Today's title comes from my favorite Iggy Pop song, "Isolation," from his amazing Blah, Blah, Blah album. That album is almost 20 years old but never gets old for me. It's one of the few in my collection I've owned on vinyl, cassette and CD (Pink Floyd: The Wall, Dark Side of the Moon, Gimme Shelter, couple of Bowie albums are the only ones that have that distinction). Yep, that good.
I was actually going to blog about anal sex today (for a lot of reasons), but got off on another tangent. I finished Robin McKinley's amazing vampire novel Sunshine (probably my fourth or fifth time reading that novel over the past couple of years--it IS the antidote to the *puke*light books--SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO good!), and I wasn't in the mood to dive into another novel because I had other stuff to do, so I picked up Poe's Children, an anthology edited by one of my favorite horror authors, Peter Straub (that man has written some of the most fucking terrifying books on the planet; Ghost Story and Floating Dragon are two books that have never left me; ditto his psychological thriller Shadowland, which introduced two incredibly influential phrases to my lexion: "The secret lies in hating well" (TOO TRUE!); and "Once upon a time, when we all lived in the forest..." The anthology also has stories by some favorite writers (Joe Hill and Stephen King come immediately to mind); I collect horror anthologies because, in my opinion, the short story is the epitome of the horror genre. Some of the best, creepiest, most intensely scary stories I've ever read have been short stories or novellas. One of the greatest horror writers of all time, H.P. Lovecraft, wrote his masterpieces in the short form. Another favorite, J. Sheridan Le Fanu, wrote astounding short stories of the gothic and creepy variety. A contemporary author whom I adore, Jim Butcher, finally collected his Harry Dresden short stories, and I am slavering over reading that (but need to read the last Dresden novel before I can, and I haven't been in the mood for Harry recently. This will not last; I love Dresden and would date him if he was real).
Back in the 80's, Penguin published a series of anthologies with Edward Gorey illustrations on the dust jackets. Lucky me, my mother belonged to a book club and bought two of them, the ones dealing with ghosts and vampires. The vampire one is still in print and well worth investing in. Geek girl here has two copies of it--the original hardcover (sadly, minus dust jacket, dammit) and the current trade edition. I actually found another volume in the series--on witches and wizards--in a thrift store in Nova Scotia on the last trip.
BUT I DIGRESS!
Anyway, I tend to read in order--it's a discipline thing, because if I only read the authors I liked, I'd never read anything new. This is the other lovely thing about anthologies: I get a sample of authors without having to buy a lot of books. One of the stories, "Cleopatra Brimstone," disturbed the FUCK out of me. I have to reread it (and don't want to) because I found it a bit disjointed--I don't like disjointed--but it basically involves a brilliant young woman obsessed with butterflies and moths who is raped and runs off to London for the summer to recover whilst housesitting for some family friends in Camdentown.
Her rapist says to her, "Try and get away." This is all she remembers of the event. Well, in London, she comes across an odd club, and is inspired to get some cuffs and buy some fetish-inspired clothing and shave her head. And then she brings men home to fuck, ties them down to the bed, whispers, "Try and get away," gets them off, and as she whispers that to them, they shrink in their bonds down to a rare specimen of a butterfly or moth which she then mounts (leave it alone) as a proper collected specimen.
I cannot tell you how skeeved this left me, this act of diminishing. SKEEVED. CRAWLING. I'm shuddering right now, thinking about it. It just turns my stomach. I've been coming to the realization lately that my days of kink are pretty much at an end--nothing against the old BD/SM scene, but... *shakes head* Aside from the odd spank on the bottom during a good, hard plow from behind, I just don't need the accoutrements any more. I don't want to be tied up. I don't want to tie anyone up. It's too much fucking work. I want to shag and cuddle and love and just be happy in someone else's company. I don't need to degrade or be degraded, and I don't think you can go the BD/SM route without a bit of animosity/need to/be degraded. I'm past that. AND I'M NOT JUDGING ANYONE WHO IS INTO IT! This is MY decision for ME. I've said it before--I don't care who/what you fuck, as long as the kids and housepets are left out of it. Unless I'm taking care of my own needs, I'm just beyond the toys.
I had a realization driving today that probably my deepest, most intense fear--the fear of being diminished, reduced to a specimen, an anecdote to be collected and dismissed. "Isn't that CUTE!" This is why Potential Paramour got the heave-ho and blocked--he said this to me frequently, telling me how cute I was when I was upset.
Galadriel speaks of it in The Lord of the Rings, of being a diminished and dwindling people, immortal but growing irrelevant, hiding in their fortresses and keeping the past alive rather than being a vital part of the living and breathing Middle Earth. I usually equate myself most to Sam when I compare myself to a LotR character, but in reality, I think the one I most compare to (in some ways) is Gandalf--inscrutable in my moods and reactions. The fictional character I think I most resemble is Granny Weatherwax, no matter how dearly I aspire to be Nanny Ogg.
Yeah, weird headspace today. I mentioned last weekend being a bit on the shamanic side. The full was last weekend, and my magical side manifests strongest in the few days after the full moon. I feel like so many things are clashing inside me at the moment, and I'm trying to sort it all out and make some sense of it. Making lists, setting goals, and putting myself back in touch with my inner shaman.
I know some of you, my cherished blurkers, are pagans and know of what I speak. *sigh* Since coming out of the broom closet a decade ago, I've gone back and forth with my spirituality. I have a love/hate relationship with my shamanic side. It's deep and hard to stay on that path and live in the real world. And with everything that presses on me for attention, it's really easy to let that responsibility slip. I've start meditating again (or attempting to) and drawing limits around what I'm willing to sacrifice and what I'm willing to tolerate. I understand right now that going foward is going to depend on bringing all sides of me as close into harmony as possible.
It also means I have to step away from my isolation. I wrap solitude around me like a cloak--it's my armor, my protection for my battered heart and soul, much like my leather jacket and my omni-present cynicism and rage, not to mention my rather unconventional and direct sense of the absurd that produces my strange version of comedy. I have felt horribly out of place in my life of late. I lost a group of friends back in the Autumn (not a big deal--nice people in their own way, but narrow-minded and narrow-thinking in terms of ambition and life), and it has come home very hard that I haven't had a regular "gang" to hang with in a very, very long time. I somehow have always been the person people least think to invite to participate in the ordinary bits of life.
Part of it comes from being an only child; I am very much used to my own company and entertaining myself. I'm very comfortable with myself. I hate it. I want company, I want distractions, I want companionship. I want to be a part of something more than myself. It bothers me that I need love, that I need anything more than what I can provide for myself.
Part of it is the odd life I have. Let's face it, dealing with Mum doesn't exactly lead to a healthy dating life. Excuse me, but do you mind if I bring my mother along to the casino? *headdesk*
So, I'm going to sign off on that note. And write the post on anal sex tomorrow.
Showing posts with label sexuality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sexuality. Show all posts
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Premature Blogulation
Well, I spoke too soon. Ex is not an ex. Good thing he didn't make it into the open mic material last night... Talk about cutting yourself off. (And no one but he and I knows why that line would be funnier than hell. And anyone intelligent and dirty enough to interpret it.)
Mood has lifted. That bothers me--how much sex affects my mood. I once had a friend say to me, "If I knew all it would take to get you to act human was to get you laid, I would have done it myself." (Mind you, he introduced me to my ex-husband for exactly that purposed--the two of them had shared digs back in the crazier parts of the 70's and had shared a hell of a lot more. He's the reason I have an issue with dating anyone more than 15 years younger than I am--having someone put an arm around your fiance, look at you while you're lying there naked [and we won't mention what else] and say, "Get 'em young and raise 'em right, eh, buddy?" makes you think twice about repeating history.)
But it HAS lifted, and without the application of external chemicals (although it is time for meds. Joy, joy... thyroid and anti-depressants make my day go forward...). Of course, the prospect of achieving a long-held fantasy tonight has a lot to do with it. Although why I'm still in the office talking to the blog and procrastinating rather than racing home, showering and prepping beats the fuck out of me.
Probably because my ability to trust is not extensive. But there's something going on with this guy... I have been so depressed at the thought of not seeing him again. I mean, the last two... no big deal. Rugby Boy was hot, hung and KINKY... shit, WHAT A STORY that night's going to make (probably not part of the stand-up--it's more like a novel episode for the Kinsale Chronicles). Ditto for Mr. Teacher (I will never be able to order a sex on the beach again with a straight face... just the thought of that night has me chortling... And I was afraid certain types of sex would be awkward after surgery... YES!) OK, I'll stop gloating about that one. I felt a little regret when it became clear they were full of shit about wanting to get together again, but it was a twinge... just a "Yeah, OK, whatev, your loss, dumbass."
This guy has gotten under my skin. Not good.
Wish I could make up my mind about love. Wish there wasn't such ambivalence. Part of me... part of me longs for partnership. Part of me hasn't got the patience to deal with my own shit, never mind someone else's.
But I like him. I actually like him. Feel like I've known him forever. Despite the fact we've been sexting each other mercilessly, the two times we've been together have been lovely--seriously lovely. Nothing spectacular--nothing over-rated chick flicks are made of--just lovely in the ordinary, comfortable sense.
Scares the livin' fuck out of me. Which is probably why I went moderately psycho and over-reacted when I didn't get an instant reply on Saturday night. *sigh* Damn PMDD. And then no reply when I called him to apologize and say that I hoped I'd misjudged him. If I hadn't hit his number by accident on the stupid touchscreen (I love my little 'droid, but it's as cranky as R2-friggin-D2) instead of my mom's boss (same prefix on their telephone number, so don't give me any shit) tonight wouldn't be happening.
OK, I am NOT going to get sentimental... I am not going to believe that Fate had a hand because this is my fucked-up comic tragedy of a life, and my luck in love SUCKS. Probably going to find out he's got a 3" dick erect and is addicted to meth and has herpes.
Which reminds me of a funny story... I have a really strict rule about not allowing exes in my life once it's over and done with, and I have all my money and stuff back (or made the dirty arsed rat fucker come through on his promises which is why Edwad was allowed to stick around until he'd done the brakes on The Beast. I lost a baby, he did my fuckin' brakes, the worthless cunt). Anyway, the only one I ever made an exception for was Irish Joe because he was my first love, and Jesus Christ and the Nailbanger Five, was I STOOOOOOPID.
Anyway, Irish Joe was making the pitch for us to get back together for the umpteenth time, and I was saying no for the umpteenth time. We'd tried it once, it hadn't worked, he'd SUCKED in bed, and I'd realized what a total loser he was, especially since he'd lost his looks and had taken too many shots to the head.
Truth.
So we're talking, and somehow got on the subject of Jews, and having dated several Jewish guys (and been married to one) and had a damn good experience with them in bed, without thinking, I said, "Mmmmmm... I do love to keep kosher."
To which his response was dead silence.
"What?" I said.
"What the fuck is THAT supposed to mean?"
Well, I really put my foot in it. "The best lovers I've ever had were Jewish guys." (This was before my long spate of Brit boys. Oooooohhhhhh, the Brit Boys... mmmmmmm... yeah. I'll take an English Banger any day. [And yes, I know the contradiction there, but the pun is so worth it.] Despite the fact that if I take a step towards a man with an English accent, my friends are going to jump me with baseball bats.)
Well, Irish Joe had a fucking fit. Mind you, he was a bigoted little bogtrotter (I can use that one; I'm a member of the tribe, and thank you, Eugene O'Neill for teaching me that one). He hated everyone and had a slur for everyone. Remind me to tell you the one about the n-bomb sometime. Irish Joe is good for stories.
ANYWAY... He explodes with, "HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT TO ME?!? I went down on ya, I tried ta make ya happy, and you like JEWS better?"
And then I put the other foot in. "Well, it wasn't meant to be a criticism, Joe. Aside from the fact they're really attentive, they're also pretty well-hung--"
At which point, he humiliated himself by saying, "I guess four inches ain't good enough for ya."
I am VERY proud to report that I did not burst out braying with laughter at that statement. Fuck knows, I wanted to. It took every ounce of self control--and thank the Gods we were on the phone because face-to-face, I wouldn't have been able to control myself. I would have been on the floor, howling. Four inches isn't enough for ANY woman, not if she's being honest, at least not if she's built like me.
I'm TALL and long. I can't have my yearly gynecological exam done by my regular doctor because my canal is deep and they don't have the long speculum in the GP's office. So while I may not know how big my cunt is (thank you, Jim Jefferies, for that image... I never knew what the pinky finger thing meant, but I agree that it's cruel, and your response is priceless), I do know that it's deep. And Irish Joe's pitiful four inches were not enough. Well, the man they were attached to was woefully inadequate--stupid, narrow-minded, devoutly Catholic, Boston Irish to the point of being handicapped, a thug, and just not a decent human being. Oh, and being six inches short that I am didn't help, either, as those were the days I wore heels.
Yes, I'm distracting myself. And now... now, I am going to commit a blatant act of faith and go home and get ready for this date. Because it's going to happen.
Right?
Right?
*deep breath*
Right.
Mood has lifted. That bothers me--how much sex affects my mood. I once had a friend say to me, "If I knew all it would take to get you to act human was to get you laid, I would have done it myself." (Mind you, he introduced me to my ex-husband for exactly that purposed--the two of them had shared digs back in the crazier parts of the 70's and had shared a hell of a lot more. He's the reason I have an issue with dating anyone more than 15 years younger than I am--having someone put an arm around your fiance, look at you while you're lying there naked [and we won't mention what else] and say, "Get 'em young and raise 'em right, eh, buddy?" makes you think twice about repeating history.)
But it HAS lifted, and without the application of external chemicals (although it is time for meds. Joy, joy... thyroid and anti-depressants make my day go forward...). Of course, the prospect of achieving a long-held fantasy tonight has a lot to do with it. Although why I'm still in the office talking to the blog and procrastinating rather than racing home, showering and prepping beats the fuck out of me.
Probably because my ability to trust is not extensive. But there's something going on with this guy... I have been so depressed at the thought of not seeing him again. I mean, the last two... no big deal. Rugby Boy was hot, hung and KINKY... shit, WHAT A STORY that night's going to make (probably not part of the stand-up--it's more like a novel episode for the Kinsale Chronicles). Ditto for Mr. Teacher (I will never be able to order a sex on the beach again with a straight face... just the thought of that night has me chortling... And I was afraid certain types of sex would be awkward after surgery... YES!) OK, I'll stop gloating about that one. I felt a little regret when it became clear they were full of shit about wanting to get together again, but it was a twinge... just a "Yeah, OK, whatev, your loss, dumbass."
This guy has gotten under my skin. Not good.
Wish I could make up my mind about love. Wish there wasn't such ambivalence. Part of me... part of me longs for partnership. Part of me hasn't got the patience to deal with my own shit, never mind someone else's.
But I like him. I actually like him. Feel like I've known him forever. Despite the fact we've been sexting each other mercilessly, the two times we've been together have been lovely--seriously lovely. Nothing spectacular--nothing over-rated chick flicks are made of--just lovely in the ordinary, comfortable sense.
Scares the livin' fuck out of me. Which is probably why I went moderately psycho and over-reacted when I didn't get an instant reply on Saturday night. *sigh* Damn PMDD. And then no reply when I called him to apologize and say that I hoped I'd misjudged him. If I hadn't hit his number by accident on the stupid touchscreen (I love my little 'droid, but it's as cranky as R2-friggin-D2) instead of my mom's boss (same prefix on their telephone number, so don't give me any shit) tonight wouldn't be happening.
OK, I am NOT going to get sentimental... I am not going to believe that Fate had a hand because this is my fucked-up comic tragedy of a life, and my luck in love SUCKS. Probably going to find out he's got a 3" dick erect and is addicted to meth and has herpes.
Which reminds me of a funny story... I have a really strict rule about not allowing exes in my life once it's over and done with, and I have all my money and stuff back (or made the dirty arsed rat fucker come through on his promises which is why Edwad was allowed to stick around until he'd done the brakes on The Beast. I lost a baby, he did my fuckin' brakes, the worthless cunt). Anyway, the only one I ever made an exception for was Irish Joe because he was my first love, and Jesus Christ and the Nailbanger Five, was I STOOOOOOPID.
Anyway, Irish Joe was making the pitch for us to get back together for the umpteenth time, and I was saying no for the umpteenth time. We'd tried it once, it hadn't worked, he'd SUCKED in bed, and I'd realized what a total loser he was, especially since he'd lost his looks and had taken too many shots to the head.
Truth.
So we're talking, and somehow got on the subject of Jews, and having dated several Jewish guys (and been married to one) and had a damn good experience with them in bed, without thinking, I said, "Mmmmmm... I do love to keep kosher."
To which his response was dead silence.
"What?" I said.
"What the fuck is THAT supposed to mean?"
Well, I really put my foot in it. "The best lovers I've ever had were Jewish guys." (This was before my long spate of Brit boys. Oooooohhhhhh, the Brit Boys... mmmmmmm... yeah. I'll take an English Banger any day. [And yes, I know the contradiction there, but the pun is so worth it.] Despite the fact that if I take a step towards a man with an English accent, my friends are going to jump me with baseball bats.)
Well, Irish Joe had a fucking fit. Mind you, he was a bigoted little bogtrotter (I can use that one; I'm a member of the tribe, and thank you, Eugene O'Neill for teaching me that one). He hated everyone and had a slur for everyone. Remind me to tell you the one about the n-bomb sometime. Irish Joe is good for stories.
ANYWAY... He explodes with, "HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT TO ME?!? I went down on ya, I tried ta make ya happy, and you like JEWS better?"
And then I put the other foot in. "Well, it wasn't meant to be a criticism, Joe. Aside from the fact they're really attentive, they're also pretty well-hung--"
At which point, he humiliated himself by saying, "I guess four inches ain't good enough for ya."
I am VERY proud to report that I did not burst out braying with laughter at that statement. Fuck knows, I wanted to. It took every ounce of self control--and thank the Gods we were on the phone because face-to-face, I wouldn't have been able to control myself. I would have been on the floor, howling. Four inches isn't enough for ANY woman, not if she's being honest, at least not if she's built like me.
I'm TALL and long. I can't have my yearly gynecological exam done by my regular doctor because my canal is deep and they don't have the long speculum in the GP's office. So while I may not know how big my cunt is (thank you, Jim Jefferies, for that image... I never knew what the pinky finger thing meant, but I agree that it's cruel, and your response is priceless), I do know that it's deep. And Irish Joe's pitiful four inches were not enough. Well, the man they were attached to was woefully inadequate--stupid, narrow-minded, devoutly Catholic, Boston Irish to the point of being handicapped, a thug, and just not a decent human being. Oh, and being six inches short that I am didn't help, either, as those were the days I wore heels.
Yes, I'm distracting myself. And now... now, I am going to commit a blatant act of faith and go home and get ready for this date. Because it's going to happen.
Right?
Right?
*deep breath*
Right.
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.
http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/c110c75202/sluts-vs-studs
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.
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.
http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/c110c75202/sluts-vs-studs
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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