Ever get annoyed? Ever feel like someone needs to be told where the dog died? Or handed a crowbar and a tub of Elbow Grease to help them pry their head out of their arse? Congratulations--you've come to the right place.

And when I'm not commenting on the latest thing to piss me off, I'm trying to figure out my own twisted life. Because, hey, I'm like that.

On a gentler note: for anyone dealing with depression, anxiety, and other assorted bullshit: You are NOT alone.

And if you're looking for a laugh, search on the key word "fuckery." It's just my little thing (as the bishop said to the actress).

Monday, September 20, 2010

Sluts & Studs - The Other Side

Anyone who's talked to me lately has heard that I've finally bitten the bullet and started doing stand-up after years of dreaming about it.
Yep, The Empress has returned to the stage, and this time, she ain't spoutin' Shakespeare. Be afraid. Be VERY afraid.
I'm the first person to admit that I need a good swift kick in the arse sometimes to get the fuck out of my own way. The past year has been a fresh slice of hell in so many ways; in others, it's been amazing. Aside from a lot of hard work on my issues (/end pity party), the final inspiration--that "good swift kick in the arse"--came from seeing a stand-up show on HBO, and since seeing "I Swear to God," I've managed to turn more than a few people on to Jim Jefferies.
I'll post later in the week about his comedy and why you should check him out (especially those of us feeling the unfilled void left by the loss of George Carlin, that glorious, cranky old fuck). This post is about me (hey, it's my blog, fuck off if you don't like it) and my shit.
See, I don't find Jim's stuff offensive, or even particularly revolutionary. What I dig about it is that he's saying the same kind of crazy shit that I do--the same stuff I've been writing for a long time. If you've read One Flew Out of the Broom Closet, you know that I'm the Empress of Rage--so utterly fucking fed up with stupidity and idiocy that I don't allow myself a gun because there'd be a trail of corpses every time I'd get behind the wheel of the Blue Bomber, most of them in Cambridge. Obviously, it's not THE SAME, but it's in the same vein--reflections on the foibles and follies of our own lives and the stupidity of the world. Oh, yeah, and the utter lack of concern about offending anyone, including (and especially) family and exes.
Allow me to throw a quote at you:
"They are the abstract and brief chronicle of our time. 'Twere better to have a bad epitaph than ill repute in their mouth whilst you live."
Now, Hambone is talking about The Players--the traveling troupe of actors that arrive in Elsinore, temporarily lift his depression, and allow him to expose the guilt of his mother-fucking uncle. I've always used this quote to make it clear to anyone and everyone that my life is fair game for my art--good and bad--and that's the price of being a part of my life. I actually told the most recent ex that the relationship would not appear in the act, but once it was over, it was all fair game. Needless to say, the adventures of the past week--the meeting at the beach, the adventures in the sex shop, the shopping trip... yeah. It's going to make for a GREAT story. *insert evil laugh here*
Let this be a lesson to the gents in the audience: DO NOT be a cunt taunter. Women are far more vicious than men about sexual frustration.
I don't believe that guys don't realize that cock blocking goes both ways. For fuck's sake, do you think we don't want sex? You can deny us, too. (Case in point: this past weekend. *growl* It should be illegal to promise a woman her ultimate fantasy, go through all the work of assembling the gear, and wuss out. )
So, in response to the phrase "prick tease," I am introducing the phrase "cunt taunter" to the lexicon. It doesn't have the same flow, but it's the best I've been able to come up with, and I've been trying to find a female version of this for 25+ years.
Yeah, I'm old.


To go on... and the reason I invoke the title of one of Jim's regular bits as the title of this blog post... In his act, Jim Jefferies declares that, "It's easy to be a slut; it's hard to be a stud." (And as a Boston, I love how "hard" comes out as "hahhhd" in the Australian accent. Warms the cockles of my heart.) The bit goes on about the fact that he's been in the business too long to enjoy "nice girls," and how nice girls are shit in bed and why. All of it, honestly, truthful.
(There's a sadness in his face during this bit in "I Swear to God," a sadness that breaks my fucking heart. Probably because I know exactly how he feels from the other side. Another reason I am so seriously up about this guy--he's a fucking amazing storyteller. Funny, profane and brutally, viciously honest. At the end of both of his DVDs, I wanted to comfort him and fuck his brains out. Now that's talent!)
He also makes a lot of cracks in interviews and as a part of his act about his own promiscuity and encounters with STDs ("I may be the only man on the planet to high five a doctor after being told he had cancer.")
It doesn't detract from his sex appeal. Seriously--I'd do him in a second, and I have incredibly high standards (it's the laugh- and intelligence factor. Show me a man who can make me think AND laugh... insta-aphrodisiac).
Well, I'm going to disagree with Jim. Not on physical grounds--he's right there. It IS harder for a guy to be a stud in the sense of fucking a lot of women and fucking them well. In the physical sense, it IS easier for a woman to slut around. There's no guarantee of quality--you just have to be there and make the holes available. A little enthusiasm and good lubrication doesn't hurt, either.
Where it's harder for a woman to be a slut--in the conventional sense of having a lot of sexual partners and enjoying it--is in the price she pays in self esteem. Never mind the exposure to disease, the risk of violence and abuse, and the risk of losing fertility. The price you pay is in self esteem because honestly, men are fucking hypocrites.
Women are bitches--absolutely. Judgemental, evil, catty cunts, the lot of us. (Something else I have in common with Mr. J.--I do love that good, old fashioned Anglo-Saxon cuss.) Men, however, are even worse. Prissy, stupid and judgemental. Gods forbid you show a little enthusiasm in the bedroom (living room, kitchen, backseat, movie theatre...). Gods forbid you enjoy giving him pleasure because if you do, you instantly cease to be a "nice girl" and become a "dirty slut" in his eyes, and there's no love in the term.
I stopped dating "my own" (i.e. Boston Irish bogtrotters) because of this--because I couldn't relax and be myself with them. I stopped a lot of things for a long time because I was so fucking sick of being judged.
I'm tired, kids. Sick and fucking tired of hypocrisy. Tired of men who want the world and when they realize they could get it--or at least a goodly part of it--they run away because, hey, you can't be real.
I hid my profile on POF yesterday because after this weekend, I just don't have the heart for it. I'm done. Done with being honest and getting lied to and fucked around. As I held my baby cousin yesterday, it was all I could do not to weep because I know it's something I'm never going to have. Somewhere, somehow, that opportunity's been lost. There's a new guy who's flirting with me, but I really don't have any hope for it. He's a "nice guy"--and nice guys can't handle sluts.
And yeah, I embrace the label. I LIKE sex. Sod that, I LOVE sex. Sex is the happiest thing on the planet, the only time I forget how utterly stupid and hopeless life is. It's the only time I'm NOT pissed off at the world. And I like all kinds of sex (except the lesbian version. Sorry, girls, does NOTHING for me, and yes, I experimented when I was younger and made sure)--vanilla, rough, BD/SM, kinky, whatever! And I've never understood why anyone would judge someone for their sexual practices or preferences (except for pedophilia and beastiality--leave the kids and pets out of it, you scumbags). Whatever passes between two consenting adults passes between those two consenting adults. I don't understand the shame factor.
Because, honestly, I don't have any when I'm with a partner. I don't. If it doesn't feel good, I make adjustments until it does, or we try something else. Problem solved. Somehow, I missed out on the shame thing, probably because I educated myself about sex all those years ago and avoided all the Catholic bullshit. All these years later, the only regret I have is that I didn't have more of it (and that I ever allowed EdWad to suck me into his vortex of soul-sucking horror. Thank the merciful Gods for antidepressants).
And I'm willing to accept that there's something missing from my moral makeup. I don't have a problem with that assessment. There's nothing missing from my ethical makeup, and that's what really matters. I accept that if I play, there's a price to pay, and it's up to me to be sure that the price is minimal. I accept responsibility for myself and my actions--no excuses, no bullshit.
I also accept that I probably never will get married, probably never will have a family unless it's by accident or by some grace, there actually is a man out there who can accept me. It hurts... Christ on a crutch, it rips the heart out of my chest to think I'll never hold my own child and look up into the eyes of my partner and see the wonder and pride and love there for the miracle we've created together. There's always a chance, but I'm not holding my breath. I have my work and my art. Who knows? I may make a success of this writing and comedy shit. You can't have everything in this world.
I wish I had something profound or at least funny to end with, but this isn't a particularly funny post.
Time to sign off and get my shit together--dialysis run coming up and then off to open mic. Tequila, take me away.

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