantucket can wake up and realize they're having the exact same kinda day as their favourite blogger in Guayana. Suddenly the human condition isn't caught in only brief snippets in plays and movies. Now, it's all over the world wide web.

It's with great irony that blogging has become such a public way of revealing the private self. Anonymity allows for nearly anyone to open up the wellsprings and let it flow for the world at large to be a part of. The anonymouses of the world, aware of just how little voice they have in day to day life, are speaking pretty loud and clear these days.

Every now and then, someone comes along who's able to tap into the darker currents that course through their innerselves. Every now and then, someone captures that elusive truth of what makes the human condition such a mesh of experiences -- the highs, the lows, the sub-terranean depths of it all. And it's all free. With an ISP, you can log into the wired world and tap into someone feeling, experiencing, being everything you relate to. And that's a good thing.

It's an even better thing when we realize just how much some people need to find that commonality. I've been through some pretty dark times, and that does not make me exceptional. It makes me pretty plugged into that universality I mentioned earlier, the proverbial Matrix. Of course our pains and loves and triumphs and losses are things we understand only up until a certain point. It's so mysterious. Such a muddled mess to wade through. When others can express what we feel, well, suddenly it's like we've had a light shine onto us. Wow, that's my sentiment exactly. And there you are, in your own skin, feeling just like I do. Why, we're not so very different after all. Thank God, it's true: I'm not alone.

Loneliness is quite possibly one of the worst feelings I've ever endured. Hopelessness is hard, too. So's plain old fear. I've been there, done that, didn't want the ugly ass t-shirt.

I got to spend just under three years with my mother before she died. I'd left town, moved to the Yukon, fell in love with Northern Lights and wide-open spaces and that silence that bludgeons you dumb (as Robert Service once said), but the expense of living in the great white north just about crippled me. Too dumb to live within my means, I came home to Vancouver at 22, my tail between my legs, and some $35,000 in debt, sans job. I moved back home and stayed there, at first because I had no choice, and then because I realized something was wrong with my mother (though it would be some time before the cancer was diagnosed; take it from me -- if you suspect something's seriously wrong with a loved one, do not follow the complacent course I took -- get them to a doctor. Get involved. I wish I had).

But when I arrived home, late one night my mother had had a couple glasses of wine and said to me, "Don't ever leave me like that again. I couldn't bear the quiet." And I never left her again. I would have, but she beat me to the punch.

Being alone is hard. There is nothing I feel more empathy and understanding towards than people who fear aloneness. And while it would seem to be an easy fix -- it's a big world, getting bigger every day, billions of others walk this terrain, just like you, and all you seemingly need to do is step outside your four walls -- nothing seems harder when you're on the other side of it.

The walls seem thicker, others seem happier, things just keep happening, and all the while, you're experiencing none of it. An outsider peering in. It's like some puppetmaster is holding strings and keeping you back from it all.

Unfortunately, that's often your choice.

I write from time to time about all the injuries I experienced over the last few years. In one year, I was on crutches for more than 20 weeks. I've never felt as alone as I did then. There were a lot of long, quiet nights, and I felt pretty abandoned by the world at large. It was during all that that I first turned to blogging. A lot's gone down since then, and while I'm often playing the solitary game, it's pretty much by choice these days. I'm single now, but I've had a couple recent chances to change that status and have passed on 'em. Partly because I wasn't ready, and partly because I really don't mind being a party of one. It works well with the writing gig.

But being injured did force me to learn that others were there when I wanted them, and, more importantly, when I needed them. All I had to do was speak. Out of all the lessons I've learned in my life, learning to ask for help has been the one I'm most proud of. Learning how to admit that I need someone or something has been one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I'm a proud, proud woman, and I have been reduced to fucking dust at times in the last few years. I've realized something, though, that it's in that dust that something new in me began to grow. I realized that reaching out, asking for help, allowed others to give. It allowed them to be there when I needed it, and allowed them to feel like they were really contributing to me and my life. It profoundly changed my closest relationships, and the friends who stood by me then, I know they'll always be there.

So many of us never really let our friends and family be there for us. We let our pride fuck with us and we tell ourselves our loved ones are too busy. We fail to realize that most people hang around the peripheral, waiting on us to speak up and tell them what we need -- because they know we'd be there for them if the tables were turned.

So, if you're among the lonely and you feel you've been abandoned, well. You might just be surprised. It's more that people are busy, they get involved in their lives, but somewhere in the back of their minds, they're waiting for you to speak up, to tell them they're wanted around, or that you just plain need'em. What are you waiting for?

RANT: Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy [Insert bleeding here]

Every now and then, I get reminded of how dumb corporate America really is. This is the tab on the Always Slim Maxi with Wings. You pull this off, and you adhere it to your panties. I've mentioned this before, but now I've photographed it for proof. Dumbasses.

Have a Happy period? And what part of it is supposed to be the happiest -- the cramping, the irritability that has successfully been used as a defense in murder, the occasional staining of sheets and underwear, the fact that it costs $10 a month in products, the inability to play/do certain sports, like swimming? Which part is supposed to make me happy, huh?

Here's a memo, Corporate America: I bleed because I have to. I bleed only because biology deems it necessary. I've tried to suppress the bastard through drugs, but when I became a murderous, depressed bitch, I decided that bleeding was an only slightly better option, because then my murderous depression would at least be on the clock.

And you fucking know this slogan was written by some mama's boy who's always the first to show up on holidays and who tries to constantly please every woman in his life.

Happy ain't part of the gig, man. I'd be more loyal to a product that called it like it is. How's this:

Your period sucks, and we know it. That's why we've made the best product we can. Here's hoping it makes things just a little better for you today. Oh. And don't kill anyone. Here's 50 cents off your next bottle of Midol.

You Say Pain, They Say Play

As a little girlie, I was as tomboy as they come.

In my ‘hood, back in the day, the girls (there were three of us) were outnumbered by the boys at a 3:1 ratio. One of the girls, my mother told me quite certainly, was “beneath” me, and I was encouraged to either play with the boys or the other girl.

To me, “play” meant getting pretty physical and doing whatever the boys were doing. We fancied ourselves “police kids” and made ourselves uniforms and badges and ran down the street yelling at and feebly trying to throw Nerf footballs at cars driving too fast for our domesticated side street. We climbed into the ditches and crawled through the huge pipes. We painted our faces for no reason at all. We dug through our parents’ shit and played “dress-up” for the sheer hell of it.

Sometimes “play” involved projectiles and violence – since I’m from that generation born on the cusp of actually having cool shit to play with before people figured out things were dangerous; lawn darts, for instance, became illegal in my 15th year, back in 1988. We played with slingshots and broke windows in abandoned buildings. We tied each other up and left each other for “dead” in the middle of the “enchanted” forest. We nailed apple crates onto skateboards and rode down the steepest hill in the ‘hood. We’d climb (and fall down) cliffs by the beach. We dared each other to venture into the rat-a-tat “haunted” house around the corner.

Getting hurt was par for the course, and most of the time we barely noticed the pain.

Out there in the world, a number of you readers are nodding and grinning, remembering summers spent pitching lemonade stands and jumping fences, throwing stones and jumping off piers into water too cold yet for swimming, and winters spent hurtling iceballs at each other and crying out in pain. We took our chances and we lived with the consequences, because, for us, it was fun. Fun at any and all costs.

Somewhere along the way, we learned about pragmatism and all the things adults do to lessen risks of danger and lost limbs. We toned it down, we learned the rules, and we played safe. In adulthood, “play” means sports and board games, and little else.

Unless, of course, you belong to the BDSM community.

One could argue that, in ways, BDSMers are just children at heart. They want to play, be told what to do, often dress up in silly things, and need to have rules to follow or else things come apart at the seams.

Suggest this to the religious right and anyone else who gets creeped out at the thought of grownups in leather and ball-gags with whips at the ready, and you’ll be unceremoniously turfed faster than you can shout your stop word of choice.

Not too long ago, a big kerfuffle was raised and I have yet to really comment on it. A fuckwit by the name of Jason Fortuny took a very, very sexually explicit posting of a slave woman seeking a very aggressive male master through Craigslist and he reposted it in Seattle, using his email address as the letter through which any masters would be responding.

He then took all the responses from the males and posted them publically in an attempt to mock, humiliate, and out them. I haven’t really followed the whole mess, but I think he’s an asshole who deserves a little of the treatment the original woman was begging for. I think this for about a million and ten reasons that I’m not going to bother getting into, save for one –

What pisses me off most about the whole debacle, I think, is what the woman who originally posted that email must have felt when she discovered that she had unwittingly become the eye of this cyberstorm.

Sadly, we live in a society that deems fit to judge others for what they do in the privacy of their own homes. Only now are gays starting to really own who they are, but every now and then one gets beaten to death for no good reason. BDSMers have a fucking long ways to go before they get accepted by the mainstream.

It’s happening, in bits, but if a woman was to walk out into regular society and announce that she wished to be urinated on, called names, slapped around, and forced into submission regarding everything from doing the dirty deed right on down to doing the dirty dishes on demand, then she’d be besieged by women telling her she deserved better.

The point that they’re missing is, she doesn’t want better. She wants to be treated that way. I have no right to judge her, and neither do you.

Yet here’s this Craigslist woman, who probably debated for a good long time about taking her desires semi-public (because just admitting shit on paper’s hard enough to do some days). Now she’s being used by this post-collegiate fuckwit, who thinks he’s God’s gift to bloggers, who then goes and bastardizes everything she’s gone through to get to this point where she feels safe asking to be abused.

Funny thing is, she’s asking to be used and abused, but the number one rule in BDSM, basically, is that the submissive has all the power. They stop the play. They control what happens, because if they’re not a willing participant, it ends then and there. But she never asked Jason Fortuny to use her or abuse her. She never got to say stop. And that’s wrong six ways to Sunday, man.

If you don’t GET BDSM, then so be it. It’s not for you to appreciate or understand. Their rights, though, to do as they like, as two (or more) consenting parties, behind closed doors, ought to be protected in the constitution. Here in Canada, it is. (More or less.)

I own no dog collars, nor paddles, and I don’t know if I’ll ever go that way. But I own an open mind, and as a tax-paying member of a supposedly free society, I want the fucking right to explore whatever crosses my dirty, filthy little mind. After all, playing keeps the heart and soul young.

[Photo courtsey of Wikipedia.]