Smut And Steff

2009-01-18T13:13:00.002-08:00

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End of An Era or Something!

2008-10-03T18:09:00.001-07:00

Exciting. This might be the last ever Blogger-driven posting.

I'm getting help in switching over to Wordpress! So, if anything goes hinky... all y'all know why. :)

Why Sarah Palin Scares Me

2008-10-03T07:14:00.015-07:00

If you read me, and you're a fan of Sarah Palin? I'm offended by your ignorance, and the fact that you deem me entertaining yet take THAT THING seriously. Don't read me, please. It's insulting. And educate yourself.

She is ignorant, uninformed, inarticulate, and frankly, dangerous. If you support her? You are, too.

Let's talk about all the reasons I hate this woman. As much as I dislike that word, hate, this woman prompts that feeling in me for all the things she stands for, that I stand against. Few brands of people fill me with as much terror as someone like her.

For starters, rape victims were on the hook for part or all of the rape kits in her town of Wasilla. Her chief of police did it, and she never tried to stop it. Some reports state her town had the highest rape statistics in Alaska, which had the highest rape statistics in America. Now, there's no proof Palin ever argued in favour of keeping this policy, but she sure as hell never tried to repeal it -- which you'd think, as a woman, she might feel like getting on side of women, and as a mother, that she'd want rapists off the streets--whatever the fiscal cost. Gee, if you're not willing to spring for rape kits so you can properly investigate whodunnit, I guess the same rapists stay in business, huh?

On the question of whether she would allow a daughter who was raped by her father and made pregnant to abort the baby, she said she would "counsel" them to "choose life".

The woman believes homosexuality is a choice. In 2008. In the same interview I've just hyperlinked to, from CBS, she said:

But as for homosexuality, I am not going to judge Americans and the decisions that they make in their adult personal relationships. I have one of my absolute best friends for the last 30 years happens to be gay, and I love her dearly. And she is not my "gay friend," she is one of my best friends, who happens to have made a choice that isn't a choice that I have made. But I am not going to judge people.

A man was beaten severely here in Vancouver last week, his jaw wired shut, surgery required, all because he was gay and holding hands with another man. Gays attempt suicide more than others. Do you REALLY think they're going to CHOOSE a lifestyle that can result in such bashing and hatred? Do you really think they CHOOSE to feel compelled to be suicidal because they feel they've failed to change this thing about them? WTF?

She thinks Alaska makes one of the largest energy-producing contributions to America's energy bottom line. In fact, she thinks America can be the new Middle-East, that the oil's "there" and needs to be extracted. Um, no. It contributes 3% of the energy generated by the United States, and the US contributes only 3% of the world's energy creation, yet consumes 25% of it. So, she's no expert on energy just because there's a few oil wells in Alaska.

And I'm sick and fucking tired of the whole "Yay, working mom!" bullshit that's going on out there.

Where I come from, a mother who finds out her newborn's got Down's Syndrome, she's going to adjust her schedule and be there for her child more, especially when she's got three other kids. Where I come from, a woman has a daughter who's 17 and pregnant, she doesn't accept a position that's going to throw her daughter into the limelight on a national stage. Where I come from, when a teenager gets pregnant, the fingers get pointed at the parents to say, "Geez, why didn't you educate them better? Why didn't you talk about condoms?" instead of rah-rahing them for being so hip and supportive of their kid.

This mother-of-the-year bullshit has worn way thin on me.

Then we get to the topic of religion.

If you're a born-again Christian, not only might you want to stop reading this article, you should really stop reading my blog, because I think you're a fucking twit if you think the world's 6,000 years old. I think you're a fucking TOOL. No, REALLY.

Freedom to believe? Freedom to be stupid! Am I politically incorrect? On this? Fucking right I am. And it feels great!

Sarah Palin is precisely such a tool. She believes man and dinosaurs hung out together! She believes we coexisted! Then, after some "undisclosed" passage of time, dinosaurs just went poof and the world became man's. (She told one young Wasilla fella that she'd seen man's footprints inside dinosaur prints.)

She belongs to a church in Wasilla, Alaska, that should scare the fuck out of any "mainstream" Christian. They speak in tongues! The minister ADMITS and is PROUD OF driving a woman out of his community in Kenya because she was a "witch" -- or at least HE thought she was. Palin, like Bush, believes she's been tapped because God Has a Plan For Her. Really? God has a plan for an ignorant former beauty-queen who's got nothing to offer to the SERIOUS issues of the day?

This woman will be a heartbeat away from the presidency! After EIGHT YEARS of being ruled by a party that's been bending over for the religious right -- mostly because the discussion on "values" took the pressure off their failed war -- we have this right-wing nutbag who never even had a passport until last year, has no understanding of the world beyond America, standing behind the guy who wants to be The Guy... who has had cancer four times, who's got this disturbing new eye twitch, who's become visibly disoriented in public of late -- and there's FOUR YEARS he's supposed to sit in office? Alive? Good luck with that!

[Re: McCain's health: The media had only three hours to examine the more than 1,200 pages his campaign released from his medical file -- none of which were sequential or numbered, so the media couldn't even look at it in a cogent, organized way, let alone in depth. When's the last time you tried to read 1,200 pages of medical notes... in three hours?]

If you even think this woman is remotely qualified for this job, you're wrong. If she doesn't scare you, you're not informed. If you don't care, you're a fool.

Palin is of the Bush ilk -- "you're either with us, or you're against us" -- but anyone who's ever had any kind of a human relationship should understand that there are no black and whites in relationships. You can like someone but disagree with them. By ruling the country in black and whites, America has arrived where it is today -- ostracized by the world at large, constantly in defense mode, with a soon-to-be $11-trillion deficit, waging two wars, with an economy on the verge of bankruptcy, all because the government in power tried to distract people from the real issues by making governing about "family values" and not about what's right for the country and its bottom line.

Sarah Palin? Dangerous. Wrong. In every fucking way.

Get real. Never has a politician been more wrong for a time and place than she is for America now. Dick Cheney in a skirt? Worse. At least Dick had brains.

NOTE: I do not hate Christians. I just think born-again "the world is 6,000 years old, and our ancestors walked with dinosaurs!" are fucking nimrods. There's a difference!

A Perhaps Controversial Thought About the Birth of the AIDS Virus?

2008-10-02T08:02:00.002-07:00

[I would normally post something like this on my other blog, The Last Ditch, but since it's about AIDS, which is sexually transmitted, I've decided to be a little bit of a shit disturber and post it here for a larger audience. I'm interested to hear your thoughts...]

I've been fascinated by the history of the Congo for some time now, thanks to the brilliance of Adam Hochschild's King Leopold's Ghosts and the history of the first real genocide, the slaying of ten million Congo Africans during the rise of the rubber trade and height of African colonialism at the end of the 19th/beginning of the 20th century.

10 million Africans slaughtered for rubber. Never mind the millions stolen and forced into the slave trade from other regions, or those slaughtered when colonial interests take over.

I'm fascinated by genocides. I'm more fascinated by the horrors of Africa today, though. The legacy of that death and brutality.

It's sadly funny, the justifications of whites and 'manifest destiny', how they felt Africans were "savages" who required a civilizing hand.

Now, Africa has descended into chaos -- Somali pirates, Darfur's genocide, South Africa's rape crisis, and list goes on and on -- and still you hear the pundits saying how Africa's just a different kind of place. They're uncivilized and brutal. It's the African Way, they'll say, in quiet, hushed voices that don't get a lot of airplay.

It's kind of like Bush saying the terrorists were in Iraq, so the war went there. And now, of course, terrorists are in Iraq. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Yes, Africa has become a savage place.

We talk so much about head-shrinking (the psychology kind) here in the west, how our little childhood traumas stay with us for a lifetime.

But how about the systemic slaughter of millions of your countrymen for a little thing called rubber? How about the legacy of foreign invaders who put the heads of your people on stakes along the river to remind you to collect as much rubber sap as you can? After all, Conrad's Heart of Darkness was a virtually-true account of legendary rubber trade captains, like Captain Leon Rom of the Force Publique, a Belgian military force in the Congo.

How long does THAT stay with a country? How long does THAT influence the society? How do you, as a people, get past knowing you were so devalued that a bucket of rubber was worth more than a life?

So... I think about these things sometimes, the societal ramifications of the ills of the past. It's the historian in me. And no place in the world has greater, more horrific, or even more recent ills and horrors than that of Africa.

And I find it interesting now, that the BBC has run a story this morning stating that it's the early 1900s, in Leopoldville, in the Congo, that now appears to be the birthplace of AIDS, when AIDS made the jump from primates to humans.

The rubber trade was at the height between 1885 and 1920, the very same years (1889-1924) they say AIDS made the jump. In the Congo. Where millions of Africans were brutalized, murdered, and forced into hard, brutal labour that often involved getting hurt or maimed as they tried to extract rubber for a growing rubber trade. (The main cause of the desperation for rubber? The need for bicycle and car tires as the transportation evolution began, oddly.)

Had these Congo Africans not been forced into this labour, would the virus have jumped from apes to humans? Had so much blood not been shed, and people not injured, in the jungles in those years, would AIDS have made the jump? Had the brutality of Western civilizations not been forced upon these people, would we even know of AIDS today?

Of course, the article focuses primarily on the growth of cities and how living in close proximity to one another would have been the main reason for its spread. But Leopoldville, now Kinshasa, was created as the hub of the rubber trade. It was Ground Zero for the genocide and slaughter of 10 million Africans.

It just makes one wonder, I guess, if we're really aware of just how evil some of the evil we do really is. And just how far-reaching the consequences of our actions can be.

I'm not saying AIDS is entirely the fault of Belgian imperialists. I'm just saying we need to take this into consideration. We need to think about just how much that may have played a role. We need to accept that there could be more to this story than we'd like to assume.

But it breaks my heart a little to think this disease that threatens the entire continent of Africa, thus the world, may be yet another consequence of imperialism. And it bothers me that our legacy of imperialism remains that dirty little secret no one really wants to talk about.

Gay Bashing in Gay-Tolerant Vancouver

2008-10-01T09:42:00.005-07:00

Some of us Vancouverites are PROUD of how gay-friendly this city is. I'm straight, and I think the fact that we're one of the "gayest" cities in the world makes us, well, frankly, fun.

Yet even here there is intolerance. And if it's here, then we still have a lot of work to do in the world. And that's just sad.

Last weekend there was a gay-bashing. A few years ago a gay man was beaten to death and his killers are now free. This time, though, these fuckers are being charged with a hate crime.

Good. Here's hoping ~~gen-pop makes the fuckers their bitches when they land their hating asses in jail. I'm told they like virgin asses there.~~

It's a few hours later, and... Sigh, I hate it when people are right (aka: when I'm wrong). This comment was just left by Sugarmag: "I share your satisfaction that gay bashers were charged with a hate crime, someone who would do such a thing deserves to go to jail. However, I really don't wish rape on anyone, and I don't really think you do, either. Not really."

No, I don't really wish anyone would be raped, even in this scenario. I guess I just let the venomous angst that this bullshit continues in 2008 (2008!!!) get to me, and in this liberal, gay-embracing city. What can I say? I hate hate.

Barely There? A Rare Photo of Me...Or, My Body Parts, At Least

2008-09-30T19:42:00.004-07:00

Today, it seems, was the last day of summer for us Vancouverites. A Pineapple Express is forecasted to begin Thursday. (The dreaded "Pineapple Express" is any rain-bearing system that wanders up our way from the Hawaiian Islands. Usually packed with days and days of hard rains.)

Knowing it's the end of something good, I decided today was the ideal day to wear a short skirt on the scooter for the last time this year. There's something about careening at high speeds with warm fresh air breezing straight between your legs.

I waxed poetic about how lovely it would be on Twitter, and started getting peer pressure to post a photo or two.

I've never been the type to post photos of myself, mostly because of my stance on appearances being somewhat dubious in general, and also because I want to be read for my words, not because someone thinks it's cleavage-shot-day or whatever the fuck. Enough people are on that train, why should I jump on too?

But I suppose it's something of webevolution, you know? If one dug through archived pages of this blog, they could probably find a picture I posted a long, long time ago before I decided I wasn't going to go down that road.

Today, though, like I say. I felt like acquiescing to some peer pressure. I wouldn't start expecting this of me. It's just not my style. Everyone changes, though, so I'm not ruling it out, either.

I thought this was a better angle that it's turned out to be, but here's what you get -- me and my legs on me scoot before the last sunshiney warm day of summery bliss before the onslaught of a long, wet Vancouver winter.

Let's call it Half-Naked Tuesday, shall we?

What If Our Lives Were Movies?

2008-09-29T07:44:00.006-07:00

I'm officially 35 today. Time flies when you're having fun.

As a result of my birthday, though, I've been thinking a lot about life and love.

I still haven't been bothering getting back into the dating after taking this month off of it, thanks to a persistent yeast infection that has me pretty frustrated (but is starting to take its leave of me), and some other things. But I want to get back into dating in the coming month and will probably start lining things up soon.

There's an assortment of men I've been sort of stringing along (for all the right reasons), and probably half have fallen away (not a bad thing), those who remain are a varied batch indeed. I may already have a favourite in that batch, but right now's not the time to be hedging bets, I feel. I need my life to get past this short chapter so I can enjoy myself again.

It had me thinking last night about real life versus the movies, and I thought how much simpler my life would be if it was a movie. Edit out this boring bit with infections and fatigue, splice together all the fun and crazy dates, skip past the lame ones that don't even offer comic relief, and then focus on the best of the good stuff when it finally comes down, and have all sex scenes be well-lit with great angles.

In the span of well under two hours in When Harry Met Sally, for instance, we skim over 20 years of preamble to their relationship, and finish with "Happily ever after?"

In real life, though, they'd have had to go through all those years, with all those days of wondering, "When will I meet someone that really excites me? How many more underwhelming people do I have to sift through?" They'd have to have the loser nights where they eat straight from take-out containers and drink out of the milk carton, all because they know just how "alone" being single really means sometimes.

Real life gets mundane for most of us. Romance and sex often offer more hassle than reward. But like addicts chasing that high, we keep going, we keep looking, we keep trying, if only because of the possibilities that exist.

As much as I'm not getting laid right now, I'm not worried about it. I'm confident in what I offer, what I can do, and what lays ahead. But I have a yeast infection, and that just doesn't mesh well with a dating life.

But they don't get yeast infections in movies. They don't deal with complicated schedules and conflicting lives and inopportune moments.

They get edited.

These days, my life needs editing. The boring and unsexy needs to fall away, the drama needs its big return. The soundtrack needs to swell and boom. The budget needs to get inflated in my favour. Orgasms need to appear and jump me from around dark corners, brandishing gifts and affections I can't imagine. "Climax" needs to occur in more ways than one.

I also need me some big investors. I need a producer and an expense account. I need the catering of craft services wherever I go.

There are so many ways my life could improve if it could only be a movie. Instead, I'm just another girl trying to make her way through a complicated life in a complicated job with complicated challenges to overcome, as I try to figure out just exactly how to get my mindset back into getting shagged by boys who'd probably really like to be providing me with that climax. But, of course, it's "complicated."

But, that, my friends, is the challenging conundrum of chronology. Unlike movies, however, we don't have to worry about the two-hours-to-resolve dilemma. No, we have months and years, requisite dry-spells and the raging rivers of a fast-moving life, through which faces and happenings interweave at unexpected intervals. And we have a complicated ensemble cast that even Hollywood could never comprehend.

Who's to say what will come our way in the weeks and months ahead? Unlike movies, we never have teasers about our future. There aren't obvious plot points that lead to obvious conclusions.

And I guess that's half the fun.

Is it Possible?: Sex in the White House? Without Infidelity?

2008-09-28T11:55:00.004-07:00

Something I absolutely love about the Obamas is the intensity of their attraction to each other. It's so obvious. He lights up when he sees her. She totally adores him. But it's bigger than that.

Probably the best footage I've ever seen that represents their relationship was this footage shot behind the scenes while they both were seated on stage during some other talking-head's speech, and Barack and Michelle were holding hands. But it was different. He had this shy boyish smile, the kind teens will have when they're ogling someone they've got a mad crush on, as he looked down at her hand and kept tracing his thumb over it, outlining her fingers, playing with her ring, and squeezing it here and there. And he just kept having this little shy grin as the moment stretched on and on, totally unaware the camera was on him, just having this seemingly private-yet-public endless moment with his wife in front of thousands of people, while someone else apparently had the camera and the limelight on 'em.

And I just thought, you know, you don't see that in politics. You don't see romantic gestures with intimacy and immediacy. There's a reason so many political marriages are called marriages of convenience, or political unions. Passion doesn't seem to have been their primary motivation, most of the time.

I mean, it's awesome to see a 14-year marriage with passion, and in public. They've publically admitted they have a great sex life. They still have "date" nights, and regularly, even during the campaign. He's religious about getting home for family Sundays, even during the heated campaign he's been waging. Their two kids giggle and laugh, openly admitting that they love it when their parents cuddle and kiss in front of them, and they're not ashamed at all about their parents' romantic life.

Michelle Obama said it pretty great when asked if she was worried about fidelity in politics: "I never worry about things I can't affect, and with fidelity ... that is between Barack and me, and if somebody can come between us, we didn't have much to begin with."

Spoken like a woman who believes in her relationship. And seeing the adoration in his eyes when he speaks of her? Why the hell shouldn't she?

In a day and age when the standard relationship is being redefined by 90% of society because they largely can't make them work, or don't think they CAN work, it's fucking stellar to see someone, anyone, in the public eye have a real, true, obvious love affair that's been going on for well over a decade.

I'm tired of hearing of people who've made their marriage work after a decade but only because they opened their beds to open relationships. I understand that, but I want to believe that one doesn't need to compromise in that way, that the "one true love" isn't just some illusory fairytale we tell our children to keep them from shagging before they're ready.

I don't want to be married. I don't want kids. But I want to believe THAT love is possible, with or without legal union. The kind of love where two people stay charged and passionate and in love with each other in every way they can be. I believe in that love. I always have. I think it's rare, I think it's something few of us will ever be lucky enough to find, but I love the dream of it. And I love the possibility, even the reality of it, as demonstrated by this amazing couple.

Seeing it there, real-live-in-the-flesh, and maybe even in the highest office in America, on the news, every day... what a positive thing for love as a whole.

We, as a people, as lovers, as romantics, we need to see that. We need to know it's possible, it exists, and it can be perpetuated. That it can last in the face of one of the most challenging jobs in the world. That work and responsibilities can be overcome by love and communication when they're done right.

Because god knows no one else has really been demonstrating the possibility of that of late, not really. Especially since Paul Newman, who was never accused of infidelity, and who loved and lived with Joanne Woodward more than 50 years, has now left this realm.

I say, let love win. I would love nothing more than to see THAT relationship in the news, and often, over the next four (dare I say eight?) years. And for far more reasons than just because it'd be "nice".

[That it'd come with sound economic and social policy? Holy icing on the cake, Batman.]

The End of An Era: Godspeed, Cool Hand Luke

2008-09-27T10:33:00.008-07:00

Paul Newman died overnight at the ripe old age of 83.

When it comes to Hollywood stars, they just didn't get better than Paul Newman. The best of 'em, he never let it go to his head. Probably more famous for his salad dressing and tomato sauce, the guy was a different kind of idol.

In a vapid, pointless society like Hollywood, where it seems weight and fashion matter more than anything, Newman never subscribed to being ordinary. He had a Porsche 356 engine put into his VW Bug, for god's sake. He wore a beer bottle opener as a necklace.

He was a bad boy who wasn't bad. He gave $150 million to charity. He helped kids. But he celebrated antihero and loser roles in his movies, rather than pursuing the roles of perfect goodlooking people (like Tom Cruise often does, for instance). He embraced that side of him and we loved him for it.

If there's a Hollywood guy I wish could be emulated more often-- from the blue eyes and the incredible ass to the heart of gold and the mischievous smile-- it's Paul Newman.

Later, Paul. It's been real.

Some Pre-Birthday Thoughts on a Busy Friday Morning

2008-09-26T06:13:00.002-07:00

After a couple months of everything in life feeling like it was a little harder than it needed to be, and life just throwing one sucker punch after another, it feels like the proverbial clouds have parted and ease is raining down upon me.

My week has been busy, as will the next few days be, too. My mind's not on sex, not on writing, so I'm just taking a moment to share before the craziness comes down.

Some family's coming to visit me this weekend, as I secretly suspect my aunt wants to shower a little money on me after having lost 45+ pounds this year. I was laughing on the phone with her last weekend, saying how I've suspended my weight-loss campaign (before McCain's "suspension madness") because I can't afford the clothes I need for my new body, let alone a skinnier one, so I've pushed the pause button for the last couple months. All of a sudden I get this phone call last night saying they're coming to town and seeing me for the first time in two years. I can't help but smell a shopping trip. (Please, Cosmos?)

Monday I turn 35. Wow! The end of an era. The end of being in that coveted 18-34 demographic. I will officially be out of the realm of cool. And I couldn't care less.

I've never understood these people who lie about their age. Why? Weren't they there for every waking day? Didn't they earn their age? Don't we all accrue our months and years? What's with the age shame? How many ways can I say "stupid"?

Come on, people, own your shit. I am a cool, cute, sexy, fun, youthful 35, and I fucking love it. 40 doesn't scare me either. I look younger than 35 and could easily get away with saying I'm 30 or even younger, but why? I've endured a lot of shit, seen a lot of things, in my 35 years. I wear my age with pride.

I do feel regret when I consider my age at times. I wish I was further in life. I wish my finances were better. I wish I'd travelled more. I wish, I wish. But that's the way life goes, full of surprises. Detours. While all my friends were getting their financial shit sorted in their 20s, in the midst of dealing with the death of my mother, I dealt with years and years of stupid, bad injuries and near-death accidents that left me for years in chronic pain, throwing money after pain management and treatment like you wouldn't believe-- thousands and thousands of dollars each year-- money that would never do anything to lay the foundation for a successful life that someone in their 20s should be laying.

Friends spent thousands on trips and toys, cars and homes, and I spent my money on trying to get to the other side of a world of pain. And I'm there. I don't live with pain anymore. I'm strong, I'm healthy, and I'm still improving. And I'd spend my money the same way if I had to do it all again. I'm still dealing with money, but I'm at the almost-end of all the financial catching up I've had to do, and I know it.

Our lives take the most unimaginable detours from what we would expect sometimes. And as hard as some of my detours have been, I'm still really pleased with where I'm at. I've done the best with what I've had, man. I've done the best I could. The best I could, for whatever that's worth.

So, I'm staring at that big 35, and I don't mind one bit.

Me, I think it'll be a fabulous year. Just fabulous. Here's wishing everyone a great weekend.

PS: After two years of my scooter underperforming, I think a friend finally solved the problem when we threw a new muffler and rollers into it last night. It finally goes fast, I finally have power, and I can finally stop feeling like a victim on wheels. I cannot tell you the combination of joy and relief that fills me with. You just have no idea. I'm so looking forward to riding to traffic court this morning. Yes, fighting the man, man! We'll see if I get my ticket & towing from May tossed out. Scooter running happily? One of the best birthday gifts ever!

Call for Gifts! Call for Gifts!

2008-09-25T07:40:00.004-07:00

You people realize you only have four days left to get me a birthday present before I turn 35, right? I mean, SNAP, SNAP, here.

Time to get crack-a-lackin'! I mean, the ripe age of 35? Gifts cushion the blow, I'm told!

If you're having troubles choosing what to appease my voracious appetite for life with? Books are a great start. Or clothing store certificates. Or booze. We loves the booze. And PayPal is willing to accept your credit cards.

Sure, there are worthy things to contribute your money to... but why would you do that when you can give to me?

Oh, and confidential to Clay Aiken: Wow. I would have never guessed! Except for the fact that you totally epitomized "flaming closet boy" forever. Just saying.

[And if you think this posting is crass or selfish, come on, have a sense of humour. Or just click through to my PayPal account.]

A Little Political Round-Up: Good News!

2008-09-23T23:10:00.006-07:00

I definitely get into the politics on this blog but you wouldn't believe how much I'm often restraining myself.

Lordy, have I got me some opinions.

But tonight I'm going to bed with this odd little thing. It's there, niggling. Deep, deep down, burrowed in the base of my belly, there it is: Possibility. A little thing called hope.

Here, in one of the darkest political weeks I can recall, like, ever, a niggle of hope. Maybe even a wiggle?

The Washington Post has announced, for the first time since Clinton's win for the White House, a Democratic candidate has broached the 50% mark in polls in the weeks leading up to the election. Obama has snatched a considerable lead -- nine points -- over McCain. 52% to 43%.

Colour me elated. Let me repeat: No other Democratic candidate, not Gore (who nearly took the thing) nor Kerry, has had more than a 50% standing in the weeks directly before the election since Clinton, and before Clinton? Well, how far back does modern memory extend, anyhow?

This is promising.

Add to this good news something else? Now, it might just seem like a great soundbite from an anchorwoman who's had just about enough bullshit, but what this is? It's a brilliant ploy to invite exactly what the McCain campaign fears, an unleashed Palin, into the fray. She had the audacity to say it was the "Palin-McCain" ticket. The veep's name never goes first, dude. I smell regret for an opportunistic and ultimately unwise choice for second-in-command.

Maybe I'm wrong. The coddling format of the debate to come with Biden certainly suggests she's on a leash.

So that's why I love this clip (and great article) of Campbell Brown ripping the McCain campaign a new one to "stop treating Sarah Palin like she is a delicate flower that will wilt at any moment." But then she throws down the gauntlet.

"...You claim she is ready to be one heart beat away form the presidency. If that is the case, then end this chauvinistic treatment of her now... Free Sarah Palin. Free her from the chauvinistic chain you are binding her with. Sexism in this campaign must come to an end. Sarah Palin has just as much a right to be a real candidate in this race as the men do. So let her act like one."

_________

This one's for all those college-aged kids who read this rag of mine. You guys probably all want Obama to win. They say college students always get stoked about campaigns, but their turn-out at the polls never meshes with the hype generated on campus.

You gotta put your vote where your mouth is, man.

Everything is at stake in this election. More than any election, really, in American history. What you do will literally affect the rest of the world. Every country in the world is waiting with baited breath for you to do your thing.

In a truly global economy, if the wheel that turns America goes off track, well, we're all ultimately fucked. Sadly, though: You're fucked the most. Don't get fucked. Not like this.

Put your vote where your mouth is.

Never has an election come at a more pivotal, immediate, here-and-now, do-or-die moment than this election now. Hollywood couldn't write this script. A war going on six years, encroaching 5,000 dead. An economy on the verge of a once-a-lifetime total failure. An energy crisis threatening your entire way of life (look at the gas shortages this week).

It's all so very now. You have change, the chance to effect a totally new course of action for your country...

And half of you college kids who say you're going to vote won't show up. Why? Shit happens. But you need to fucking commit. It's one day in your life, a day that can change your country's future for the incredibly positive if you do the wise thing and vote Obama.

It's a day you've known was coming for four years. And, what, something's gonna "come up"? You got a paper to write? Fucking take a notepad. Write it. But get there!

You need to talk to your friends and organize Voting Trips. Make a plan. Travel together, stay entertained. Plan ahead. Make it an event.

In 2000, every fucking vote counted. You don't think yours matters? Where's your head? Commit to voting. It's your future. Thank you.

(Click the image for a larger version so you can read the cartoon. :)

Sex-Toy Review: The Stubby G!

2008-09-22T06:46:00.003-07:00

Let's talk sex toys today. Specifically, I'll be reviewing The Stubby G.

First, I want to explain how a few things work for all y'all, since I know sex-blog readers see these reviews all the time, and, personally, I see that 95% of them are positive, so I could understand how review-readers might skeptically dismiss us one and all as rabid sex-toy fans who love everything that comes our way.

What you need to understand is, there are a couple different ways sex toy companies operate. Some will contact bloggers and go, "Hey, want to review toys?" and when our broke asses reply, "Dude! Yeah! I need me some O's!" they'll send us a box of toys, it gets opened, and inside is a bunch of shit they couldn't sell and now the poor sucker who opened the box is on the hook to review hundreds of dollars of piece-of-shit toys. I threw out the toys One Company To Remain Unnamed sent me a couple years back -- they weren't fit for my body, for reviews, for nothing.

There are two or three Big Companies, though, like Vibe Review, who don't operate under such stupid methodology, considering a sex toy isn't just something you foist on someone. Instead, these better companies, like VR, they'll say "Hey, wanna review toys? Choose what you like, and we'll start there!"

So, instead of getting some random-ass box of toys to review, folks like me are lucky and we receive toys that we actually WANT to review. See how that works? Toys we WOULD buy are the toys we are sent, so, you know these are toys that are up our alleys, at the very least. Hence why we're more likely to like than pan the products we receive.

Because, like you, The Purchasing Public, we too can log on to Vibe Review, see that there's 15 well-written four-star reviews that routinely have joyous glee peppered throughout, and think, "Hey, that looks good!"

Personally, I've been broke off my ass for a few years. Money's not something I take lightly, and I take my reputation seriously, too, so I won't be telling you to spend hard-earned dollars on toys I think aren't worth it.

In short: We luck out, get sponsorship, and if we're lucky, they send us a custom-ordered shipment of toys appropriate for us -- our tastes, and our bodies -- then we share our discoveries with you, and if you like what you see in our reviews and buy something by clicking through our review, we might even get a few bucks commission.

So, is that clear now? You get how this works?

_______

Today's pleasure-causing object for review? The Stubby G.

From the esteemed Fun Factory brand, The Stubby G's a g-spot toy that delivers. It gets four-stars on its Vibe Review page, and I think they're well-earned.

This is one of those good-to-go toys that arrives with batteries and lube in the box. Once you clean it, you're ready to rock.

I find that most toys who boast "ribbing" can be scoffed at quite easily. You'd think sex-toy makers thought every woman was the fairytale princess who could feel the pea under the stack of mattresses. "Oh! My lord! That microscopic ribbing will make such a difference in my orgasm! Yay for microscopic barely-there ribbing!"

Who's kidding who? Most ribbing is pointless. NOT, however, on The Stubby G. I mean, lord, look at this thing! When you pull it out or push it in, imitating thrusting, you KNOW something's moving in and out of you.

Which is kind of the point, isn't it?

Its curve is perfect for angling up and questing for your g-spot, and it's easy to rotate it for better contact. Outside, the fluted flange at the base provides great exterior stimulation, so when you're in deep, you're getting it in all the right places -- on the g-spot, the clit, and everywhere in between -- because the width and shape and design is just perfect for multi-pleasing fun.

The Stubby G is splash-proof, not waterproof, so you can toy about in the shower if you're into waterplay, and is made of phthalate-free silicone so it'll clean up well.

The vibrating power isn't anything wildly new or different. But it's strong. It vibrates. It's a graduated dial, so you seamlessly move through the several varying speeds, instead of clicking through, and that's always nice.

A word about the dial itself. There are women who write reviews lauding how great the dial is. Really? When I first opened The Stubby G, I liked the dial. I thought, "OH, that'll be easy to turn and use during play!" because the flower design on the dial is slightly raised, so you think "cool, traction" for lube-y fingers, right?

Wrong. I found the dial sort of frustrating, myself, when my fingers were all covered with lube and I was trying to toggle through speeds. I had to figure out the grip. Since I sometimes have problems with my right hand where it might get sore or seize up after too much working out, I find the dial pretty frustrating with wet well-lubed fingers, which are generally the case when we girls have to take care of bizness. I found this could be easily dealt with by having a box of Kleenex by the bed or something.

All in all? Definitely a toy that'll be living bedside in my Chosen Toys Box, for sure. Apparently I'm the only person who thinks Fun Factory dials can be improved, but hey. The rest of The Stubby G makes for good times, and that's what we're after. And it's what I've certainly had in playing with this stubborn little G.

Let's recap toys I've reviewed in the last while:

*I quite liked, and rated as a "buy", the economy-priced cousin to the Rabbit, the "Lovely Rose", and you can read my review here.
*Lelo's Gigi is a toy I love (still!)-- madly, truly, passionately, debauchedly. Read my review here. If you don't own a Lelo toy yet, you DON'T know what you're missing.

Click here for a Vibe Review 10% off coupon that expires at election time, but can be used without limit until then!

Don't Mind Her; It's Just Hormones

2008-09-20T09:54:00.003-07:00

Men may balk if they see this is about periods, but they really should read it, methinks, for a little perspective.

Yesterday, during the afternoon of my Shitty, Shitty Day, I got my period. In the space of about 30 minutes, my eye infection suddenly started flushing itself out, and my emotions just totally took a chill pill. It was an amazing emotional about-face within about 90 minutes.

It's not that often that I get all homicidally tense with my PMS, but I was getting there yesterday as just one thing after another added up into a really crappy day. After I wrote my whining post, for instance, my website wouldn't load for me (making me think it was down) and I discovered I had a big (like 2-inch radius) infected bug bite on the inside of my knee. Plus an eye infection? Plus my just-verified cockroach infestation? Plus my yeast infection?

My friend was visiting and I literally looked skyward and just bellowed at the rhetorical gods, "REALLY? I really needed THIS too today?"

My friend cracked up, as did I, but I sure as hell meant every word. Then he left, I got my period, and I suddenly felt mellow again. Poof. Like that.

So I think the only analogy a guy might understand about that is, "Take the exact opposite of the release from an orgasm, and that's that." Like, instead of a build-up of pleasure you can't take anymore, with PMS, it's a build-up of angst and depression and rage and confusion that can't be taken anymore. (Not by all women, and not all the time. But it can happen. Me, maybe 2-3 times a year?) And the release of the tension provided by the orgasm, the bliss that comes with, that's the emotional equivalent of what happens when the period arrives. Both literally and figuratively, after one of the high-pressure, volatile PMS episodes.

I've had times when I've been so angry and didn't know why, and then I've gotten my period and mentally go, "Yeah, okay, now I get it. Now it makes sense. [beat] I need chocolate."

And men, they sit around and flail hands at women on periods and go, "We don't get it!" Well, we do? We understand why we go completely mental? We understand why something as stupid as this invisible, intangible concept of hormones can be used as a justifiable defense against murder? We understand why we get needy and insecure and short-tempered?

We don't fucking get it. It baffles us. We spend our whole lives, practically, at the mercy of these stupid hormone things, batted about like toys in a toddler's hands, and we never, ever really understand how it can affect us, Sane Strong Women, to the extent that it does.

But we learn to accept it and even recognize it when it's happening. If I see I'm headed down Bitch Lane, I just try to clear the path a little, you know what I'm saying?

Maybe, just maybe, if more men stopped trying to understand periods and women's hormones, and just started realizing that it pisses us off and baffles us too, and just cut us a little slack when these phases transpire, life would be simpler for both of us.

See, this is when it's good to be single. Or else I'd probably be apologizing to someone today after a day like yesterday. Ha.

Fucking hormones. (But, then again, I had hormones with a side of staccato-fire reality. Never really a good combination.)

Today, however? Much, much better. Funny how that works. See? I'm not trying to understand it, just accepting it, and now I'm going to go make a frittata. Happy weekend, minions.

It's good to be On the Other Side.

My Bad, Bad Week:More Information Than You Need To Know

2008-09-19T10:47:00.004-07:00

I couldn't possibly feel more unattractive than I do today. Except maybe if I had an 8-inch goiter growing out of my neck and crumbling teeth or something.

I have an eye infection that has my left eye with this just-throttled-by-Rocky swollen-bloodshot look going on. That's fun. Really.

Because that wasn't fun enough, I've also come down with a vaginal yeast infection. (I'm so not even thinking about men right now, or sex, or arousal, or orgasms.)

Throw in the fact that I've just found out these ARE cockroaches in my apartment -- German ones.

(My Twitters upon learning this were: "But it's official. They were cockroaches. German Cockroaches. SS cockroaches. Brownshirts. Bad! They should have been gassed. Karma!" Followed by, "Snell! Snell! Achtung, roach! Achtung! At least now I know their language. "Ich liebe gas!")

Fortunately poisoned-food has been dotted about my cupboards by a Professional Murderer of Bugs to help eradicate the vengeful little motherfuckers. Die! Die! Die! Don't even think 'bout comin' back 'round here!

Every now and then it's hard not to feel like life has decided to use you as a punching bag for a few days. "You like that one? Here, try this on for size! Suckah!"

But I'm laughing about it. This is shitty. I mean, it's comic-book shitty. It's comical. How can I not laugh? I've busted a gut over this.

And I assure you, humour's something I have. For the next 40 years of my life I'll remember that week I had cockroaches, an eye infection, and a yeast infection, all at once, and no money to deal with any of it. ($9 for cleaning supplies, $17 for prescription, and $17 for Canesten. There's the $40 I was taking to Value Village to find jeans and a sweater. Thanks.)

But the attractiveness thing? I'm living in a home infested with cockroaches, I have a yeast infection that's making me itchier than any human being should ever be, and I have an eye infection that leaves me sensitive to light and unable to do anything that makes blood rush to my head because the throbbing leaves me feeling like daggers are poking in my eye.

Sex is about the last thing I could give a fuck about today. Really. Arousal? I scoff at the notion! Take your orgasm and go, chump, because we're not on the clock 'round these parts, I'm afraid. My god.

And in a week I turn 35. I mean, could you LAUGH harder at this? Holy shit. I couldn't write it better than this.

It's like they say, though. This too shall pass. What's the big deal? One shitty week in a lifetime. A shitty week that comes with an "Oh, my god" gutt-busting story that'll let me rake in the laughs from folks for the rest of my life. I love telling stories like this.

Living them, however, is never as much fun. But that's the thing. Without living it, you get no story. It's the original catch-22, I'm afraid.

And this, this week, is how my cookie crumbles. What can I say? Fire the writer. A completely implausible combination of events. And to happen to such an unlikely protagonist? And you call that writing?

Pfft. Sadly, no. "Reality."

[insert weak chuckle here]

Grey! Grey! Grey!: Can't Wait!

2008-09-18T22:58:00.003-07:00

Can I just say how much I'm looking forward to the start of Season Five of Grey's Anatomy?

Has Shepherd ended it with Rose? Are the sparks officially back with Grey? Has acclaim for their major medical breakthrough yielded exciting new times at the hospital?

Is George a resident, or is he yet to take the test?

Callie and Dr. Hahn? Sizzling. Do they take a pity fuck with the lonely, "growing" Dr. McSteamy?

And so much more! Man, I've loved this show from the first commercial I saw before the pilot. I was so stoked when this first started airing. I'm glad to say it's never disappointed me yet.

One week, girls, one week!

A Little Reflection in the Morning

2008-09-17T09:49:00.003-07:00

A year ago this week, I was hanging on with the grimmest, thinnest of threads, as I completed the last week on a job I probably never should have accepted.

I worked in close quarters with one of the most negative, depressing people I've ever known, for six long months. By the end of it, I'd gained 20 pounds and found myself being a constant complainer, just like that toxic person I was working with. I hated who I had become.

My old employers offered me my old job back, which was nice of them since I'd been a bit of a flake in the two years preceeding, but I guess I'm more charming than I know.

I promised myself, upon returning to my old job, that I'd take it with the intention of improving every area of my life.*

I've done that. Yesterday I was a bit down, thinking how much I've blown the last couple of months, fit-wise, and how much more I could have accomplished. This morning I'd been trying to tell myself that, sure, I could have accomplished more, but what I have accomplished is pretty darned good.

But remembering this week last year, that really put a grin on my face. The closer I got to my last day on the job, the more and more I realized how much I was doing the right thing. I just up and realized how much I hated being around that toxicity, and how much I loathed feeling like my life was owned by work. My entire life had become devoured by my job.

In fact, that was true even to the point that they had found out about my blog, and not once but twice said, "Well, we know you blog about sex. This isn't good. We're not sure what we think yet. Don't ever write about work. And be careful what you write about."

The first time they said something, I thought, "Well, I need the job... I'll see what happens." But the second time they said something, I thought, "Gee, I wonder if the old job still wants me back." Within 10 days I gave my notice.

There's something hugely empowering about opting to leave a situation that's hurting you, and immediately getting into a situation that helps you, regardless of what that situation may be.

So it's a year later. I'm still broke, but I got a token raise on Tuesday, which is great considering I've been only an average employee for about three months now as life has been pretty stressful off hours and all, but hey. Finances are sorting out, I'm back on page fit-wise, and I've completely eliminated all the toxic people from my life. This is good.

It's nice to sit back now and then and realize just how far you've come in a year. Change, day-to-day, feels slow and tedious. Baby steps don't seem like much until you get to the end of the block and turn around for some perspective, right?

It's been a good year. And, again, I feel the winds of change stirring. Dating's getting interesting, money's sorting out, a bit of freedom's coming my way. And I'm actually happy to be turning 35 in 12 days. I'll finally be out of the 18-34 demographic. It was so much pressure being so coveted by the marketers. ;)

Gonna be busy the next couple days. New stuff'll be up on the weekend. Check back.

*My job offers only security. No promise of advancement, no possibility of big money, no changing of responsibilities, ever. But when I walk out that door, work stays at work. I go there when I feel like it, have flexibility not only in when I work but how much I work, and can completely make work fit my life. They don't even ask for overtime, except for leading up to Christmas, and it's paid overtime, so how good is that? I'm incredibly fortunate. It's like being self-employed but without all the worry. When I quit there two years ago after five years of the same-old, my friend said "Well, I can see why you'd quit... but I can't see why you'd quit." It's one of those jobs. You could change... but why would you? Fortunately, I came to my senses.

The Business of Unhappiness

2008-09-16T08:58:00.004-07:00

Body image. Stand any one of us in front of a mirror, ask us to reveal what we dislike about ourselves, and an unhesitating list would be quickly forthcoming.

Industry knows this. They count on it. All the way to the bank.

If you're happy about yourself, why would you ever spend all that disposable income on beauty products, clothes, and other distractions that keep you from looking inside, where true self-image resides?

I read a fascinating Huffington Post article on the economy of waif-thin models. It spoke of how having models thin is benefitting someone, somewhere, and until the public starts demanding differently, designers will kowtow to those in the industry who have everything to gain from keeping women thinking they need to be a size zero to four for any real chance at happiness in life. (I've written about anorexic models before and, as an overweight feminist, it's always been an issue for me.)

You ask me, I think that fashion will never show real women for the same reason that science will probably never really "cure" cancer. There's too much to gain from the downside -- illness and our discontent. The upside means people become healthy and well. If they're healthy and well, they'll be happy. If they're happy, they won't want or need as much. If they don't want or need as much, then how in god's name will industry get their hands on all that tasty money in people's pockets?

Your insecurities, people, are keeping industry going strong. Your insecurities are helping you contribute to the overall good of society. Productivity, consumer confidence, retail bottom lines -- they're all fed by your insecurities.

Why in god's name would you want to feel better about yourself? Is that really the Modern Way? C'mon! Don't smile on one another, don't love your brother, don't even love yourself! Piss, moan, whine, and feel shitty in the morning. That way, you'll feel like you need to "treat" yourself and swing by Starbucks for a Venti Caramel Macchiato, and why the hell not one of those tasty apple fritters? Then, you'll feel like shit for being so bad, you'll beat yourself up at work, and say you need to go to the gym. That'll cut into your day more than you'd planned, you won't have the time to cook properly, so now you got to go blow your wad on take-out. But the take-out's all cooked with oils and fats you can't even imagine, so what would be 450 calories if you made it at home's actually closer to 1,000 in take-out, and now the workout you just did's completely pointless. But that's okay, you're planning to buy a new pair of jeans and shirt on the weekend anyhow.

See? It's a cycle. It seems to work for you, it sure as hell works for industry, so why would we ever want to start feeling like it's all right to be a few pounds overweight with a grabbable ass?

Personally, I'm losing weight. Most of the time, anyhow. Lately I've gone off the hook and have eaten badly and not exercised, but I'm back on track.

I'm doing it because I don't like feeling fat. I don't like having little to no energy. Or not feeling strong. And not meeting goals. I didn't like movie theatre seats cutting into me. I didn't like my doctor looking at me with grave concern as he told me I was toying with the odds on diabetes. I don't want to be THAT way.

But I sure as hell don't want to be skinny.

All I want is to be happy. It may have taken a lifetime to realize it, but it occurs to me that Happy doesn't come off a shelf in a store.

Too bad there's a few billion consumers who've missed out on that epiphany so far. Which keeps industry wringing its hands with glee.

This brilliant image is by a San Francisco photographer named Cheryl McLaughlin and you can find her here. This image is for sale.

And Then It Was Monday

2008-09-15T08:24:00.004-07:00

Hi, kids. We haven't had a catch-up chat for a while, have we?

I'd love to have something brilliant to write for you today. Really. I got nothing. So you can leave now if it's profundity you seek. For you, good lasses and sirs, I offer a serving of vapidity.

See, I spent my whole weekend huffing Lysol, questing to kill bugs, and doing one of the deepest apartment cleans ever (but there's still more work to do -- the storage unit, cleaning the oven... does it ever end?). Mental faculties? Not so much.

I do, however, have a faint eau de sterilized green apple Lysol-ly scent wafting off me this morning. I'm fresh AND germ-free! And I think I still hear braincells popping off to their chemically-induced deaths in the back of my cerebellum. "No, Lenny! Don't jump! The air's clearing, really!"

Curse you, bugs, for the damage thou hath wrought upon me!

And despite wanting to turtle naked and lazily under my blankie as the warm sun beats down on me in bed as the should-be ease of this day washes over me, the reality is, I'm pretty close to hopping on my bike to suffer another 45 minutes of labour as I moan and groan my way up the steep-ass hills of this town on my way in to what will finally be some PAID work. For seven hours. Followed by more cycling.

Today could well be the last hot day of the year. Hopefully not. But it'd be wrong to let it pass by without sucking the marrow from it and enjoying every last bead of sweat I can muster out of this late-season gift .

My "kicking ass and taking names" summer became derailed after July 17th, when I came down with bad bronchitis that kept me from cardio for nearly a month. I had one valiant week then where I cycled four times in mid-August, but then I got insomnia, where I had 40 hours sleep in about 15 nights, followed by a week at work with overtime. Needless to say, I haven't found my rhythm in weeks.

I did get a good cycling week in last week but had aimed for four days of it, but saw Mr. Cockroach on Thursday night and resolved to do the Molly Maid/Rambo thing this weekend instead. Again, derailed. Three's good, though, and I can make this week a second in a row.

It's Monday now, a whole new week, and no matter how much it kills me, it's on, baby. Music's recharging, cycle bag's packed, sun's stoking the fire. It's a great day for it.

I found myself thinking a lot about when I did a cleaning frenzy like this in March, though, when I totally gutted and cleaned my place, and resolved to spend the next six months being very active. I did a pretty good job of it -- the cleaning and the six months. So I found myself perceiving my weekend as a setting of the stage upon which the next six months of life will unfold.

It's a pretty great way to get perspective on blowing away one of the nicest sunny September weekends I ever recall in Vancouver.

Vancouver, for those who don't know, vacillates between a sunshiney Eden and the downpours of the most urban rainforest in the world. Surrounded by impressive mountains yielding insane snowboarding within 10 minutes of downtown, the local geography hems in any rainclouds -- the weather amassed from the long journey over the Pacific, usually up from Hawaii, falls down on this often-soggy urban jewel before the clouds weaken and leave the for the Prairies, which will be left arid, on their travels eastward. "September" is often something not to be banked upon in this town -- make sure your travel agent knows. Summer ostensibly ends August 25th because the rain can come early and hard, and stay for months. If you think that's writerly hyperbole, then go look up the definition of "temperate rainforest", by which should be a picture of southwest British Columbia.

Today? Sunny and 24/80 degrees. Tomorrow, a little cooler. By Thursday, rain. Will sun return? A Vancouverite never knows. Hope, however, we collectively practice.

So, today I ride. Carpe diem.

I'm consciously getting my game back on over the next couple weeks. My 35th birthday's on the 29th. You should donate a birthday gift to my PayPal account so I can buy some wine and panties. Priorities being what they are and all. :)

Love your blogger! Feed her! Get her drunk! One reader claims to be sending me BDSM toys. I say, bring it on!

I do digress! Anyhow. Dating: I actually have more men in the wings these days, about four or five, and with this great late September weather, I'm not interested in dating at all. I want to get my mojo back, feel like I'm back on my path to fitness. But the question is, can I string 'em along? Should I? Dare I? Usually doesn't work well. But perhaps I'm not the only one not wanting to squander these last days of summer.

It's a shame I've forsaken such a blissful 48 hours in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. But I feel like this place I'm in this morning, this verge I'm on with what seems to be another exciting chapter of life about to unfold, is a place I'd have gladly paid money to get to. Instead, admission was a fevered weekend of cleaning. C'est la vie.

And if you're wondering where I'm at with weight? No clue. I don't care. Once I'm back on path, I'll check it out. I don't feel like I've gained or lost. I think I'm in limbo. Considering all the chorizo and goat's cheese I enjoyed on the weekend, "limbo" has been working for me. :)

Happy Monday, y'all. Why don't you, too, try to suck the marrow out of your day in some way? Take five to do something you deserve. Life's too fucking short. Even on Mondays.

PS: Unfortunately, people really are THIS stupid.

RIP, David Foster Wallace:Some Thoughts on Suicide & Depression

2008-09-13T22:52:00.007-07:00

David Foster Wallace committed suicide this weekend. 46. Hung himself.

The guy had made a career out of being brilliantly insightful and funny. Yet he somehow ended up on the dark side from which suicide seems the only out.

I've tried to write about depression over the last couple of years, because I know a fair bit about what it feels like to be on the wrong side of it. I've lived with others who've been suicidal. I understand depression in a whole slew of ways.

I'm on the other side of it these days, and think I'll stay on the other side a while yet. I still struggle with being all happy-sunshiney, because, let's face it, that works for demure screen sirens of old, but for the rest of us on Planet Earth in the here-and-now, happiness not some ubiquitous state we tap into with the flick of a finger or a "Hey, I know!" notion in the morning, as much as Dale Carnegie wants you to believe happiness is always a choice.

Even now, the quasi-adversities that pepper my life temper my glee-factor something fierce, but that's humanity for you. I'm in touch with my moody glory. I can often think my way into better moods, though, as much as I like to mock the notion.

I mock it because depression is when the ability for levity and "opting out" of moods takes its leave.

"Real" depression is a whole 'nother beast than the "normal" depression. I can shake my depressions these days because they're just that: normal. I know it might all be better again tomorrow. I know bad days are just part of the mix, just like finding surprise bad produce in the midst of your seemingly selectively-chosen product when you get home from the veggie store. Shit happens.

But not to severely depressed people. Even trying to "think" your way out of it doesn't work. I wrote this posting on August 15th, 2006. What you don't see is, that even though I talked a good game on the night of the 15th, the 16th became the first and only time in my life that suicide seemed like a good choice. There was a point in the day when I came apart. I came wholly apart. I worked alone in my office that day and had a complete breakdown to the point that I had an "emergency" call placed to me by my old therapist I hadn't spoken to in years. A 45-minute conversation talked me down from that fever-pitch of suicidal thoughts, and things were a little better in the morning.

I remember that blackness now, and even thinking about how I got to be from the person I loved earlier that year to the woman I was that day just sends shivers up me still. Because I know, as much as I loathe the easy way out that suicide is, as much as I pride myself on taking on any challenge and usually winning... I know I was ready to give it all up. And I have no idea how I got to that point.

That's the terrifying thing about depression. When you're no longer yourself, how can you possibly act in ways that are right for you? When you have no logic, how do you make the logical choice?

Depression isn't something that occurs to the weak. I'm here to fucking tell you I know more about "surviving" than most people of my age, and I almost didn't survive my depression, despite having survived so much else in my life.

(As I've said in the past: My suicidal depression was as a result of trying to suppress my period through birth control pills. I'm not sure I will ever take birth control again. I still recommend it for the average woman, but believe me I do so with massive caveat emptor attached. However, my life went off the rails at the same time, for what was pretty much the existential "perfect storm", and perhaps the hormones were just the straw on the existential camel's back.)

Weak is not a word people ever, ever, ever describe me as in real life. Not in any definition of the word.

Yet somehow the stigma of depression = weakness endures. It's why I'm so hell-bent on writing about it, because *I* have no stigma about the depressions I've had. Why should I?

And someone like David Foster Wallace just inexplicably disappears from the planet one day because he's committed suicide. Was he depressed? Probably. Maybe we'll find out. Either way, William Styron's incredible Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness is something I think any moody creative type should read. The look that brilliant novelist takes at his own suicidal depression and the links he explores, believing his suicidal tendencies perhaps had to do with his creative nature, is something that has stayed with me over the years.

I'm obviously a highly introspective writer. I do it well, it's my schtick. That said, there are dark and dingy places in the recesses of my mind that require stoicism and fearlessness, but particularly tempering, before I go trekking through them, and I find it healthy to remember just how much toying with the shadows of our psyche can unsettle us at times.

Styron quoted the book of Job from the Bible in the opening of Darkness Visible, and it's something that anyone who has truly, truly endured depression can understand.

"For the thing I greatly fear is come upon me, and that which I was afraid of is come unto me. I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet; yet trouble came."

~The Book of Job

In depression, the trouble always comes.

Because, when you're depressed, being around life itself reminds you of everything you once had and feel has now become lost to you. It's the inability to connect your reality with what your perception is, no matter how much you may be aware that it's your perspective that's the problem. It's like looking at life through a cracked, distorted mirror. No matter how you try to defragment the view, it's your perception and not the image that is broken.

Depression makes no sense. Suicide can never be understood. Unless, for the briefest of moments, it once seemed to make sense to you.

And even though I had that moment of clarity when "out" seemed better than "in", I still don't understand the choice of suicide. I don't understand how life can make death seem appealing. I don't understand having the courageous mix of fear and foolishness required to take that easy, all-too-permanent out, since all I had was the notion and not yet the motivation to make it so.

All I really understand about depression is that it's not about weakness. It's about something that we as a race still don't understand, and we still can't control. But we can at least try to talk about it. We can help remove the stigma that comes with a diagnosis of depression or mood disorders. We can make it easier for people, however brilliant and famous they are, to admit they're powerless over this thing that's come from the shadows only to choke all the light.

All I really understand is that it's a crime, in this age of information and knowledge, that such rampant ignorance and judgment still exists regarding depression.

Because it's why people like David Foster Wallace often think a rope over a rafter or a bullet in the head is easier than trying to end that chokehold of darkness over their light.

There Can Be Only One: Steff Versus the Roach

2008-09-12T22:35:00.005-07:00

If I ever needed me a man-slave, tonight's the night. He could do me a little cleanin'.

My ever-so-brilliant landlords are this major conglomerate from back east. "Back east" is what we disenfranchised forgotten West Coast Canadians call Ontario, which is sort of east but hardly East, since a couple thousand kilometres of country flank it... on the east. We also call it "The Centre of the Universe" in a sardonic kind of way.

A little Canadiana for you. You'll take it and you'll like it.

These stupid conglomerate asswipes hired this dumb-ass bimbo to be the property manager. I've made it my mission to kind of get her fired, but they just never bothered. Until she illegally broke into a neighbour's place to look for his drug stash to implicate him. (An accountant. A neurotically perfect accountant who's as quiet and respectful as they come. Who smokes pot. And drops ecstasy to get freaky with his girlfriend. Yay, freaky! Otherwise... he's an accountant. With a treadmill. Ooh, lock him up! Beast!)

My complaints about the millions of shortcomings didn't go far. Neighbour's complaint packed a little oomph. But the final straw, it would seem, came when they had to evict this strange, strange old stanky man she had rented to, despite the fact that he wore horrible old clothes, had one of those wispy "you should shave that thing" beards that never has enough hair to qualify as a "beard", who smelled like trash... because he LITERALLY was a dumpster-diving guy who carted everything home with him and had an apartment literally full of garbage within the month.

He was evicted within six months. And a monster 15-yard disposal bin was needed to cart away the shit he left behind.

I'm three-and-a-half floors up and behind him. The bugs have reached my place just a few weeks after his eviction. Nine years I've been here, and the first time in my life I saw a cockroach was last night. On my kitchen counter.

I may be a dirty girl, but I'm not that dirty.

I've cancelled my plans. It's quality time now for my friend, Lysol, and I. We're tearing apart my kitchen, washing every single dish (but not with the Lysol! and I have an eight-piece setting because I could once afford to throw dinner parties, sigh) and cleaning the cupboards, and huffing chemicals...

Because I LIKE LIVING ALONE, MOTHERFUCKER. I WILL pay this price. You are univited, Mr. Roach!

Back off. You encroachin' dis girl's space. Yo ass is mine!

Meanwhile, since I'm quite the nervous nelly around bugs (but once I go Clint, man, there's no turning back) I'm fuelling my death-search and sterilization quest with rye and coke.

In the meantime, I just want to say:

I guess there's about eight or ten people who normally comment on this blog, and then no one else ever. I like comments. More importantly, I like to hear from readers that there's a point to all these unpaid hours I spend blogging for the fuck of it, so when I had a new reader write me to say they heard of me in this posting tonight, and I read it, it made my roach-searching heart go pitter-patter and feel all warm and fuzzy. And I don't think it's the chemicals.

So, if you like my writing -- or any blogger's writing -- you really should say so sometimes. Writing sometimes is like oral sex. Sure, it's usually appreciated, but it can be awfully dark and lonely work, so a little encouragement goes a long, long ways.

Now. I have a little going-Clint to do here.

So you gotta ask yourself one question: "Do I feel lucky?" Well, do ya, roach?

When Fighting Gets Fun

2008-09-11T05:16:00.001-07:00

I love wrestling with lovers. The not-so-grudge match.

And while I put up a hell of a fight, and even like to win sometimes, the truth is, losing ain't so bad at all. You have to admit, this is one time that losing really isn't losing.

There's a little incentive to suddenly just not resisting anymore. Smirking as you issue the challenge: "You win. You're on top. Now do something about it."

Those are the losses I could stand a little more of in this life o' mine.

I'm a loser, baby.

When We Were Kids: Thoughts on BDSM

2008-09-10T08:55:00.005-07:00

Experts will tell you that who we are in life is defined by the age of seven. Our ethics, our play, our work habits, it's all laid out as part of who we are, and will continue to be, by seven.

There are those who've taken this a step further and will tell you also that who you are sexually is defined, as well, by seven. But we often spend our lifetimes trying to make sense of that definition.

Take me, for instance. I've been out of the getting-laid world now for a couple of years. After not having had sex for 26 months (but have since) thanks to a totally disappearing libido because of meds I was on, and experiencing the incredible rush of libido-arising all of a sudden after such a long dormancy, I've found myself in some very, very new and different headspace.

After not having wanted sex at all, barely ever masturbating for months on end, I've suddenly found myself craving a different brand of sex. Something rougher, more primal. Perhaps even a little less democratic. Power plays. Teasing. Even a little pain. Certainly with discipline.

Not that I've ever sat around fantasizing about rose petals on the bed, silk sheets, and soft, feathery kisses and all. That's never been my kind of imagery anyhow. I fantasize about sex on floors, against walls, in public places, getting rugburn, and always have. But this takes things to another level.

And with that comes the reckoning of how much of that is just "Fuck, I need me some" versus evolution of a new kind of desire.

So, when I was out for drinks lately and my date mentioned how experts think our sexual-play selves are defined in childhood, it was like I'd been hit by a truck. I suddenly had this monster out-of-the-blue flashback of my brother and I always playing Wild West and tying each other up as part of our hijinks. The tying was always my favourite part, whether I was the one tied who had to escape, or the one who got to do the tying.

I hadn't thought of that in years. I could suddenly remember the smell of my brother's carpet as I was tied on the floor, the way the light shone in his big-ass window, how amused I was when we came up with new knots, listening to his Elton John and Billy Joel records as we laughed and goofed off, probably until I was 10 or so. And it was just play, people, nothing sexual, so stop yer dirty thoughts.

Then everything changed. I had to be more ladylike, he had his guy friends to abuse with their stupid Jackass-style stunts in the yard, and I sort of forgot about that girl who loved the roughhousing.

Until that drink. And now I can't stop thinking about whether this "new" direction I'm wanting to amble in is just me coming home to who I truly am after all.

And, I guess until I find a partner I can trust and who inspires in me the will to explore these directions, I won't really know.

You can count on me writing more about this journey I plan to take. I think the "how I became a BDSM person" thing needs to be written about more, but in much more articulate and philosophical ways, and less focused on the "how to be spanked" technical side of things, since anyone can learn the physical/technical side of it all. Doing things are easy, but understanding why you want to go there, that can be tricky. And I won't go blindly. I think there's a real internal struggle many of us have to overcome before we can embrace the so-called "lifestyle" of BDSM.

Moral brainwashing is strong, young grasshoppers. Even I, your lowly smuttress of choice, have a myriad of hangups to get past on this journey I plan to take. Don't we all? In keeping with my blog-style, it'd be wrong of me not to share.

And I have no fucking idea what to expect. I guess that's the beauty of it all. An open mind is all I've got.

If you have some pearls of wisdom you think I ought to know, have at 'er. Like I say, I'll be the newbie in this big, bad world of BDSM, and I've no illusions on that. Enlighten me, comment away.

Hi, I'm Steff, I'll be Your Blogger. Some Ideas I'm Considering... & Sugasm

2008-09-09T10:06:00.004-07:00

So, I suck. I'm totally behind the times with Sugasm, and it would seem I was the top pick in week 144. Cool. To anyone who voted, thanks so much. :)

We'll get back to that later.

I'm kind of in this whirlwind with a mental list of a thousands things to write about and I just can't pick which one to run with.

In the next while, though, some of the things you can expect to see from me are a little more on my recent efforts in pursuing men. Like, why, after a veritable Sahara desert of dating for the last two years I suddenly decide I'm interested in dating, and I land 10 first dates in a month? I mean, is there something to the old wisdom of our ability to project our needs when we're ready to really go there? What's the deal? Why now, why so easily? Why? Not that I'm complaining.

Well, okay, I'm complaining: I still haven't had good sex. I could've probably shagged, easily, half the dates I had, but why would I? None of them really smacked of being my type. So do I have the right to complain about not getting laid if I'm the one who's opting out of charity fucks when they're there for the taking?

And I'm turning 35 in a couple weeks. With it comes a lot of soul-searching about who I've been, who I'm transitioning to, what I've lived without, and what I think I need for the years to come. And, amongst all those ponderings, comes a rethinking of what sex means to me, and what sex SHOULD mean to me.

That means I'm starting to get very curious about pushing past some of my old boundaries when it comes to BDSM. Not that I think of myself as a domme-in-the-making or anything. Just that, if sex is a smorgasbord, why am I limiting myself to the same old-same old with all that variety? If I've got 40 years of sexuality left in this body of mine, perhaps even more, then why not give myself more options for expression? What am I so concerned about?

Then, of course, there's my big, big hatred for Sarah Palin and all the pandering, right-wing mentality she stands for.

AND naturally there's another bunch of sex toys I not only need to play with, but share with you my thoughts on. My thinking is, once a week you'll be hearing about my latest play session. Maybe Monday will be sex-toy review day. After all, you could order it and get it in time for your weekend, if the gods smile upon you.

And there's more, more, more aswirl in this noggin of mine. I need a roulette wheel with topics on it so I can spin and go, "Okay, I'll start there!"

Any thoughts of where I should go first, oh minions mine?

Here's my out-of-date Sugasm, and then I'm caught up--eat some, you'll feel better:

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

This Week’s Picks
Bush Rides Again: Birth Control Defined as “Abortion”?
“The reason you tweak laws, redefining them or broadening their definitions, is to create the opportunity for a legal climate in which challenges may better succeed.”

First Time For Everything: A Polyamorous Relationship
“The only real trouble with being a triad came from the world around us.”

Sex Work And Compassion: Panty Tree
“I will never feel shame for being a sex worker.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
I Meet the Business End of Citibank’s Anti-Adult Business Policy

Sex Toy Review: "The Lovely (and lamely-named) Rose"

2008-09-08T08:04:00.005-07:00

I'm sorry, but I often really, really hate the name of sex toys. And this is no exception.

From Emma's Passion Garden comes the Dual Rose aka "The Lovely Rose." Jesus, people. Fire the marketing department, because this toy deserves so much better. Really.

Nonetheless, when a guy was recently given the choice of what toy to invade my personal space with, this is the toy he thought looked most up to the job. 20 minutes later and we were both in agreement that his choice was a good one, and since the rest of the sexual encounter was a total waste of my time, I was pleased I'd had the foresight to give the bad loverman some tools toward pleasuring me.

The Dual/Lovely Rose is a Rabbit-type vibe that aims to give you a double-dose of the feelin'-goods.

Obviously I have a hard time getting past bad product names or lame packaging, and I felt that the Rose came with both. And that's why I was so pleasantly surprised that the toy itself is actually quite good. I mean, it succeeds in getting my knees shaking.

I've checked out the reviews of this product on Vibe Review, one of the great reasons you should be checking their site out, and found that all the reviews sort of found the same things I did -- that the design of the tapered, dare I say "blooming," head of the vibe is a great saving grace. It's narrower closer to the base, but the head is of a nice size. When you throw in the 360-degree rotation of the head, and the fact that you can reverse roatating directions, plus the reasonably powerful vibing action, and it's a damned fine toy. It's got wide clearance with a narrower shaft, so it hits a lot of really great happy spots on every turn. This is helped by the fact that the toy's every so slightly tilted upwards on an angle in its "resting" position, by the way, so it's intended for g-spot pleasure, too, and it succeeds handily.

Something I also like is The Rose's easy touch-sensitive speed selection. I really think more sex toy makers need to ensure their hands and fingers are all covered with lube when they're trying to adjust the speeds on their toys because I sure as fuck don't find it easily done on some of these toys. Tragically, we have to get messy before playing, and it'd be nice if lubes didn't get in the way of more fully exploring our toys. This one, however, is very easily adjusted with slippery fingers. So, thank you to Emma and her Garden for making this an easy one to toggle through speeds and modes with.

Speaking of speeds and modes: There's three speeds of rotation in either direction, and all you need to do is push the middle button once and it'll flip on the fly. (Unlike most men you know.) It also has three speeds of vibrating. But you can also opt for no vibrating, and just rotating, or vice versa, which is nice if you're in a take-it-or-leave-it mood.

The thing really worth noting, though, is that this is one of the most affordable Rabbit-style vibes out there. It's a great budget toy, since it comes in at about 30% cheaper than most of the other Rabbit-type vibes, but it's really effective. I haven't had the pleasure of using other Rabbit-style vibes (long story there) so I don't know if the noise volume's excessive or not, but it's definitely more audible compared to single-stim non-rotating vibes, but that's not a big shocker.

Much to my surprise, I think The Rose will be one of my go-to toys. The rotating's powerful and effective, and the clit stimulation is highly effective. The trouble with the clit stim head is what's also listed in all the VR reviews -- that it's not a very big clit-stim head and gives only regional clit stimulation instead of hitting all the pleasure spots all the time.

And what do I have to say about that? Well, I think that's going to be a bigger problem for some women than others. Everyone's body design is a little different. For me, this toy works well.

Even better? It's waterproof. Not splash-proof, but water proof.

And even better? It's phthalate-free.

So, if you're looking for a budget vibe that does double-duty, is waterproof for bathtime playing, and is easy to operate and use? Go for the Lovely/Dual Rose . Ignore the stupid name, and go for it.

And, hey, I know it's a cheap-enough toy already, given the stiff pricing of its competition, but why don't you click here and use this coupon and save 10% off?

By the way, if you buy anything through Vibe Review (the Rose or anything else) by clicking on any of these links in this review, I'll never know YOU bought anything, or what, but you'll be putting money in my pocket. It's like magic! You get happy, I get happy. Oh, my pockets would be so grateful.

A Quickie Hello

2008-09-07T10:10:00.003-07:00

I spent my Saturday slacking off but tidying, then launched into the mother of all cooking nights*.

Now's a cycling and visiting-people day, for which I've got to rush.

Tune in tomorrow when I'll be reviewing a couple sex toys. Tuesday I'll be running a little something that ponders how rough I liked to play as a kid and maybe how that influences who I am today. Bondage, anyone?

Meanwhile, hope everyone's weekend finishes fab. We've got a late-season burst of beautiful sun and warm temperatures, and I'm fucking thrilled a bike figures into my day's plan.

*I made my highly sought-after sundried tomato-basil-garlic butter that I do every August and give to close friends and family, who all gobble greedily. I roasted a bohemoth of a kosher chicken that'll be the basis of everything I eat this week. And I grilled a dozen sweet-tooth red peppers for a nice bruschetta of the peppers, garlic, and good olive oil for appies when I visit some goodly folk today. Wanna make my butter with the end-of-season harvest? Approximately a pound of sundried tomatoes in olive oil [oil drained] with a pound of butter and a half head garlic, as well as a couple cups of fresh basil, for which you can use the stalks too. Good salt. Pureed. :) Keeps for months in a cold fridge, about three months or so. I doubled the batch to split between three people for the season.

Steff the Singing Fool

2008-09-04T19:40:00.004-07:00

Opera Man always makes me smile.

There are a few Vancouver characters that the locals who've been here for years know about. Like the Rock-Art Guy. Or Opera Man.

Over the the 12 years I've lived in Vancouver proper, once in a truly blue moon the cosmos aligns ever so fortunately, and I luck out and happen upon Opera Man taking a stroll. Nowadays in his 60s, he's a shorter, smaller, slimmer Italian man who shuffles casually with his hands clasped behind his back and just belts out baritone operas at will. He oozes joie de vivre.

I've seen Opera Man when I was depressed as I've ever been, and when I heard him and his spontaneous operatic bliss, I couldn't fucking help but grin. Big. I love that man. Big love. If there's a "Dude, you rock, and make Vancouver Vancouver" award, he gets one.

Me, I love to sing. But I've always been a coward. I have an all right voice. Took voice training back in the day. I'm deeper-voiced, with a throaty, sultry rattle, and smooth power when I want it... but I'm shy.

One of the many "Making Steff Rock" projects I've undertaken in this year of conscious changing-of-self is that of trying to force myself to be a bit bolder, less afraid of being spotted for being myself out loud... in all my trouble-making or bold ways that I usually keep somewhat under wraps amidst the general populace.

So, tonight, cycling home along one of the more travelled bike routes, I decided to sing out loud.

At first, just the odd phrase escaped my lips, as often happens, as I headed out of downtown and over the bridge, but by the time I was mounting the massive climb home, I'd gotten to a really slow and haunting cover of Bowie's Man Who Sold the World and put it on repeat.

And then I got louder, and more consistent. And I lost myself in it as I was killing myself to make it up the steepest part of the ascent, breathlessly gasping in-tune, "...you're face... to face... with the man who..." and I caught this mom's eyes as she was walking with her son down the hill, both of them previously obscured to me by a couple vans, and she was grinning her fucking face off and nodded approvingly to me.

Just like I always do to Opera Man.

So, then I sung louder, and even more consistent, and I really got into it. And, you know, I had a fucking blast.

It's funny. It wasn't really a conscious decision to force myself into the singing-out-loud thing, but by the time I sort of got a little caught in the act on the bridge and felt all awkward and shy about it, I found myself thinking back to 45 minutes earlier, when my boss's three-year-old daughter was twirling in our office and singing at the top of her voice, and I had thought, "Aww. She's having so much fun."

By the end of my ride, it was pretty apparent I was having much fun. I caught more grins along the way.

And maybe it's just a girl on a bike, singing a song but, to me, it's a huge, huge thing. It's actualizing who I am on the inside with who I'm showing on the outside. That's maybe something I do a lot more these days, with more ease, but considering how much more of "myself" I have inside that doesn't often tend to see the light of day or come out from behind locked doors...

Well, it's a journey I think I'll enjoy, however inconsequential these things might seem. Even if it's just belting out Bowie on the best bike ride ever, it's all good.

And I'm still singing.

Psst. You. Yeah, you. You know I'm on Twitter?

To Dabble or Not to Dabble

2008-09-04T10:05:00.003-07:00

I'm all torn these days. The more I consider relationships, the more I realize I don't really know what I want, nor what I can handle. I've accepted a date for sometime next week with a poly guy. I'm curious as to whether I can process such a relationship.

I'm not concerned about my ability to take more than one lover, if I'm open about it and don't have to juggle or lie or anything. I can't do the duplicity thing.

My concern is whether I'm too jealous or possessive, whether my insecurities will get the better of me, whether my competitive nature makes me unlikely to play well with others in the picture. I really don't know. Am I built for the variety and openness of a poly relationship?

I got told I gotta get off the fence and figure it the fuck out. Hence the date.

I know I don't have a "regular" relationship in me. I'd love a friends-with-benefits situation, but I know, inside, I'm kinda wanting to taste my way through a few male specimens. I want variety. I want to consume men instead of food. But I don't want to go sleeping around. I figure 2-3 lovers could be fantastic.

But then can I deal with the flip of men having the same variety on the side?

Well, there's really only one way to find out.

Celebrities & Smut: Mirren on Date-Rape, Duchovy on Sex Addiction

2008-09-03T07:05:00.004-07:00

Late last night I put a cutesy "Helen Mirren rocks!" kind of posting up, and I woke up to see a message from Abby Dabby pointing out that Mirren has gone on record as saying date rape isn't really something the courts should be involved in.

In an article coming out in the UK's GQ, she's said:

The actress also stated in the candid interview with British magazine GQ that it would be hard for women to press charges against someone they had planned on being sexually active with.
She told the publication, "I was (date-raped), yes. A couple of times. Not with excessive violence, or being hit, but rather being locked in a room and made to have sex against my will."
"I don't think she (a female rape victim) can have that man into court under those circumstances."

Every single time I have sex, it is a choice. Every single time I choose to be active, my partner's receiving a gift from me. If I don't say yes, it's not a choice. If there's no choice, it is arbitrary and a situation of force.

Force means rape.

Rape is wrong. I don't give a fuck if I know someone, had planned to be active, think he's cute, flirted with him -- if I haven't made the choice and consented, it's rape. Period. This is what "no means no" means.

If Mirren didn't have the balls to stand up against men who've forced her to have sex, then that's a shame. She's not alone. Until more women are strong enough to say, "You know what? I didn't ask for sex. I didn't want sex. He took it. He forced it." and protest, then the fight will remain as hard and unbalanced as it is.

That said, I think charging for date rape is a pretty extreme action, and one must really consider just how strongly they protested. I think a whispered "No" is different than a forceful "No", and if it's going to be a date rape charge that can ruin a man's life, then a woman needs to know she protested in a clear and direct manner.

Perhaps Mirren doesn't think she protested adamantly enough. Maybe she just resigned herself to sex. Maybe this is why she thinks of it differently. I don't know.

I'm on the side of women in this situation, but the only thing that concerns me about date rape are the number of men who've been accused in situations that seemed a little shades-of-grey. It's so fucking tricky to be balanced on this, but I think the important thing is, making it very plain that the answer is "No." Be heard. Speak loud. Shout. Say it like you mean it.

And if they choose to not hear, they deserve to be charged by law.

_______________

David Duchovny has released a statement to say he has checked into a facility to deal with sex addiction.

Duchovny's one of these guys who lost his virginity at 14 and was sexually involved with a married woman at 16. He's always oozed sexuality. He plays a sex-addicted writer in Californication. He voiced-over the sex-filled Red Shoes Diary erotica series. The guy's been all about sex for a very, very long time now.

Unfortunately, sexual addiction still isn't taken very seriously. Most people think, "Hell, go for it. If you can get laid that much..." Someone like me, writing a sex blog, and talking about sex addiction is probably about the stupidest topic to write about. How many of my readers fall into that category? How many sex bloggers do? Or do any? How common is it, really? Do we even know?

I often look at sex blogs and wonder, "How healthy is your relationship to sex? How much does it command your life? How many relationships has sex destroyed? Or has it been a problem at all?"

I'm sure a few sex bloggers fall into the sex-addicted category. I'm sure someone in your day-to-day life does as well. I know I don't.

But when you live in a society that sells sex everywhere, yet has a very Puritanical approach to sex, just how do you straddle both while celebrating your sexuality in a sex-positive way that doesn't lead to unhealthy behaviours? With great difficulty, I guess. But most people won't have that difficulty. Sex is an aspect of their lives, not the majority thereof.

Sexual addiction, like any addiction, is a progressive disease. Over time, the search for sexual highs begins requiring more and more risk and ante-upping to receive the same reward. This is a great explanation of the disorder.

A reader wrote me long ago about sexual addiction. Her long, long letter was heart-breaking as she detailed her inability to act in ways that stopped hurting her life. She told of how sex had destroyed almost all her relationships and continued to have her acting in ways that she found were highly destructive in all areas of her life, even engaging in unprotected high-risk sex when she didn't have the control to delay for a few moments. She was the extreme, the other end of sexual addiction. The heroin junkie of the sex world.

My response was here.

I think, though, in light of the Duchovny scenario, it might be wise to take another kick at the can and define anew the difference between extreme enthusiasts and addicts. Because just because someone's getting laid a lot, loves it, and seems compulsive about it doesn't mean they're an addict.

They could just be really, really lucky. It's the nature of the behaviour that defines it.

In the meantime, Duchovny's one of the coolest celebrities I've ever met. Funny as fuck. He used to come into my bookshop every Tuesday morning when he was shooting X-Files here in town. He'd buy a book, a copy of the New Yorker, would shoot the shit at the counter for a moment, always made us laugh, then he'd collect his dog outside, go get a venti drink from Starbucks, wander down to Kits beach, and walk his dog, read, and drink. Does that sound like an evil sex-addicted bastard to you? A lech?

Just another guy with a difficult time on his hands and a compulsion for something he'd clearly rather be doing a little more without. I hope he sorts his shit out. He rocks. I'll ponder the sexual addiction conundrum in the coming weeks.

The Most Annoying Conversation

2008-09-02T07:52:00.001-07:00

I had a chance to go to a huge party Saturday night, but I decided I wasn't very much on my social game, and that a simple one-on-one conversation would be better suited for the day I should have after a long week, so I made plans for a drink with someone instead.

Well, so much for being on my social game.

It was my first time meeting this guy. I figured, smart conversation and some drinks, a nice mellow time, right?

And maybe that's how it would've felt if I could have gotten a word in edgewise. But I didn't. So, no, not so nice, not so mellow.

While I'm often excessively articulate and pretty quick-thinking about it, I go through phases where I'm thinking more than speaking, and when I do talk, I'm a bit more measured and slow about it. I often like to do crazy things, like think before I speak, so I've been known to take something like 5-10 seconds to formulate my comment.

But apparently hesitation kills and no one should be allowed such time before speaking, if my night was any measure of that. My drinks-date interrupted me every single time I spoke. Not once could I naturally finish my thought. Every. Single. Time. I even got pissed off now and then at him interrupting, and CONTINUED speaking, despite him not stopping his interruption. Still, didn't take the hint. I even said, "You talk too much" and made a couple comments that way, and, nope, didn't slow him down a stitch.

And then the other thing was, any thing I did manage to say, he either turned it into a statement about him and his life, or else he just flat-out said he didn't like my opinion. (I said, "I want to go to New York soon" and he goes, "I hate New York, it's all concrete." Well, I'm not fucking visiting there for a park, now, am I, when I live in a rainforest surrounded by ocean, mountains, and amazing land? Like New York's competing with THAT? I'm going for a concrete jungle and "the city that never sleeps". Fuck. Stop making me justifty myself.)

I gradually just stopped giving a shit and phoned the conversation in. Why fucking bother? Like anything I said mattered anyhow? Every time I spoke, I was interrupted, or informed that my opinion wasn't at all correct. Way to make a companion feel like they matter and have something to contribute, huh?

I wanted to bitch-slap myself yesterday when I realized I was doing the story-trumping thing myself. You know, say someone goes, "I just climbed a mountain!" and you go, "Wow. Which one? Oh, I've climbed that seven times. It's pretty shitty. Next time you should--" and it's all right when we do that once or twice, it happens, right? But I think I did it a few times yesterday and I thought, "Wow, you arrogant cunt. Shut up." So I shut up and listened then on.

This guy needs that inner voice to do a little shouting, methinks.

The irony of all this is, I recognize I've become too internal and too into myself of late, so I've been working to try and make myself a better listener and a more measured and gracious speaker. I was never, ever as bad as this fellow is, but it certainly serves as a reminder of why I'm trying to take myself to a new level as far as the give-and-take of conversation goes.

If people tell you that you talk too much, you probably do. Maybe you should listen.

If you like interrupting people because you think what you have to say is so brilliant, maybe you need to understand that it's rude and it's offensive, and it's essentially saying to people, "I don't give a shit what you have to say, because I'm wittier and better than you."

Next time I want to feel not smart enough or not appreciated, I know who to call.

But, you know, I'm gravitating toward people who know how to make others feel appreciated and liked. It feels good. Who knew?

In Case You Still Don't Think He's a Diiiirty Ol' Man

2008-08-31T21:09:00.001-07:00

McCain's VP Choice

2008-08-31T08:59:00.003-07:00

[Someone made a cute little comment on Twitter, about how amusing it is that Canadians care so much about the American election. Why do we? Because anything America does tends to affect Canada, that's why. Protectionist folks want Bush, err, McSame, to win so our trade policies don't get negatively impacted. People like me, however, are tired of the conservative climate that contagiously caught to Canada during the Bush era. My life has notably changed, my freedoms have notably changed, as a result of the oppressive climate down south. Our policies don't affect Americans day-to-day so they never care about our votes. Americans affect us daily, ergo, many of us live vicariously through your happenings, because we know the tumble-down effect will hit us shortly. And how.]

Why should McCain's Vice-President pick offend any thinking, smart women in the world?

He met Palin once, then decided she was the one. Just like that. Shazam. Experience? Pshaw! She's cute!

But who is she really? Just a hockey mom with five kids who decides to be a toughie on finance in office as governor of Alaska, a state with around 300,000 people... after her illustrious career as a mayor of a town with 9,000 people? Is she just a gimmicky leader, like her stunt of selling the Alaskan governor's airplane on eBay, then stuffing the proceeds into the state coffers and opting to fly coach?

She's a woman so given to petty politics and favour-making that she's under ethical investigation for trying to get her former brother-in-law fired from a high-paying state job in Alaska after the ink on the divorce with her sister has died. I mean, she's UNDER investigation. It has not been resolved, she has not been cleared, and yet she's nominated as a running mate? Yeah, way to vet her, guys.

If you're a feminist and you're sitting around thinking, "Oh, yes, but she's a woman. She strings whole sentences together! Yay, women! Women rock!" then give your head a fucking shake, would you? Yeah, sorry, there's no argument praising Palin you can make because the facts speak for themselves. She's under investigation, has never done foreign policy, hasn't even been in charge of a town of more then 50,000 people, or a state with half a million folks, yet if Mr. I-Had-Cancer-Four-Times and Will-Be-Oldest-Prez-Ever should kick the bucket in office, SHE takes over as leader of the free world? Well, at least we know she can get a good price for Airforce One.

When smart, powerful, deserving women get appointed to positions of power, it's a compliment to women across the board. McCain could've picked Christine Todd Whitman, Olympia Snowe, Susan Collins, Elizabeth Dole, Kaye Bailey Hutchinson, or any number of other smart, established women on the American scene. He could have. Hell, he should have.

Instead, he's arrogantly picked someone who's cute as a button, has barely any experience, and who's an easy-to-sell all-American hockey mom. Unfortunately, she's supposed to be pandering to the disgruntled Hillary Clinton supporters... yet not one of her policies is compatible with Hillary's. Oh, but she's in the pocket of oil and gas, and I guess that's always helpful if you want to be a Republican vice-prez.

I think it's high time women be included more frequently in top level politics. We've shown we're as smart, as innovative, as communicative, and as ambitious.

But choosing the cuter girl over the more experienced, more established, more credential-heavy, more proven women out there who might just be over 45?

That's not the change we need. That's the same old misogyny, just dressed up prettier for 6:00 sound-bites.

Obama's right. McCain just doesn't get it. Do you?

The Bi-Monthly Friday-NightBottle-of-Red Requisite Posting

2008-08-29T21:14:00.005-07:00

In vino veritas.

The price of truth, it seems, runs $9.99 per 750 mils. Yum.

I've recently cut out my crack-like addiction to the tasty, chewy, buttery, vanilla-y Rice Krispie squares from the market down the street. That, coupled with yoga and a few more veggies in my diet as well as weight-lifting, and I'm noticing (just as of tonight) some new toning in my midsection. Like, what? I have rib bones? Who knew?

I'm guessing I've passed 50 pounds lost now; I was 47 a couple weeks back. I've had a couple rough weeks and I've given myself a break from the scale. Who needs that shit? I suspect I've beaten the 50-pound mark, though. It feels promising.

I decided not to go to this big scooter thing tonight. Yeah, I know, scooter-girl geek. What can I say? Those guys are just whack enough to be a good time any time. But tomorrow night's the big party thang and I'll just show up there lookin' cute in my cutest duds. Truth be told? In vino veritas? There's a limit to how much nice clothing I have right now. I shouldn't press my luck with trying to look cute for the same crowd more than twice in a weekend.

I just haven't the money to dress me up. Lord knows I'm tryin', but it's a slow go. I hope to pick up a few more things later this month. But I have a few nice things.

Tonight, for the hell of it, when running up to the store I actually dressed up instead of down. I wore these cute floral camo rolled-up crop pants with sandals and this brown tropics-linen shirt striped with gold, left it mainly unbuttoned and threw a hot-pink cami under it to punch things up, wore sandals, and carried my lime green shoulder bag.

I have no idea what the hell it was, but I got a whole lot of boy eye contact as I tried to figure out a different meal-on-the-cheap after seeing the ludicrous $3.49 cans of coconut milk at Safeway. (What?!) Is it the brazen clashing colours with a pastel camo pant? Or unbuttoning enough for bouncing boobs under a cami? What?

Honestly, I checked once to ensure my pants zipper was up. It was just a little daunting.

You have to understand something here. I may have lost 50 pounds, but I still have clothes I've been able to wear before, size 18 stuff from my halcyon days 3-4 years ago, when I was busting out of them yet proudly claimed they were my size. I still feel like the Steff of old... even though everything I own is at least one size (nearly two) too big (and I've thrown out the stuff that was any larger than that, two garbage bags full so far.)

When I actually have a whole new wardrobe, I'll feel like a whole new me. Fortunately for me, I'm combining the right things of old with the right new ones, and having a little success. But tonight? Fucking surreal.

Like I say, I feel like my old self still. Not this 50-pounds lighter version. Eye contact from half the semi-cute to cute guys in the store? What the hell?

I didn't mind it, not a bit. I just got taken off-guard by the third or fourth guy, since I'm used to one or two, you know? Let's face it, everybody's somebody's type. You dress nice, look happy, someone's bound to dig something about ya. It's just about putting it out there. I find that easier now, though.

It's not like the store was full, either, by the way. And I happen to know from living in this hood for 9 years that the store is most packed with cute-ish single-ish guys at 8ish on a Friday. That was just coincidence that I happened to go there then, when it was such a lovely visit.

But...

I felt, and feel, fucking awesome. What a wonderful experience to go from noticed now and then to just plain noticed. Even if it's only tonight, it was just so unexpected and felt so nice.

I've always been cute. I doubt I'm hot. And I don't care; I'm cute. That works. But I was always cute and really heavy. Now I'm cute and comfortable in my body. That's a world of difference.

But I'm not mentally there yet. I don't compute the difference between 16 and 22. I'm still shocked when I have enough room in the movie theatre seats to wiggle myself into a reclined position. Slumping? Blah! Wiggling? Fabulous!

Psychologically, topping 50 pounds is one of those thresholds most of us just don't think we can hit. Once we do, well, why not name our fucking number? I feel empowered.

So, to have tonight's little surreal shopping trip in which I noticed getting noticed, and enjoyed returning some gazes, around the same time I'm cracking the Holy Grail of weight loss, 50 pounds, having never joined a weight loss group, bought a gym pass, had a dietician, or used any supplements...

Blows my fucking mind. What a happy convergence of milestones. I needed that. Seriously. I'm flattered. I feel warm and fuzzy.

Yet I'm really glad I'm having a night away from the madding crowd, a night in which I get to quietly appreciate this changing of the aesthetic guard.

My mindset, though, seems to have some serious catching up to do with my reality.

Maybe that's the fun part. 'Cause I'm sure having fun so far. ;)

Obama by Way of a Detour or Two

2008-08-29T02:04:00.006-07:00

I wrote this back in March. I don't have the time, really, to write in the morning, got home late tonight after dinner out. A thing or two to say of that at another time, probably.

But in honour of the awesome happenstance down south today, when Obama officially accepted the nomination and made what was one of the greatest political stump speeches I've ever heard, I'm gonna throw this posting up. Since, like, the opening goes double for tonight's fucking phenom of a speech. But bear with it, it takes a couple detours. You know me.

Feeling political hope? New. I like this.

***

I've now both read Obama's entire speech on racism in America today and watched it, and, boy, I like this guy, man. I like him a lot. I think he's the politician I've waited a lifetime for. I don't think anyone could run on a platform of complete change and not achieve any. I don't think you can articulate what's so wrong with a country today and not have had ideas for a lifetime on what to do to fix them if a chance ever comes.

I have, for a while now, believed that Obama is, in some respects, a master manipulator, but I believe he does it for the right reasons -- to make himself a viable candidate. By not polarizing people too greatly earlier in his career, he can stomp his feet a little louder now and achieve more through it.

He's far from perfect and I have no illusions, but you gotta understand where I'm coming from.

I never pursued my journalism career for any number of reasons, but mostly because of what Stevie Cameron said to me over drinks after a conference she spoke at. (And I mean "said to me", it was a private chat.) Stevie Cameron's the journalist who exposed Canadian Prime Minister Brian Mulroney to be a duplicitous thieving hack back in the day and blew open the Airbus scandal. She's up there with Barbara Frum when it comes to awesome female Canadian journalists, man.

So, she says to me I seem like a nice kid (I was 22). She had recently quit the mainstream political journalism beat and was now editing a women's lifestyle magazine instead. She began to speak about how a career in journalism means committing to a life of finding fault in everything and everyone. It's about finding problems and covering tragedies and wars and more often reporting on the worst of mankind than the best of it.

And I mentioned how I wanted to be the kind of old-school journalist that lasts out the ages, you know? Mencken, Murrow. Men of meaning and agenda. I wanted to call the world on what was going wrong, point it out, and be a part of the change that ensues. I was then and am now the sort of journalist that believes neutrality is overrated. I'm objective, not neutral. Then, I was an idealist, totally. I wanted to help change the world.

So she says, "And when it doesn't change on your watch? What then?"

She pointed out the rates of addiction and alcoholism amongst the journalists she knew, and said that was often "what then", so if change was my mandate, I should be prepared for stagnation and cycnicism.

Wasn't the most heartwarming bit of encouragement I've ever received, no.

And I thought about it. I knew the writer I wanted to be, the kinds of things I wanted to do, but what if I fell short and I was some chick on a beat in the city, constantly exposed to the same shit all the time, never seeing change... who would I become then? Would I like myself? Would I like my life? Or, would I, as I suspect, feel vapid and empty inside?

Ironically, I've yet to become that writer I wanted to be, but I guess I'm working towards it.

When it came to shaping the writer I am, I was a huge Hunter Thompson fan, early Hunter, you know. Sharp as a tack politically. Fear & Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72 stands as one of the best political books last century. Hell, he was the only writer on the campaign to call every single primary in the '72 election, nailed 'em all. Whatever that tells you about his political skills, it should really tell you how well he knew his country.

He loved America but hated what was happening to it. Thompson, more than anyone alive, wanted to believe the American Dream. He spent his life waiting for the next voice that would cry out that a change would be a-comin'. He wanted to believe that someone else not only believed in the American Dream but would fight for it with the fight it deserved.

And Carter tried, but pretty much failed, but beyond Carter, that change never did materialize. Clinton looked like the next great white hope, but that ended in a disaster of cigars, blue dresses, and denials. More business as usual, more corruption, more disappointment.

The greatest tragedy of this race to lead the Democrats is that, man, Hunter woulda loved this one. God, how I wish he hadn't put a bullet in his head that February day two years ago. I suspect he figured "Superbowl's over, and Bush has two fuckin' years to go, AND it's February. Fuck, I'm done." Pow. Tragic.

And here comes this guy who says America's really, really broke, but if we all pull together, we can fix it again. He's preaching change. He's raising money on the web, running a clean campaign, chanting words like "we can" and "change".

Business as usual ain't going to fix America. Voting outside the box, though, just might. Obama ain't perfect, but he's different enough to be promising.

...And in a life filled with business as usual and disappointing politicians, I'm being given a few short months to believe that, yeah, maybe things can be different after all. I'm enjoying it. If he wins, it'd be incredible to see an optimistic America again. I don't think Americans realize that the America of the American Dream is the nation the rest of the world really does long to see. We wanna see a country with its "best" at its forefront. It's been a long, long time since we've seen that. America was built on dreams... having a few more right now certainly might not hurt.

I don't think I'm an idealist to believe in a platform of change. I think of myself as a realist... I know we have it in us to have a better world. I prefer to believe in that part of us that finds cures for diseases, sends men to the moon, and creates global vehicles like the internet to unite us all through the miles that would appear to separate us. I believe that everything great about who we are, the world we have, and the people we can be, all begin with a single dream by a single person at a single moment in time.

If we waited for perfect people and perfect opportunities, we'd never achieve anything. Instead, we look for the best people of those available and the best opportunity that avails itself to us; that is how success is found and had.

So I'm going to go on the record here and now as just another irrelevant Canadian's opinion that it's Obama I want on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Struggles Between Sexuality and the Self

2008-08-28T07:08:00.005-07:00

A reader, Dp, just happened to ask me to maybe touch on the difference between a person's sexuality and the person. He and I sort of look at the equation differently, I suppose, but it's something I've been considering a lot.

I've placed a sexual encounters personal of late, trying to find that elusive friends-with-benefit situation that encapsulates someone brilliant, someone my style, and someone who nurtures both the same high libido I do while still being a passionate and creative lover who's not afraid to cross a few proverbial lines in the sand.

I have a tall order to be met. I know it will be a frustrating search. I'm already frustrated, but I'm resolved. I've had responses accusing me of being a "shopping list" woman who's out there for a trophy man rather than reality guy. That's so not the case. I'm a reciprocal woman. I bring to the table everything I'm seeking in a partner. Absofuckinglutely. I deplore hypocrisy, and I do not ask for anything I'm not willing to provide, or that I haven't provided in the past.

I'm sure there are a lot of people out there who are comfortable separating the sex they have with the people they are, but I'm not. The sex I have is as much a part of who I am as the girl who loves to bake for her office coworkers. I mean, it's part of my identity. As much as I am a generous woman, I am a sexual one with a big love for intimacy and passion. I'm given to doting on partners, and I love selfishly receiving. I'm keen on orgasms. But I'm also keen on taking all night to get there sometimes. I seek power almost only in sexual exchanges, though sometimes in my life; but certainly there's a part of me that does seek that power. To deny that she exists, or to wrongly assert she's just a "mode" I operate under, would be to blatantly ignore a core part of who I can be, and often am.

But just because I enjoy power exchanges as part of sex doesn't mean I can do without the smothering, doting affection of old-school intimacy. Because I can't. Affection and intimacy are as important to me as any other facet of sex, whether it's taking a good hard shagging or practicing an evening of switchery.

Born and raised Catholic, much of my life has been spent trying to get past the "Satan is waiting for you if you engage in sex" bullshit taught by a church who seeks to shame practitioners away from sex. It's taken my whole life to realize that who I am when I am a sexual being, someone who's getting shagged frequently, is a better person than the moral, abstaining girl that life sometimes induces me to be. I'm better all the way around when I'm getting laid. Simple.

The hardest thing I've had to learn to be in my lifetime is that woman I am when I'm having sex. Realizing that she's not a bad person just because she likes to take it the way she does, or domme a fellow when the urge strikes, or tease and taunt a fella to the brink.

I've learned slowly over the years that I need to get past that mind-body connection. Past that place that distinguishes the mind over the body, or vice versa, and instead uses them both together to transcend mind/matter, which some of us believe has to happen for real "sexual union" to occur between lovers. Complicated, huh?

It's one of the reasons that getting vocal about sex wound up being a huge turning point for me in taking my sexual experience to another level. By being less concerned about my volume, just allowing that natural reaction to occur, I somehow got past another level of hang-ups, got more into the now, less into the thought side of it all. It was, and is, such a struggle to override the person I was raised to be as I try to embrace the person I've discovered I am, all the while trying not judging the latter just because I was raised as the former.

How each of us gets to that point where we stop segregating who we are sexually with who we think we are morally, and realizing they don't have to be separate people, that we can (and often are) both, is a struggle I think some of us will be fighting for our whole lives. There will be no easy answer to how you get to that point of accepting the coexistence of your sexuality and your morality, and the realization that one need not cancel out the other.

But the only way I know to do it? Stop stopping at our comfort zones. Stop assuming that just because you've always thought one way about sexuality that your mindset is correct. Stop assuming you know how a sexual act will or will not make you feel. Don't presuppose things like bondage will never appeal to you, because the odds are mighty strong that, like the majority of people out there, who you truly are sexually is something that will be shifting and changing with the rest of you throughout your life. Embrace it. Most importantly, explore it.

Of Dates, Diets, And Me

2008-08-27T06:40:00.001-07:00

So, I've been dating more of late. Averaging one date a week these days, and it's all right. Nobody has yet made me pitter-patter, but we're getting better on the averages here.

My big sexual misadventure of a couple of weeks was the classic case of pulling the trigger way too soon (in more ways than one) largely because I stupidly gave in when instinct said "Stick to the script, girlie. Use the door." Ultimately the blame lies with me because I'm the person who probably had better perspective that night, but hormones said "Get thee LAID." Not what I had in mind, but.

Now, though, that's not the problem. I'm not "going there" for the hell of it. Getting laid is nice, but I'm not doing it if anyone's getting hurt, or if it's just flat-out dishonest. And I just don't feel taking advantage of situations for my hormones, either. It needs to be genuine, and the right thing for right then. As it turns out, I seem to be doing all the rejecting these days, which is new, which is good, but the guilt sort of sucks sometimes.

Like, Monday I had a date. To be brutally honest, I was disappointed to see he has a bigger weight problem than I thought, and that's a big problem for me at this point in my life.

Here's where I have to clarify: Hard bodies don't interest me. Never have. Some are hot but in that "I'd fuck you but I'd never, ever trust you" kind of way. Is that bigoted toward excessively pretty people? Sure, but it's going on the averages I've come to see in my own life. There are always exceptions, of course.

But like I told my date tonight, it's about health and strength. I'm not strong enough to be around someone who loves food, and all the wrong kinds. I can't. I've lost 50 pounds, gone from a 22 to a 16, and I can't go back. Won't. Dad almost died of diabetes. I was heading toward a future of heart disease and diabetes and premature death. I had the "This isn't good" chat with the doc. I was filled with self-loathing and felt like I was out of the loop with life. I'm so much better than that now. I like this girl. I like her a lot.

And why wouldn't I? I have changed everything.

So I had the decency to say I'd keep an open mind and if I saw him trending toward health and fitness, I'd develop an interest... most likely.* Which is true. He's certainly of the "type" I gravitate toward. Very much so. But not at the price of putting myself around a life of excess, not anymore.

Bodywise, that "type" however tends to be guys just carrying a literal few extra pounds. Maybe 30, 40, 50 pounds overweight, depending on height and frame, just of the mildly "doughy" and comfy but nothing more than that. Kind of maybe at a max to the extent that I myself am presently overweight.

Cushion for the pushin' and a little extra to soften the blow? Works for me.

But you got to know, I'm not keen on bones gnashing into me during sex. I dig madly the slap-slap-slap sound of flesh hitting flesh in the act. Thin-people sex doesn't sound as fun. They need a little more slappin'. I really love skin, but more importantly, flesh. I'm all about the meat of it. Good firm meat, of course. Like firmness. Excessively jiggling meat, not so good.

But when I say "doughy", I'm talking more in a Steven Page of Barenaked Ladies, not Jack Black. Geeky and softish but in proportion. What can I say? I'm that type, and I like that type. Says a lot about the light I see myself in, if anything, I guess.

Now, me, personally, I ain't aiming to be slim and trim. Not in my goals at all, whatever you think of this weightloss quest. I see my ass being perfect at about a size 10-ish. Face it, in life and on this blog, my personality's larger than life. "Slim" doesn't compute when one throws it up against "Steff". I mean, really? Foodie-sensualist-scooter-riding-feminist-geeky-sex-fiend girl? Thin? No.

I like myself a little on the soft side. Just not as much as I was. :) That problem's solved anyhow. Like I wrote yesterday, waxing about the new loveliness of my thighs. Smooth, firm. Lovely! I like this. Shaving is so much more fun. Yet, my ass is amply grabbable. S'all right.

If my proportion stays as good as it is, but I just slim up a little more, then I'll have what I think is the perfect body. Fuck the media, fuck size two, fuck DDs, fuck it all. I'm cool with a B-cup 10. The ever-perfect 10.

But I'd feel like shit if I just slammed the door of possibility on this guy, who has a lot to offer, but lives a different lifestyle than me right now. I've been that person. A little faith would have done me some good.

And it's like that bumper sticker. "I may be fat, but you're ugly, and I can diet." Exactly. He's cute.

Good people are good people, whatever their size. But they say your social situation dictates your fitness. Hang with overweight folk? You'll be overweight. Why? They eat fat food, don't exercise. Hang with thin people? You'll lose weight. Why? Because they tend to eat better, exercise. Nature, nurture?

It ain't science, it's just environment. And given how much a glutton I am when the lovin's good, given my foodie-sensualist bent, I need to be a very careful girl these days. Let's nibble wee bits of wonderful cheese and lots of fruit, maybe a crumb of excellent dark chocolate, but nix the pizza. Choice is a wonderful thing.

And that's the way that low-fat cookie crumbles. As did my date. With whom I've vowed to stay in touch with, and get to know, either way, with an open mind. Since he aims to "prove it". Because good people are good people.

*Steff note: I should add he says he's up to my challenge and says I should stick around. I said sure. We'll see.

Overreacting, or Right On The Money?TWITTER SPAT!

2008-08-26T00:00:00.007-07:00

A Twitterer I was following, who has hundreds of followers, made a couple comments in the last couple days in which he's using homosexual terms to insult others, like "gay" and "faggot".

Strikes me as a very grade-five thing to say, and I call him on it. Publically. He called me politically correct and blocked me.

Here's my Twitter feed's archive. Now here's the exchange.

Greg Scott's initial comments:

Professional soccer players are such faggots.

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

And, the next day:

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

So, I said:

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

To which he wittily retorted:

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

And I got blocked. Dang, Hilda, when am I gonna learn to play nicely with others?

Mm. Yes. I'm just SO politically correct. That's all this blog smacks of, all day long. Political correctedness. Its predecessor was called The Cunting Linguist but when I got interviewed on San Francisco radio and they couldn't say the blog name, I thought, "Well, that's no good." So here we are at Smut and Steff. Politically correct? My fucking ass.

Wanker. In the world's largest language, with more than a million words, you have to use "faggot" and "gay" as your adjectives? Your definition of "faggot" as it pertains to the soccer players, for instance, sounds more like a word I know as "actors" or some would even say "hams", and I'm not opposed to insulting pigs.

Also, I think the fashion-challenged meteorologist sounds more "effeminate" or even "sissy" than gay, since most of the gay men I know can kick most straight mens' asses. As Jon Stewart says, "Gay goes to the gym."

But, really, as long as we're living in a world where people are still carrying placards that reads "God hates fags" and are dressing their kids in shirts like these? Yeah, I'm going to make a comment when fuckwits banter about words that sound a little laced with hate and judgment and 1960s mentality, thinking they're all witty and cute. Somebody should. And I fucking VOLUNTEER.

When you're using it as an insult, pal, you're saying it's a bad thing, you're judging. And itmakes you an ass, even if it's just you in your smug urban-hipster posturing.

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

Are You Stalking Me Yet?

2008-08-24T19:37:00.003-07:00

You too can follow me on Twitter.com, where once in a while I might say something spontaneous, like:

house: 95% clean. floors: 85% clean. laundry: 100% clean. mind: 95% dirty. some situations of filth just can't be helped.

Think of it as nibblie crumbs of my blog. And my otherwise ordinary life.

Get to Know Yer Blogger #2:The Sex Edition

2008-08-24T12:28:00.001-07:00

I did the first Get to Know Yer Blogger because I was too exhausted to think in linear fashion. But then I had fun doing it.

I figure, what the hell, let's keep this wagon wheel rolling. I don't live the wildest of lives, but it's interesting enough. And writing these sorts of snippets all hodge-podged together is pretty fun for me.

Keep in mind, of course, of my sort-of policy of not revealing intimate particulars about my encounters. So, these are all very allusory -- skimming the surfaces. You just don't need to know, although I know you want to. But that's the stuff I like to keep all secret to myself. What can I say?

The most recent stuff in my life is all variations of themes begun in the earlier years, so most of this is pretty distant from my world of now.

Without ado, skimming the surface of my sexual life...

• The best outdoor sex I've ever had? In the absolute pouring rain, middle of a stormy November night. My trench coat was lain down over a muddy patch (but the least wet in the area) under a gigantic elm tree by a river. It was after midnight, no one was around, we got soaked, somewhat dirty but mostly just really wet, and got through it in record time, but it was fucking fantastic. Or fantastic fucking. Both, really.

• One of the best nights ever with a lover was when we went out on a cliff, at the end of a forest path in the North Shore mountains, to catch the sunset... and when we tried to get back, it was too dark to find our way. We stayed until the sunrise, huddling together on a small jutting bit of cliff, conveniently flat, but barely larger than our two reclined bodies. Overlooking the Pacific, surrounded by rainforest. Got home six the next morning, snuck in before Mom awoke. Blissed right out. Until she "woke me up" at 7 to say Grandma had died. Weird. Highly memorable night on both counts. Really sore back. Great night.

• Longest ever stay-in-and-fuck "weekend" in which pretty much nothing else was accomplished? Five days. And thinking about it still makes me grin. I need me a chance to break that record sometime. Best thing ever, all-sex weekends.

• Most sex in a night? I don't typically count. Six times that I know of, maybe more? Once is just wrong. Besides, it's not about the number. It's, can you handle more? Are you at the point where no amount of lube in the world is going to make this easy on ya? Then it's probably a good time for a break.

• What ever happened to sex outdoors? Now that I have an apartment, I just never get around to outdoors sex anymore. Sex on floors, however. Shit, it's been a decade. That totally sucks. Holy to-do list item, Batman.

• Sex under the stars. A lover had a rooftop patio in an apartment that was taller than the other buildings around. We'd pull the mattress out and shag ourselves silly out there, under meteor showers and anything else you can think of. If you've never had sex on top of an apartment building? That's your to-do list item, then. Highly recommended. I should put a personal ad out for penthouse owners, seriously. I love the heavens.

• First time I ever had casual sex or, rather, sex I knew would be a fling at best? I was 27. He was a fella I'd met travelling in California. He'd had a girlfriend, but we spent the whole night talking at the Sacramento youth hostel. We wandered around the whole town, talking until five a.m., even happening upon the band Cake rehearsing for a show at 3 a.m. and we sat in the deserted street and listened to 'em and kept chatting. Awesome chemistry, but even though he was away from his gal, he wouldn't cheat on her -- which made me think he was even hotter. Kept in touch by emails after our travels, and when he became single, he booked the world's fastest plane ticket. He was Mr. Five-Days-Indoors. Then I showed him a little of the town, then we shagged more. His visit was for 10 days. Never spoke again, for whatever reason. But no regrets. Not a one. Had a nasty UTI after all that sex, but like I say, not a regret.

• The older I get, the more aggressive a lover I become. Not sure why that is, but it is. I don't mind, but the younger guys seem to. Silly.

• That said, my biggest fumble in bed? Just assuming everyone likes variety in sex. The men who can't handle any agression at all make me want to bitchslap them and kick them out of my home. I'll show you some fucking aggression, boy-o. Happens a little too often. My screening is becoming more intense. Men need to be fucking be honest when they say they're looking for a woman unafraid to say or do what she likes, 'cos I'm that woman. Such as the guy featured in my rant The Kid and the Long, Long Night.

• First time I ever played You-Show-Me-Yours-- I was seven or eight and had no idea nudity was bad, since, as hung up about sex as my folks were, we always saw them naked. It was a neighbourhood boy and we were suitably in the forest before we dropped our drawers. He wanted to see how girls peed, too, but I took a pass on that. Thank goodness. I'm so not the golden showers type.

• My eyes get me noticed on here, I guess, 'cos they're that feisty green us Irish girls play off so well. But I think my lips are my best attribute. They're full and soft. And strong. And they serve me well. My teeth have a gap in them, not in the centre, though, off to the side. But they're clean and white. I wrote about what my face "means" in the art of "face-reading."

• I'm deceptively shy when I meet a new guy the first time. Shy, but kind of confident. But once we've become acquainted, the hesitation and shyness goes right out the window.

• Sexiest thing a man has ever said? Probably "Thank you." Lots of sexy things get said in the moment, and most of them are just "said in the moment". But it's geneuine appreciation or after-the-fact conversations that really stick in my mind. Once every blue moon there's that sex that's so awesome it feels like an out-of-the-world gift to you both? And a "thank you" after that, laying spent with each other, just blows my mind. Genuine gratitude and appreciation is so fucking hot. Sexiest thing I've ever said? Couldn't tell you. Not a clue. I say a lot in the moment, and remember little of it after.

• I chipped my tooth. I was blindfolded and bound. A lover decided an ice cube of his really wanted to meet my clit. I spazzed and shot up in shock -- unfortunately he was leaning in for a kiss. Our teeth collided. Mine chipped. We made sure we were both okay, and the sex took off from there. One of the top three sexual encounters in my life, but probably greatly romanticized because it was 15 years ago. I don't mind. I love the memory.

• I'm an outted blogger working in an office where everyone knows I write about sex. In fact, every single person in my life knows I write this blog. Most of the reason I wanted to write it was to get past my sexual hang-ups. What better way to do that than being honest about your identity? So, yeah. It's cost me a job or two in the past, but that's not an issue anymore. Fuck 'em. I won't work where it'll be a problem. My life's too short.

• Now, violence-free! I've never been assaulted, and have never hit anyone, in a relationship -- or in life. I consider myself blessed. And intuitive about when to get the fuck out. Complacency kills, baby. Besides, I tend to take an even split in wrestling matches with lovers. I'm a strong, strong, tough gal. Just try me. No, really. ;)

• Most erogenous zones? A reader asked. My neck and inner thighs. Having kept my hair short for several years now, I think of it as an unwitting gift to men. I used to have really long hair and it annoyed me that, while men loved the hair, they focused on it and not my neck. My neck's where the focus belongs, boys, believe me. Problem solved. But they now pass "go" that much quicker as a result. Inner thighs? Need I say more? Oh, well, let's say this: I was on the couch last night in short shorts, and it occured to me that my thighs have never been this smooth and firm. They don't even rub together when I walk anymore. I love these thighs! I want to show them off more.

• When I think of you, I touch myself. The first time I ever masturbated, George Michael was my inspiration. I wrote about it, too. You can read that here.

• I still have my Catholic school kilt. Better yet, I'm one or two sizes away from fitting it for the first time since ballooning up since I was 13. How exciting. In other sexual stereotypes: Along with being a former Catholic school girl, I've also been a leader in Guides, a bookseller, a candy-striper, and a librarian. Christ, I even sang in the choir. That said, I'm good enough to bring home to Mom, but bad enough to keep it all very, very interesting. Plus, that penchant for voyeur sex might just make Mom's hall closet a good place to try playing. Just be very, very quiet.

• The older I get, the more my mind opens. Things I nixed only a couple years ago are now proving more and more intriguing to me. And this is why I judge nothing. Well, except golden showers and scat and stuff. Never going to happen. More thinking along the lines of advancing into BDSM and areas like that, really. Depends entirely on partners from here on out. Will they inspire exploration? That'd be nice. I'm sure you'll hear, either way. (Here's my Bondage for Beginners, if you're interested.)

stop the world! lemme off!

2008-08-23T13:18:00.003-07:00

today's a mental health saturday. two solid weeks of insomnia finally broke for me last night at 9 when exhaustion washed over me like november rain. every part of my body collectively sighed and said "we give up" and i fell asleep on the couch at 9:30. on a friday night. i know, eh?

but my god was it great.

right before i crashed, i had been writing about how horrible the insomnia had been. i estimated my total sleep over the course of 14 nights to be in the neighbourhood of 50 hours. i wrote about how dark a place insomnia becomes as you pass the tenth night. every hour after that tenth night becomes a bleak kaleidoscope of doubt, confusion, fatigue, frustration, and even angst.

when you're constantly deprived of the ability to completely reset yourself after your day, yet you can't slow your life down, it just stops being fun in a hurry. every night that continues, the damage becomes exponential.

as an official Smart Cookie, i take my mental faculties pretty seriously. worse yet, i have one of those jobs that, while totally flexible and fun and stress-free, requires a great deal of mental acumen to navigate the course of my day. girl has got to be on the ball.

and i doubt there's anyone out there who takes greater pride in doing a good job, doing it on time, and doing it to the best of her ability more than me. i love my job, i love the people i work for. so, when i feel like a mental loser, well, it's just a hit on more levels than i care to experience.

couple into that the fact that writing, for me, is like breathing. even if none of you people were reading me, i'd write. it ain't about you. i just love the feeling of writing. it's quick and organic and fun for me.

i have a quote framed, kicking around on this desk somewhere, that sums it up for me. "writing for a living is a privilege, not a god-given right, as the opportunities are few though sought after by many. there are years of rejection that serve as a crude winnowing process, after which those left standing are those who simply must write." that's the novelist richard ford in an interview with writer's digest.

back in my 20s, i had six long years of writers' block. that's the world's longest story to get into, but suffice to say i felt like a fraud and a lie for about six years. writing, since then, is the single most important thing in my life. and i don't care that i don't make money from it. i'm not trying to, i guess. i suspect i will. i've had other priorities. [shrug]

this week, i've just felt somewhat dead writing-wise, thanks to the insomnia. and there's nothing i loathe more than feeling apathetic towards writing, or feeling that the notions fail to connect to page. when you're failing at what you really and truly are, it's pretty hard to feel good about the day-to-day. i don't really know what else i am, but i know i'm a writer.

that just is part of what the whole dirty beast of insomnia is. the robbing of self, the robbing of clarity.

there's a reason sleep deprivation is used as a tool in torture and interrogation.

and there's a reason why most people will probably list a great sleep as being one of the great joys in life.

last night was one of the greats in mine. a nap soon looms, too. operation sleep-in continues. perhaps a spa afternoon... a nice oily bath, facial, shaven legs. today, it's all about me. :)

Encore Steff: Ejaculation Ethics: It's a Gusher!

2008-08-22T08:07:00.005-07:00

This blog turned three years old in July. It was really good the first year, then the second year I kinda just walked away a while. But I'm back. :)

It's, like, the world's slowest week for traffic and comments because everyone's going back to school and I don't care to go through the effort of a big-ass posting when I'm getting 40% fewer hits this week. All those college-age readers of mine. But it's also the third anniversary (Aug. 22, 2005) of when I posted my most commented-on, most discussed posting, so I thought I'd repost it for some more discussion, because it's still one of those things that doesn't get talked about a lot.

If you want to read the original comments (all 50+ of them, many very heated), go to the archived posting and check them out here. I want to start a new debate though, so I'm not pasting them here.

______________
My Reader's Qestion:

I'm involved in a long-term relationship and we have a fantastic sex life.

That often involves me coming on her breasts and neck. Occassionally I have accidentally (and I genuinely mean accidentally) shot too far and it's landed on her face. She is never offended by this, and the thought of giving her a 'proper' facial turns me on massively. It's not a denigrating thing at all in this instance, although I can see why some women and men think like that. But in this situation, in our relationship, it's just another bit of sexual fun I'd like to try.

But I'm cringeing with embarrassment at the thought of asking her.

Any tips on how I can raise this? And any thoughts on general that you have about come ending up anywhere other than inside you (or a condom)?

My Thoughts:
Facials are a huge topic, in my view, when it comes to the difference between man/woman and man/man relationships.

GayBoy told me how seeing cum on the face of a lover is very, very arousing, and that it’s quite popular in the gay community. I sort of understood this and I can even kind of see the male mentality as to why it’s hot.

But then it becomes a man/woman issue, and I think there’s groundwork I need to lay down before I can really get to the heart of Anon’s Q.

I don’t talk about feminism on either of my blogs. I don’t feel I should have to talk about it. I’m a strong, sassy chick filled with independence and verve. I don’t “need” a man, never have. I’m not interested in marriage, I don’t want kids, and I’ll never, ever allow myself to depend financially on the dick in my life. Period.

That said, there’s no reason why that should impede my love for men, my appreciation of all they bring to my life. Most of my friends are male, in fact.

I don’t think gender needs to complicate matters, and I’m never vindictive or mean towards men just because they’ve got cocks and a different minset than me. Women who do behave in that manner are bitches, not feminists, and I resent being lumped in with them.

I’m not an “equality” seeker because I think there are definitely things men do better than women and vice versa. I’d rather have my life saved by a male firefighter than a female, and I don’t give a fuck what that may or may not make me seem in the eyes of certain females. That said, I absolutely feel equal in the bedroom, if not superior.

As a woman, sex can be very, very empowering. Knowing more about what to do and how to do it, how to elicit the reactions I want, and how to leave a man gasping, all these things have given me power, not stripped it from me. It has given me more respect in my relationships, regardless of what the media seems to think about sexy women, because the men in my life have loved that I’m willing to do what it takes to bring them incredible pleasure.

But given that I have such strong opinions about being respected and appreciated and having my boundaries known and adhered to by my lovers means I also have strong opinions on things like facials.

First, though, is the issue of equality. Again, I’ve said I’m not interested in equality per se, but when it comes to facials and cumming on your female lover’s body, there IS NO EQUALIZER.

There is nothing -- NOTHING -- a woman can do to a man that will be on that level. There is nothing we can do to “mark” you, to display our ownership of you. The most we can do is leave a lipstick ring on your cock, and that simply adds to your sensation of dominating and conquering, instead of giving us some semblance of that ownership -- which is what the psychological payback is for a man when they cum on a lover’s face.

“That’s my cum. Her face. Mine. All mine.”

You can justify it or idealize it any way you want, but that’s essentially how it boils down. It’s simply more objectification. It’s more of us females being under the male thumb, in theory.

(Bear with me, you might be surprised what I have to say in the end. I’ll get there soon.)

As women, we’re constantly objectified. Whether it’s a car advertisement or in porn, here in North America, we’re constantly made to feel as though we’re sex objects and seldom anything but. Maybe it’s because you can’t stop looking at our tits when you talk to us, or the leering glances we get wandering the streets. Maybe it’s that we’re always on our knees sucking your cock in porn videos when the reality is that we’re usually at your level, lying on a bed, or even hovering over you as we perform fellatio.

When I do my posts for this dirty little bloggie, I often scan through endless pathetically stereotypical porn shots in my quest for the classy fine art nudes you see before you. It works out to maybe one photo found for every 100-200 I see. So much of the porn I see has women almost being victimized and seeming to enjoy it. How fucking ludicrous. I love watching people have sex. I hate porn. Do the math.

Many of the shots I find in my quest for images include women looking thrilled that some huge glob of spunk is streaming down her face, like she just won the fucking lottery or something. “Oh, for me?! You shouldn’t have, you sweetie!”

The reality is the opposite. Yeah, there are women who dig it, absolutely. And power to you, babe, if that’s what you’re into. Whatever. I’m down with kinks. But there are also chicks and guys who want to be pissed on, people who want to literally eat shit as part of the sexual experience, people who are into degradation as a means of heightening the experience. And that cup of tea just ain’t right for a large segment of people. Straight up.

It bothers me -- profoundly -- that there’s still so much stereotypical degradation and filth attached to sex. It bothers me that my site with these tasteful nude shots and this graduation towards the sensual and the erotic is somehow “exceptional” and not the norm. Why the fuck not? Why can’t THIS be hot? Why can’t THIS be the norm?

So you need to understand that ME, my personal reluctance to having a man cum on my face is NOT preceded by hangups and weaknesses. It’s because I’m just not wanting to feel that way -- to feel owned. I don’t want to be consciously reminded that there is no equalizer for me when you cum on my face. I’m not interested in being further objectified in the bedroom.

BUT...

That said... in a relationship with a man I dig, a man I love, a man I want to please to no end, yes, I might let it happen. (Although I'd rather not.)

It is something that should be discussed, I think. But when that moment arises, when he's about to cum, he doesn’t really need to ask my permission before he does it. However, he better fucking well understand that it’s for him, that it’s something I do because I want him to feel like I’m willing to go to any length to see him pleasured. Because I am willing.

I will not point it out and say, “Look what I’m willing to do for you.” That sort of self-martyrizing is bullshit and it’s manipulation. It has no business in the bedroom or in any relationship in your life. PERIOD.

He’s a man, an adult, and he should just understand it. Most will.

A casual one-night stand and he cums on my face? I’m glad he came, because now he’s gone. Done like dinner, man. You don’t get that privilege if you’re some fuck-n-go contributor to my evening’s hijinks. Like I say, I’m not promiscuous, I’m not a casual sex fan, but that’s not to say it hasn’t happened. It sure as hell has, but my boundaries are different in casual sex. In a relationship, there’s so much more I’m willing to do for him.

In YOUR relationship, Mr. Anonymous, I say go for it. Have the conversation. But your question is, how?

With great difficulty, that’s how. There’s no way you’re going to ever feel comfortable or at ease asking about such a complex sexual favour, not being the liberated and caring man you clearly sound like you are. But in a good relationship, you need to take those risks. It’s those risks that lead you to that higher sexual consciousness that really brings home the thrill of connecting deeply with your lover.

But you knew that. It’s why you’ve asked.

You state that you have previously accidentally shot your load on her face and it’s made you feel horrible yet aroused. I suspect that part of the arousal for men is the knowledge, deep down, that there’s absolutely no fucking need to shoot cum on a face. We love the forbidden, and that’s not a trait exclusive to either sex, so I can understand that mentality. It’s why I’m willing to indulge a man I care for.

But you’ve done it already, like I just stated. So do it again, “accidentally,” but next time, follow it with conversation. Apologize. Tell her you’re sorry it landed where it did. Tell her to wait there. Go get a nice, warm, wet handtowel and a dry towel, and gently, lovingly clean her face as you tell her again that it was unintentional. Wash her face, dry it off, but continue the conversation as you do.

Be on your knees, bedside, eye-level as you speak with her. Being on your knees is like a psychological act of submission, it will speak louder than you can imagine.

Ask her to forgive you. She may stop you then and there and say it’s okay. Problem solved. Maybe she doesn’t speak because she wants to see what you say next -- which is probably how I’d respond -- not at all, yet.

So, then, you want to lower your voice as if confessing and just tell her that although it fills you with shame and strangeness, that the sight of your spunk on her face did something primal to you, but that the shame and guilt almost negate that arousal. Then you just simply ask. There’s no way to really word it or phrase it so it’s easy to say.

What I’d maybe try to say is something along the lines of, “Look, I feel awful about just doing that, but it really turned me on. I don’t ever want to subject you to feeling like you’re just some plaything of mine, but if you’d ever indulge me and just let me do that to you without all this emotional baggage I’m feeling right now, I don’t think I could even tell you how amazingly turned on and indebted I’d feel to you. You don’t have to answer me now, but think about it, and if you’d be willing... my god. I can’t imagine the pleasure you would give me... I’d be putty in your hands.”

If a guy said something like that to me, and I understood that he realized what he was asking of me, I’d never say no.

Conversely, “Honey, you’re so hot with my spunk chunks on your face. Can I do that again next Friday?” is probably going to kill your chances. But you knew that. ;)

In summary? I’m not a fan of ever getting cummed on. Period. I understand that in the give-and-take world of sex, it’s to be expected. I understand what it does to my lovers when they’re able to see their secretions on me.

As fucked up as I sort of think it is, I just make my peace with the fact that it’s one of those male things that I, as an open-minded but middle-of-the-road chick, will probably always be slightly baffled by.

But that’s all right. Both sexes have their mysteries and intrigues, but it’s communication and reaching understandings that close those gaps between us. Sometimes, it requires doing something you think is out of your safety zone. Sometimes, the things we think are depowering us and leaving us cloaked in filth or what have you will actually wind up strengthening the relationship in ways nothing else could.

Sometimes, allowing your partner to “violate” your boundaries is the kindest, most loving thing to do.

And I understand that and accept it. That’s what sex is.

Maybe I’m the exception, maybe I’m the feminist chick who just doesn’t want to be cummed on, but I suspect there are other chicks out there who feel the same and that they are a majority. I’d love to hear the female POV on this -- and I know the male readers are probably thrilled to have this discussion opened up.

So, chicks, what page are you on? How does it make you feel? Is it a respect thing? Is it a disgusting thing? Does it turn you on? Do you think I’ve overthought it? Have I missed anything? How could a guy convince you it’s something you should do? Or CAN he convince you?

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

2008-08-21T09:11:00.005-07:00

So, remember the reader who wrote me a couple weeks back to say that her hubby sucked ass at oral, and had for 25 years?

Now, a bunch of guys wrote comments, saying, "Well, maybe it's not all his fault", but what I'd neglected to say was that we'd exchanged about a half-dozen emails or so about the topic before I posted. I don't like commenting when I don't know the shit, 'cos it's so easy to hear 12 facts and think you can offer a solution. I actually like dialogues, so when people email me a question, they can expect that I'll clarify points, and to respect people's privacy and my blog space, I truncate in posts.

Well, the dear reader wrote me back today! Good news! We LOVES good news!

Turns out, she decided everything else in the relationship was fine but she was fed up with the bullshit. She told him his rules were stupid and that he completely sucked at it and it wasn't worth the hassle and emotional turmoil it put her through to ask for it. She said, "I told him I never, ever wanted it again."

I guess that was the reality-check he needed -- he shaved his facial hair to show her that he wanted to try harder, and went down on her, breaking his own rules about how long since intercourse -- and it was apparently fantastic! He said it became a matter of pride, and now he's proud of himself for reducing her to orgasmic puddle of bliss. She says he's strutting around like a peacock, going, "I knew I could do it!"

As she says:

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

And, you know, I'm just over the moon that it worked out. I'm thrilled she got back to me and filled me in. I've asked her to let me know a few weeks down the line if he's keeping up with it.

This is why I love getting emails back afterward, though. Because it goes to show you that, there's only so far all this nice, polite, please-and-thank-you shit goes. Life's too fucking short. Sometimes, you just have to say bluntly that they ain't getting the job done. If you've tried and tried, but you've always been nice, it's time to get rid of the tact and diplomacy, and throw down.

Like Jack commented last week on a posting about the guilt after disappointing sex, he was surprised I didn't call out the fuckhead who failed to give me the knee-quaking sex I so richly deserve.

Yeah, I was totally surprised too. What a total lack of character for me. I figger it's only because I'd gone so long without a good shagging that I had this surreal, "Did I imagine all that good sex?" But I also confused the issue -- I thought, "Well, he's a nice guy, just..." But then it clued in the next day. No, he's a selfish lover.

And it was a good learning lesson. But if I'd said something, I might've stuck with that fellow, and I'm hoping this Quest For Good Sex can be much, much better than I think he'd have mustered anytime soon, even with all my willingness to help.

(I'm tired of edumacatin' the boys. I want me a good sexual equal. So, I'm holding out and scoping still, dates loom. I am NOT settling.)

Be blunt. Embrace the power of speech. Say what you really, really want.

Hell, you might just get it.

Image found on Chagrin/Tumblr.

Get to Know Yer Blogger

2008-08-19T18:41:00.006-07:00

I feel like telling you random things about me, mostly because I'm too fucking tired to string coherent thoughts together, so "abstract" works spiff for me. And I'm not writing about sex today, so, y'know. Mental break. :)

So, in no particular order, some of the things you probably don't know about me and my life.

• When I was six years old, my family and I were in Tijuana, Mexico, for a day of shopping away from Disneyland. Somehow, I wandered off. My folks thought I'd been kidnapped and sold into slavery or something horrid, because I was gone for a whole three hours.

Then they found me. Much to their surprise, I'd managed to barter with a street vendor for a cowhide cowgirl's vest, then also a watch, with some of my candy money, and had bought candies and was hanging out with a bunch of Mexican kids on the street, sharing my goods. Me, I had a great time. My folks, though, got robbed of $500 in cash while waiting to talk to the cops in the police station, so they were pretty mad at me. Impressed with my loot, though, and my shrewd six-year-old negotiation skillz, and hugely relieved, they let it go pretty quickly.

I still remember the smile the vendor had, being so amused at me bartering for my cowhide vest, that I loved for the next two years.

• I moved to the Yukon when I was 21 for a year. Because I was a Northern Exposure fan, and because "seeing the Northern lights" was high on my to-do list for life. The first time I ever saw 'em? Blew. My. Mind. Still do, when I luck out and catch 'em every few years.

• I ran the election campaign for a guy in my college who was running for the position of Women's Issues Liaison. He won. How's that for being a feminist? (Favourite conversation with him ever: Reaching the conclusion that the old looped "holy shit handles" hanging from the ceiling of his '71 VW Beetle were "fuck straps". Good for feet or hands, depending what part of you should be suspended, he figured.)

• I was the youngest person in my college class, 17 years old, journalism. 18 when I ran Mike's campaign. We made the BC evening news.

• I won a car once. It was a 1979 Chevy Monza. Covered in doghair. Broke down on a bridge. But that's just the beginning of the long winding story that you'll find here.

• I have officially ridden so long, and so far on my scooter... (Yamaha Vino 49cc, pictured here, but now has camouflage-duct tape for a seat cover. Heh. I'm a pragmatist.) ...that my 41,000+ kilometres is the equivalent of riding around the world at the Equator. Cool! Let's do it again!

• I've fallen down a flight of stairs, have been thrown off a horse mid-jump over a fence, have had a scooter accident... (that hurled me off my bike, destroying mine and my friend's, and sent me sprawling into an intersection. My friends all thought I was dead. The story is here, on my "journal" blog, The Last Ditch.) ...have had three cars totalled with me in them... and I have only one scar on my body, it's on my right nostril but I got it in grade 2, not in any of those incidents. And I've never, ever broken a bone. My body alignment, though, heh, is a whole 'nother story. But I'm tough!

• I'm a decent public speaker, dare I say even good? And it doesn't terrify me. Dentists, however, do.

• When I plan my roadtrips, I take special care to figure out where I can be for a great sunrise. I don't know what it is, but something about driving somewhere new, great music on the radio, and a sunrise looming in an exotic new spot, why, that's one of the best things in life.

• When I was nine and mad at a boy in my neighbourhood, I took my cowgirl boot off (loooved my cowgirl boots!) and hurled it across the yard at him, and hit him smack in the head. I was so proud. My mother heard me screaming that he was an "ASSHOLE!" and came running out as the boot met head. That went over well.

• The sex fantasy I've had since 16 is that of shagging in an anti-gravity chamber (think NASA). I have that filed under "unlikely". But it's probably my biggest sex-geek factoid. "Ooh, sex at NASA! Lift off!"

• My dream vacation I want to take when I get some more weight off and really adopt the physical lifestyle I want? Learning to surf in Morocco. Can't help it, love the idea of a feminist sex-writing chick from Canada learning to surf in an Islamic country. And, Morocco? Ohhh. Oh!

• In keeping with the cowgirl boots and cowhide vest, as I type, to the left above my bed is the caricature/cartoon drawing of me done in Disneyland that summer of my misadventure in Tijuana -- me as a six-year-old cowgirl, rodeoing on an electric riding horse.

• I sold Michael Hutchence of INXS a bunch of wooden toys for his kid when I worked on Granville Island. Three weeks later he was found dead of auto-erotic asphyxiation. (Other celebrities I've "served" in the retail industry are a pretty insane list, since this is MovieTown -- David Duchovny, Tim Robbins, Malcolm McDowell, and way many more. But I've never been starstruck, so. Whatever. Malcolm McDowell though? COOL as can be.)

• I had the uncanny luck of totalling one of my cars on a snow day, on a mountain -- and was caught on camera by a news cameraman. The story's probably one of the best things I've ever written, about 5,000 words, in two parts, on my journal blog. Part one here, part two here.

• I'm fabulous at throwing dinner parties. But I never throw them anymore. Hmm. Oh, right, got tired of being broke off my ass after feeding everyone all the time. Broke sucks. But if I had the money? I'd be doing it weekly. Love that. Love, love, love. Bistro Chez Steff.

• I kinda always wrote a bit now and then as a kid, but it was because I wanted to be friends with a particular chick in Grade 11 that I joined my first creative writing class. My teacher, upon reading my journals I'd write while working nights in a laundromat, describing the paradoxical characters on a quest for cleanliness, and she encouraged me to start writing, and suggested I look into journalism for school. I blame this blog on her. Ms. Phelan rocks my world, even now, almost 20 years later.

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

2008-08-18T18:19:00.005-07:00

I am militant now, in my "old" age, about protection during sex. The question is, why isn't everyone?

The images, albeit creepy and disturbing, are some very effective AIDS-awareness posters from France. I thought they illustrated this posting well.

A reader named Helen left a great comment today on a posting I think everyone should read, personally, called Getting Laid, Getting Tested, Getting AIDS,* that I wrote two years ago.

(Proof that I see every single comment I get, so start commenting more, peeples!)

Helen wrote:

What really irritates me is that guys still ask for [sex] 'without a condom'. As soon as I hear that now, it's such a big turn-off, as I know they've done that before, and probably don't give it the concern I do. Even if we use condoms, yes there's still a risk of herpes, warts, there's still contact. And I end up thinking about that too much. Why do they ask?

Of course, the worst is the guys I know who seem to lose it as soon as the condom is on. You're all turned on, gasping for it, and it's gone. It's like being held to ransom. He's feeling bad, you want sex, it's all too easy to give in and make it alright. Do you have any tips for this? Because it drives me crazy. I know it sounds weird, but can't they try to masturbate with them, or somehow try to associate them with sex? I know it doesn't feel as good, but there's clearly a mental element too that they could work on.

I just wish they found the prospect of HIV as much of a turn-off as me.

And condoms can break, so even then you're not guaranteed protection, which is why I "sleep around" very, very objectively, even with condoms. 99% ain't 100%.

I had a sexual "professional" in the escort biz email me once to say she'd used a condom EVERY SINGLE TIME she had ever had sex, and somehow wound up pregnant. This development left her absolutely terrified to continue in her profession.

As for Helen's example, I've had that happen, that when a guy puts a condom on, he suddenly deflates. He tried to use the "Yeah, well, I've been in a relationship for the last 11 years, so I just can't get used to it" bullshit excuse.

And that's MY problem, how? "Wear the fucking condom, or we don't fuck. You can't wear it? Your loss. I have vibrators. I'm better off without fucking someone like you, anyhow, because now I can't trust you," was my response to him, and the night came to a very premature close.

My advice, Helen? Stay the course. If men want to argue against wearing condoms, then fine, let them. But don't give in. Never, ever give in. It takes ONCE. Just once. See my addendum at the end, because my friend who knows the night he was infected, he's dying as a result. From once, just once.

You're absolutely right -- the ones who ask for bareback ARE the ones who've done it with others. They're the ones to be concerned about. Just because they're charming and got that far with you doesn't mean they're safe. It's the excessively charming guys that worry me more, to be frank.

I have a male friend who just recently decided a couple months of seeing this chick meant it was a nice, committed relationship, and he felt he could trust her. They had unprotected sex, and the next day, literally, he happened to see a text message on her cellphone in which a guy texted her "BTW I think I came in you the other night. Too late for a morning-after pill?"

My friend told me he ran to the washroom and vomitted, since he's never been a promiscuous guy and only recently got out of his 12-year marriage, and has been just gutted with worry the last month.

The day BEFORE he told me that, I'd been to my doctor and was talking about getting tested again, for my bi-annual test, whether I'm sexually active or not. Doc told me rather darkly that he'd just finished testifying in a court case in which a FEMALE patient of his KNOWINGLY infected a male patient of his with HIV.

We want to believe everyone's as ethical as we are. We want to believe they're not fucking with skanky people who use no safe practices. But that's just naivety at its finest.

There are untrustworthy people out there. There are mean people out there. There are people with no scruples nor standards. There are destructive people out there.

Vigilance is the only thing we have to protect ourselves with, aside from condoms, and neither are 100%.

God, since the late '80s we've heard the slogan "No glove, no love" and you'd think people would get it by now. Particularly these men who want to keep asking for bareback sex.

You think condomless sex doesn't feel better for women, too? Of COURSE it feels better. I LOVE BAREBACK SEX. Love, love, LOVE. I just never have it. Why? Because it's so fucking 1970, man. Jesus.

Women have more at risk than our random male shags might. We could get pregnant -- which often is a greater motivation than protecting oneself against AIDS and other STDs, and is stupid, but there you have it. If that's what it takes for women -- who are the fastest-growing demographic for new AIDS & HIV infections -- to start forcing partners to wear condoms religiously, then I'll take it.

Guys, if you're one of these selfish pricks who has a fucking problem wearing a condom, THEN GET OVER IT. Whiners.

It's a MENTAL problem and YOU need to deal with it, not US. If it means jacking off with condoms as practice, then do that. I don't know what you but-I-can't-wear-a-condom, you-can-trust-me men need to do, but you got to fucking figure it out. We're your lovers, not your mothers, so figure your shit out without burdening us with the hassle.

And to all the men who are religious about wearing condoms: We love you men for making this easier for us. You have no idea the bullshit every single woman has dealt with over the years from those ignorant, dumb-ass men who are selfishly thinking only of getting off, and not taking our well-being (or theirs) into consideration.

AIDS isn't over. In fact, the picture is even less rosy than it was just weeks ago. Why? The CDC in America has released a study in which they report that they think their estimates for new annual AIDS/HIV infections are a whopping 40% TOO LOW. Instead of 40,000 new cases a year, it's 56,000, and growing.

In fact, Ronald Johnson, the AIDS Action Deputy Director, says, "This is not just another set of statistics. There are people behind these numbers. People are becoming infected with a disease that is preventable. We know how to prevent HIV, but we have been fighting this epidemic with one hand tied behind our back, reflecting a disturbing dismissal of HIV-prevention as a public health priority. The new, higher estimate is yet one more wake-up call to our national leaders that they need to do more, starting with developing and implementing a real national AIDS strategy."

I'm gonna guess that strategy is that of educating ignorant people about wearing condoms.

Personally, I think that, even if you're in a longterm committed relationship, and you even THINK your partner is cheating on you, you should demand condoms be used. Ain't a conversation I'd be keen to initiate, but when your life's literally at stake and trust isn't what it used to be, that's a conversation that needs having.

What can I say? The lack of sexual responsibility used by some segments of society leave me absolutely paranoid about who it is I should or should not sleep with, and as much as I trust my instinct... I'm no fool.

Neither should any of you be. Why chance it?

*NB: The friend I've mentioned that contracted AIDS from a night he could pinpoint is not doing as well as he was in the posting I originally mentioned. He's now made a will, has become incredibly depressed, has isolated himself, and his health is spiralling downwards, filling fear in us all, because we think he doesn't want to fight. While life can be sustained longer than ever with the drug cocktails now prescribed for AIDS, the quality of life is often difficult.

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

sleepless thoughts

2008-08-18T04:07:00.004-07:00

insomnia... when you're alone, you feel more alone. when you're not, embracing a little mischief goes a long way. some thoughts of mine just now:

_______

3:59am. insomnia. and i'm thinking of you.

a distraction. that's what you'd be. plain and simple. a way for me to take my mind of what i'm really wanting, sleep.

if i can't have that, maybe i could have you. you'd do. but you're sleeping.

still. you could just lie there. i entertain myself well, a body at my disposal.

where to start? i have notions, but i'm open to suggestion.

Sex & Food: Together Again?

2008-08-17T10:35:00.000-07:00

I'm a foodie. Yes, I am.

And I got to tell ya, he prospect of regular sex has begun to loom, and this excites me considerably. Sets me all a-flutter, truth be told. But, you know, for all those strenuous hours of fun that potentially loom, one requires fuel. Enter food.

So I'm not sure what excites me more at this point -- the prospect of regular sex, or the possibility of having someone to cook for again.

I'm a sensualist in every way. For example, my apartment is great and comfortable and is geared to stimulate every sense and look good whilst doing it. Loves me some music and candles. My food tastes run from down-home to exotic. I have a sophisticated palate, technical skill, and can invent food on a whim that'd blow your mind. I came damn close to going to culinary school back in the day but realized I didn't want to work THAT hard for a living.

I'm also a Slow Food fan. I believe life moves quickly, and that food is important to us. I think we lose soul when we stop valuing food. I think we lose passion when we stop eating things that excite us.

I love the notion of Slow in all aspects of life -- from sex to food to living. I'm present here and now in all areas of my life. I want my food to be of my time, I want to eat fresher, eat more clean food that I know I've prepared from scratch. I want local produce, quality meats and fish. I want artisan treats. That's Slow.

But... when I'm single for too long, then a nice meal becomes the exception. I take shortcuts. I embrace things like Hamburger Helper and Sidekicks or sandwiches/panini or soups I eat for six days. I mean, it's flavourful-functional, at best.

When I'm involved, however, I'm both a sensualist and a show-off. Perhaps a Moroccan chicken pie with organic greens? Maybe risotto and lamb? And while the lover of mine gets to enjoy the dividends... my life is richer for it, too.

Even better yet is when said lover is similarly a skilled foodie, because then we can tool around in the kitchen and spend the night nibbling fantastic things along with each other, and savouring good drinks. My god, does that titillate me.

There is absolutely nothing in the world I enjoy better than staying home with a lover and locking the door for a weekend, cooking fantastic food at lazy intervals between real-frequent and varied sex, napping when necessary, and catching up on movies during meals and lulls. The original rinse-and-repeat experience. And repeat, and repeat.

With the right company? Fuck, there's no better time to be had. At home, anyhow. It's the poor person's vacation.

People who don't think sex and food are intricately linked... y'all are doin' it wrong.

It's not a matter of taste. You're just wrong. Flat-out. Inarguable.

(Sex + food) is like (peanut butter + chocolate). It seems like it's always been a winning combination, and always will be.

Whether it's Cleopatra feeding Anthony grapes from a silver platter in ancient Egypt, Adam enticing Eve with an apple, or you slipping your lover chocolate-dipped strawberries in the here and now with a champagne kicker, food hits a different kind of erogenous zone, but it hits, baby.

Besides, it's fuel. Fill me up and watch me go-go. Sigh. Oh, the possibilities.

__________

*PS: Yes, I've lost about 50 pounds. I don't feel like I've been dieting. I work out a lot. I could lose more weight faster by eating less and pretending cheese and alcohol don't exist. But why would I do that? Fucking hell. Diets are for people who like to take pain. Just silly. Instead, make healthier choices and be aware of calories burned v taken in. Simple. I'm better at math than I thought. :)

If it takes me another year to lose the other 50 pounds (this 50 took 8 months) but I'm eating cheese, pizza, sausages, and drinking booze regularly, then fucking A. All the power to me. I'd much rather health-fully indulge (my choices are better and when I do go off the hook, it's in moderation) and feel like I'm alive than feel like I'm cutting myself off from life with deprivation. I don't do deprivation well. So, eat? I will. Might even have seconds. But I'll deal with it the next day. See? Work ethic! :)

What's He Building in There?

2008-08-16T11:07:00.003-07:00

It's laundry day. Unfortunate. I need something cute and adorable to wear to the beach party tonight, and right now "cute and adorable" is filthy.

But my terrorist neighbour -- which is just a term of affection conjured by GayBoy and I -- beat me to the washing machine and now it'll be a challenge to get my cuteness cleaned in time for being cute.

My "terrorist neighbour" is just the exotic-looking Eastern guy on the first floor who has the most spartan of furnishings and is always building something strange in his living room, very high-tech weird stuff that has the rest of us a little curious. Word on the street is that he's inventing a new kind of weaving machine. Weaving? Really?

This is the guy that Tom Waits wrote his awesome track "What's He Building in There?" about. But he's a nice guy... apart from being an alcholic who staggers quizzically up empty alleys at midnight for seemingly no reason. And building strange things that confuse us all.

But, after nine years of living in the same building, we've never really chatted. Now that I'm 50 pounds lighter, dude's giving me the eye as we almost collide in the halls.

Maybe I should. Then I could see what he's building in there. You know, be all Mata Hari and seduce it out. I could get in touch with my inner Encyclopedia Brown fan and solve the mystery.

But it'd mean hanging out with a drunk who has a hairy back and serious anti-social tendencies. Hmm.

Or I could just listen to Tom Waits. And stop reading so much fiction.

A Frank Posting about Giving Head

2008-08-15T05:08:00.005-07:00

Hey, wow! Just noticed as I was adding the comments to my archive postings on how to give GREAT head [starts here] that it was three years ago today I published that posting that defined this blog. Aww! Let's hear it for nostalgia.

So, it's fitting then, we should have a little chat about blowjobs today. Something about head and heatwaves belong together. (Oral's always best in hot weather, huh? You lie there and get off? Lovely.)

_________________

I refused to give my "partner" head last weekend. This came as a shock. Having been somewhat drunk on good red wine, I had a good excuse. Truth is, it was an excuse.

Somehow, in all my writing, I've apparently made it sound like sitting around with a penis in my mouth is about the best thing I could imagine doing. Like my thoughts are along the lines, always, of "Oh, GOLLY! A cock in my mouth! I'll take two!"

While some people are that type, and I wish 'em all the power, I'm not. I'm unaware of how this perception that I am has come to be, so let's clear that up for a second.

[But I am penis-positive. It's not the penis, it's me. More on that after.]

Here's the deal. There seems to be more or less three schools of thought out there on giving head. One is that it's the best thing ever and having a penis in the mouth is like life coming up all sunshine and roses albeit on the salty side of it all. The second is that it's a necessary evil, and something one partner does for the other, because that's just how things are done. The third is that it's an icky-icky thing to do, and not gonna happen on some people's watch. (Silly people.)

I don't fit in any of those categories.

I'm not crazy about a penis in my mouth. Honestly, I'm not. I'm not adverse to it, either. (Well, sometimes.) It's just not one of those things for me.

However...

My "aversion" is physiological. I mean, I've always been one of those people who's not crazy about taking pills and has to fight the gag reflex at the dentist, so sometimes a blowjob just isn't that fun... other than what I get out of it -- providing that little something for a partner that you just can't get out of any other sex act. And it's worth it, for that. Absolutely, without a doubt. Even if it means fighting the gag reflex.

That said...

I really, really enjoy giving one of those detail-focused, drawn-out blowjobs to a guy I'm genuinely into. I do. But it's not about the blowjob as much it's about what I'm doing to HIM. It's about the pleasuring and teasing and taunting, taking to the edge and backing off, and doing it again and again until I'm through with him. That's quite fun. Yes, it is. It's power and generosity and control and gift-giving and dominance and wickedness and affection and play, all bundled up into one awesome thing.

I know that blowjobs are something I'm really, really good at. Like, really. There's a reason my three-year-old Good Girl's Guide to Giving Great Head [part 1 is here, part 2 is here] is a hugely plagiarized blowjob-giving sex-tip writing on the web, you know. [I'm puffing up my chest and doing this silly, dirty little grin as I boast about that, too.]

I believe, if you're going to do something, you better goddamned do it well. Being a Brownie, Girl Guide, going to Catholic school, and being a librarian and bookseller* has served me well. I'm a keener to perform my services to the best of my abilities, I have a powerful work ethic, overwhelming guilt when I fail, but I'm well-read enough to get it done right the first time.

Having said that? I'm not keen to bring out my number one trick, something I consider the most intimate thing I can do to a man, for any old shag. I'm liable to casually sleep with a man before I'll give him head, if that makes any sense to you at all.

Nothing like keeping some surprises around about just how far you'll go to please someone. Always be improving, right? Never stagnate.

Or at least that's my motto, as old-fashioned as this lay-first, head-later mentality of mine sort of seems.

But I think it's important to distinguish that, for some of us, it's not about the penis, it's about the act and the gift of the action. Maybe that's not ideal in some mens' minds, I don't know, but it's certainly worked all right in my endeavours.

Any thoughts you'd like to share, dear reader? Femmes, you relate at all, or...?

And, don't forget, I really am all a-twitter on Twitter. You can follow me here. The image was found on the atom feed for Chagrin on Tumblr.

Heatwave Tip!

2008-08-14T21:34:00.002-07:00

Vancouver's caught in a beautiful sexy beast of a heatwave that has me dreading cyclerides to work... but loving it at the same time.

GayBoy taught me this trick a year or two on a barbecue of a day, and it's awesome to use at times.

Just put 5-6 inches of cooold water in the bathtub and stand in it in your bare feet for a few minutes. Bliss! Cools you down completely. Without wasting a lot of water. (Think green, people!)

Better yet? Bring a beer and a book and take a seat on the side of the tub. (Naked works.) I'm saving this trick for before bed. Sans beer, sadly.

The Day-After Blogging Shame

2008-08-14T07:53:00.004-07:00

You know, this whole recovering-Catholic thing plays so badly with writing any kind of exposés about my own sex life.

I feel horribly guilty, like a first-class cunt, for having posted my thingie about my "underwhelming weekend sex" yesterday. But then I got to thinking about it.

First, I placed an ad for sex. I made it very, very plain that I was looking for someone who was a talented, attentive lover with brains. But the sex, I said, was the whole point. I was very, very clear about this. Not about having a relationship, having a boyfriend, bringing someone to staff parties, or being a couple. Sex, sex, sex. And not even one-time sex. Someone who wanted a good shagging and often, that's what I wanted. And I mentioned I had two very key things: ample libido, and killer endurance.

Second, the guy read my blog. He knew I wasn't just some average chick who was happy to play around for five minutes. I mean, I write a sex blog! If a guy's going to bring his "A" game out to play with anyone, wouldn't that someone compute to be someone they knew to be into quality shagging, someone who ran an ad seeking quality shagging?

Third, if it was underwhelming sex but he'd tried in ANY OTHER AREA -- intimacy, cudding, conversation -- afterwards, I'd have given him a pass. Because he was cute and nice and I'm a sucker that way. But, nothing.

Fourth, if you're going to take the risk of having casual sex, shouldn't you really indulge in the experience? I mean, you're taking a shot at the whole "possible transmission of STDs" gamble, so HAVE SEX, right?

Fifth, it really is for the greater good. I would like to think that, if I've stopped one guy from doing the foreplay-only-as-long-as-necessary, get-off, and-forget-about-her kind of sex I had on the weekend, then I feel I've done a good service.

Because, whether it's initiating what's hoped to be an ongoing casual sex relationship, just a here-and-now shag, or something more, one of the most important things about sex is to feel appreciated -- and spent.

If you don't even feel appreciated at the end, not spent, and just used, and not even in a good way, then why even go there?

Honestly, I've probably felt more used out of this experience than I have since I was in my early 20s. Used, absolutely. And that, friends, just isn't fair.

So perhaps we're at a more honest place about why I'm so pissed about that experience. Because whatever else my ad might've said I wanted, getting used wasn't one of them.

(Now, had I been used for great sex... Well, y'know, that's something I might make an allowance for. )

Don't forget, I'm on Twitter now. Come have a boo.

Further Notes on My Underwhelming Weekend Sex

2008-08-13T07:47:00.005-07:00

Yesterday, I made rather not-so-subtle reference to the fact that I finally got laid last weekend in this posting. I wasn't going to say anything, really, because I was decidedly underwhelmed by the experience.

But then, you know, I thought, "It's for the greater good! People must know!" So, without getting into detail here, let's talk about it again.

I was quite looking forward to this particular fellow and thought it would be great because he made it sound like "play" was something he enjoyed.

For a number of reasons, that wasn't the case. DP commented on yesterday's posting to kind of defend the honour of men all over this fair planet. He said, more or less, that men invariably suck the first time they're sleeping with someone new.

Not a newsflash. Every guy I've been with has been pretty disappointing penetration-wise on the first try. I generally try to tell myself it's a compliment, they're just so EAGER that they have no control. Which, of course, is pretty often the case.

So I'll never judge a guy on the sex itself, not the first time. No, I take other things into consideration. Does the kissing wow me? How was foreplay? Was it rushed and done only as a means of instigating sex, or was foreplay itself enjoyed for what it is -- play? Was it fun? Was he as thoughtful of me as he should have been? And when it came to AFTER sex -- was one orgasm all that mattered to the guy? Did any other affection and after-play take place? Was there even a conversation? Was it fun? Was it about intimacy and play, not just orgasms?

Unfortunately, my weekend encounter failed in every single department.

Here's a tip, men. When it's your first time with a woman, do not be a fucking twit and get completely drunk. Why? A), It's offensive. Let's see. Fucking me, or getting a hangover, and you choose? B) Your performance when fucking is going to SUCK anyhow, so why are you impeding your performance even more? C) Booze you can buy any day of the week, but these legs opening for you? Priceless.

Now, since I've been around the block enough to know that men obviously don't perform well the first time, I should be able to compare this time to all my other "first time" encounters, right?

Right, and this is the first time I've ever, ever been left anywhere near as frustrated as I was when this fella left. And it's too bad. I wanted to like him. But if all I've got to go on is that he got drunk, barely got me off, got himself off as quick as possible, and then never touched me again?

Yeah, failed that mission, pal. And, besides, when it's the first few times I've usually got to push the fellas out the door and fend off a few more kisses and gropes and groans on the way. This was just... so not that. I thought I was being Punk'd.

And you, dear male readers, need to learn not to make the same mistakes. Foreplay and afterplay are where you compensate for your performance. If I'm kissed like there's no tomorrow, and toyed with in any number of ways that arouses me and/or satisfies me, and inspires me to see the fella again, then I'll completely forget about the first encounter's disappointments and only remember how much it set to stage for playtimes to come.

Except this encounter, of course. Pity.

And, believe me, I am disappointed. I wanted to like this fella, but I just haven't got it in me for drunken fratboy lovers when I'm pushing 35, even if they're cute, smart, and fun. No. I want men.

Women, what say you? Men, how do you feel like when fellas like this are doing the representin' for your race?

AFTER THE FACT: So, upon thinking about this this morning, I realize this posting might sound sexist, as if it's only men who underwhelm on the first encounter. I, of course, know this isn't true. So, tomorrow (or Friday) I plan to write about how *I* might underwhelm (and possibly other women) on the first encounter, and why that can't be expected to accurately reflect the lover I am after that first night. So, check back later this week for that little ditty.

And don't forget, you can follow me on Twitter now.

[Note: So I did a Google search for "unsatisfying sex" images, and after scouring 17 pages of results, nothing represents "unsatisfying sex" but god knows if I search for "hard cocks" it'll be thousands of pages of results. Is this somehow suggestive of the fact that unsatisfying sex is a myth, and hard cocks are over-abundant? Hmm. Yeah, I don't think so.]

A Moral Reckoning? Rethinking Open Relationships

2008-08-12T10:10:00.005-07:00

I'm thinking about crossing that line in my moral sand.

I've always been the one-guy-one-gal type, but I'm starting to wonder if maybe it's just the old Catholic/societal brainwashing, and whether, maybe, I'm really built a little differently than what "tradition" often serves up.

I think I ultimately prefer monogamy. But I think the notion of having that kind of commitment, and dare I say obligation, in my life right now scares the living shit out of me.

Seriously, I just don't want to have the grief that comes with serious devout commitment right now. The need to worry how they're doing, the obligatory Fridays & Saturdays spent together, and all of that. I just don't have it in me to give that much of myself to anyone right now. It's hard enough to give it to myself.

I've considered the "friends with benefits" option, but I have to say, the responses I've gotten are essentially from, well, sexual babies and morons. You know, the eager-beaver types who claim they want oodles of sex and all that.

But, really, all they want is just to get laid. Most of these chumps wouldn't know how to handle a woman with real libido if the Energizer Bunny came and gave 'em an all-night seminar and a schwack of caffeine to get the job done.

Let me make this very clear. If a woman says she a) has a powerful libido, and b) has great endurance, she is not the type who'll be satisfied if you go down on her for 10 minutes, get her off, then fuck her for the four (three?) minutes it takes you to blow your wad.

That's not "good" sex. That's "all right" sex, and only because she at least got to come, but that's grading on a heavy curve. A very, very steep curve. A generous curve. Like, Oprah generous. Like, "do I get a tax deductible receipt for that?" generous.

Of course, this is entirely rhetorical and has nothing to do with why I got to bed at 5am last Friday night. Or spent the rest of my weekend frustrated, tired, and annoyed.

I'm tired of knowing more about sex than my partners. I'm tired of being the supposedly corrupting influence. I'm tired of feeling like I need to toe the line with my aggressions. What, you want me to apologize for really getting into the moment? Shyeah, right.

So now I'm wondering if maybe, just maybe, someone who's in an open relationship might be a less selfish, less immature, more sophisticated lover than those I've been used to. Maybe it's time to separate the men from the boys for a while and see what the market has in store.

But it's one of those things that makes the old Catholic schoolgirl in me feel like I'm about to shake hands with the devil. I don't judge other people for engaging in open relationships -- and even understand why they do -- yet I judge myself rather harshly for considering the option.

The one thing that doesn't need convincing? My hormones. They're all-systems-go and ready to roll. And thrust and squirm and...

Well. Anyhow. Just know I'm considering. Very, very strongly. And why would I be considering unless there was something specific to consider? Exactly. I'll let you know how this moral quandary of mine plays out. Perhaps emphasis on the 'plays out' bit there. Whatever.

Reminder: I'm on Twitter now, eh? Get real-time snippet updates about my life. And when I've published new stuff, too. Follow me here.

Vaginas: Uptight, everything's all right? Not so much.

2008-08-11T09:03:00.006-07:00

There's a scene in The Tailor of Panama in which Pierce Brosnan, as Andy Osnard, a British spy reassigned to Panama, is shown his new office for the first time by his hot but too tense new colleague.

He wanders to a safe in the wall above his new desk and starts trying to crack the combination. The woman, unimpressed, mutters that she doesn't think it's even locked.

Sure enough, Osnard gets the safe ajar and glances at her as it creaks open, and says with a suggestive leer on his face. "You're right... it was open. Just tight from lack of use."

It's a great line, funny as hell, and probably makes most women want to fuck Pierce Brosnan then and there. Nothing like a dirty cute Brit.

But it's also a reality. The longer a woman goes without sex, and without ensuring she's indulging in some kind of penetrative masturbation with vibrators or dildos, the more her vagina will "atrophy" and tighten. Funny, this doesn't get spoken of much out there, but perhaps it should.

The beauty of a vagina is its elasticity. While it's an organ, it's also governed by many critical muscles. If a woman is not exercising it, it will lose some pliability. The longer she goes without the "exercise", the more atrophying you'll run into, and the more difficult sex will be when she gets around to it.

That's not something we hear a lot about. There's the old saying, "use it or lose it", and it applies to both men and women when it comes to masturbation. Men need to be ejaculating regularly to maintain prostate health, but women need to be Kegeling and penetrative-masturbating on a relatively regular basis in order to maintain their vaginal functionality and integrity.

I mean, when you stop exercising and working out on a total-body scale and you start sitting on the couch for a few weeks, how long does it take for your toning to vanish? Not very, right? So, when it comes to sex, how long do ya figure you need to go without before you lose crucial toning down there? Why do we justify scheduling in working out for our total-body fitness, yet seldom worry about maintaining fitness of our sexual organs?

When we're sexually inactive, full-on masturbation by women is more important than ever. If you're someone like me who's been in the position of being deprived of libido as a chemical side effect, it's important to override the lack of interest felt by the body, and do what needs to be done to stay healthy.

The trouble is, most women get off on clitoral stimulation for orgasms, and I suspect I'm not the only one out there who, 85% of the time, thinks a vibrator is too much work when the clit can be massaged for 45 seconds to produce an orgasm that follows quickly. Easy, tidy, effective, no clean-up, and wholly portable. Not to mention that, when only 60% of women masturbate, you can bet that a good chunk of that total feels awkward about inserting anything into themselves.

It's a real shame that it's the sex who has more issues with masturbation that is biologically required to perform a more "invasive" and socially chuckled-about procedure in order to maintain the optimum health of their vaginas, but that's the way the cookie crumbles.

After all, it seems there's still a stigma out there about women using vibrators. I've said it before and I'll say it again -- it's only the documented sluts and feminists we see in the media with vibrators. The good girls just use hands or maybe a massaging showerhead. Or nothing at all. But she sticks a Rabbit vibe inside her? She's a man-eater.

Granted, the attitudes are changing, but it's still a different segment of woman who supposedly uses sex toys, and maybe that stereotype is true to an extent, but wouldn't it be great for both sexes if that stereotype shattered a little? After all, it's not like vibrators aren't actually IMPORTANT for women to use.

I'd be curious to see what percentage of women it is that feels uncomfortable about inserting a vibrator inside her as a result of this not-so-subtle stereotyping that exists everywhere in the media.

I doubt such studies are undertaken that often, about how the average woman masturbates versus the more sexually-liberated one. Because, after all, who really cares how women masturbate? Isn't it the man's job to get us off?

Hmm. Talk about your stereotypes.

But if you're one of these liberated men or women and sex toys work for you... then you should use this 10%-off coupon and go buy yourself a treat at Vibe Review. The coupon is good for as many uses as you want, just save this link and buy often between now and the American election in November. By using this link, you'll give me a commission of your purchases and help me buy some wine or sexy panties or something. I'll never know WHO bought anything or WHAT they bought, so your privacy is GUARANTEED, but I'll get a few bucks stuffed in my piggy bank and the warm-fuzzies will rain happily upon me. So, go for it, and save a few bucks while you're at it. And feed your favourite scribe. :)

And if you're not liberated, isn't it time you started to be? C'mon. Invest in yourself.

Just Another Manic Monday -- And the Sugasm

2008-08-11T07:23:00.004-07:00

Ahh, minions. Just another manic Monday, hey?

I know being outside of my bed is the last place I want to be this morning. Working for eight hours? Even less appealing.

No, a perfect day for me today would be getting up, having a hot oily bath, smoking up, going back to bed, and praying the gods of sleep felt it time to bless me. Mm, curled up in bed. Sigh.

I've been off my mood meds for a couple of weeks now, and it's really affecting my ability to sleep. I tend to wake up at 6:30am whether I'm rested or not now, and considering I got to bed at 6am Saturday morning, that's not really helping me much. Yeah, there's a story there, no, you're not hearing it. Imagine, minions. Imagine.

The rest of my weekend was filled with similarly shitty sleep, a few unsuccessful naps, and that's that.

I'm all right with it, but it sure makes for a lousy start to a week. Still, I'm going to cycle today anyhow. Vive le Steff.

All in all, I'm still looking forward to my week ahead. Last week came with several unexpected turns, none of which I'd have guessed on Monday, so I'm hoping this week is similarly filled with excitement.

And, if not, well, at least I'll finally be seeing Wall-E on Wednesday. Ha. How can the week be a total bust with quality animation, I ask you?

Maybe my brain will be functioning by tomorrow. Until then, I shall leave you with the wonderful Sugasm.

So, here, eat some Sugasm. You'll feel better.

___________________________

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants.

This Week’s Picks
Anti-Porn Protest Gets Weird
“People get very excited about their causes and lack the sense to see if the information backs them up. ”

The Come Shot
“You don’t see their bodies going blotchily red and hear them howling like a banshee.”

Third Time’s a Charm
“If I lift my kilt on Bourbon Street I’m much more likely to get arrested than if Elizabeth takes off her top.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
In My Office

Olympics: The End of An Era

2008-08-10T10:29:00.002-07:00

Never again will there be the unfortunate wonder of a sexy Olympian swimmer in heats with his Speedo accidentally slipping down. Sigh.

Well. There's always diving. Or the really weird world of water polo.

Edwards: The Politics of Infidelity

2008-08-09T12:20:00.004-07:00

I've never been a John Edwards fan. Any guy who claims he's a leftist for poverty activism but spends $400 a month on an unremarkable haircut just strikes me as being strangely out of touch with the very people he claims to be fighting for.

But, then again, I pay $15 for my haircut, so what do I know?

Haircuts aside, the guy's in hot water and I feel for him and his wife. It's come out now that he fucked up and had an affair in '06. Is it the only one? No way to know for certain. Does it matter? Not sure it does. Is it really a scandal of this proportion? Really?

I mean, there are sex scandals and there are sex scandals. The Walter Mosley "Nazi" BDSM video, that's a scandal. Governor Spitzer blowing thousands and thousands of dollars on hookers while married and in office, that's a scandal.

A guy cheats on his wife? Scandalous, but not a scandal. It's not worth much ink, as they say. Infidelity sucks, but it happens.

I don't really see who gains from this story coming out, or how it should reflect on his ability to govern, or why we need to know or care.

As far as I'm concerned, there are three kinds of cheaters.

There's the Accidental Cheater: The kind of partner who's really invested in the relationship and has always been faithful, but who had a weak moment at a weak time where the chemistry and intensity was pretty insurmountable, and instead of being perfect, had the misfortune of being human and fucking up, in more ways than one.
There's the Situational Cheater: The partner who had every intention of staying faithful and being "there" in the partnership, but with a lack of sex and poor communication and isolation developing and maintaining within the relationship, decides to seek companionship elsewhere to get what they "need" emotionally and physically.
There's the Compulsive Cheater: The Compulsive would cheat no matter how good a relationship is and smacks of the sex-addicted type. This is kind of person who wants to sleep around but isn't honest enough about it to be in a polyamorous situation, sometimes because they think they deserve sexual variety but don't want their lover to have it.

Then there are the people who don't believe in cheating. And I'm one.

I think it's a shitty fucking thing to do to someone. When I found out I'd been used as an "other woman" once many years ago, when the guy lied about not being in a relationship with an old friend of mine just to get me in bed with him, I actually told my friend about his infidelity. I'm just that way. Honest and old-fashioned, that's me.

Still, I don't know if I could get through 30 years of marriage without ever having an Accidental Cheating occur. You get that perfect storm of chemistry and sexiness and opportunity and timing and mood, and sex can be a pretty hard thing to turn down. Whew, can it.

Edwards slept with a woman making a documentary film about his campaign. You think she wasn't fawning over him a little? There's nothing sexier than someone who worships you a little but has brains and a life of their own. When someone smart, accomplished, and hot adores you a little but in a liberated and articulate way, it's really a turn-on. Anyone who's been on the receiving end of that knows what it's like. Wild. Or maybe she was just empathetic on a tough day. Who knows?

I'm not laying blame on her, though. It takes two. I'm just saying it's understandable that something might happen in some scenarios, that hormones are a challenge to overcome at times.

But it sure as hell beats getting a blowjob from an intern half your age in the Oval Office and lying under oath about it.

I mean, if the guy came clean long, long before it ever hit the press, and the family knew of it in entirety, and his wife says she was told very soon after it all... is it really our business?

Doesn't it say more about the guy that he could have the affair, tell his wife, and then work with her to get past it? Doesn't he get some credit for honesty? How long do you have to be married before you're allowed to make a mistake you not only own up to, but repent to?

No relationship is without its flaws, and no person is without errors. We all make mistakes in a life that's dictated by in-the-moment impulse decisions.

I may be very much opposed to cheating in all its forms, but that doesn't mean I could never forgive a man for making that mistake. And it doesn't mean I think I'll never be above being human and making that kind of mistake, either. I'm a passionate person. I'm moral, honest, and loyal, but I'm also passionate and impulsive. I fear the latter two qualities might one day overwhelm my virtue, and I too could fall guilty of such a mistake.

If, however, I ever do fuck up like Edwards did, I would hope my lover could see more than just the mistake, and instead of just latching onto their anger and the sense of betrayal, they could take me at my word for my regret and self-disdain. I would hope for a chance at redemption. I would hope for the chance to prove my remorse and reestablish trust.

Edwards was lucky and got just that. Who are we to judge him more harshly than his lover and partner of 30 years? It's their relationship. If they've made their peace and they're working together to overcome it, then who the fuck is the media to second-guess it, and why do we care?

So Why The Hell Do I Write About Sex Anyhow?

2008-08-08T08:06:00.003-07:00

I weighed myself this morning, and I'm officially down FORTY-SEVEN pounds. Whoop, there it went! But... I'm only half-way to my goal of losing 100 pounds. And that's okay. I promised myself I'd do it slowly and in a sustainable way, and I am.

Let's talk about wanker's comment again (on this post), which isn't worth the time for me to go back and check, but one of my nicer readers, Griffin, left an inquisitive comment yesterday challenging wanker's comment:

I'm not sure I understand what point Anonymous was trying to make. I mean, is he/she suggesting that one is entitled to self-confidence only when one is thin -- or paired? Would he/she find Steff's confidence more acceptable if she looked or lived differently? That seems very odd, indeed.

Yeah, I'm confused too.

But I guess the point the silly man was trying to make had something to do with the fact that if I'm fat, not getting laid, don't write about my friends, yet spout off all this stuff, then clearly I'm just a liar because none of this "washes".

Apparently overweight people have no confidence, can't attract lovers, and have no common sense to impart to others. Who knew?

You want to know the deal on me? There's a meme circulating a little, I guess, that Ellie Lumpesse started by writing about what got her into writing about sex.

What got me into it? Well, I'm definitely cut from a different cloth than most of the so-called writers on sex out there, because a) I write about it less, and b) I don't tell you much at all about my encounters. None of anyone's business what literally happens in my bedroom, and on my floor, and in backseats. I mean, really. I get the whole being-a-voyeur thing in the reading realm, but I figure there are enough writers writing on those dirty shagging events.

I started this blog in 2005, when I had a bit of a moment watching the movie Kinsey.

Long story short -- I was raised in a very uptight household. Catholicism ruled the roost. Sex was dirty and amoral. Having sex before marriage was wrong, and even if it was love, if I did it, I'd be thought of as a whore.

I did the waiting-for-the-one thing. I thought he was a lifelong love. I thought he'd be everything I'd need. And I was wrong. We slept together, had a relationship mostly based on sex that spanned the better part of seven years, and then we ended. Would I have stayed with him as long if I'd not had the Catholic indoctrination of sex = love = a bond you can't break? I doubt it.

After that, I had a lot of hang-ups. I didn't want to be "promiscuous". I didn't want to be perceived as a whore. I didn't want to be thought of as a bad person because I got laid.

Writing this blog was a way of me getting through the intellectual problems I had with sex, and connecting with the emotional needs I wanted from sex. I've learned a lot about myself in the three/four years I've written this bloggie, and I like what I've learned.

This blog will never, ever be a fly-on-the-wall perspective on my personal sex life. I'll write about a moment here, a moment there, something said during the frolic of sex, conversations thereafter, experiences and the perceptions thereof... but blow-by-blow, suck-by-suck accounts of my sex? Never, ever going to happen.

I'm a deeply private person that way, ironically. And in other ways. I don't bore you with the day-to-day struggles of mine with finances or the headgames that are waged daily/weekly in this Reinventing of Steff passage of mine. I have limits of what I want to share. You don't fucking need to know, it's not ABOUT that.

But, mostly why I wanted to write this blog is, I've had a lot of anger over my life for being made to feel ashamed about sex, for being made to feel that giving of myself and my affections to someone I perceive to be deserving of them is WRONG. I'm outraged that we still have very religious ideas on something that, when I'm having it, when I'm sharing it with someone I love to partner with, makes me feel like an incredible person. Being a sexual person makes me feel like a BETTER person. How is THAT wrong?

I wanted to tackle the philosophical side of hang-ups, the psychological side of sex. I wanted to write about insecurities and headgames and how to intellectually deal with affection. I wanted to make sure I posited an argument in the affirmative about how good sex is for who we are inside.

Writing about dripping hard cocks and marathon sexual encounters is fun -- for other writers. For me, the meat of sexuality lies in our biggest organ -- our brains. Everyone else can tackle sex as how they see fit.

Me, I prefer to be outside the box. And am I a scholarly expert on the matter? Fuck, no. Have I even taken biology or sexual studies at school? No. Have I read all the right books? No. This is me, my take, my thoughts, my wishes, and nothing more. After being a librarian for a couple years and working in a bookstore where the manager was a huge fan of sex studies, I began reading on the subject of sex and slowly broadening my mind and asking questions of myself.

And maybe, just maybe, if I'd been some waif-thin woman with an ass you can bounce quarters off, instead of a heavy girl with insecurities back in the day (but I still have insecurities -- we all do) I might never have began thinking more psychologically and philosophically about sex.

So isn't it just fucking awesome that I was overweight?

But assholes like tha gutless turd Anonymous, who doesn't have the balls to sign his name, just want to perpetuate the myth that one must look perfect to have anything to share with others.

Know what? He is, always was, and always will be, flat-out wrong.

Because I'm not perfect, because I've never been perfect, because I never will be perfect... what I have to share is as authentic as the day is long. Sometimes, authentic is all you can really hope for. And it's what I got.

A Few Thoughts on Comments, And Sugasm 142

2008-08-07T08:04:00.005-07:00

Despite stupidity rearing its head last night in the form of yet another asshole comment by yet another asshole, and the rise of a would-be stalker, for the time being I'm going to hold off on comment moderation despite my first instinct to start regulating them.

Why? Well, for starters, I really love the dialogue that takes place in comments sometimes. It's exciting to see people argue each other about something I've read, or pat me on the back, whatever. I have a life and don't want to have to have the stress of checking for comments and publishing them, because that messes with the flow of it all, and when posts only really have a shelf-life of a few days, that gets in the way of the flow, no?

Besides, I believe strongly in free speech. I'll let you have your say, but don't think I'm going to bend over and take it when I think you're out of line, or just plain stupid and mean like the guy from last night. And I'm not going to be polite about it.

I must have been drunk when I said I was going to be a kinder, gentler Steff. Oh, right, I was drunk. That explains that. No, you know what I'm going to be? Myself. For all the good and bad of it, I'm going to be myself. With all my swear words, all my attitude, and all my humour, I'm gonna be myself and just say what comes to mind. That should be fun. So say what you want, but know I'm not shy about responding.

After all, while I think some mouths are better off left shut, mine is not one of them. Why? Because it's MY blog. Duh. :P

Here, eat some Sugasm. You'll feel better. I'm behind the game by two weeks with Sugasm, so here's a truncated list for #142, and the full juicy 143 will be up in the next few days.

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants.

This Week’s Picks
Interludes - part 3
“He winds the rope around his hands, smoothing the kinks, and I stand there, breathing a little faster, conscious of all those eyes upon me.”

Hurts So Good
“I want you to wear the badges of sweet distress for days.”

Shower fantasy
“You don’t want to admit it, but you want me.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
Why I haven’t blogged about the Mosley case

More Sugasm

Holy Return of the Libido, Batman!

2008-08-06T09:13:00.003-07:00

Sex. It's been a while. Honestly? It's been two years.

As I've written about at length, I went on anti-depressants the summer of '06, after birth control pills messed my body up something fierce, at the tail end of a relationship that turned to shit in record time, while getting laid off of multiple jobs in a short period with no EI remaining. Oh, good times.

The meds were a necessary evil and I knew I needed 'em to get my body sorted out along with my life -- both of which I've been accomplishing somethin' fab. Since the new year I've been gradually decreasing the dose (with my doc's guidance of course) and I've been off now entirely for 10 days.

Holy shit do I notice a difference. All of a sudden, like a wild fire in August, my libido's back and raging. Like, oh, my god, is it back. ZING!

Must. Have. Sex. Orgasm! Now! YOU, SATISFY ME! Rowrr!

So, naturally, I posted myself a Craigslist ad. I posted two, one in the relationships section, and then the other in the casual encounters section, and now I don't care about the LTR responses because I know I don't want the complications of something serious yet. My casual encounters ad wasn't entirely common, though. It began:

"Are you tired of stupid people? Are you tired of having to choose between routine sex and freaky sex, and nothing in between? Does the prospect of casual sex both appeal to you and frighten you? I mean, honestly, there are some skanky people out there. Some of these players have been around more than a 1966 RCA turntable, you get what I'm saying?..."

The responses have largely been of your "I'm a dedicated pussylickr!" type with pictures of penises and hairy bellies. [Delete] Or the most unappealing thong shot I've ever, ever seen. From front and back? That was really necessary? [Delete] Or riddled with spelling errors and the bad kind of non-sequiturs with nothing appealing. [Delete] Or obvious form letters that did nothing to address my 750 words. [Delete] Or very much older men with bad teeth and dirty leering looks and an almost palpable air of desperation. [Delete] Or cute guys with not much else to offer, the kind I'd always be smarter than. [Delete]

But there's a bit of promise to be found. No, really. Like a crack of light at the bottom of a coal mine's shaft: Surprising. Hopefully a good date looms in the next few days. And sex soon thereafter. Because that's the whole point, no?

It's funny, for someone who loves sex as much as I do, who loves the intimacy and the power exchange and the fun and games and orgasms abounding, I can do very, very nicely without sex for extended periods. Like, really extended periods. I think I have an inner-androgynous side that comes out when life's complicated and the last thing I need are the mindfucks that come with sex. Really. If it's all about the orgasms, I give myself awesome ones. (Intimacy, however, is a big thing I miss -- but I didn't miss it enough to deal with the sex-with-no-libido conundrum, or the headgames that always invariably seem to come with.)

And abstaining is so much simpler when you have anti-depressants in your system. Anyone who tells you they don't affect sex drives is a FUCKING MORON. Anyone who tells you that, even if your libido's still present, that your sexual response system is working properly DOESN'T KNOW JACK. They're living in the fuckin' 1950s, man. It messes you up.

Women, on anti-depressants, not only tend to suffer from lack of libido, but when they ARE aroused, often won't be able to orgasm at all, or will have very, very unsatisfying orgasms when they do. (Sometimes you need that necessary evil in your life, and now there's evidence Cialis and Viagra hold great benefit to women suffering libido issues, particularly in conjunction with mind meds.)

I figured, what's the fucking point? I could barely orgasm, I didn't even want the sex. Nothing interested me.

I mean, I'd rather not have sex if I can't have it Steff-style, you know what I'm saying? Rule Number One: No sex is better than bad sex. I want good sex. *I* am capable of good sex. If it's bad sex, it's not my fault. Heh.

I want me a nice juicy orgasm and a good spent body. I want to want it, I want to fully enjoy it, and when I'm done, I wanna want more -- and GET more. But I want a partner who's not dumber than a doorbell and can still play well (and get dirty). Is that so wrong?

But I can't believe it's been two years. Not that I haven't tried at all -- I've met men. An endless parade of Very Bad Choices kind of men, and whatever else I may have taken leave of these last two years, my standards ain't been among 'em. So, thanks, but no thanks.

Maybe that's changing. Maybe orgasms loom. Maybe one day soon I'll get that "Who needs vacations?" stay-at-home-but-get-away lock-the-doors-and-fuck-for-three-days mini-vacation that I just love so much. Wouldn't that be fun? Nothing like a stack of DVDs and a bottle of lube.

It's always kind of like the Olympics of sex when you have the lock-the-doors kinda weekend. Or has been behind my door, at least.

For now, that's just a dirty thought in my mind, and another posting for another time.

Don't forget, if you haven't already, why don't you start following me on Twitter? Come be a fly on my wall.

My Dear, Dear Stalker

2008-08-05T21:49:00.003-07:00

My would-be-stalker has fucked up.

See, if you ever think your email has been hacked, don't just change the password -- change the display name so that when someone receives an email from you, it says it's from a new name.

Like, let's say my emails would show up as being received from Smurfette Davies. Well, this morning, when I changed my password, I changed the display name.

Stalker wouldn't know this.

So, when I got another email supposedly from my account today -- but with my OLD display name showing -- I had the proof I needed that he hadn't hacked my account.

But instead went and broke the law. 'Cause, faking emails is, like, illegal. Doh!

It's a real shame, too, that I have his IP address and I know what ISP he uses in his wacky little town out there in the Valley. You grow corn, too, pal, like your neighbours? I even know what browser he uses. Konqueror, no? I guess you'd want to use that... since you need Linux to fake emails.

So, you reading me, Stalker?

Stalker fucked up twice. The second time was trying his stupid pony-show email-faking trick a second time more than nine hours after I changed my password and display name. But the first time he fucked up was by Googling me. I got a fucking stat counter, guy. I got the goods on you.

Whatever you might think of me, make sure "SMART" is at the top of the list. 'Cos I'm all that, baby.

Cyber Stalker?

2008-08-05T07:16:00.002-07:00

Someone replied to my personal ad last night and I normally would have just deleted the email, but I was bored and wrote a one-line thing back telling him to send a picture. You don't need to know the volley that occurred, beyond that I was pissed off from the get-go and spoke my mind.

Trouble is, you can't always tell when someone's joking online, and this guy seemed like a smart-ass at best.

Until my email seemed to be hacked this morning and was filled with disconcerting 12-year-old type emails filled with name-calling and mild threatening tones... sent from myself to myself.

I've already changed my password, but since this whole thing has me a little unsettled and it's so sudden, I've changed my comments on this blog so that I'll be moderating them for a bit, since this guy's figured out this blog's mine too.

But I'm apparently a bad attitude bitch who'll never land a man. Just so you know. Maybe you're all assholes for reading my blog, since I'm so transparently a cunt with no redeeming qualities.

Blah. It's a long and complicated story, and I'm not going to get into it because, a) the situation has unnerved me, and b) the details don't matter.

My Spidey-sense? Usually quite unassailable. My Spidey-sense said "Shut up. This guy shows controlling qualities found in most abusive people" and did I? Nope, nope, nope.

So, you, dear reader, should learn from my sorry ass. If someone makes you go "Oh, that just ain't right" then back the fuck off. Just walk away. Like I would have 355 nights of the year, but I was bored. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Whatever. Passwords have been changed, comments will be moderated. Colour me a little less naive today.

Oh, and given that this is a case of cyberstalking -- but the emails have stopped since I quickly changed my password -- and it's a little freaky, if you want to leave me tips for how to proceed, feel free. I've undeleted the emails and put labels on 'em so I have them, should I require them for legal reasons at all or anything.

Some people, man. Here's hoping he has a life and finds a new way to amuse himself quickly.

One of Those Dishwashing Epiphanies

2008-08-04T12:26:00.004-07:00

So, there I am, washing up my kitchen, wishing I could have a barbecue later. My barbecue broke the other day. The valve thing just snapped right off. It confuses me. It looks like there should be a long pokey mount-thing but there's nothing, so I wonder how it ever held together in the first place. This is the problem with letting men assemble shit: When it breaks, you need them to check it out 'cos you never did it in the first place and you don't know what to look for.

That'll teach me for getting guys to do "guy" things that I know I'm capable of doing, eh? So now I'm all helpless femme (which is just disgusting, and I hate being) and I have to wait for GayBoy to come take a boo at it. If it really is broken, then I need to get in the headspace of chatting with Costco about getting a new one.

And, so, there I am, washing up, thinking "Ooh, I hope it's fixable. I don't want the hassle of having to sort it out with Costco. I hate conflict."

That thought just stopped me in my tracks. I hate conflict? I hate conflict? And I thought about it for a moment. Yeah, you know, I do.

I do conflict very, very well. I argue my case very, very well. I tend to get what I want. I tend to do it without being cruel. I tend to be very shrewd at it, and very tactical.

Yet, I hate it. Like, I'll avoid someone or something for a good long time, just because I hate to be in that position of needing a victory. I hate to have to do the arguing. I fear losing. Even though I seldom lose.

I was avoiding talking to the cute young guy who works for free on fixing my scooter, in exchange for my baked goods, ha, for instance. My poor wee scooter is still very unhappy. Funny, it goes like stink these days when you get it to the upper register speeds -- like, 85 kilometres an hour with the slightest of declines and a tailwind. Crazy. But it's a slug off the start line and takes blocks to get to a decent running speed. It's embarrassing. I'm that chick who rides between lanes, has off-roaded with her scooter, and who knows what it's like to do a 200-kilometre day touring a valley on it -- I don't do "slow" and "annoying. Fuck! When the people behind me are thinking "Move, bitch!" I am, too.

People are not patient. Nor am I. So, anyhow, mechanic boy's this kid who's trying to build the world's fastest scooter and is test-riding his latest generation ride at the Bonneville Salt Flats down in Utah this September. He's taken a special interest in my ass-- err, my case-- and is doing all he can to fix my bike for cheap, cheap, cheap. But all his tricks haven't solved the like-a-slug starts (but sure as fuck increased the top end!) and it's just killing me. Now we must start throwing money at it. For a few hundred dollars (sigh, ouch) it should be the meanest bitch on the south side, man. But... summer will be over.

And even though I knew what the kid's answer would be, and I knew he'd be cool with helping me out, I was dreading having the chat. How stupid is that? It's amazing what we do to ourselves just because there are conversations we're not really keen to have. What stupid, stupid creatures we can be.

And I have another one of those conversations I dread coming up, even though I'm secretly 90% sure I'll get what I want: The Money Chat at work. It's time to show me the love, baby. And though I know I've a great argument, and I know I'm likely to get everything I ask for, I'm in a state of dread. (It's one of those things of timing -- the chat's been in the offing for three months, but first work got slow and I thought it was bad timing, then work got busy, but the two owners have been on back-to-back holidays for going on two months now. The chat will be initiated in 10 days. The wait will kill me.)

Dreading these conversations is killing me, I tell ya. Having them, though, that's what it's all about. 'Cos then results happen. Change occurs. One way or the other, you better know what you got to do, right?

Ahh, the healing power of conversation. Blessed be. Ten days to go. God help me. Of course, you can feel free to donate to my alcohol and foodie fund, to ease the paid of the wait, by clicking here. :)

By the way, if you've not started following my plain-jane life on Twitter, then you can do so by clicking here. [Twitter is basically blogging-meets-chat; you can follow on-the-fly short updates about people's lives. Is fun!]

Reader Says:He's Hated Giving Me Oral for 25 Years

2008-08-03T09:00:00.003-07:00

Oh, dear, oh, dear. Ohh. Sigh.

So here's a letter I received today--

We've been married 25 years, intercourse has always been great. Hubby has never learned to be good with his hands but orally he's a dunce. I gave up many years ago. I have dropped 60 lbs and my libido went up, so has my old wish for good oral from him. I printed out "how to eat pussy" lessons I found on the net. He attacks the pussy like it's diseased. Scrunches up his face and makes it look like he's going to hate it. The lessons... well, he just couldn't put it together.

He's given me a list of "needs" to prepare for this.

1- must shave the area (fine with me, but he won't assist.)

2- must wash 10 minutes before doing act

3- must be more than 5 days past period

4- must be more than 5 days from getting period

5- must be more than 3 days since last intercourse (we have sex 2 or 3 times a week, he ALWAYS cums inside)

He hates even looking at a vagina, and has had no clue in 26 years what a clit does. All the teaching I attempted in our early years was a waste as he just has no innate ability to figure out what to do, and won't listen to my body. I am about ready to go man hunting for good oral.

SHOULD I GIVE UP ON HIM?

Shit. See, this is one of those "I'm not going to enjoy this" questions. It happens. Normally I'd remove more of the specifics, but it's obvious he doesn't read blogs like this. And even if he did, he deserves to recognize himself.

Reader, you need to say, "Look, I know YOU have a problem with this, but the majority of this country, men LOVE diving into snatch. YOU have a problem with it. YOU are the exception. YOU having a problem with it makes ME feel like YOU have a problem with MY snatch. This makes ME feel like a loser. This makes ME feel like maybe there's someone out there, in the majority of the country, that feels differently about ME than YOU do. I'm tired of being rejected. It's threatening our marriage. And the power is in your hands to change it. And if you don't, I will."

I mean, there's no other option. You need to be brutally honest about this with him.

You should have been honest with him 25 years ago, but this is what happens in a lot of marriages because we've somehow come to believe, as a society, that sex isn't an important component in our marriage, that it's a fringe benefit of committing, rather than the truth: It is one of the most empowering tools we have of building our self-image and expressing our true selves. And one of the most destructive.

If, in sex, we're made to feel ashamed of our bodies -- our lover scrunches up his/her face before going down on us, expressing distaste and disgust before even laying lips upon us -- then we're actually being, in some regards, somewhat psychologically abused. Really. Our self-esteem is being assaulted. We're being made to feel that we're repulsive, and the problem is with their perspective, not our reality.

You tell a child often enough they're stupid, and they'll stop studying in school and will come to believe you. You show a lover often enough that they're repulsive to you -- or even a part of them is repulsive to you -- and they may come to believe that you really do find them repulsive as a whole.

This is what he has done to you. For a quarter of a century. You have a right to be disappointed and angry. You have a right to demand more. And he has the right to decline.

Then you need to decide if you want to continue feeling as though you're sexually repulsive, not having the truly fulfilled sex life you want...

Because, let's face it, he's not good with his hands, he's not interested in oral, and he's only interested in intercourse, in which he always comes inside, he doesn't give a shit about the clitoris, shows no interest in learning about sex, doesn't care (or acts like it) that he's not fulfilling you in other ways -- and, statistically, the majority of women cannot orgasm through intercourse, and the clitoris is like the "Hallelujah" chorus of sex? What?

Yeah, obviously he's more or less in this for himself, whatever his hangups about oral sex might be, because he's not really respecting what you feel, desire, or need.

Okay, let's take a left-field tangent trip for a second. Seafood: I have always abhorred it. The smell of raw salmon would cause me to want to vomit. Nothing inspired disgust more than seafood. All my life. You have no idea.

And then I decided to give myself a total-life makeover, focusing hugely on trying to eat healthy. I now try to eat seafood a couple times a week. I've forced myself, and slowly but surely, I'm beginning to enjoy it. I simply told myself it was mind over matter. I had to learn that most of the world LOVES seafood, so clearly I was somehow wrong. I mean, if it's the world's favourite entree, clearly I'm off my nut, right?

I made myself consider all the positives: It was healthier. It was lower in fat. It would give me Omega 3s. My complexion would improve. My diet would balance out. Negatives: The smell.

The taste was an issue but I learned that, the better quality I bought, the less the fishy taste would be present, and the smell would be less of a problem, too. Plus, I'd clean up instantly, also negating the smell. Besides, you can overpower the taste if you use the right ingredients, and this girl can cook.

Like I had a headgame issue with seafood, your husband has a headgame issue with oral sex. The problem is entirely his. You've acquiesced to his "hygiene" demands, yet he persists in being cruel and disrespectful by revealing his disgust before he goes down on you. He's not being fair.

You need to decide what your bottom line is.

Do you want to take the chance on being alone, not finding the proverbial Mr. Right-for-Your-Snatch (but possibly indeed finding him and living an eternally blissful life -- or just a change of Mr. Wonderful-for-Nows)? Or do you feel you can live in an otherwise decent marriage that may have lots going for it, but comes with not only an unsatisfying sex life, but an offensive one that makes you feel ashamed?

And, you know what, you can make either of those choices and it's okay, but you need to be behind that choice and know what it is you've really decided in favour of. But, either way, you need to tell him what's at stake here. He needs to know that he's being a wuss, a meanie, and just not making you feel like the woman you DESERVE to feel like.

And, depending on his choice of action, you need to then decide, should you stay or should you go? I can't fucking tell ya that, but as for the option of giving up on him and cheating, I just think that's cowardly. I don't support infidelity inside conventional relationships. If he wants to consent to an open relationship so someone else can devour you, then that's his prerogative. But I think cheating as an easier out is cowardly... not that that was your plan. Just saying. :)

So, yeah. Tough question, tough answer. Lemme know how it goes.

Bush Rides Again:Birth Control Defined as "Abortion"?

2008-08-01T08:56:00.006-07:00

I know I'm Canadian, and I've not had to live under George Bush, but as a girl next door, I have spent much of the last eight years comprehensively alarmed by the steady erosion of freedom under this current American administration, and the assault on the sexual choices and options of the voting public, among many other questionable policies enacted over much of this last decade.

But this one takes the motherfucking cake, and it's not getting enough press yet.

A draft regulation is circulating the Department of Health and Human services in which it seeks to redefine abortion to INCLUDE BIRTH CONTROL PILLS AND IUDs.

That's right, by taking a birth control pill -- just any old 21-days-a-month pill -- or having an IUD implanted, you would legally be "participating in abortion".

Now, this isn't law, yet. May never be. May never even hit the floor. But it's out there. And all those little religious-righters are wringing their fingers in glee, hoping like hell it happens, while the rest of a country that supposedly purports to separate church from state may have to pay the price for a motherfuckin' religion-fuelled dumb policy like this hitting the books.

Now those in the administration are calling the folks (like me) on the left "reactionaries" who are overblowing the whole thing, that it won't create difficulties for women taking the pill. Oh, really? But it'll redefine it as abortion. It'll redefine it as the "taking" of a life, rather than the prevention of life forming.

If the definition doesn't DO anything, then WHY REDEFINE IT? See, that's the thing. If you're not DOING anything, then why are you doing it at all? Right? Because, even if you claim it's not doing anything, but you're doing it anyways, then...

Because, psst, you know you really ARE DOING something. This is Bush using the last six months of a presidency to get the door open, stick a foot in, and create the possibility of rewriting law in the coming years based on an obscure redefinition that eeked its way into being in the dying hours of the most unpopular presidency in the history of the country, a presidency that came into being on the backs of the strongest evangelical/religious-right movement ever seen in America.

The reason you tweak laws, redefining them or broadening their definitions, is to create the opportunity for a legal climate in which challenges may better succeed.

If the draft regulation were to prompt some insurance companies to drop coverage for prescription birth control, "that would be fantastic," said Tom McClusky, a strategist with the conservative Family Research Council.
The Wall Street Journal

Roe v Wade is ticking strong after three decades, to the devastation of people all over the Right; something needs to change in the legal landscape if the anti-abortion crowd is ever going to succeed.

Though this nebulous would-be policy of "Well, it's not really DOING anything, we're just changing language" might seem silly, it's not. It's terrifying. It's ethically wrong. It flies in the face of everything American -- in a country of the free, a country supposedly unfettered by its religious climate. It's door-stopper policy-making in the attempt of opening a door to the potential of reducing freedoms of choice. That's it, in a nutshell.

If this would-be policy terrifies you like it does me, and you're American, you need to write your members of congress, your governors, and anyone else who'll listen, and say so. With luck it'll never become policy; with your voice against it, it won't need luck.

If you're planning to vote in November's election, you need to know that John McCain has declined to comment on this potential policy change, while Barack Obama has scathingly denounced it.

To be ranking the taking of daily birth control pill in the same category as a second-trimester abortion is just disgusting. But though that's what I've come to expect from the Bush administration, I'm still utterly repulsed.

And you should be, too. And frightened. With six months to go, the lowest approval ratings ever, this is about as ballsy as a dumbfuck lame-duck President could be. Un-fucking-believable.

So, I gotta ask: Are you gonna stand for this?

In Vino Veritas: Lord Help Me

2008-07-30T23:20:00.004-07:00

So, I'm doing my hump day in brilliant fashion. I'm drunk. Like, flat-out, I'm a 1/2 glass from the bottom of my bottle of Sicilian red wine. Mm, mm, good. Yeah.

What can I say? I was working on a tv show about red wine this afternoon, and I thought, "That sounds good. Sure." So, that and a 440-calorie deluxe mini-pizza and I'm just as happy as can be. Albeit somewhat wobbly.

Because I'm drunk, heh heh, and happy about it, and in vino veritas, and all that, I'm going to take a moment to not really apologize, but maybe clear the air or something here.

I have been short-tempered of late, probably pretty much clear throughout my life. It has been odd and strange to be on my end of it, because I'm not sure where it comes from. One word springs to mind: hormones.

Two weeks ago, I visited my doctor and said, "You know, I think it's time I got off the meds."

If you're new to this blog, fuck, well, the story's too long to indoctrinate ya now, but suffice to say my longtime readers know I've been on quite the ride the last couple of years, but given that I heavily edit this blog and temper it from my real life, all y'all don't know jack. Really.

So, long story short, I lost my nut two years ago when birth control pills fucked me up more than I ever could have dreamed. I still think birth control pills are an important tool, and that my experience is probably the exception to the rule, but that, if you do decide to use the pill (and I'd approve that choice, with condoms), you got to monitor your moods and tell those closest to you to help keep you objective about how you're reacting to life, because I tripped the wire, man. I really tripped the wire.

I am telling you this: I have lost my mother, who was THE most important person to me, after caring for her before her death; I have survived nearly a decade of chronic pain; I have survived nearly dying on a severely injuring motorbike accident... and I have never, ever endured the darkness I endured two summers ago. I couldn't have written about the darkness I was in. You didn't want to read that, I certainly didn't want to actualize it on the page. I couldn't talk about it. I kept trying to talk myself out of it; intellectually I knew my life wasn't that bad, so what was it?

The further I get from it, the more I realize it had to be the pills.

So, back to the present. I've lost almost 50 pounds, the good old-fashioned way. I've not used trainers or clubs or organizations, and I haven't even had a gym membership. But I've gotten it done. I've redecorated my place, tackled my debt...

But then in the last couple of months, though I've intellectually felt like I'm going someplace awesome, my emotions were just always a little too much on edge for all I KNOW I have accomplished.

So, I chatted with the doc. Because, you know, us women and hormones, man, it's a delicate dance. I started wondering if maybe it was time to end the anti-depressants, since they'd clearly done their job.

Now, the doc only found out about 3 weeks ago I'd lost 35 pounds, so this 40-pushing-50 thing is news all the better. So, I show up for the appointment, tell him maybe it's time I move on. He looks at me and goes, "Steff, depressed people don't lose 40 pounds, and they're not really into redecorating much. I think maybe, yeah, it's time."

But truth be told, I hadn't really thought I'd been that off-kilter until the last couple days. Coincidentally, I just got off the meds Sunday. A couple days and that stuff starts to clear up, like a long fog in the winter. (Though, ironically, I'm all a-tipsy now. :)

In the not too distant past, I've written a rant about comments, chewed a few people out, you know. Kinda not-too-fuzzy stuff. It's out of character for me to throw it out there -- politically, I'm as shrewd as the fuckin' day is long, baby, so I don't tend to put my foot in my mouth all that often.

But it seems of late I have. I think I was expressing my true feelings, but I normally would've put a cork in it and just dismissed it as people spouting off when maybe they should've done a little self-editing. Then, ironically, I too failed to self-edit. Funny how that works.

Anyhow. This is me saying I'll behave more. I'm not saying I'm sorry, 'cos maybe we all should blow a fuse now and then and get that shit off our chests... heh, after four years of blogging, it was about time I ranted about comments. Hah. It's like parental advice -- sooner or later you just gotta speak your piece.

But I could have done it better. I could have been nicer. Hell, I should have. One thing I've never claimed to be is perfect. And I've always loathed hormones. Damn estrogenies. So, you know, older, wiser, and on it rolls. Will. Behave. Better.

All right, so I was a bit of an ass. Yes. True. But I wasn't entirely incorrect. :)

(My theory is, with enough time passing for the birth control pills to finally be irrelevant, my weight loss success, my improved diet, a more relaxing job situation, and improved finances, that my body chemistry has become correct all by itself, but by continuing to be medicated, it's actually been causing a new imbalance. Strange, huh? But it makes sense to me. Ay yi yi.)

Psst!

2008-07-29T23:23:00.001-07:00

In case you didn't know, you can follow me on Twitter now. I'm not that exciting, but hey. :)

Sextoy Review! The GIGI "Pleasure Object" by LELO

2008-07-29T09:08:00.005-07:00

My good friends at Vibe Review sent me some pretty toys earlier this month, and the one I couldn't wait to get playing with first was this beautiful toy pictured here.

The Gigi Pleasure Object could also have another name: "Your New Best Friend."

This thing is to sex toys what the iPOD is to music. No, really.

Sure, you could go for the so-called five-speed turn-the-dial vibrators out there, or you could cross the threshold into the 21st century and try a vibrator powered by a microchip, that offers five incredible sensations, and each of those come in five different speeds. Oh, you have no idea.

But that's only part of what I love, love, love about this toy. So, let's slow down and break it down for a second:

Pluses:

Wow! What a beautiful thing to open. It comes in a simple wine-coloured box, and you slide that open and there's a beautiful black box (no markings) in which sits this sophisticated, original "pleasure object". Not only that, it comes with a gorgeous little white satin bag to keep it in. But the thing looks like art. Why put it away? (Because you want to protect it from dust and cooties, of course, silly.)

It's rechargable. In fact, it has no removable batteries. It will charge completely in two hours and will give you 90 minutes of continuous playtime. This, and plenty of other great information comes in the User's Manual. Like how speed #5 is for "before and after". Yes, it's a five-speed. And we love our five speeds, don't we? But five SENSATIONS with five speeds each? Like, ohmigod!

The five "sensations" include: 1) your basic steady-ready solid vibrating found on every other vibe in the world -- but that's where the similarities end -- 2) short but radiating and expanding pulses, 3) short and quick staccato pulses on rapid-fire, 4) steady vibrating with a rhythmic pounding throb overlapping it, and, my favourite, 5) a steady vibrating with radiating climaxing built in on a three-second repeating pattern (and it'll blow your mind). Each of these five "sensations" can be ramped from from "merely there" vibrating to "shaking your knees" vibrating, because it's seemingly powered by the same kind of microchip that makes your cellphone get so happy.

This is a seriously powerful, seriously smart sex toy. The touch control is one four-direction tab you can move up and down through the sensations, and side-to-side for the power/speed options.

One thing I love about the Gigi, too, is, when the battery's still not charged, and you're charging it, the touch control is illuminated with an LED light, and flashes once every second. Once it's fully charged, it lights up solid. So, you'll be able to walk back to the living room from the washroom and notice through your dark bedroom that your Gigi's fully charged, and one thought about its vibing power, you'll probably skip the rest of So You Think You Can Dance and spend a little girl time with Your New Best Friend.

The look of it, too, is awesome. It's sleek, clean, pretty to look at, not too large, and if you did happen to leave it out, it's not the kind of toy a friend'll spot and you'll have to cringe when they point it out. It's tasteful looking. It's modern design, modern art.

And this thing is light, girls. Once you take the batteries out of a toy like this, it is very, very light and easy to maneuver.

Negatives:

It's small. It's designed to look sleek and modern, so there are no "pleasure enhancing" ridges on it that have become standard on so many vibes. I'm waiting for the sex toy that is easier to handle controls on with lubed-up fingers slipping and sliding off it, but the Gigi's not yet that toy.

It's very solid, ie: hard, but because it's a smaller toy, that's not so much of a problem, plus it's easier to clean as a result.

But... I had to think about this. Really.

Overall:

Can I tell you how much the environmentalist in me LOVES that no batteries are needed yet there are no annoying cords? It's rechargeable, operated by a microprocessor, and so you can tell from across a dark room when it's fully charged. It has stunning vibing options, five of 'em, and they all come with five speeds.

This is amongst one of the most powerful vibes I've ever, ever seen, but its five speeds really do offer everything from merely there to damn-that-thing's-quakin' speeds that'll get you melting.

This is one cool little toy to have, and absolutely worth a night in. If you spend only around $100 on sex toys this year? Spend it on Gigi. She'll make sure you're properly spent, in more ways than one.

What a Long, Strange Trip It's Been

2008-07-26T15:21:00.005-07:00

You can't get to where you're goin' if you don't know where you're leavin' from. That's one of those truisms said a million ways by a million voices. It's true of every one of us. Whatever our differences, that's our commonality.

Knowing from whence you've come versus where it is you're headed is one thing, but knowing how the hell that trip came about is quite another.

Last new year's eve I finally had a night to myself after several days of being with family and friends non-stop, and I spent some time thinking on the year I wanted to have ahead of me. I wanted to lose at least 50 pounds. I wanted to get a grasp of my finances. I wanted to take writing seriously again. But most of all, I just wanted to become a better self.

I'd spent two years going through one hell of a ringer, as if life was some game show that decided I had a two-year contract of Running The Gauntlet.

"Will she make it out alive? Good golly! Make sure you tune in to see more of the exciting antics as life doles out doozy after doozy to our fair heroine! What a ride this one's gonna be, Billy! Hoo, boy!"

I decided last fall, in a swirl of overtime and craziness at work, that I'd take serious stock of life over Christmas. I'd had my brother staying with me for a few days over the holidays, for what was completely an exercise in excess. A cousin had heard we were hanging together for the festive week, with no other family nearby, and sent a massive food basket with $200-worth of gourmet regional goodies. We drank and ate and smoked dope and watched half the movies in my extensive library, but we spent a lot of time talking also about where my brother wanted his life to go, and where I knew I had to take mine.

When New Year's Eve rolled around and my house fell silent, I found myself doing some heavy mental lifting as I took stock of just how displeased I was with where my life had gone in '07, and how happy I was to have reconfigured my priorities, quit a job I hated, and took serious steps in gaining some security in my life again. But I knew I'd barely begun.

And here it is, seven months later, and I'm down about 40-45 pounds, my finances are sorting out nicely, and everything's moving in the right direction, but lord how far there is yet to go. While I might've done some mental heavy lifting at the new year, I certainly haven't been hoisting much of late. I've been avoiding the "how" I got to be that person I was last year. Where did it all begin? Where'd the weight start to become something I used to protect myself from others? How'd I let myself fall so freely into the life of excess and ignorance? How'd I let it continue unabated for so long?

Long story short? I got hurt. A lot. In every way. Physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Hurt after hurt after hurt after hurt, year after year after year after year. Hurt and pain is like a snowball. Once you get it rolling, once it gets momentum, if it keeps moving that way, it builds up layer after layer until you can't believe the size it suddenly amasses.

A pretty apt analogy for my weight problem, too. The further I get in my journey to self this year, the more I realize how much my weight is tangibly linked to all the hurts I took on over my years.

It's taken me my lifetime to learn that hurt isn't personal. Tragedies landing on my doorstep weren't life's way of telling me I wasn't welcome. It's not about me. It's just the ebb and flow of life, and it was just my turn. Just like this has now become my turn to shine, then it was my turn to hurt. And I took it the wrong way. I thought about the hurt rather than thinking on the learn. What could I learn from it? How could I grow? How else could I look at it? Was my point of view self-indulgent, or was I being objective?

And the funny thing is, is just how long it's taken me to learn a lesson I could have learned in just a single day 13 years ago. I spent a whole day doing a ceremonial sweat lodge with a few folks from the Tlingit native tribe up in the Yukon when I was 22, in February, 1995. Chief Phil explained the most important principle to keep in mind: It would be hard, it would be long, it would sometimes hurt, but it would be worth it. The whole point of suffering, he said, was surviving it.

And, right there, I guess, is pretty much the secret to life in a nutshell. It's long, it's hard, it hurts sometimes, but it's ultimately worth it. The whole point, it seems, is surviving. And some, of course, do it better than others. Others, of course, have it easier than some. And that's just how it rolls.

But though I knew what Chief Phil meant that day, knowing and understanding are two very different things. Now here I am, 13 years later, and I get it. I understand it. I even love it. Because I know I've survived it. I know what I'm made of. I know what I can overcome. But I have more to prove.

I've had a hard year this year in a lot of respects, but I also feel like I've ended the darkest part of my life, and this year of trial has been hard only because it's the physical labour of building a whole new life. It's the trial and the fatigue and hurt of a hard year's work, not from the adversity posed of a life of difficulty. I run my life now, it no longer runs me.

The hurts of my past, the hurts from my youth, they don't hurt me anymore. They bother me some when I think on them, but my thinking has to do with taking stock, owning it, and then consciously moving past it. I'm, in a sense, undertaking a reckoning of my life thus far, and I'm staring it in the eyes and saying "You don't bother me no more" and closing the door on it, hurt by hurt, year by year.

It's a slow and difficult process at times, but that's why I told myself last new year's that it'd be at least a year before I was anywhere close to on track for that proverbial destination I ache to reach. Seven months in, I was more right than I knew, because, although I'm further than I expected to be this far into my year, I also recognize that my distance I must travel is far greater than I could've realized.

But it's a hell of a trip, baby.

My First Time (with a Home Pregnancy Test)

2008-07-24T19:44:00.003-07:00

There I was, desperately locking and re-locking the bathroom door in the back of a Subway sandwich shop, panicking that I might be heard, or maybe the Catholic in me felt the location was just morally wrong for that sort of thing, but I didn't give a shit. The time was nigh, now or never, or at least now-sooner-than-later, as fate might have it anyhow, so I was doin' it.

I tore the pregnancy test open, pulled out the stupid stick, lowered my pants and panties, and peed on that thingy, with my Chicken Caesar sub a couple feet away in that plastic bag, mocking my efforts.

Three loooonng minutes later, I learned I wasn't pregnant. So, naturally, I did another test. A second opinion on some matters is the only way to go.

Yes! Again, no bun in the oven! No baby on the way! No mini-me! No eternal hellfire for my still-too-Catholic soul! (That is, if I didn't count the pre-marital sex I'd been enjoying again of late).

I exited that dingy bathroom to find a line-up of three people glowering at me for my eight-minute visit to the only washroom for the whole joint. I shrugged, "Hey, it was labourious", and shuffled obliviously to a booth nearby.

I swear, I've never had a better Chicken Caesar sub in my life.

That's actually the only time I've ever been noticeably "late" for a period, since I'm the irregular type anyhow, so I've never done a "home" pregnancy test since. There's been a couple morning-after pills, but that's another story.

But I don't get this whole Hollywood thing, how any woman who buys a preggers test has the wherewithal to finish her shopping, walk around the block, get home, and then do it in the sanctity of her own bathroom. Like that's the only place a "home" pregnancy test works.

Hey, when there's the potentiality of being knocked up, some of us are consumed by the TELL ME NOW, MOTHERFUCKER urge to, you know, cross the fucking street and go into the first cafe or fast-food joint with a private door-locking bathroom to do the three-minute test then and there, and ease our mind.

Or maybe I'm alone in the universe, but I really don't think so, even if patience certainly ain't my strong suit.

So, consider this a fun-filled not-so-scientific study in which you can help me shatter yet another myth out there.

Where have you taken your pregnancy tests? C'mon, most of us have done one. Was it at home? Work? A friend's? What was the outcome? How'd you deal?

Now, if you've never done this before, commenting is really easy. You can do it anonymously, or with any name you choose, or under your Blogger or Live ID. Look at the bottom of this post. You'll see the word "thoughts?" and if you click on that, you're rockin'! Have your say, and preview or publish your comment with the appropriate buttons below the comment fill-in field. Have at 'er, and thanks.

Sugasm 141

2008-07-23T07:17:00.003-07:00

Hey, Minions. :)

I'm still sick. Yes, poor me. But I'm better enough to go to work today. Which isn't necessarily a good thing, since I've grown attached to my lumpy spot on the couch, but hey. Life's rough, get a helmet.

This is what I get for thinking "Oh, hey, I should increase the amount of milk I'm drinking... and soy's so expensive". I know I'm very sensitive to ice cream and big yogurt shakes and stuff, as I've had nasty illnesses hit me after those, but I figured skim milk might be safe. So instead of gradually bumping up my intake, I started making myself a couple lattes each morning.

Yeah, so that was dumb, and now I know. :P Time to bump up the calcium supplements, and back to soy I go. Shit happens, baby.

But I'm still somewhat congested, not right in the head, and not into writing, so I'll just use this as a chance to pimp the Sugasm and wish all y'all a fine and dandy hump day.

So, without ado, Sugasm. Eat some, you'll feel better.

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

This Week’s Picks
Comedy vs. Tragedy “Are you on your period? What? Did he just say…”

Ian, or, Sometimes Sex is Hilarious “In short, it isn’t sex blogger sex.”

A Wish “I wish that you could know the indescribable pleasure of being enfolded in your warm, gentle wetness.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice Road Rage

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Forgetting
How Do You Flirt With Milk?
The Hunt
I Don’t Usually Date, but…
I have huge tits.
Men on Pointe
My Femme Cock
Nibbles and Bits: Vegetarian? Really? Doh!
Present and first love making

Sex Advice
How to Make Her Want Anal Sex
Play Safe
The Power of Suggestion- And How It Helps You Meet Women

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Gisele Bundchen Topless and Nipple Slip Pictures
HNT - Purple Lace Part Two
Lady Sascha Does HHNT
Marta - Professional
Once upon a time HNT
Pornsaint Tara Tainton
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet -HNT
Sam Bound

Sex Humor
It did not work
When your mother has more sex than you do…

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Can’t Get Enough
Fiction - The Wrong Smith Girl
Getting to fuck the neighbor 15
Harder…
In any language,…
Le Cadeaux
Nine: of nasty names
Oh Honey, Make Yourself Cum for Me
The Parking Garage
Pointless
The Ride.
Rub a Dub Dub
The Second Time Around
Slow.Soft.Hot.Perfect
Spin the bottle-the conclusion
Tits~n~Teets 2
TNT - Part 2
The Wanting
Writhe

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Can A Film Prostitute In 1930’s Shanghai Fare Any Better Than One Of The 100,000 Prostitutes Working The Streets In The City?
Donate To Satine Phoenix’s Tantric Exploration
Escort X: Find great escorts
Spanking erotica interview with Alison Tyler
The value of erotic blogging
Wanted: Your Orgasms Caught on Tape

BDSM & Fetish
Auction of a Slave
Changing Cravings For Pain: A Survey
A Beautifully Cruel Predicament Bondage Scene
Cuntwriting
Fitting Punishment
The house in Vienna
July MVK: Play piercing
Leather Retreat 2008 – The Toll Booth
Mz Berlin Gets The Bastinado And Rack Torture On Hogtied
Necessary Roughness
Routine Maintenance, pt. 2
A Scene in Three Parts … (part III)
Taken and Collared as a Sex Slave while her husband sleeps
Telegraph
Trying on new shoes, Friday night edition

Wah! Sick! Fuck Sick!

2008-07-21T09:49:00.002-07:00

Your beloved blogger has been sick all weekend and is home sick from work today, too. Missed my party Saturday, felt like death-warmed over Sunday. She is none too pleased, either.

Smack-dab in the middle of the nicest July I remember in some time, and here I am, hacking and coughing and groaning about headaches and stuck with vertigo.

As a result, you get nothing from me today. Hack, hack, cough, cough.

I left this voicemail for my boss on her cellphone. "Hi! Welcome back from three weeks in Europe! I feel awful. Sick as a dog. WHO GETS FLIPPIN' SICK IN JULY?! GAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!! Call me back at home."

She calls back, cracking up. I'm glad someone is amused. And I'm at home, miserable. But, there you have it: best bosses ever.

Ahh, well, it had to happen sooner or later. I haven't really been sick since last September and god knows I've been pushing it this year. Bah. Have a better day than me, minions. Time to catch up on some daytime telly, methinks.

Thoughts on Clothes Shopping, and Sugasm 140.

2008-07-19T11:41:00.002-07:00

Have you ever had one of those days where you just wake up apprehensive and slightly disturbed, and you're not sure why, other than the restless sleep filled with unsettling dreams you can't remember?

Yeah. I had one of those sleeps last night. Fraught with the unsettled, but completely in the dark as to remembering any of my dreams last night. Except for a snippet where I was having this hellish clothes-shopping experience where, every item I tried on, I'd look in the mirror and it'd suddenly distort and I'd have this hideous thing looking back at me. I woke up, smoked some pot, and tried to sleep again.

Hours later, I've woken up uncomfortable in my own skin, and I can't really shake it off, but I'm about to give it a good shot.

I went to bed last night thinking all these outlandish thoughts about how exciting it was going to be to go shopping for new shorts at Old Navy today. Now I'm all apprehensive about it. I'm sitting here in the XXL shorts I bought two years ago that I now have to yank the ropes as tight as possible and roll down at the waist just to keep 'em from falling down over my hips. I've lost more than 40 pounds, but there are times I still feel like the girl of old.

It's a little nerve-wracking facing the demons of Mass Produced Clothing in the post-weight-loss world. Boo, hiss, mass production. In a world without regulated sizing, it can be a pretty psychologically cruel journey for someone looking to find a sense of self in a new size. As if that's where we'll ever find ourselves anyhow. But once we do find our self, wherever it's found, it can always be enhanced by a great pair of jeans, no?

Naturally, I can't afford to buy much today. A little. Not much. The broke state of Steff will come to an end in Aug/Sept, but I can find a few pennies, and that's okay. Anything is good, right? I've been wearing my three new shirts this week and my new jeans I bought, and I got an awesome email from a coworker yesterday morning, an afterthought kind of thing. "Hey, I've been meaning to tell you, you're looking amazing! Those jeans you've been wearing really, really show it off. Way to go!"

So, now I'm about to take off and have the first reckoning with what, exactly, is my new size after all? Sure, I'm nervous, but I'm also excited. Nothing like buying new clothes to reinvent our image. It's the single most important decision we make daily on how we want our world to perceive us, isn't it?

Living two years without the opportunity to reinvent my image thanks to such bad financial straights for so long, and having made so many changes in who I am, and knowing who I was 2 years ago versus this wicked chick I've become, well, this is the beginning of a radical re"branding" of the self of Steff.

For instance, I bought this terrific slightly butch shirt that I just think rocks. It's sad that I want to have shrunk out of it by Thanksgiving, but I'll love it in the meantime. It's almost like a cute little tailored mechanic's shirt with cap sleeves and darting at the waist, and it's red and blue stripes on white, but the back has a massive 10" embroidered flower patch offset to the left, and it's just perfect. Feminine, yet not. Looks great with my tan. It strikes the perfect balance I want my whole wardrobe to have.

I'm no girlie girl, and I never will be. I've had an assortment of Doc Martens over the years and love some good boots, right? I long for a new leather jacket, I dig my short hair. But I don't want to be butch. I'm so done with butch. I want femininity without selling out completely. I want balance. Cute but hot, tough but soft.

But who we see ourselves in our mind's eye versus who we're able to produce as a result of the clothing we buy, the images we craft, is wildly different. We can have an idea of where we want to go, but until we find the right things on the rack, who's to say where we actually wind up?

So, here I go. Off to see if mass production really has a "self" I'm willing to project. And what self will it be, anyhow? Ahh, the wonders of materialism.

Here, eat some Sugasm. It'll all be better in the morning.

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

This Week’s Picks
“Are you a sex blogger or a sexy blogger?” “It builds a community that I am so proud to be part of.”

The J Word “And while you’re with her, I’ll be with him.”

Transcending moment ”It’s that place between fear and arousal, and they are so very closely related.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself -- Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice-- Chill Pleasure

BDSM & Fetish
Bathroom bang
Bros Not Hoes - F/m Spanking Video Clip
Cock training
Galerías de spanking: Spanking Server
Games Grown Ups Play
The Most Amazing Sex (and I didn’t come)
Mr. and Mrs. Kink Have Great Sex (Again)
My First Ever Fetish Photography Shoot & Other Wonderful Things
New spanking gallerie - Two girls spanked
Religion and BDSM
Rope
TES Fest 2008 was fabulous!
Your Slut

Sex Advice
Ask Miss Bliss-How Do I Know If A Girl Likes Me?
Fetish Safety - Branding
The Kivin Method: Guaranteed Orgasm for Women

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Advanced Exhibitionism
Autobiography of a Masturbator: Porn O’Graphicus, Part 2
Club Tantra: My Experience, Unabridged
Distraction
Fucking no foreplay
Getting to fuck the neighbor 9
Him
HNT - Peach
Insanity never felt so good
Interludes - part 1
Memoir Of A Married Woman
Popping His Cherry
Re: Dinner Last Night
“Red Bottoms” (Complete)
Sloppy Seconds, Then Thirds
That Time of the Month
Whiskey Kisses (unedited)

Sex Work
Sex Worker Solidarity: Catalina
Happy Thoughts on Being a Phonesex Op…
Stamp on my forehead saying “ask me about your fetish”

Sex & Politics
Natalia Antonova on Objectification and Desire
Teen Sex: The New After-School Special?
Women Enjoy Relative Sexual Freedom this 4th of July

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Bedroom Radio #18: Artemis Hunter and the Silver Bullet
Calstar Spanking - Severe deep stripe marks
Cheerleader is tired in gangbang video
Free video audition of Amsterdam sex performer
Half-Nekkid and Getting Shaved
HNT - A bit cheeky
HNT - Purple Lace
Making Love to the Camera
Mz Berlin Took This Picture Of Herself In Her New Wasp Creation Corset

Sex Humor
Top 6 Reasons for Not Shaving Your Beaver

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Catalina loves Lochai
Comstock Films
Drink Semen for Better Health
Interview about spanking erotica with Spanked contributor Teresa Noelle Roberts
January Seraph Is A Hot Femdom Dominating Jade Indica In Lesbian Latex Role Play
The Monday Buzz: The Bandito
Penny Flame Fucks A Handyman With A Strap-On and Feeds Him His Own Cum
Product Research: Blow Job Dildo
Yes! Yes! Yes! Personal Lubricant

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
Be nice… until it is time to not be nice…
Finding out your good friends are swingers
Naughty Text Messages and Perverted Friends Makes Life Fun
Sex Advice Review: “Tips to Better Sex and Sleep”
Silence

2008-07-18T19:18:00.002-07:00

When to feel like a moron:

You've bought a great bottle of wine. After you've looked for the corkscrew for 10 minutes, start trying to peel the cover off, in prep for removing the cork, you notice it's a screw-top cap.

Duh. I think I'll unscrew this now...

RANT: Just Another Stupid Comment

2008-07-17T22:20:00.004-07:00

I've been torn about posting it here. I got bitter and decided to rant on my other blog. But a reader's comment makes me think other bloggers might also relate. And, hey. I've wanted to say this for four years. About fucking time. Please read the comments for further clarification -- I DO LIKE COMMENTS!

First off: When someone gets into a big long treatise or essay all provoked by what I've written, I'm flattered. When readers get into arguments with each other over something I've said, I'm flattered. When people take the time to write me to say why they identify with something I've written, I'm flattered.

THAT is why I love to write. All of those comments. They're so awesome to get. I love them.

BUT...

This might be totally cunty of me, but I've got to say I'm getting really tired of people commenting and leaving me unsolicited advice when all I'm doing is blogging for the fuck of it.

Like I'm complaining on the other blog about my mild hangover after too much tequila on Saturday night and I get the whole "You're probably dehydrated, you should drink more water" brilliance thing happening in the comments.

Yeah, thanks, Sherlock. You fuckin' think so? God, how did I ever get to age 35 without knowing being dehydrated is a major component of hangovers? Wow, why do I never get these memos?

Holy overstating the fuckin' obvious, Batman. Thanks for that pearl.

I know people mean well, but it's really fucking irritating as a blogger, when you work hard trying to keep a blog with new stuff for people to read all the time, and instead of getting a comment that's the equivalent of a pat on the back or something, we get emails telling us what we're wrong about or some obvious stupid thing that the reader seems to think we need to do.

Obviously I'm dehydrated after drinking tequila. I thought I'd spare you from the obvious and write about the funny part of it rather than the what-every-person-with-a-brain knows, that one should drink water after getting drunk.

A week or two ago someone left me a comment about how to make an em-dash. See the assumption is that I give a shit. In fact, I don't. I feel kind of badly for writing that reader back privately and telling him to stop with the fucking "helpful" advice that, instead of being helpful makes me feel like I'm being condescended to, not appreciated on the basis of the CONTENT of my blog rather than just its grammar, or any other number of feelings.

These guys are not exceptions. Sadly, this shit happens pretty regularly for any blogger.

Fuck, people. I work hard enough, working 40 hours a week, exercising up to 10 hours a week, writing and editing another 10 hours a week on top of that, doing the basic caring-for-myself eating/washing/shopping/house-cleaning that takes another 25 or 30 hours of my week. The last thing I need to start giving a shit about is putting a proper em-dash into motherfucking Blogger, for whom alt-characters don't work. Life's too short. A double dash works fine for me.

Besides, my job uses double dashes because of its 1980s software, so I may as well stay in a frame of mind more conducive to getting my job done faster. But does the reader take any of this into consideration before saying what I SHOULD do as opposed to what's been working fine for me? No. Does the reader assume I even KNOW what an em-dash is? No, they condescend to explain what it is. I'm an EDITOR for a LIVING. I get PAID to understand the constructs of the English language. Like I say, this guy isn't the first dude to jump to ignorant conclusions.

I don't get PAID to write this blog. I do it for the LOVE of it. So I take shortcuts. So fucking what? Don't make the assumption that I'm somehow unhappy with what I'm putting out there, because that's an insult, as if I'm somehow settling for something crappier, when all I'm doing is choosing my priorities.

There's the whole "Oh, just ignore it" mentality that someone else may want to suggest I have about those comments. You know, sail through life in "ignore" mode. Or I could just tell people to fuck off and have it done with.

So, let me say this on behalf of any serious bloggers out there:

When we WRITE blogs -- not just throw up four links and call it a fucking post, or use some easy picture as filler with a 15-word wisecrack and call that a day's content, but we really, really WRITE blogs -- and we put our fucking hearts and souls into it, COMMENTS are the juice that get us energized and keep us going. So, when the only comment you get after, say, two days of no comments or a week of no comments, is something about grammar or punctuation or "drink water", the first reaction is, "Have I got a bitch-slap for you!"

Like, have the respect to write about the content or saying hi or patting us on the back, rather than just throwing advice or grammar tweaks at us, or don't write at all. We don't need it. Really. It's a big world full of "shoulds" and criticism. We can do without yours.

If our writing provokes a thought with ya, comment. If you liked what was said, comment. If you take issue with what was said, comment. Absolutely. It's a dialogue. So let's do that.

If, however, all you want to do is patronize the blogger by assuming they're not smart enough to know anything outside of the 600 words they've just written, then put a cork in it.

I know I'm getting really fucking tired of the condescending advice emails that make the assumption I'm just some stupid chick who needs a little extra hand-holding to get across the street. Seriously.

"Drink water" after waking up from passing out from tequila? Gee, YOU THINK? Sigh. Fuck, man. Wanna tie my shoes for me, too?

Nibbles and Bits: Vegetarian? Really? Doh!

2008-07-16T10:44:00.001-07:00

I'm sorry. The minute I find out a guy doesn't like meat, or worse, is a vegetarian, my sex drive just goes out the fucking window. I don't know what it is.

I know, I'm so backwater hick, right? I apologize to all vegetarians. It's not you, it's me.

I need me a man who's gonna tear into my flesh, or something, but there you have it. And a vegetarian with his carrots and hummous? Yeah. I'll let the hippie girls hog 'im. There's no fucking way my kitchen's going veggie any time soon. Gardenburger my ass.

Christ, half the point of dirty all-night "clear the surfaces!" sex, sometimes, seems to be the plate of eggs and bacon you know you're gonna have at the end of it all, isn't it? God. Vegetarian... If only I'd known before the half-dozen emails.

Fuck. That should be on the list of immediate disclosures, like "I club seals" or "I'll let weeks pass before I get in the mood to fuck you again, so be prepared to wait" or "remind me to take my meds".

I mean, "you'll have to totally change how you eat if you're ever going to cook for me" is kinda need-to-know, isn't it?

I'm a FOODIE. There's a REASON I don't invite vegetarians in for dinner. You got custom food needs? Dine out or eat at home, but sure as hell don't show up to my house. You get what I'm fuckin' cookin', and you're gonna like it.

And, hey. I believe that what you cook together in the kitchen tends to take a relationship to a new place. Making excellent meals together and enjoying them together? Wow! I love cookin' with lovers. Shit, I love cooking with anyone!

But with a vegetarian? Nah, Veggie's ridin' the highway to nada, baby. Take the hat, leave the hummous.

It's not them. It's me. And I'm all right with that. Man, now I want a juicy burger.

[Speaking of juicy burgers, The New York Times says they're all the rage in Paris now. And on my patio. Barbecue at Steff's! BYoB!]

Damn You, Online Dating!

2008-07-15T19:34:00.007-07:00

WHAT the HELL am I doing?

Are you like me, you do the whole "I'm SO happy I'm single!" and then you get bored on the weekend, so you figure "What the fuck? I'll go browse..." and you log onto your dating site of choice. A day or so later you've managed to get yourself into, like, eight possible scenarios that may or may not wind up with a date? Most likely no date, because you're going to come to your senses and think "I so can do better than that"?

Because, somewhere along the lines you think, "Wait. How the fuck did HE get in this mix? Did my standards take a 20-minute leave of absence and somehow he magically made the cut? What the FUCK? What is WRONG with me?"

Yeah. All right. And what a waste of my time, too. Most of this online shit deserves to be hurled out of a 40th-floor window, because, while we like to delude ourselves that this way, online, we somehow get through the crowds of people who are woefully inappropriate for us by, instead, zeroing in on the people who have all the same stuff in common with us.

"You like stuff? I LOVE STUFF! Wow, we're so awesome for each other! Let's go get STUFF!"

The reality is, it's a fucking crock. As if it's all about the stupid shit we have in common? As if that elusive "chemistry" thing doesn't apply? Psst, a little secret: Chemistry never, ever translates over the internet. It just doesn't. You gotta do the in-the-flesh thing and see if it even works.

Shit, man, I'm gonna leave my door unlocked tonight, just in case my common sense is late getting home to me.

I was supposed to have a date with someone this past Saturday. THAT would have been pretty good. Too bad for life and its drama. To be continued at a later time and date? We'll see what lady fate has to say about that. We'll see if I'm even so inclined when the dust settles. Who knows?

Everyone else I've been in touch with is just completely pointless. Well, except one the jury is yet out on. Hell, even Saturday Drama Man may be completely pointless, but at least he's in my league and my tastes.

You know what it is, though, don't you? Just hormones. I think the problem is, when you get a great big box of sex toys plunked on your doorstep, as I did on Thursday, it's not about WAITING for the mood to strike. It's about getting the mood to strike and ASAP so you can play with your fancy-ass new orgasm-producing goods.

It's about rummaging for erotica or porn, leafing through DVDs to find something hot, channel-surfing till you land on some verboten sex scene, WHATEVER IT TAKES to make those toys of use and get the hummin' goin'.

Somewhere along the lines, the "Mm, well, that's nice... but penises are nice too" thought occurs, and suddenly sex toys become the problem, not the solution. "I could go online, maybe even get LAID!"

Here's where I throw my hands up at the skies and wail, "Why won't you just let me be satisfied with what I have for a week? Why are dating sites so disgustingly entertaining to surf through? Why?"

Oh. Right. Hormones. Yeah, well. I'd say my hormones can go fuck themselves, but that appears to be part of the problem.

Am I completely alone in this endlessly irritating cycle of "I love being alone and single and empowered! Oh, hmm, who's online anyhow?" Or do you also relate?