Pet Hate 1:Top shelf trickledown

Not to sound like a kneejerk feminist (fundamentalism of any kind is idiotic), I am fed up of being coralled in the Men’s Style section of my local newsagents by men getting their soft-porn lunch hour fix. I do not want to be associated with endless images of the airbrushed milk sacks and the vacant come-hither eyes of glamour models desperate for fame at any cost. The myth of nymphomaniac women ever-hungry for the ever ready male member is complete BS. Men know this really, but Porn allows them temporary respite from their aesthetic shortcomings: in pornworld, the elephant man can get laid by someone who really wants it.

[Via http://viennafamous.wordpress.com]

in what way To Avoid beforehand Ejeculation? How To fool around aimed at

A few weeks ago, I was reading some articles on Slate and came across a question written into Dear Prudence by a guy about his girlfriend – “How often should a woman wash her bra?” As I read on, the guy wrote his girlfriend only washed her bra a couple of times a month and he was thinking “Disgusting”. Is he correct? Yes. What was even more surprising though was the advice of the columnist, “Leave her alone. Women can wash their bras as often or as little as they want”. Wrong.

How often should a woman wash her bra? Every day, that's how often and those who don't, in my opinion, should get some education about hygiene. And here's why.

Oils on Your Skin Get On Your Bra - Every woman's skin produces oil. As the day progresses, that oil rubs off on your bra and, by the end of the day, there's a thin sheen of oil on every surface of the bra that touched your skin. If you wear it more than one day, it gets more and more difficult to get that oil off – even if you wash your bra in warm soapy water and scrub it.

Bras Lose Their Shape If Not Washed Daily - Washing a bra makes it spring back into shape. If you don't wash your bra and wear it for days (or weeks!) at a time, it gets saggy and shapeless and doesn't give you the support you need.

Your Breasts Will Get Less Support if Your Bra Isn't Washed - Like I said, washing a bra every day makes it spring back into shape. Wearing a bra more than one day, causes the cups and the straps to sag, thus giving your breasts less support. As you get older, you want to have the most support possible from a bra, or saggy boobs will be the result. So, wash your bra every day and you'll get all the support you need.

Bras Start To Look Gray If Not Washed - If you don't wash your bras often, they start to look gray and dingy. That's because there's so much oil and dirt accumulated on them, a bi-weekly wash isn't enough to get them out. By that point, your bra is pretty much history and you'll need to buy a new one. Wash it, before it begins to look gray and your bra will stay looking new longer.

Bras are Expensive - With bras on average costing between $25 and $100 a bra, if you don't take care of your bras correctly you'll end up having to buy more of them. Surprisingly to some women, washing your bras daily will help them last longer and save you money too.

Romance and Bras – Imagine this. You meet the man of your dreams, you eventually end up in a romantic situation and, as he reaches to unhook your bra, his hands slide on the oil slick that has now collected on the underside of the band of your bra. Romantic, right? Wrong. Wash your bras every day, because you never know when you might meet Mr. Right and want to impress him, and a dirty, gray bra won't do that.

Honestly, hand-washing a bra takes less than 3 minutes. If you get in the habit of hand-washing your bra every night when you're getting ready for bed, not only will you always be clean and fresh, your bras will last longer and you'll have less dirty laundry hanging around your bedroom.

So, how often should you wash your bra? Every day. Seriously.

 

The other way to cure your difficulty with sense in what way You Can finish beforehand Ejaculation the Natural approach is to look for a way to manage the quantity of sensation that you get throughout sexual intercourse. Even though, command may be the final point on a males mind when it comes to sexual intercourse exercising a couple of elements during the act will help you final longer and develop a quite happy partner.

 

[Via http://leonheiken.wordpress.com]

Quick Rant about Sex, Death and Whipping

Sex and Death are the two moral compasses by which politics, ethics and aesthetics habitually find direction. The cultural traumas we have inherited from the past cause us to feel guilty about not feeling guilty, and to perceive pain and suffering as the essence of reality. The over-saturation of words like poignant and haunting in the critical reception of art, films and music constructs a trauma oneupmanship whereby the most harrowing experiences are synonymous with the most authentic and worthwhile. This masochism reiterates the old modernist diatribe against the duping opiate of mass media which kills us slowly in the name of entertainment. After each World War, all meaningful representation was charged with carrying the burden of history. Thus popular culture and high art went their separate ways, serving as they did different classes their respective meat (hot superficiality to one and cold profundity to the other). The post modern trend for a blurring of boundaries between the sentimental and the austere has helped to dispel some of this attitude but self-flagellation seems to be inherent in the bourgeois self image.

[Via http://viennafamous.wordpress.com]

quick before bed style update

Well, maybe not so much bed, but D just fucked the hell out of me, and I him, well me him first then him me. I mean, I fucked him so hard he gave me scratch marks on my ass!! I wish I’d had the presence of mind to have him take a pic of it, but he was fucking me and had his finger in my ass at the time so *teehee* didn’t quite think of it.

We started just playing around, him being his normal self and “making” me work for it *giggles* he was hard as a rock in his pants so I know damn well he wanted it! Anyway, I started stripping, tugged him into the bedroom and we fell into bed and goofed around.  We used the Gun Oil again.

Last night we’d originally used it with a toy so I could feel it, then used the cooling Climax Bursts.  Well, when we went to bed D ended up getting horny and fucking the hell out of me.   We used the Gun Oil and OMG is it amazing!  I so recommend it, highly highly highly!!  It’s thicker than your standard water based lube, and does not get sticky at all, until the very end after all is over with and you’re walking to the bathroom to clean up.  You need very little of it, and it feels like natural lubrication.  It doesn’t feel like artificial lube at all.

So anyway back to tonight.  I was fucking the hell out of D but his cock just didn’t want to cooperate.  As I stated before, I was giving him so much pleasure I have scratch marks on my ass but for whatever reason (prolly just all the stress and shit we are dealing with right now) his Mr. Mr. (yes yes, the nickname I have for his dick) just was being temperamental.  So, we stopped and discussed how we should proceed.  What should we do to take care of this problem?

Well.  Last night I’d wanted some anal play but D was fucking me and I didn’t have the presence of mind to ask for it, so he suggested that as he really likes it as well.  I suggested tomorrow as earlier supper hadn’t sat well and I felt the need for some extra cleaning back there.  Well, he was determined and we ended up in the shower so I could assuage my self consciousness.

So, after the shower it was back in bed, more lube and us in doggy with D rogering the fuck out of me (*laughs* I love calling it that!  Rogering.. teehee ) and playing with my ass.  OMG…OMG it was some of the best sex we’ve ever had.  As I just said to D.  I know damn well the neighbors heard some of that!  We actually think I may have squirted a bit for the first time, like ever.  Though it could have just been dripping juice/lube/cum/etc we just don’t know *laughs* As he said.  Things were a little bit heated back there, it’s hard to say

So we cleaned up again, and I’ve decided that tomorrow I’m cleaning all my toys up.  Finally!  I got some toy cleaner last night and I’m gonna put it to the test tomorrow.  All the toys get a thorough rinsing/washing after use, but as a lot of them are anal and all that, I’ve been wanting something a bit more…formal? Serious? You know. *laughs* So I got some.  Also, I’m going to be sewing a case for my glass dildo.  Anyway, this is what awaits me tomorrow for cleaning.  I will make sure to post a pic of my bag for my dildo!

[Via http://jesseebeth.wordpress.com]

Sex on Ice

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To be or not to Be. That is the Question.

I’m not an inspiration today although I feel surprisingly better than I have in a long while.

I spoke to my MM yesterday and it was amazing - I needed to tell him some things and it felt liberating. Surprisingly, I didn’t expect to make the call, wasn’t going to call (except maybe to stalk him - you know, dial, hear his voice on the answering machine and then hang up.  Sophomoric, I know, but no different than hunting him down on line to see what he’s doing.)   I told him that I wished he were in pain and was glad that he was unhappy now. I told him that he was embarrassing me personally and professionally by “unfriending” “disconnecting” me from on-line networking sites and by interrogating work/business people and my friends about me. That what I felt more than anything is that if he were standing in front of me, I would slap him and it would feel good. I don’t think that I’ve ever slapped anyone in my life, but it seemed so fitting. I could feel my hand do it – reach out from the side of my body and strike him across the face and the image was cathartic.

He told me plenty — of how shitty his life has been, and not in a whiney, pleading way (shockingly) - he too remembers every word of the last email, text, conversation that we had. I told him that it made me happy to hear that things were shitty for him. Maybe I’m a bitch, but I had to say it. I wanted to say it and more than anything, I needed to say it. 

Then he tells me that he and his W are in counseling together and where he really wants to be is individual therapy because he can’t say anything meaningful in couples counseling.  Because what he needs to say and what he knows are that once the words are out, you can’t get them back again.  I don’t think that he wants to hurt her unnecessarily, but the therapy is not about a couple, but about him. 

He told me that he’s been sending me messages, discreetly, through other people, but I’ve gotten nothing. Hmmm, I wonder if the messengers he selected dislike him, don’t trust him or if it’s me. He told me that the email I sent him hurt him horribly.  That I know him and to say that what he said to me over the years was lies, wasn’t anything that I could have really believed.  That it hurt him that I thought he could discard me like garbage.  That when he spoke to me on the phone in front of his wife and told me that it was over and he could never see me again, he died inside.  Yet he did say that, didn’t he?  He didn’t tell his wife that it was over and he couldn’t be with her anymore.  He said it to me.  He asked me whether or not I thought the email that he sent me was written for me or for someone else, by someone else.  I told him it was hurtful – HOWEVER COMMA!!!!!  Fuck you comma for telling me I hurt your feelings period  Fuck you comma for sending me that email and not calling me and telling me what was going on period  Fuck you period

He asked me if I thought that he really said those words.  And I said yes.  He asked me if I remembered our last conversation and what he said to me.  I asked: about you reconciling with your wife?  No, he said.  About whether I would vouch for the fact we didn’t make love last time you were in my town?  No, he said.  About the fact that I sign all fo my emails, will ALL of my friends “I love you”?  No, he said, that I said I would call you, that I love you and to be patient with me as I figure everything out.  Did you remember that?  And I lied and said no.  YES!  I held onto that conversation on 12/14 like a drowning person holding on to a life-preserver.  And I said, oh yeah, you said you were going to call, and you didn’t.  (Because you’re a LIAR!!!!)  And he said, because I couldn’t but I will.  (Do I have a kick me sign on my forehead?)

He told me that the emails I send to him are directed to a “trash” folder and forwarded to his wife’s computer.  So she reads the emails I sent. And read the last one.   And he commented on the “bullet points.”  He asked me if I thought that someone else might read it and I said no.  I didn’t.  Did I?  I’m glad that she read it though.  Why didn’t you call me or email me?  You could have, it wasn’t impossible.  Are you wearing an ankle bracelet?  Yes, he said, practically speaking I am.

And then he tells me that up until this point he’s had a good marriage and that this has been seismic on all accounts.  We talk for a few more minutes and I let that “good marriage” statement go until 10 minutes later when I said – you have a shitty marriage, you’ve always had a shitty marriage. Stop saying that to me already. It’s a mantra that’s meaningless.  And he says: I know; that’s why I need to be in individual therapy; I need to be able to speak freely and I can’t do that in couples therapy. 

Then the BIG QUESTION:  he asks me what he should do. I told him that I would never tell him what to do – that’s everyone else’s job.  He’s spent his entire life following everyone else’s orders and that at some point he needs to make his own decision and pick his own path. He has done what people have told him to do, what they expected him to do and whether he thought it was right or wrong, whether he agreed with it or not, he did it anyway.  When we worked together, he and I would fight over what I thought he should do.  And in the end, I would say to him, you never do what YOU want or think is right.  I told him that he would have made a great Nazi.  Never questioning, and always following orders.  I would never presume to tell him what to do.  It is not my call, it is not my decision, it is not my life.  I don’t want that responsibility.

I’m glad that he’s suffering. . But it’s an interesting turn of events. You know what he told me? That his wife told him that he is to never have any contact with me ever again, for the rest of his life. I get what she’s thinking and feeling. But when will she learn that you can’t tell someone what to do, what to feel. Not for nothing, but that is why this happened to her in the first instance. You can’t control someone – you should never try. What a fucked up mess he’s got going on. I don’t envy him at all. But, damn if it doesn’t feel good to be able to walk away from that. 

But then, just when I thought I could walk away, whoosh!  I felt the lasso around  my neck, choking off my oxygen supply and he said:  Will you call me tomorrow?  I asked if he wanted me to and he said yes.  I said that I would think about it.  I was going to see my shrink and he told me to talk to her about what he was going through.  Again, about you?  No, I thought.  This time is about me.

And then I saw my therapist.  We spoke about him, the call, my feelings.  My feelings of control, closure, catharsis. 

And what did I do?  The next day I called him.  It was a super interesting conversation.  I never heard him so resolute and strong.  He asked me what 3 things in my life were non-negotiable.  I told him that was in important question and I wouldn’t shoot from the hip as he had been thinking about it and asked him what his 3 things were.  He told me his kids (and he went on about being there for his kids, blah blah), happiness and a life partner.  I told him that was interesting.  He told me that he was surprised I didn’t say my kids.  I told him my kids are NEVER on the table.  Whether I’m physically with them or not, they are always my priority.  They aren’t non-negotiable, they just aren’t something to even discuss.  And eventually, when they grow up (oh so soon), even though they wont be with me physically, they will always be with me and I with them.  It was interesting to think about.  He told me that was on the table since it was important to me.

He asked me what I wanted as regards him and again, I told him I wouldn’t answer.  It is not about me.  It is about him.  I also told him that I am so angry and so hurt that I can’t answer that question.  That there have been days when I was so hurt and so pained that I couldn’t even breath.  He said he knew that feeling because he felt the same.

The last thing that he said was that he wants and needs and will only live his life honestly.  Whatever it is he choses to do, it will be the honest decision for him.  I was awed by what he said.  And I replied – that was all I ever asked of you.  I told you that I wanted to hold your hand in public; to say that I had a companion/boyfriend/partner, but you said no.  It was never me who picked the lie.  And he said, that what we had, was over, the lies, the hiding.  And I said: baby, it’s so over.

As we were getting ready to hang up, he said to me:  I was told to tell you that, if you ever called me, to never call me again.  And I asked:  Are you telling me to not call you again?  He said:  I’m just telling you what I was told to say to you if you called.  So I asked him:  Do you want me not to call you?  He chuckled and said: You’re always the lawyer.  Just think about what I said.  OK, I said.  I’ll call you again.

Yeah, I’ve been thinking a lot about what he said.  I knew what he was saying.  I’m so sad, again.  Because I’m feeling the closure and it’s like a little death.  I believe in fate – if it is meant to be, it will be.  My xMM and I have crossed paths during most of our adult lives and didn’t meet until 5/2006.  We had an affair, we fell in love and then we parted.  Will our paths cross again?  I don’t know.  It’s nice to fantasize about.  Would I like that?  Or not?  Would it make me happy? or not? 

To be, or not to be.  That is the question.

[Via http://afunfair.wordpress.com]

Artis-Artis Yang Kecanduan Sex

Ternyata bukan Tiger Woods saja kecanduan seks. Sejumlah selebriti dunia diduga juga mengalami kecanduan seks. Diantaranya adalah Michael Douglas yang mengakui kalau dirinya kecanduan seks. Karena ‘penyakit berbahaya’ itu sudah sangat mengancam dan membahayakan dirinya juga keutuhan rumah tangganya, ia pun dengan suka rela masuk panti rehabilitasi untuk mengikuti program terapi mengobati obsesinya pada seks yang luar biasa.

Selain Douglas, ada sejumlah selebriti yang juga memiliki problem serupa. Masing-masing memiliki cara untuk mengatasinya. Berikut kasus-kasus seleb dunia:

Michael Douglas

Suami aktris Catherine Zeta Jones ini dengan besar hati mengakui ketergantungan seksnya.

Ia menjalani rehabilitasi di Arizona, Amerika Serikat. Kini ia memiliki keluarga yang bahagia dan berjanji akan membayar 1.7 juta Euro kepada istrinya jika ketahuan berselingkuh.

Colin Farrell

Aktor asal Irlandia ini mengakui mencintai perempuan “dari segala tipe dan ukuran”.

Namun kecintaannya ini berubah menjadi kecintaan pada seks saat video seks dirinya dengan model majalah Playboy, Nicole Narain terungkap ke publik.

Charlie Sheen

Charlie mengelak jika ia mengalami kecanduan seks. Namun ia dilaporkan telah tidur dengan sekitar 5000 perempuan, ditambah tuntutan cerai dari istrinya karena melakukan kekerasan dan menghabiskan 50 ribu dolar AS untuk tidur dengan pekerja seks.

Billy Bob Thornton

Saat masih menjadi suami Angelina Jolie, Billy ketahuan berselingkuh dengan penggemar dan pengurus rumah.

Untuk mengobati ketergantungannya, Angelina mengirim suaminya ke rehabilitasi. Bukan menjalani pengobatan, ia justru tidur dengan terapisnya.

Bill Murray

Ia dicap sebagai ‘sex addict‘ setelah istrinya mengajukan gugatan cerai.

Selama 11 tahun menikah istrinya menyatakan Bill ketergantungan pada marijuana, seks, dan melakukan kekerasan domestik.

sumber: http://www.matabumi.com/berita/inilah-selebriti-selebriti-dunia-yang-mengidap-kecanduan-sex

[Via http://ntunk.wordpress.com]

the 19th Hole...Tiger Woods Paid New Mistress Named...Emma Rotherham (photos, videos)

Tiger Woods’ British mistress pretended she was having golf lessons from ‘Jose’ to keep their 18-month fling secret

By Daily Mail Reporter
Last updated at 12:51 PM on 25th January 2010

The British mother-of-two named as Tiger Woods’ latest mistress concocted a story that she was having golf lessons to maintain their affair.

Emma Rotherham, a 42-year-old living near the shamed World No.1 golfer in Isleworth, Florida, invented the story to tell friends and family.

She claimed to be receiving tuition from an instructor called Jose, whereas she was in fact racing to Woods’ office in Windermere for sex sessions.

It emerged yesterday that Miss Rotherham was paid more than $500,000 (£300,000) in hush money to keep quiet about their affair.

She is said to have gone ‘absolutely ballistic’ after details of the 18-month fling emerged at the weekend.

She had signed a confidentiality agreement after a member of the golfer’s security team handed her a sports bag stuffed with half-a-million dollars in $100 bills

Now she fears she will be liable for tax in the U.S. over the alleged pay-off.

Miss Rotherham is understood to have visited Woods once a week. She believed at the time that she was his only mistress, although it now appears she was just one of a dirty dozen.

A source told The Sun: ‘She’d tell family and friends she was going for golf lessons with Jose and his named was saved on her phone under that name.’

But she is said to have refused to hand over her mobile phone containing incriminating evidence.

A source told the News of the World: ‘Emma was his most recent mistress. They had a very, very passionate relationship and she has dozens of text messages and emails from him.

‘Some were even sent while Tiger was trying to patch things up with his wife. If those came out, they’d bury him.’

Miss Rotherham, whose family live in Brighton, yesterday refused to answer her phone or the door of her home in after news of the affair broke.

Friends said the blonde never made any secret of her affair with Woods, 34, and it caused the break-up of a year-long relationship with her boyfriend.

A friend said: ‘He knew she was seeing Tiger and did not approve. He asked Emma to stop seeing him, but she refused so they split up.

‘Emma never tried to hide that she was Tiger’s mistress and almost wore it as a badge of honour.

‘All of her friends knew that she was seeing him, but agreed not to say anything as everyone looked up to Tiger.’

When other women – including nightclub promoter Rachel Uchitel and porn star Holly Sampson – emerged with their own tawdry claims, Miss Rotherham sent the golfer a text but he is said to have told her not to contact him as his 30-year-old Swedish wife, Elin Nordegren, was ‘going through everything’.

Miss Rotherham is said to have met him in Orlando’s Blue Martini nightclub in May 2008. A source told the News of the World: ‘Tiger couldn’t keep his eyes of her. You could see he was making a play for her.

‘Emma speaks very well with a posh English accent and Tiger loved it. He thought she sounded classy and sexy.’

Woods was so smitten he became jealous of other men chatting her up – even suggesting she wear a wedding ring to put them off.

Miss Rotherham has two daughters aged 16 and 25 and moved to the U.S. four years ago after her youngest child finished primary school in London. She is a regular on the Florida singles scene.

One ex-boyfriend said: ‘Emma is up for a good time. She is very flirtatious and knows how to enjoy herself. ‘At a bar Emma, would hardly ever have to buy a drink as there would always be some guy willing to foot the bill for her Martinis. She knows how to get what she wants.’

Meanwhile, it was reported that Woods has been losing around £62,000 a day in commercial deals since the scandal broke in November.

[Via http://ctpatriot1970.wordpress.com]

What's sex gonna be tonight?

They say that familiarity breeds contempt and commitment goes astray as a reason… before any such reason crops up, ask the vagina… it loves the familiar, it adores what fits in snugly, not too tight, not too loose, familiar and perfect, just like a man’s favorite shoe or a woman’s favorite bra…

Sex can be confident, sex can be trust too…

sex is whatever you want it to be tonight…

[Via http://reverberatingmusings.wordpress.com]

Jamie Whyte on discussing sensitive topics

From a book I just finished reading called Crimes Against Logic by Jamie Whyte:

Those who take religion, politics, and sex seriously do not adhere to the general prohibition on discussing these topics. And they don’t take offense when they are shown to be wrong.

If you start to feel during a discussion that you are not so much incorrect as insensitive, then you are probably dealing with a respectable bigot.

Only a thug would expose them.

And then he ends the book with the following:

Perhaps it is better to get on with your family and friends, to avoid embarrassment, or to comfort yourself with fantasies than to believe the truth. But those who approach matters in this way should give up any prentensions to intellectual seriousness. They are not genuinely interested in reality.

…

Separating intellectual from moral seriousness is harder than those who are intellectually frivolous may care to admit.

Interesting thoughts. No need to comment further, I think.

[Via http://shaunphilly.wordpress.com]

the sheep lie

Really Dig Sex? Not A Good Sign, As Far As Prostate Cancer Goes January 22nd, 2010 at 5:08 pm by Nick Mattos · No Comments

OH NO!!! A group of British researchers have discovered that men who have frequent sex in their twenties and thirties are at a greater risk of developing prostate cancer later in life – second only to young men who masturbate frequently. DOOMED, I TELL YOU!! DOOMED!!!

The study, headed up by the marvelously named Dr. Polyxeni Dimitropoulou of the University of Cambridge, defined “frequent sex” as more than twenty times in a month. Since prostate cancer is known to be associated with male hormone levels, the researchers used frequency of sex as a proxy, assuming that those stallions have had higher hormone levels driving the urge – and making them more prone to prostate cancer.

“Overall we found a significant association between prostate cancer and sexual activity in a man’s twenties and between masturbation and prostate cancer in the twenties and thirties,” said Dimitropoulou. “However there was no significant association between sexual activity and prostate cancer in a man’s forties.” The researchers also  found that men with prostate cancer later in life had been in the “highest frequency groups in each decade when it came to sexual activity” including both intercourse and masturbation. This was most pronounced in men who “were also more likely to masturbate frequently than men in the control group, with the greatest difference in the twenties and thirties.”

One could say that those men are… screwed. *ba-dum ching!*

My thoughts

That old joke about the reporter asking the farmer if she could interview his talking animals. He said yes and the reporter went about speaking to all the farm animals. When she came back she told the farmer that she had enjoyed the experience and particularly her discussion with the sheep. The farmer quickly said,”The sheep lie.”

These silly studies about sex and prostate cancer grab your attention, are somewhat interesting to read but are irrelevant. Men lie about this stuff anyway. I can just hear the fortyish year old man telling the female graduate student when asked how often did you have sex when you were twenty? “Oh, maybe twenty or so times a month.” Just like the farmer’s sheep, men lie about that stuff in the first place and secondly how will this information change anything. Is the male to be less sexually active in hopes that he doesn’t get prostate cancer. Fun maybe interesting to read, irrelevant in its significance to prostate cancer.

[Via http://theprostatedecision.wordpress.com]

Blog for Choice Day: "Choice" as a Feminist Idol

In a couple of my previous posts on Mary Daly, I mentioned that her secularized notion of “idolatry” – which she saw in first-wave feminists’ singleminded focus on suffrage – can be applied to modern-day feminism as well. Today, on the 37th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, I’d like to dwell on how “choice” has served as an idol – as a foundational concept that can’t bear the weight it’s been given.

“Choice” was an attractive term to the defenders of abortion rights in the 1970s because it provided a way to counter a growing “pro-life” movement without having to say that they were “pro-abortion.” Even today, defending “abortion” is a politically dodgy proposition. My Democratic ?? !! @*&$# congresscritter, Charlie Wilson, D-Bluedognia, proudly claims at every opportunity that he’s pro-life. He and his cronies are sure not going to come out in favor of abortion.

By now, though, we need a more flexible strategy, as lots of folks – especially radical women of color – have argued before me. What about access to abortion, birth control, sex education, prenatal care, and fertility treatments? How about reproductive rights and justice? What about bodily autonomy and self-determination?

Yes, it’s important that women have choices. It’s even more crucial that we have the material, social, and cultural wherewithal to exercise them.

And while we’re at it, let’s remember than no one -  female or male, fertile or not – has real bodily autonomy without access to health care.

[Via http://kittywampus.wordpress.com]

looking daggy and asked on a date

A curious thing happened on the humid rainy afternoon of January 2nd. And I thought it augured well in my quest to find My Magnificent Man (MMM).

On Saturdays I help out at my local community garden.  In the short time since ‘the Magic Tree Garden’ (as a call it) has become part of my life, it has brought me immense pleasure and peace. To do my garden duties I wear the daggiest clothes ever – washed out grey baggy cargos, well-worn t-shirts, scrappy sneakers. The only way I could have looked more daggy would have been if I was wearing my bleach stained t-shirts for cleaning the shower.

So I’m trundling down a side street, lost in my own thoughts as the rain was sprinkling, when a shortish man ran up behind me and stopped me.

‘Excuse me, um, you look really nice, could we have coffee some time?’ mumbled Andrew (as I found out his name was).

Immediately from looking at him, he did not pass my shag test. This is where I am going to sound shallow (for the first and not the last time here). When I first set eyes on a prospective man mentally I put him through a shag test. It consists of me imagining ‘could I have sex with this man and enjoy it?’. My intuition tends to be spot on with a Yes or No to the shag test, occasionally there is a bloke who turns up neutral with the shag test and he develops into a yes or no over time.

As I said earlier the above will make me seem shallow, however sex and the enjoyment of it with MMM is a high priority for me.  So if a man doesn’t pass the shag test for me I don’t see the point in pursuing a romantic relationship with him. If a guy comes up neutral I think I would see how it goes.

Just to qualify – the men who pass my shag test are attractive to me. They’re not necessarily conventionally handsome men, just something about them gets my juices flowing. Although some of previous lovers would be in the universally attractive category; fond memories of the Swedish God and Brazilian dancer come to mind.

Andrew was exceptionally brave in his approach so although he did not pass the shag test, I agreed to have coffee with him the following Wednesday afternoon at a local café. Who knows he and I might have a lot in common and we could become friends? He persisted in trying to get my mobile number but I didn’t feel safe about that. I engineered it so I had his number but he didn’t have mine.

On Wednesday I was on time, he was a few minutes late. While waiting, a little nervously, I thought to myself if he doesn’t turn up I can cut my losses.

Our conversation started with that standard first-things-first ‘what do you do?’ Andrew’s answer ‘policeman’ surprised me. I had thought from his persistent asking he was in sales.

Andrew decided to guess what I did. He thought I worked in child care or something to do with health. Ha ha! Areas I would stay well clear of. I think there was a whole lot of projection going on there.  He was a long way from the truth of business analyst (not working at the moment due to being retrenched but that is another story).

In my post-date review with my good friend Darla I said I think my face betrays me. Consistently different people have described my face as angelic, cherubic and sweet, it doesn’t give a hint of my hidden wildchild side. You know, the girl who will accompany her voyeur friend to a swingers club or will dance ’til dawn at the gay dance parties. No, my face keeps all of those secrets hidden. Perhaps I have a Dorian Grey gene?

As the date continued it became clearer how conservative Andrew was. Now my last boyfriend, Wade, was conservative. Wade had difficulties dealing with the diverse group that my friends are – gays, dancing friends that sometimes enter rooms through windows instead of doors, transsexuals, dole bludgers – how would an even more conservative guy handle that?

What I did appreciate is that I had managed to attract man who was interested in creating a life with someone and having a family. That was a pleasant change.

At the end of the date Andrew made it clear that he wanted to see me again. I didn’t commit to a yes or a no. I just said I had his number.

One of my closest male friends, Tony (who is also an ex), said that he would always prefer to know the exact reasons for his rejection. But how exactly do you say to a decent guy who is putting himself out there – we’re too different, I’m not who you think I am, you’re too conservative for me and you didn’t pass my shag test?

As my therapist says ‘Sometimes there is a gift in not knowing.’

[Via http://sabreenasays.wordpress.com]

dooo dit doo dit...

Day’s over.  Went to the doctor today and I have an upper respiratory infection.  So yea.  That means it’s viral and they can’t do anything.  I ended up calling in sick to work again today.  With all the stress and everything, sometimes you just know when your body needs rest.  I’m wondering how I’ll feel in the morning.  Part of me wants a 3rd day off in a row…another knows that I need to go back to work.  Despite me having vacation days I can use lol.

Last night..well actually.  Monday night I’d tried to do my taxes online.  Well it wouldn’t go thru no matter what I’d do so I broke down and took my taxes to a real tax person.  UGH!  Ended up costing me a fucking fortune, but ahh well.  They’re done now, so I should have my tax return in about 10 days.  At least it’s done.

We ended up shaving D’s head today.  Now, for those of you new to reading this blog, D is mulatto.  His hair is perhaps the “blackest” thing about him LOL   It took us FOREVER to shave that hair off!!  I kinda miss his curls… *pouts* but it’ll grow back.  It’s nice ‘cuz I can really scratch his scalp now.  It’s one of the most sensitive parts of his body so it really goes through all of his skin.  *evil grin*

After that, we showered, to get him cleaned up.  We ended up eating then I got all hot and bothered and drug D to the bedroom for a little nookie.  He ended up fucking me with 2 of my favorite vibrators.  The only 2 I have from the Evolved line.  Though, I will get more dammit! *stomps paw* So I sucked him off a bit, loving how he was curling his toes. 

D ended up demanding that I get on my hands and knees and he ended up fucking the shit out of me.  I actually almost had to ask for a different position ‘cuz it was almost too much.  It’s almost an hour later and both of our legs are still all jello-ee LOL

I was supposed to go sign the lease today, but my old landlord is still fucking shit up for me.  When they called to make sure the payment had gone through, she made sure to say that I still owe money! *sighs* So naturally, I have to pay more money to her, and can’t sign the lease ’till that’s now paid. So I have to get up early Friday to hit both our banks, bring the receipt to the new landlords so they can run it through their system and get me finally approved.

It’ll be so nice for it all to be official.  Technically, I’m homeless as I’m not supposed to have moved my shit and myself in until the lease is signed.  My new landlord is all sympathetic, ‘cuz they can see how crazy my old landlord is.  As this new amount that I owe she never told them about in the first place.  The new landlord actually made sure to ask if I was aware of it, which I am and was.  It’s just a couple weeks of rent for January.  But since I can’t owe anything to an old landlord and the old landlord says I owe something, well the new place can’t approve me until it’s paid up. *sighs*

But whatever, I’m with D and that’s what matters. 

We’re supposed to be having a very bad winter storm this weekend, so we’re going to have to make sure to stock up on stuff for this weekend. We are out of almost everything food wise, including butter *laughs*

I’m officially putting my car up for sale.  I’ve made up my mind.  She wouldn’t start yesterday, again.  So I’m done with it.  Have a couple people who have expressed interest, so we’ll have to see.

D put in an application today, and sent off an email to the people he applied to last weekend.  He’d really like that one, so despite how far away it is, I really hope he gets it.  He enjoys walking, and he enjoys that kind work.  So I really hope that works out for him. 

…. Otherwise it’s to McDonalds I’m pushing him this weekend.

[Via http://jesseebeth.wordpress.com]

The day I decided to stop being gay

The Times

January 18, 2010 The day I decided to stop being gay Twenty years after he came out, Patrick Muirhead, 41, explains why he is suddenly feeling the appeal of the opposite sex

Patrick Muirhead has already reinvented himself as a pilot. Now he wishes to become a father

A minor incident in a barber’s shop last week has helped me to realise that I may no longer be gay. Not a fully fledged homo, anyway; perhaps not even a part-timer who helps the team out when it’s busy. It appears I may be going straight.

I was in Tenterden, the Kentish village where I was brought up and to which I have lately returned, working at a nearby aerodrome as a helicopter pilot. I was waiting my turn for a chatty Latvian to apply the hot towels and razor.

A handsome young dad entered with a small, fair-haired boy at his side. The man took a seat and hoisted the wide-eyed child proudly on to his knee. The first haircut, I speculated inwardly, as an unfamiliar fatherly glow and feeling of mild envy swept over me. I could not tear my attention away from the mirrored reflections.

From time to time, the dad leant forward as they waited and whispered close to his son’s ear, tenderly kissing his fair head. Touching stuff.

But then my eyes lowered and I became transfixed by the sight of the boy’s tiny pink fingers gripping his father’s huge, workman-like fist. And I almost wanted to burst into song.

I think my life changed at that moment.

That’s love, folks. Simple really. A proud dad, an adored little boy and a beautiful display of dependence and responsibility. It was the epiphany I had needed and I emerged with a dashing new haircut and a desire to procreate.

Read the whole story here.

[Via http://cliftonchadwick.wordpress.com]

Golden Globes: Hot Christina Hendricks Shows Off her Breast Assets - Pictures

Some of Hollywood’s most famous stars may have agreed to down their outfits at the Golden Globes following the devastating earthquake in Haiti last week.

But that didn’t stop a number of big names from flaunting some of their more natural assets.

Singer-turned-actress Mariah Carey and Mad Men star Christina Hendricks were among the stars who flashed their flesh on the red carpet.

[Via http://ctpatriot1970.wordpress.com]

False first impression

I wrote this a few days ago, but it took a while to pluck up the courage to upload it as it’s sexually-orientated (though not really explicit or anything like that). It’s about a girl I dated a couple of years ago. The relationship fell short of what I expected – the way things happened it seemed like one of those things that are ‘fated’ to happen, it really came together against the odds, but then we quickly realised there wasn’t depth to it.

When we first met we clicked, kissed, then a big drama forced it to end before it had even begun. Then a year later we saw each other again. Again there were difficulties to overcome but we ended up together. Unfortunately it never worked out, we had nothing in common, and it was empty of any deep meaning. There was a lot of lust though, and it was enjoyable in it’s own shallow way. Here is the poem:

We started with a first impression

of lust.

An ‘eyes met’ moment of chemistry

said we were linked.

“I knew I had to have you,” you told me after

(you’d had me)

and I liked that,

liked that you weren’t afraid to want,

or have, or give or take.

We fucked over and over

(and said very little after).

I remember dripping sweat on you

us laughing

my sweat pooling with yours in your navel,

or the small of your back.

You were pretty.

And mischievous.

You always smelt of marijuana.

Somehow the emptiness made it fun,

no meaning or pressure,

because we soon knew there was nothing to lose

nothing between us but lust,

and that faint and quickly-fading

false impression of love.

You demoralised me – I wanted more

than sex -

but I would do it all over again without thinking.

[Via http://ocksblog.wordpress.com]

"The Bitch in The House"

Despite the title and snarling lips on its cover, this book of essays by 26 feminist writers, is not a male-bashing anthology. Rather, it is a heartfelt exploration of the inner doubts, resentments, and debates that go on in the minds of women over the topics that matter most – work, marriage, motherhood, sex, and solitude.

Now that I’m finished reading it, I’m planning to hand it over to my husband so he can see what the enemy is up to. Being married to me  - Mrs. Assertive  -  I’m sure none of it will come as a surprise to him.

The collection started out with a bang with the article: “Excuse Me While I Explode” by E. S. Maduro, the pen name for a writer and youth counselor.

I laughed as E.S. worked herself into a lather when she came home late to find her significant other playing around on the Internet instead of making an effort to start dinner.

Banging pots and pans until her boyfriend appeared in the kitchen and offered to make dinner,  she hurled invective where she might otherwise have hurled a dinner plate.

“Well, I’m starving and exhausted and I don’t really feel like waiting around for you to finish your fucking Internet search so that I can eat something before nine o’clock.”

What woman doesn’t know THAT feeling? The few, the proud, the lucky?

I consider myself fortunate when I can put my feet up and have a cup of coffee made and handed to me, or when he lets his fingers do the walking through the Yellow Pages and a steaming pizza arrives at our door almost the same time I do.

But it doesn’t drive me up a wall. I would suspect that a lot of women are more like me – they simply refuse to try to be everything to everybody and they don’t sweat it if perhaps only 1 or 2 in 7 dinners takes more than 30 minutes to prepare.

I can recall as a child growing up in the age of Gloria Steinem that I always said I would never marry.  Before somebody explained the birds and the bees, I always thought that marriage “automatically” led to children and children automatically led to a lifetime of never doing anything fun or exciting again.

These impressions were strengthened by the television shows of my day. The kids were off getting into mayhem and the dads and uncles got to do all the exciting stuff, like drive the spaceship, go camping, ride the horses. The mom characters just stood around in the background, shaking their heads, or being the supportive character to the dashing dad. 1960s television – and the lifestyles that our moms lived ( in those days 2/3 of moms stayed home) were enough to fan the flames of feminism into a mighty conflagration for girls of my era.

Then the 1970s ushered in the empowered woman – supposedly represented by women like Gloria Stivic, who put her bigoted dad in his place weekly,  but who ruined her image for me every time she sat on Michael’s lap and said something dumb like “Oh, Michael.”

I think it was Jerry Seinfeld who said what every man wants is a warm, loving, sexy, smart, wonderful woman who will leave him the hell alone.

That’s not far from what I want a lot of the time.  We both appreciate the massive amount of space we give each other and have to remember at times to interact occasionally – more or less because we feel it’s what normal married people do.

A prevailing theme through “The Bitch in the House” is the exhaustion many women feel balancing their many responsibilities. But these women acknowledge in the end that they wouldn’t want a life without the mental stimulation of their fulfilling careers. Some would feel equally empty without a loving partner and children to come home to.

[Via http://readanygoodbooks.wordpress.com]

Beneath The Mire

Burning eyes smoulder the world. Everything arises beautifully in flames, like a moving ancient pyre, resurrected.

Saturday mornings, all the same since 1982, 1989, 2000, 2006, 2011. The morning dew felt the same, the morning chill felt the same, and I was still the same, unchanged, unaltered by the several exploding sounds and the burning yet dormant fire within me.

I saw an old lady on the street who called me an animal and shouted with a shocking look on her old wrinkly face. I was walking to see my earthly heaven which has been enough for me across three decades, but that woman ruined it. I walked on though, the fire still burning to no avail. I went in circles above a green clearing, listening to the profound echo of my heart. Then I saw a man upon a hill, wearing a shirt and a vest and cowboy boots. He saw me and told me to breathe so that I can feed what is within me. I breathed in one long doleful breath and suddenly I felt a searing sensation come from my bellybutton. I pulled up my shirt and saw a little trickling flame coming out of it. I looked at the man and he smiled me, nodding his head, congratulating me, but what did that mean?

I walked, still feeling the searing flame coming out of my bellybutton. I took another breath, the flame grew bigger. I took another and the flame exploded and went out of me. A flaming soul went out of me. It floated above me like a cloud, but it lit my way and I walked along the path it lit. I pressed fallen leaves with my foot, I diverted entangled branches with my hands, I burnt down heavy obstacles with my fire. I thrust(ed) through caved woods. I reached my destination, to the goal I aspire, a statue floating above murky mire.

Just then my fire diminished and disappeared, and I thought I should retire from my task, although the statue called to me. Its shining whiteness told to cross the muddy path and claim my prize. But what hefty price should I pay for beauty, a possibility of death. I meditated on my task and closed my eyes, but my eyes could not stay closed when a flash of light came from above me and hit the stone. It painted it pallid with life, and it started moving, aching, screaming, shouting.

It called to me now with its voice and its shine. The statue, a girl, she called to me. Her voice made me focus on my task again. I stood up on my feet and pressed on foot in the mire. It drowned slowly. I put my other foot in front and pushed and pulled myself forward. The statue’s scream became louder, piercing the woods, destroying the most staunch roots and stiff trunks. I breathed and went on. All my body became submerged in the mire, only my head was left to be drowned in the murky slimy swamp. The mire of my will was getting the best of me. I desperately tried to hold on to anything beneath the mire to pull myself to, but I found nothing. The distance to the statue did not even seem to diminish, but her screams sounded like a great Wagner symphony, they rumbled and raged and roared, but I was impotent, and weak, and powerless. My head went down beneath the mire where no fire can exist, where no sound can pass through its dense medium. I closed my eyes and trapped my breath as long as I can. The time came to pass by, to move on, to cross to the other side and I opened my eyes. I saw nothing but black, nothing but darkness. I opened my mouth and inhaled a deep breath, and I couldn’t stop. I inhaled and inhaled until I felt my lungs explode; I exhaled.

An orange ray came out of me, the fire resurrected. It cleared the line of vision and I saw the base of the statue, a cage. I saw the wailing girl entrapped in its bars; I saw the statue made flesh, an even better sculpture than the statue itself. I saw her grand in her helplessness, I saw her beautiful in her surrender, I saw her luscious in her nakedness.  Her wet body smoothed my way to her and on I went. The mire had parted like the red sea as Moses stabbed it with his staff, and I the same, made my way between two parted mire falls, towards salvation. The path was easy, the path was clear. I made my way towards her voice which I could now hear. Life within me rushed as I came near, the world with-out me stood in fear. She saw me coming and braced herself, I was so close to finish the cross to the other side. She reached out for me and I extended my arm to her. Our extended limbs touched each other and she spoke.

“Fortune is a woman,” she said, “please her and you will reach the highest mountaintops and the deepest oceans. Release me, and I’ll show you all that you can ever be. I’ll show you the way.”

I pulled her body towards mine and pushed us up above the surface. We rose. My salvation and her salvation; we liberated each other from the shackles of Heaven and other celestial bodies. My Virtue and her Fortune arose.

Burning eyes smoulder the world. Everything arises beautifully in flames, like a moving ancient pyre, resurrected.

[Via http://ziaddallal.wordpress.com]

Monster Within.

Ok so I’ve been losing track of my path. With all these internet “convos” and lose radical emotions I’ve become blind. The worst part is I’m becoming angry without sight, leaving me bitter. I don’t know whats happening to me. This newly emerge sexual desires have me even more confused and lost.

Now I’m a late bloomer I guess. During middle and high school I never was boy crazy. I never wanted to date. I never had the small urge to have sex or participate in any sexual activity. I never had a boyfriend during those times (I guess elementary love affairs don’t count really). But now something odd has happen. I’m slowly expressing my sexuality. When I express it though it leaves me feeling strange or ashamed and this world view on sex isn’t helping either. Recently on one of my profile pages I posted a pic of me in my bra. Almost instantly I was condemed for it. But why? Whats the difference if I would have posted a pic of me in a bikini top or a very low-cut shirt? First I took down the picture ashamed but soon it was replaced by anger and I put the picture back up. How could these people judge me in such a harsh way? Going so far to asking if I was a slut. They didn’t even know me. First off I’m a virgin (for religious and romantic reasons) second off I don’t go around flaunting myself in a provocative and luring way and third I’m def not promiscuous in any way. So how could they be so quick to judge?

Thats not the only thing taking me off my path and leading me into the woods. I’m having false imitation of love through convo with certain men. With this new urge for a connection it leads me into believing that exposing myself in such a way to them will bring something I know will never happen. Yet I keep doing it. Slowly I realize that I’ll lead myself into a life I don’t want. Is it because I still being sheltered to this day? I’m 20 years old and I have an uncle who tells me not to wear low-cut shirts or graphic tees. A mother who says that she’ll start treating me like I’m 15 again when she never really actually stop doing it in the first place. Plus I look young for my age. People always think I’m either 15-18.

There is a whirlwind of changes that are happening abruptly. Why do I want complete strangers to fill a hole that I’ve always hated? Why do I feel so ashamed at things people consider normal exploration? Why am I still treated like a child? What can I do to become comfortable with this change? I think I need a break. If not I’ll turn into a rebellious, angry, cold bitch who once sunny attitude is blocked by the clouds of her experiences and encounters. I don’t want to be harsh and I don’t want people to say “her past has made her hard.” I just want to be the future me that I see in my dreams. the woman with balance and totally driven and devoted to her dream work.

I have to leave I just have to or else.

Until my next steps,
DreamChaser

[Via http://dreamchaser89.wordpress.com]

We All Date Differently

Some people date lots of people one time.

Some people kiss on the first date.

Some people have sex on the first date.

Some people don’t have sex until they marry.

Some people date to pass the time.

Some people date to not be alone.

You get the idea.

I myself?… I date for keeps.

I don’t want to start dating a guy unless I see long-term potential.  For me, it’s too hard to have people pass in and out of my life.  I want consistency, which means I, AT LEAST, date people who I can/will be able to remain friends with should we break up.

Sometimes I’m jealous of people who can date and “get physical” with people they aren’t sure – or anywhere near – they are going to marry.  Because sometimes I want SO BAD to get naked with someone and just surrender myself to them.  It’s a need to be close, a need for physical gratification, etc.

But I can’t (and won’t) do that.

So now with The Soccer Player gone, I am alone, alone, alone.  So very far from being touched by anyone.  It’s like a vacuum.

This is the down side to dating for keeps.  Because you don’t date people for keeps every other day.  Very few actually come along who you think… hmm… I really like you.  Let’s take this seriously.

Because at that point, folks, is when I would let myself get touched.  I don’t want any duffus feeling me up.  But someone I’m dating for keeps??  … Definitely.

[Via http://thesecretnarrative.wordpress.com]

6 X 6 Euphamisms

I was speaking with a friend the other day – I’ll call him Daniel, even though that’s not the name on his birth certificate.  Anyway, I was talking about something really important and he, as usual, wasn’t listening.  That’s not entirely his fault, though, because he may have a touch of attention deficit disorder. Of course, in his case the ADD is just a euphamism for “has so much going on in his own head that there’s no room to take it information from other sources.”

So there I am blathering away when he suddenly blurts out. “I love euphamisms”. Which is interesting because I just mentioned euphamisms in the preceeding paragraph. Don’t you think that’s a weird coincidence?

While Daniel was went on to talk about other things he loves or something, I stopped paying attention to him and started thinking that probably a whole lof of our daily conversation is conducted with euphamisms. The English language is so infused with political correctness and obfuscation that we rarely just say exactly what we mean.

For instance, we eat pork and beef, not pig and cow. (And by “we”, I mean savages;  not me). We don’t have television repeats anymore, we have “encore presentations.” We don’t torture people, we employ “enhanced interrogation techniques. (And, again by “we” I mean savages;  not me).

And speaking of Afghanistan, they keep telling us on the news that our soldiers in Afghanistan are “losing their lives”. Like it’s their fault – that they were somehow carelessness enough to “lose” their lives. I guess saying it that way absolves government of all responsibility for getting them killed.

Nobody gets fired anymore either. They get “laid-off” — which used to mean a temporary thing where the off-laid person had every expectation of getting back to work really soon. Not anymore.

Sometimes firing people is also called “decrecruitment” or “personnel surplus reduction” or “being “made redundant” or being “relieved of duties”.

The one I like least when they tell people they’re “being let go”. Like you’re doing them a favour. Like you’ve been holding them against their will and will now kindly release them into career freedom.

I don’t like that term when you’re talking to someone on the phone either. The person on the other end suddenly says, “Okay, I’d better let you go.”  Did I ask to be let go? Did anything I said make you think I wanted to be let go? I’m in the middle of telling you some very important stuff about the mysterious weeping sores on my buttocks. If you have to go, why don’t you just say, “Okay, I have to go now.” I can handle that. You’re not fooling me into thinking, “Oh, gee. That was nice of her to let me go.”

Euphamism is a Greek work from the root eupheme  meaning well-speaking. It’s the opposite of blaspheme which means evil-speaking.

Anyway, euphemisms aren’t all annoying and stupid. They can be, as Daniel implied,  lots of fun, too. Here are a few that are a bit unusual:

Death

1. Achieving room temperature
2. Buying a pine condo
3. Taking a dirt nap
4. Liquidating
5. Being living challenged
6. Going into the fertilizing business

 Self-Gratification

1. Doing the Han Solo
2. Relishing your hot dog
3. Liquidating the inventory 
4. Helping put Mr. Kleenex’s kids through college
5. Shooting yourself in the foot
6. Hand to gland combat

Sex

1. Taking the skin boat to tuna town
2. Bumping uglies
3. Feeding the kitty
4.  Doing the four-legged frolic
5.  Doing the horizontal mambo
6.  Knocking boots

 Pooping

1. Taking the Browns to the superbowl
2. Dropping the kids at the pool
3. Bombing the oval office
4. Building a dookie castle
5. Making a Minnesota hand warmer
6. Negotiating the release of the chocolate hostages

Getting Fired

1. Dissing the gruntled
2. Fueling a demand for lottery tickets and liquor
3. The corporate catch-and-release program
4. Giving Bruce Springsteen something to sing about
5. Ass-harvesting on the cubicle farm
6. Separating the wheat from the wheat that doesn’t kiss enough ass 

Wasn’t that fun? Okay, so here are a few more obsolete euphemisms you may not have heard before. Or maybe you have, but I haven’t so I assume no one has. Isn’t that terribly ego-centric of me? Actually, I have heard one of them before.  But, if you haven’t any or some of them before, see if you can figure out what they mean without looking them up.

There isn’t a prize.

1. Punchable nun
2. Bury a Quaker
3. Leaping house
4. Woman in sensible shoes
5. Negative patient care outcome
6. Pillow Biter

PS: I was just kidding about Daniel before. He’s actually a very good listener and a scintillating conversationalist.

[Via http://exurbanpedestrian.wordpress.com]

The devil wears RED....

If ever there was a moment of indecision, all thoughts quickly vanished as she spoke.  Her words echoed around my head and bought a huge smile to my face.  YESSSSSSSSS….. Everyone really does ‘want’ red shoes!

Epitomised by Judy Garland as she tripped her way down the yellow brick road, sparkly red shoes do ‘it’ for me.

Little Girls Fantasy

Okay, so not brash, covered in sequins and lighting up with a neon induced glow from a ‘Boots button cell 364′ watch battery with every dainty step. But for me, the delight comes first from the colour….Rich, vibrant cherry red, without a hint of blue and most definitely not orange.  An orange red is just a no no.  Secondly, the style. Very high, simple, classic court shoe which oozes elegance. And thirdly, the nap…or fabric, material, etc.  Personally there is no contest, this always has to be patent.  Patent shoes have a class about them, and a sexiness which makes you just want to lick them (that might just be me!)

And there they were.  Calling me loudly as I strolled through the store, on my way to the first calorie intake of the day, courtesy of Pret a Manger, and they halted me.  Dead in my tracks.  OMG…I just have to try these shoes. I could hardly contain my excitement as  I sat myself down, and removed my right boot.   It was a true Cinderella moment.  In an instant, I had wondered about Walt Disney’s sexuality as whoever had the insight to have written a whole story around shoes, was surely in touch with their feminine side.  Genius….sheer genius.   I hadn’t planned on buying shoes today, but then ‘we’ don’t ever plan to buy shoes…..they call us!  (With the exception of being a small child and the pending first day back to school, got to have new shoes rush) I admired the glossy temptress now adorning my podgy little right leg, which of course has now made me look at least 6 inches longer and 2 sizes smaller because new shoes have an amazing magical power over our minds…and don’t ever underestimate it.  Red shoes especially!  I was truly in love.

But its magical powers don’t stop there…oh no.  Time travel.  As I stood and did a little ‘clippy clop’  (obligatory!) In 0-5 seconds I was once again transported in my mind to being 3 years old, and playing with mummy’s shoes.  I used to beg her to let me put on her shoes and have a little ‘pet’.  I would clap my hands together when I saw the objects of my desire and say ‘oh please please let me have a little pet shoe’ ….no idea why, very random, but I was just 3!.    I giggled at that thought and these are happy shoes…you can’t help but smile when you’re wearing them.  Not that I could actually walk in them!  I didn’t try the left foot on as there’s no point.  I’m not going to be walking in these…what with my leg!!!  I shall just pose, and ‘clippy clop’.

And as I admired the shoe now adorning my fat foot, a lady in her mid fifties appeared and was also perusing…..but ‘loafers’.  But the sight of me with MY magic shoe had her drooling and she said wistfully and in a kind of subordinate  ‘I’m on a little housewife’ kind of  way, “I have to buy sensible shoes, but I would REALLY love those pretty red shoes”.

I wanted to SCREAM at her, ‘BUY THE RED SHOES’!  Your life will never be the same again.  Make a rash decision for once in your life….just do it, and then wear them when you’re stuffing ‘his’ dirty undies into the washing machine for the 2000th time, or when you’re in despair after you’ve glimpsed through the crack into the space that is now your teenagers room and you can’t believe how you can have produced such an untidy, uncouth & vulgar child or when you’re rolling your wheelie bin up the drive……

You wear red shoes for YOU.

Shoes of desire

Cinderellas slipper

[Via http://purplediva.wordpress.com]

Ghost Dance Chapter Four: Homecoming

Lost?  The story begins here: http://authorofghostdance.wordpress.com/2010/01/01/ghost-dance-title-page/

Chapter Four—Homecoming

 

    The dream was different this time.

  The recurring elements—the boulder, the babbling brook juxtaposed into the heart of a dead and frozen forest—were there, but the dream had not begun with Linda pleasuring herself.  She was sitting upright on the boulder with her head resting on her fist as if she was deep in thought.  Before she had time to take stock of these differences, she felt—and saw—two yellow, bony, and inhuman hands with long, ice-blue claws appear on her shoulders.  Their touch chilled her soul.

  “You must let him have you,” ordered a voice from behind her.  Old Scratch’s voice.

  She didn’t turn around.  “Let who have me?”

  “Do not play dumb.  The one you call Frank; who else?  It is imperative that you allow him to use your body.”

  “Imperative?  What for?”

  “It is imperative for the culmination of all I have set in motion that the two of you become one flesh.”

   “Frank has to make that happen, himself.  It’ll be good for him.”

    “No.  You are too pure, and even from within my prison I can sense that this Frank chap is gaining strength.  Waiting could jeopardize everything.”

    Linda turned around to tell him how suspicious he sounded.  His hat was gone, his hood was down, and she was staring into a face that was very much not human.  Parchment-yellow starvation-victim skin was stretched tightly over a wolfish, lantern-jawed skull with luminous blue eyes set deep into the heart of it.  Snow-white hair, coming out in patches, grew down to his shoulders.  Long, fierce canines protruded from his slightly open mouth.  His breath was icy cold, and smelled like raw meat.

    Linda woke up.

    She was lying in bed.  She’d pulled off her pajamas during sleep, and the bedsheets were bunched around her tightly.  Glancing at the alarm clock on her nightstand, she saw that it was five thirty in the morning.  With a defeated sigh (there was no way she’d be getting back to sleep), she untangled herself from her bedding, sat up, recovered her necklace, and dropped it around her neck.  The icy-cold stone felt good against her skin.

***

     Erwin Rommel “Chef” Stronghammer drove his Mitsubishi through the streets of his hometown of Oslo, observing how things had changed in his absence.  More shop windows were boarded up, there were fewer cars on the street, and the air was filled with an almost palpable melancholy, but all-in-all things hadn’t changed all that much.  The world keeps turning, people go on living, and nothing abides but the land.

     He drove by the decrepit arcade and comic book store where he, a young lad of seventeen, had been standing near the Guitar Hero machine and thumbing through a trade paperback copy of Alan Moore’s V for Vendetta (which he wasn’t going to buy anyway—too many words he didn’t understand, and far too British, though it told a very good story) when a disturbed-looking man in a business suit had noticed his skinny but muscular physique and inquired, son, have you ever thought about joining the Army?

    A disconnected few lines from an old song that his father (a notorious folkie who’d facilitated his own assimilation into Scotch-Irish mountain culture even though he and his wife were both of Scandinavian descent) had taught him ages ago:  I buttered me brogues, shook hands wi’ me spade . . . then off to the fair like a dashing young blade . . . then up comes the sergeant, an’ he asks me to list . . . ‘Arra sergeant a gra, stick a bob in me fist . . .

    Erwin mumbled another few lines out loud, the Celtic verse sounding not-quite-right in his Southern mountain accent:  “When at Balaclava we landed quite sound . . . a’ cold, wet, an’ hungry, we lay on the ground . . . next morning for action the bugle did call . . . an’ we had a hot breakfast o’ powder an’ ball . . .”

    He continued down the street, up the ridge, coming after a few minutes to the edge of town and the edge of a long seashell driveway that snaked up to a dilapidated duplex that he immediately recognized as his Aunt Marcy’s home.  He parked outside of the house, stepped out of his vehicle, walked up to the house, knocked on the door.  He wisely removed the star-and-crescent pin from the front of his beret.  A very small woman with long brown hair opened the door.  When she recognized the visitor, her face broke out into a big, friendly smile.

    “Erwin!”, she said exuberantly, extending her arms to give him a hug, “Oh, we’ve been expecting you!”  She turned around and shouted back into the house, “Frank!  Erwin’s here!”

    A young man—aged from the last time Erwin had seen him, but unmistakably Frank—and a young girl came rushing into the foyer.  Erwin’s eyes immediately drifted to the girl.  She was slim, with long dyed-black hair, cappuccino-colored skin, teacup-sized breasts, too much makeup, Sex Pistols t-shirt, ragged black jeans so low he could see the straps of her underpants gracing her hips:  He felt his trousers begin to shrink.

    He ruffled Frank’s hair.  “How’s it goin’, little buddy?”

    “Good to see you, Erwin,” Frank said.

    Erwin turned his gaze back to the girl, snapping his fingers as he searched his memories for a name to match her face to.  “Linda, right?”

    She nodded.  “Yeah.”

    He looked her up and down and remarked knowingly, “You’ve grown.”

    She gave him a coy smile.  “Thanks.”

   “Frank,” said Marcy, “will you please show Erwin up to his room?”

    Frank nodded.  “Sure, Mom.”

***

   Frank led Erwin into the house and up the stairs.  As soon as the big Swede was sure they were out of earshot of Marcy and Linda, he turned to Frank and said, “So that Linda chick, she’s a piece of work, ain’t she?”

    Frank nodded, a sheepish grin on his face.  “She sure is.”

    “Are you hittin’ that?”

    “In my dreams, maybe.”

    “Well, little buddy, you’d best man up and get with the program pretty soon.”

   “Why’s that?”

    “If you don’t, I just might.”

    The two shared a hearty laugh.

    After a while, they reached a disused bedroom at the end of a long hallway.  Erwin opened the door, headed straight for the bed, and dropped down onto it sleepily in a great cloud of dust.  Well shit, he thought, it’s only statutory rape if you get caught.  Younger’n her are happy mothers made, dammit.

[Via http://authorofghostdance.wordpress.com]

Women did it! We, Men, can do it, too!

Yes, we can do it!

Woman at work

Why men should consider the risk of feminine resurgence as an opportunity to achieve full potential in their lives

“The Economist” published “We Did It!”, an interesting article about Women at Work. Within a few months women will constitute the majority of American workforce. Women are already toping men in terms of academic achievement in OECD countries. However they are still under represented at the top of companies and remain underpaid. This is because women in their 20s and 30s face the problem of raising their children and remain competitive in terms of career. Both business and governments have tried to address this issue as they need the talent and grey cells of women by bringing more flexibility in the workplace and introducing laws. There are still problems, though, as society is adjusting to this balance of power.

Men feel threatened by women at school and in the workplace because women are highly competitive and motivated. Men fail to understand that the resurgence of feminine power is an opportunity to redefine themselves as protective pillars, instead of just money care-takers. This explains why successful and ambitious men attract women. They don’t focus on the money-sex-family balance, but on a dynamic and competitive evaluation of real manly values, like entrepreneurship, risk and audacity.

Traditional gender roles are misinterpreted, too. Men and women continue to believe  that there is an established balance of responsibilities according to characteristics of strength, endurance and even brain adaptability to perform certain tasks. As I stated to fellow soldiers in the Army, a woman of same weight and body corpulence has 70% of a man strength, meaning that 30% edge is manageable with combat technique. Traditional gender roles are the result of societal evolution, not genetics.

In Ancient Greece competition for power between men and women had tragic consequences. The Queen was the Voice of the City-Goddess and mated with males by force. Honeymoon was brief and ended with the death of the male. The rites of Demeter, Goddess of Earth, fertility and Harvest, were sexually violent and bloody. The tribes which invaded Greece changed that balance of power and established Kings as consorts of Queen-Priestess-Witch. The story of Oedipus illustrates that struggle for power. Oedipus married his mother, but it was the Mother of the City, the High Priestess. The Sphinx had a woman’s head because it challenged the King with dark knowledge of sorcery.

History of sex provides interesting clues regarding the balance of power in society. We know the name of Roman emperors, but we forget to mention the role of women, as mothers, counsellors, and even challengers. Caligula murdered his mother because her influence was too great. Sexually speaking, women had the power to choose and decide. The story of Servilia, mistress of Julius Caesar, and mother of Brutus, is telling us that in spite of all Roman virtues of manhood, women enjoyed great power since the days of the Sabines. Sabines women were abducted by Romans, and yet saved them from the fury of their brothers and fathers.

Christianity affected the balance of power, as women were subjected to obedience within the context of familial harmony. Romans failed to find virgins to become Vestals, but Christian religion made thousands of women choose virginity willingly. Religion emphasised so-called gender rules, which eventually became traditional.

If we consider the 18th century sexual liberation, both in terms of literature and Arts, it is a reaction to the religious wars of the 16th century and first attempts to separate Church from State. Balance of power shifted in favour of women, as they gained access to education and business. Napoleon would never had become Emperor without the influence of Josephine. She was the one who introduced him to the circles of power and influence in the City.

The industrial revolution of the 19th century led to major economic growth and transformation of society. With “Eugenie Grandet” Balzac has painted the portrait of a society where women were pursued for capital. The Bourgeoisie fought a determined battle against any shift of power in favour of women, who were isolated and married by force, hence the need for romantic writing and heroes. Emile Zola’s women are fighting for economic recognition and social status.

The traditional gender roles of today are the result of 19th century romantic ideals and responsibilities, as Man is the Lord Protector and Woman the Caretaker of Home and Children. Two World Wars have made these roles obsolete. Women were needed in armament industries and every department of economic life, as men were fighting and dying on battlefronts. Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s “The Marriage of Maria Braun” is the story of a German woman whose husband is missing in action, and who has sex with a Black American soldier to learn English and have food. When the husband unexpectedly returns, she kills the American, and the husband accepts to plead guilty. She will eventually become a free woman, highly successful, until the final return of the husband, and their suicide.

Men fear the resurgence of power of women, because women tend to adopt men’s strategies and tactics to their advantage. Men are afraid to be dominated in the same way they used to dominate at work and at home. They fail to understand that the role of Lord Protector is restrictive and ill-adapted to the nature of men, which is to fight and conquer, explore and secure new frontiers. Divorces and violence are a result of deep male frustration in that fake role of Protectors. The economic resurgence of women will free men and make workplace and home more secure and balanced. Men will be able to spend more time with their children. Daughters and sons will have a real father who cares. Women will enjoy a more satisfying life, both at work and home, where they will be able to pursue career and life as a loving wife, without feeling prisoner of their gender.

There are questions, though. Will women dominate as men used to? Will they lose their feminine sensitiveness and turn into “males”, as they top the pyramid of business? Will men seize that opportunity for achieving full potential in their lives without losing control and trust in themselves? We may not need the violence of Atia and Servilia of Ancient Rome, but a Julius Caesar would be nice. His evenings were torrid and bloody, and would keep us away from our laptops and televisions!

[Via http://fredericerk.com]

Fiction and Taboos

In an essay I discussed here earlier, Katie Roiphe speculates that the Important Male Writers write less about sex today than they did a generation ago because “we have landed upon a more conservative time.”  An alternative thesis is that it’s because we have landed upon a more permissive time, what with the Internet porn and the wardrobe malfunction and the sexting and the Lady GaGa and the so on and so forth. (Set aside, for the moment, the fact that two theses really aren’t incompatible since the first concerns personal sexual behavior and the second standards of public discourse.) Ross Douthat, among others, floats this idea here and goes to bemoan the fact that we apparently live in an age so permissive it makes great art almost impossible:

In their wild quest to overturn every conceivable taboo, in other words, the Great Male Authors of mid-century may have succeeded a little bit too well. By tearing down every possible stricture on fictional representations of sex, they abandoned their successors to the vicissitudes of a world where anything could be written, but nothing could really shock. Great art depends on walls as well as open doors, on constraints as well as cultural blank checks. And anyone who’s nostalgic for the exhilarating transgressiveness that once animated American literature should probably be at least a little bit nostalgic for the taboos that made transgression possible.

A couple things.  Surely, those authors didn’t break down every conceivable taboo and every possible stricture. Taking the obvious test cases, surely incest and pedophilia would still shock a lot of people. (As a case in point, consider some of the outrage that met the recent English-language publication of Jonathan Littell’s novel “The Kindly Ones”.) Douthat also overestimates the importance of “walls”, i.e. explicit social taboos. Great art opens up new possibilities, typically where we didn’t even realize there were new possibilities. There needn’t be anything especially transgressive about this. Indeed, transgressive art usually just breaks down barriers that everyone is already all too aware of–it typically works with a familiar but artificially divided space of possibilities. Really great art, art that is not merely transgressive, completely reshapes that space. What is true is that great art needs conventions and small-mindedness to push off against, but of these we’ll never be in short supply. Finally, even if certain social conditions help produce great art, it’s abominably bad intellectual policy to feel, on those grounds reason, even a little nostalgia for those conditions.  Should nostalgia for the soaring greatness of Gothic cathedrals inspire nostalgia for the fear and ignorance that produced them? Obviously not.

One hypothesis to take seriously and that I have seen mentioned is the following: midcentury fiction seems so much better than the contemporary stuff because the older writing is so much more titillating and therefore has more mass appeal, which is what critics like Roiphe and Douthat are picking up on. When it comes to gauging the ultimate value of different highbrow fictions, we shouldn’t have too much confidence in our own critical instruments. It can take a while for the reading public to see what is really of value in an author. Of course, this shouldn’t preempt serious discussion; it’s just something to keep in mind.

[Via http://axpenbell.com]

Has Money!

I have money!

My student a loan came in today and my bank balance reads at a whopping £2300! Enough to live like a student king from.

I wasn’t expecting it till monday night which creates a predicament for me.

I do love money, but I can’t use this money as i’ve forgotten the pin to my bank card. No idea how but it seems I have, not very happy. I’ve no access to cash, it’s so fustrating.

Meaning to rang the bank today but i’m scared, will do it when I get the balls and become desperate.

Sweet, moolah, online shopping here we go.

[Via http://waidey.wordpress.com]

Romance or Sexual Advance

This is a quick random dream but I felt it’s worth documenting..

Yesterday, I been introduced to my friend’s cousin and wow, what a hottie! We had picked him up from the bar of where he worked and taken him home while listening to Ke$ha on a cd. After shaking his hand good-bye and looking into his eyes for a few seconds, my night began.

I tossed and turned for a good hour with my brain on the go and not allowing any shut eye. Eventually once I fell asleep, it began. Matt and I were having a movie or game night along with his new boyfriend, and Matt’s cousin popped over for a visit to join us. Somewhere in the course of the night, his cousin who we will call Chad, had this sarcastic attitude that for whatever reason turned me on. The dream continued with us sitting on the couch and me leaning in to kiss him, then us holding hands, and cuddling while watching whatever movie was on. Matt and I were holding our boys while all four of us were sitting on the couch with Matt and I being ”the men” of the relationship, which is wierd for me in general, but that’s another story. Somewhere in that dream mixed with Chad, there was this other guy that I had met. We’ll call him Alex. It was like I was living two dimensions. One of them consisting of Chad and I starting this relationship out of no where, and the other with Alex, but with Alex, it was more sexual, but a very, very romantic sexual. Wierd! Maybe that was me compensating for what the other relationship might lack or what showing what I may be missing in my own life. No, I don’t mean sex, that’s not the issue, I mean, emotions. Maybe I want it so badly that the only way I seem to get it from those I want it from is to imagin it in my dreams. And to be honest, I’ll never be with any of these two. What an overall sad story.. well, sort of!

[Via http://venturesofmyambitions.wordpress.com]

Who's The Real Whore?

Picture this; it won’t be difficult. Town on a Saturday night. About 1am. A girl leaves a club with a guy she met half an hour ago. She can’t remember his name but she never does. She thinks he’s quite a catch – but then, maybe that’s the alcohol affecting her judgement. Either way he seems fit now and he’ll be gone by the morning. She breaks a heel on the cobble pavement and falls into his arms. He pushes her to the floor and begins to kiss her ferociously. She asks him to fuck her now, and so he does. He doesn’t use a condom but they never do. In the morning she sort of remembers the feeling of someone inside her and smiles through her thumping headache, thinking, ‘that was a good night out!’.

Now look at my job. Girl lets a man into her house that she heard from only 24 hours ago. She doesn’t know him, but she’s stone cold sober so she can pick up anything unusual about his actions immediately. She phones a friend and makes sure he can hear her – ‘I’ll call you in an hour, promise.’ She hangs up and moves to the bed. He pushes her down and begins to kiss her ferociously. She asks if he wants to fuck her now, and he does. He uses a condom because they always must. In the morning she remembers all about it and smiles as she turns off the vibrator, thinking, ‘that was a good night’s work!”

[Via http://teencourtesan.wordpress.com]

Painted On Jeans!

It seems like yesterday that people everywhere said she was a cute bundle of joy. There just seems to be something special about little baby girls that pull at the heartstrings of both a mother and father. Although bruised and exhausted after her stressful journey into this world, she is well known by her beautiful features which resemble heavenly serenity, yet her hidden joy is yet to be realized.

While young and inexperienced, she is a precious jewel with much to learn; yet life will prove to be the antidote to the thing that eludes her most. The early days of bumps and bruises appear to be insignificant, yet soon enough, they will prove to alter her decisions and feel natural in the process. Fathers do well to protect their prized joy wrapped in pink while sporting barrettes and a tiny purse, whereas mothers claim host to having carried, birthed and nurtured this little girl—its daddy that really made the difference.

The day daddy left, was the same day the earth stopped rotating and all directions led into the ground. That girl is no longer a baby, and an absentee father has promoted the decisions she wrestles with in secret. Mommy did the best she could, and for whatever reason daddy left a hole larger than the Grand Canyon in her heart, family and future. Who needs a compass when you can look for treasure to replace the pain and suffering on your own?

Many little girls today range in age from their teens to nineties, yet they are still looking for daddy to come home and put his arm around them, cry on their shoulder and say, “I’m sorry, love you and everything is going to be alright”, yet this reality will not be experienced by many.

Little girls are beautiful, simple yet extremely complex. The place where life begins is also the place where life extends. It’s never been enough to be a biological mother or father; little girls are highly impacted and shaped by their relationship and influence from their daddy.

The scales of life offer extreme alternatives to genuine love, purity and hope—while the love and affection of daddy offers encouragement, affirmation and stability; the absence of daddy offers rebellion, promiscuity and insanity. In a world that is obsessed with experiencing everything for the sake of selfish desires, young girls are easy prey to the assembly line of young men who are skilled at feeding their minds with words their hearts can barely comprehend. Respect never begins after clothes come off.

Titus 2:4-5, “These older women must train the younger women to love their husbands and their children, to live wisely and be pure, to take care of their homes, to do good, and to be submissive to their husbands.” (NLT)

So many women and young girls never had a daddy, and were left to navigate through life with a broken compass, often running from one broken relationship to another. Does painted-on jeans, blouses four sizes small and 3-inch heels make a woman? Can a woman without a relationship with her daddy honor others without desperate acts of affirmation?

Depending upon your own abilities is exactly what got you into trouble in the first place. A compass that is calibrated through a relationship with Jesus Christ ultimately overrides all other failures in life. It doesn’t matter if you are a student, single, married or a widow—genuine hope will never be found in starving yourself in private, blaming men for your choices or giving away sex so that you won’t be alone.

If you could make everything right in your life today—would you? I’ll give you the opportunity to take that first step toward a new life regardless of your personal pain or circumstances. If you are honest and desire truth, then stop running and invite Jesus Christ into your life right now. Simply admit to Him that you’ve messed up and need His help and forgiveness, ask Him to be your Lord and Savior and give you a desire to know Him. It’s that simple. Be encouraged!

Egypt McKee

Author, Speaker and TV Host

Out of Egypt Ministries

www.OutOfEgypt.com

www.LifeTheStruggleWithin.com

©2009 Copyright, Out of Egypt Ministries. All Rights Reserved.

[Via http://egyptmckee.wordpress.com]

Everything rumbles when the thunder falls too near.

Everything Rumbles When the Thunder Falls Too Near January 5, 2010  |  Posted by Administrator

It was just something that he had always kind of wanted to do. By no means was it the only thing that he could think about, nor did his life bare scars of regret in its absence. It came into his head, this thing that he wanted to do, every so often between more pressing thoughts, and he would half-smile and imagine how neat it would be if one day without warning this thing were to actually happen. There was a girl in is life, and he waited to ask her until they had been together for a while, until she really knew what sort of person he was and that this small thing that he had always kind of wanted to do was just a peripheral quirk, some odd take-it-or-leave-it whim that was maybe oddly endearing or even a little bit sexy. He wasn’t crazy or perverted or a freak. She would have to understand that first. So he waited, weeks and then months, before he ever brought it up.

“Let’s make love in the carwash,” he finally said one day while they were sitting on the roof watching the sun dip over the top of another roof.

She turned her head slowly and snorted.

“In the carwash?”

“Yes. I think we should make love in the carwash maybe.”

The words hung there as he reclined on his elbow and she wrapped her arms around her knees.

“Like on the ground, in the spot where the cars go, where all the dirt from the cars is washed off?”

“No silly, in a car in the carwash. You know, either yours or mine, while it’s being washed we can stay in the car. We can stay there and make love in the carwash.”

She laughed a single laugh in that high-pitched way that means a million things and you have to choose just one. Then she turned back towards where the sun had set over shingles. Silence followed briefly until a chill drove them inside and the topic of conversation turned in other directions.

This was not a disappointing outcome. It had never been his expectation that she would agree right away. That might have seemed slutty after all, which was really not what this was about. He thought of toes in the water, and reminded himself that a healthy perspective is important. This first attempt had landed somewhere between acceptance and rejection, definitely promising.

They dated for a little while longer, and things were quite pleasant. Each found the other to be entertaining, and there were some sweet times when they just wanted to sleep all day in the same bed with their legs touching. After an extended period of things going well and the two really getting along they decided to get engaged. She was very happy, and so he asked her again soon after.

“Let’s just make love in the carwash.”

She kissed him, which he thought was a yes, but then she never brought it up again, and it sort of went away. They got married in a garden that you could rent for weddings. He was happy to say things like, I’ll have to run that by the Mrs., and she felt better after they fought and made up when she could call him my darling husband. They lived in a little house with flower boxes and felt very much like real people with real lives. Sometimes they laughed just because being that way made them both feel like laughing.

Still there was this question that arose from time to time – not often, just every once in a while – when they had finished raking all the leaves or when she found out she might be pregnant:

“Why don’t you and I take the car down the street to the carwash and, you know.”

It kept coming up, here and there, after a bad movie, before a dentist appointment. The subject usually changed quickly or just melted away into chuckles and kissing. Their lives progressed in normal ways. Automobiles were purchased. Important decisions were made, but then there it was again, this question at random moments, after a long night when the baby didn’t sleep or the time the cable company accidentally gave them some premium channels that they didn’t watch that often but it was nice to have for free anyway.

“No, I don’t think so.”

She started answering him outright instead of dodging, which made him feel uneasy, like maybe this was really something that was never going to happen for the rest of his life.

“I don’t think that’s such a great idea, husband.”

She still smiled when she said it though, a sliver of chance, a fading possible maybe perhaps.

He changed his approach several times, which was really just a matter of semantics. Why don’t we do it in the carwash? Let’s get something going, carwash style. I’m up for some carwash intimacy, how about you? She continued to deny him in as many different ways as he knew how to ask. It slowly became clear after many varied attempts, when their real lives were getting very busy with things that had to be done and her patience was beginning to crumble, that there was a real possibility that this thing that he had always kind of wanted to do might never happen. His asking became a wedge. She would leave the room and then he would be there alone with his thought for too long.

He asked less frequently, but still it came up, and when it did she acted like he asked all the time. So he asked even less, almost never, and only when she was in a really good mood and the kids had been very well behaved and it was not raining. She stopped cushioning her reply and just started saying no. Then the no got softer and quieter, and slowly her exasperation waned and wilted into silent contemplation. Finally one day, after he had cleaned the dishes and located the toenail clippers that had been missing for weeks, he asked one last time.

“Carwash?”

“Fine,” she said.

The nearest carwash was a brown brick building with three slots in it for cars to drive thru. There was no one that worked there, just a machine that counted coins and asked credit or debit? It wasn’t used very often except on days when the oil change place gave out coupons for free car washes with any premium oil change. It was crowded when that happened, so they called to make sure this wasn’t one of those days, and. just to be safe they also looked through the special bargain section of the newspaper.

It was empty on the Sunday that they went, just brown bricks and pools of soapy water. He put in six crisp bills and pressed the Superwash button. A green light beckoned enter, and he pulled the car slowly onto the track. The red light said stop, and he shifted into park, checking the mirrors, releasing the seatbelt. She took off her shoes and crawled across him, placing her knees carefully on either side of his thighs, wrapping her arms around his neck, leaning her head against his so their eyes made blurry versions of each other in the idling hum. The car began to move, and everything got very dark.

There were sounds all around in every direction, and they could hear the driving blast of the water jets running cold fierce torrents across every inch of outside. The windows buzzed and glazed over, blunting hard edges, carving whistling rivers out of everything. Then the car began to shake, and suddenly the whole wet world was pressed flat by spinning churning things with tongues and tails that made rubbery sounds in the dark. And there was gravity confused, and the pulling of shy things away from comfortable places, and for them inside together there was nothing to do but be present and feel for the lean rift of each aching second that passed without promise of another to follow. The muffled roar expanded and absorbed every tin rattle until there existed only one broad sonic thrust. It raged on for longer than they imagined that it possibly could, too long, and for a moment they felt that they might be trapped in a systematic malfunction that would slowly erode their car, their clothes, their bodies into nothing with graceless automaticity. It grew louder still, booming, savage, shaking until they couldn’t hear anything else, and they couldn’t see through the glass at all, and they felt very small and far too brittle to be saved from angry sopping metal set spinning in the black.

But it was warm inside and they were safe because it was both of them in there and not just one or the other. The sounds melted back into slender wet breaths and then there was just dripping and movement towards a lighter place where the sun fell on the pavement and the water rushed off towards sewers they could not see.

“That was pretty okay” she said.

“Yes, it was.”

“It reminded me of something else.”

“Watching a storm.”

“At night through a window in bed.”

“And everything rumbles when the thunder falls too near.”

- James Bartels is a writer of fiction. His work has been published in Flatmancrooked and Takahe Magazine. Additionally, he has been been nominated for The Pushcart Prize and recognized as a finalist in the Glimmer Train Award for New Writers.

http://electricliterature.com/blog/

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