Inspired by NYMag, of course.
Name: Lady In Red (okay, not really)
Age: 33. For an itty bitty little while more.
Neighborhood: LES
Occupation: Don’t feel like saying.
Who's your favorite New Yorker, living or dead, real or fictional?
It’s a tie between James Baldwin and Joan Didion.
What's the best meal you've eaten in New York?
Sushi at Nobu.
In one sentence, what do you actually do all day in your job?
I try to stay sane and I don’t always succeed.
Would you live here on a $35,000 salary?
Yes. But I hope I won’t have to.
What's the last thing you saw on Broadway?
Race.
Do you give money to panhandlers?
More often than not, I don’t.
What's your drink?
I drink water the most and like whisky the best. No ice in either.
How often do you prepare your own meals?
About every other day I make lunch or dinner. Consideringing the weight gain of my man's I guess I should do it more often.
What's your favorite medication?
Yoga. Plus allergy meds during the pollen season.
What's hanging above your sofa?
Bookshelves.
How much is too much to spend on a haircut?
I get mine so cheap I am embarrassed to answer.
When's bedtime?
Some time after midnight. But I often go to bed more than once during an evening.
Which do you prefer, the old Times Square or the new Times Square?
I avoided the old one, I avoid the new one. But if I had to choose, I’d go for a porn movie house rather than the M&M store.
What do you think of Donald Trump?
I don’t.
What do you hate most about living in New York?
Rents & rats.
Who is your mortal enemy?
Stagnation is death.
When's the last time you drove a car?
Can’t remember, that’s how long ago it is. I am the worst driver. Too whimsical.
How has the Wall Street crash affected you?
Indirectly, the way it’s affected the whole city.
Times, Post, or Daily News?
Times. But Page Six is a guilty pleasure I regularly give in to.
Where do you go to be alone?
The bathroom.
What makes someone a New Yorker?
Lots of stuff. I made a "ten signs" list earlier today, when commenting at NYMag. Come to think of it, you should be able to check at least half of them:
*You can immediately tell who else are and aren't, most often, before they've said a word.
*You have a minimum of five favorite restaurants within a five minute walk from your home.
*Most of the places you used to go to as a kid no longer exist.
*You walk fast and you talk fast.
*You've got a strong opinion on which neighborhoods count and which doesn't. (And you don't willingly live in Midtown.)
*You don't need a map below Houston nor in the Village.
*Whenever someone pronounces Houston wrong, you give them false directions.
*Silence scares you, sirens don't.
*You always get a cab when you need it.
*You don't need to be born here, but you can't see yourself dying anywhere else.
Showing posts with label ALL THINGS NEW YORK. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ALL THINGS NEW YORK. Show all posts
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Small cock, big problem
I know I have been dissing Jamie Bufalino before. I am certain I will again. I have no idea how this man landed the title “sex expert” or the gig in Time Out.
Gay Dan Savage (of the Village Voice) knows multiple times more about female sexuality than Bufalino the Buffalo. That says something, I guess.
From this week’s column:
Q: I’m a hetero woman, and in the past few years I have played with a lot of men, but never had a relationship that extended outside the bedroom. I recently met a drop-dead handsome man with a fantastic body—just looking at him sets my loins on fire. He is great with his mouth and hands, and is a considerate boyfriend outside the bedroom. However, he has the smallest penis I have ever encountered. His erection is barely enough to penetrate me, and then once he’s inside, it’s all over in a couple of minutes. Some women like oral or being fingered; I just love a lengthy pounding with a rock-hard cock…and I’m not getting it. But despite his inability to deliver, I get horny just thinking about him. He gets my juices flowing in a way that no other man has. Should I break up with him now before I get too emotionally involved? I don’t want to give up the boyfriend experience as well as the unbridled lust he stirs in me. Will I eventually lose interest in him because of the less-than-stellar sex? We’re both in our late thirties.
A: I always love it when a sentence like “He gets my juices flowing in a way that no other man has” is immediately followed by “Should I break up with him?” Why in the name of all that’s holy would you preemptively end a solid relationship (not perfect, but solid) just because there’s the possibility (not a guarantee) of feeling a little more intense emotional pain somewhere down the road? Furthermore, why isn’t your question, “What can I do to recalibrate my thinking so that I’m not so focused on his puny dick , while being overly dismissive of how well-meaning he is?” (It really barely penetrates? I have to admit it’s hard for me to even get a mental picture of such a travesty.) Answer: practice, practice, practice. Presumably you’ve had more than your share of rock-hard cock-poundings during your life, and they’ve still left you single and searching. Instead of doing and feeling the same things over and over again (and getting the same result), why don’t you just let this thing play out? Don’t forget: You’re actually into being with him. At least wait until he drives you up the fucking wall before you trash what seems to be a pretty good thing. (End of quote.)
My (Lady In Red's) advice to the same woman:
First of all, don’t ever write to a less-than-stellar sex columnist again.
Second, do your kegels. As many of them as you possibly can. And when he’s inside of you, get on top and do the same thing. You’ll both feel more. Any position where you can squeeze your legs tight will also help you. Tried reverse cowgirl with your legs in a crossed position? Tried doggy with your legs crossed?
Third: Buy a vibrator. A big one. If you think your boyfriend is willing to play with it with you, introduce it to him. Have him fuck you with it. And if he is as small as you say, the vibe and the man will fit inside of you at the same time, increasing your pleasure, and probably his, too.
If you don’t think he’ll be up for it, if you think it’ll make him insecure, play with it when you’re alone. It’s not the same, I know, but at least you’ll get the feeling of being filled up without having to cheat. Don’t dump the guy because of his short-comings, not as long as he makes you feel the way he does. In that, JB is right: Let the relationship run its course.
But do, by all means, try to make up for it with hands and mouth and toys. It’ll make your sex life more satisfactory, and that, my friend, makes your life with this guy more satisfactory.
Also: Do you think there’s a chance he’ll be up for threesomes? With other men, I mean? Or if he’ll be willing to open up your relationship, emotionally monogamous, sexually open? If he is, you’ll get the sex you want without having to give up on the emotions.
As for talking to him about this: He knows he is small. (That’s why he is so great with his hands and mouth.) Mocking it will make him feel insecure. Talking to him about how to compensate for it, in a matter-of-fact-manner, shouldn’t come as a surprise to him. “I wonder if you’ve ever tried having sex with a vibrator”, “I wonder what you think about this or that position”, “I’d like to try ---- to feel you better” – these sentences shouldn’t take his confidence away.
PS: You all may think I mock JB too easily. But listen to this line: “Presumably you’ve had more than your share of rock-hard cock-poundings during your life, and they’ve still left you single and searching”.
What the F has her experience got to do with anything????? She mentions it to show that she doesn't fall in love that easily, and that sex (intercourse) is important to her. But JB interprets it as if she has already had “more than her share” of good fucking, and doesn’t deserve to get any more of it? Go fuck yourself, JB, because YOU don’t deserve to get any from any other person for a long, long time.
A woman taking responsibility for her own pleasure does indeed deserve the pleasure she wants. A woman whose priorities include a good fuck will not be truly happy without a good fuck. As a socalled sex expert, your responsibility should be coming up with suggestions on how to get it. NOT to come up with half-chewed hints that women liking it are sluts and selfish bitches.
Gay Dan Savage (of the Village Voice) knows multiple times more about female sexuality than Bufalino the Buffalo. That says something, I guess.
From this week’s column:
Q: I’m a hetero woman, and in the past few years I have played with a lot of men, but never had a relationship that extended outside the bedroom. I recently met a drop-dead handsome man with a fantastic body—just looking at him sets my loins on fire. He is great with his mouth and hands, and is a considerate boyfriend outside the bedroom. However, he has the smallest penis I have ever encountered. His erection is barely enough to penetrate me, and then once he’s inside, it’s all over in a couple of minutes. Some women like oral or being fingered; I just love a lengthy pounding with a rock-hard cock…and I’m not getting it. But despite his inability to deliver, I get horny just thinking about him. He gets my juices flowing in a way that no other man has. Should I break up with him now before I get too emotionally involved? I don’t want to give up the boyfriend experience as well as the unbridled lust he stirs in me. Will I eventually lose interest in him because of the less-than-stellar sex? We’re both in our late thirties.
A: I always love it when a sentence like “He gets my juices flowing in a way that no other man has” is immediately followed by “Should I break up with him?” Why in the name of all that’s holy would you preemptively end a solid relationship (not perfect, but solid) just because there’s the possibility (not a guarantee) of feeling a little more intense emotional pain somewhere down the road? Furthermore, why isn’t your question, “What can I do to recalibrate my thinking so that I’m not so focused on his puny dick , while being overly dismissive of how well-meaning he is?” (It really barely penetrates? I have to admit it’s hard for me to even get a mental picture of such a travesty.) Answer: practice, practice, practice. Presumably you’ve had more than your share of rock-hard cock-poundings during your life, and they’ve still left you single and searching. Instead of doing and feeling the same things over and over again (and getting the same result), why don’t you just let this thing play out? Don’t forget: You’re actually into being with him. At least wait until he drives you up the fucking wall before you trash what seems to be a pretty good thing. (End of quote.)
My (Lady In Red's) advice to the same woman:
First of all, don’t ever write to a less-than-stellar sex columnist again.
Second, do your kegels. As many of them as you possibly can. And when he’s inside of you, get on top and do the same thing. You’ll both feel more. Any position where you can squeeze your legs tight will also help you. Tried reverse cowgirl with your legs in a crossed position? Tried doggy with your legs crossed?
Third: Buy a vibrator. A big one. If you think your boyfriend is willing to play with it with you, introduce it to him. Have him fuck you with it. And if he is as small as you say, the vibe and the man will fit inside of you at the same time, increasing your pleasure, and probably his, too.
If you don’t think he’ll be up for it, if you think it’ll make him insecure, play with it when you’re alone. It’s not the same, I know, but at least you’ll get the feeling of being filled up without having to cheat. Don’t dump the guy because of his short-comings, not as long as he makes you feel the way he does. In that, JB is right: Let the relationship run its course.
But do, by all means, try to make up for it with hands and mouth and toys. It’ll make your sex life more satisfactory, and that, my friend, makes your life with this guy more satisfactory.
Also: Do you think there’s a chance he’ll be up for threesomes? With other men, I mean? Or if he’ll be willing to open up your relationship, emotionally monogamous, sexually open? If he is, you’ll get the sex you want without having to give up on the emotions.
As for talking to him about this: He knows he is small. (That’s why he is so great with his hands and mouth.) Mocking it will make him feel insecure. Talking to him about how to compensate for it, in a matter-of-fact-manner, shouldn’t come as a surprise to him. “I wonder if you’ve ever tried having sex with a vibrator”, “I wonder what you think about this or that position”, “I’d like to try ---- to feel you better” – these sentences shouldn’t take his confidence away.
PS: You all may think I mock JB too easily. But listen to this line: “Presumably you’ve had more than your share of rock-hard cock-poundings during your life, and they’ve still left you single and searching”.
What the F has her experience got to do with anything????? She mentions it to show that she doesn't fall in love that easily, and that sex (intercourse) is important to her. But JB interprets it as if she has already had “more than her share” of good fucking, and doesn’t deserve to get any more of it? Go fuck yourself, JB, because YOU don’t deserve to get any from any other person for a long, long time.
A woman taking responsibility for her own pleasure does indeed deserve the pleasure she wants. A woman whose priorities include a good fuck will not be truly happy without a good fuck. As a socalled sex expert, your responsibility should be coming up with suggestions on how to get it. NOT to come up with half-chewed hints that women liking it are sluts and selfish bitches.
Monday, February 1, 2010
A perfect day. Or two, actually...
Saturday morning the phone wakes me up. Brooklyn friends cancelling brunch, it’s too cold for them to want to take the baby out. When I discover just how cold, I’m glad they did. In this regard I have never been much of a Viking. So I get back to the bed, suggesting we’d stay inside the whole weekend for a change. "I’ve got an even better idea", he says, putting his hands around my wrists and pulling me underneath him. "Let’s stay in bed for the whole weekend".
I laugh. I’ve never stayed in bed for a full day straight unless I’ve been really unwell. For now, I feel great. And as he kisses me, I feel even better. Let’s do that, I agree. And so we do.
We don’t have sex for the whole time. We read the newspapers aloud to each other. We quote passages from favorite books. I do the crossword, he a Sudoku. We talk and laugh. We cuddle. We order in pizza. We take a nap. We only leave the bed to use the bathroom or to make coffee. We don’t use the TV, we don’t turn on the computers. Phones, we’ve turned off, too. Around six p.m I go restless. Sure, I've moved some. We’ve already had sex a couple of times, some three hours all in all. Some of it has been vigorous. But I still haven’t gotten my workout, and usually, I do an hour a day. He won’t let me leave the bed to do it, and he teases me.
"You can do it here. You can use me as your yoga mat, I’ll handle it", he says. And so I do. To begin with, I pretend to be doing the exercise for real. Playfully, I ignore his sighs as I put my full body weight on my hands on his back. I know it hurts, but not that much. Eventually, we get it on the way he meant it all along, his cock is inside of me, positions just slightly different from what they use to be when I do them solo for another purpose. We do doggy for upwards dog and I skip the warrior poses. The boat feels very interesting... In that angle, as well as some of the others, he helps supporting me so that I won’t do any damage. Keeping my breath is quite a challenge, though, and I give up on it after not that many minutes. The try-to-stick-to-the-poses attitude goes next, but I keep bending and stretching and trying out whether the regular poses can be translated into sex poses. Surprisingly many of them can.
After, he spoons me, and we cuddle some more. Telling each other silly little secrets. Joking and laughing. It’s a great day. And then Sunday’s the same. As we wake up Monday morning, ready for work, he says "We don’t always need to do something for it to do us good".
I think he is right.
I laugh. I’ve never stayed in bed for a full day straight unless I’ve been really unwell. For now, I feel great. And as he kisses me, I feel even better. Let’s do that, I agree. And so we do.
We don’t have sex for the whole time. We read the newspapers aloud to each other. We quote passages from favorite books. I do the crossword, he a Sudoku. We talk and laugh. We cuddle. We order in pizza. We take a nap. We only leave the bed to use the bathroom or to make coffee. We don’t use the TV, we don’t turn on the computers. Phones, we’ve turned off, too. Around six p.m I go restless. Sure, I've moved some. We’ve already had sex a couple of times, some three hours all in all. Some of it has been vigorous. But I still haven’t gotten my workout, and usually, I do an hour a day. He won’t let me leave the bed to do it, and he teases me.
"You can do it here. You can use me as your yoga mat, I’ll handle it", he says. And so I do. To begin with, I pretend to be doing the exercise for real. Playfully, I ignore his sighs as I put my full body weight on my hands on his back. I know it hurts, but not that much. Eventually, we get it on the way he meant it all along, his cock is inside of me, positions just slightly different from what they use to be when I do them solo for another purpose. We do doggy for upwards dog and I skip the warrior poses. The boat feels very interesting... In that angle, as well as some of the others, he helps supporting me so that I won’t do any damage. Keeping my breath is quite a challenge, though, and I give up on it after not that many minutes. The try-to-stick-to-the-poses attitude goes next, but I keep bending and stretching and trying out whether the regular poses can be translated into sex poses. Surprisingly many of them can.
After, he spoons me, and we cuddle some more. Telling each other silly little secrets. Joking and laughing. It’s a great day. And then Sunday’s the same. As we wake up Monday morning, ready for work, he says "We don’t always need to do something for it to do us good".
I think he is right.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Let’s (not) get married
NYTimes is doing another cockadoo story on men, women, dating, this time, even marriage. The conclusion is that more men marry educated women than in 1970 (that is, I can tell you, because more of us ARE educated today than women were in 1970, but that, of course, isn’t news).
But, according to the Times, this "trend" isn’t valid in New York, because it’s still very very hard for a very very smart woman in NYC to find a husband. Duh. Let me repeat that for my more stupid readers: Duh. Duh. Duh.
Let it lie that the article author isn’t educated enough to read statistics correctly. (Duh.)
Or that other statistics would tell them that there are in fact more women than men in NYC. (Duh.)
Or that the women interviewed are really poor examples of successful New York women. (Duh. Duh.) One of them is out of work, one is a German stylist, and one finds it genial to use the question "do you have a passport and a library card?" as some kind of litmus test to men she meets in bars. (Duuuuuuuh. And a well-meant note to everyone even considering for a second trying this: Not only do most people have this, not only will most people find it insulting that the other person presumes they don’t, but plenty of people would probably also take the passport question to mean that they’re sent packing. Alone. For a solo trip. To a galaxy far far away. Never to return.)
The interviewees seem to be chosen for one reason alone: They all seem to think of themselves as brilliant, and they all accept this for a reason why they can’t find a man. (I’m out of duhs.)
If anyone is interested: The real reason why it’s hard to find someone to marry in NYC, for men and women alike is this: There are so many other options out there, it’s hard to settle for just one. Plenty of us don’t even feel like trying.
Links are here, for the original article:
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/19/us/19marriage.html?em
And for the deserved ridicule committed by NYMag (“Ladies, it’s not that you’re too smart, it’s that you’re too freaking crazy”):
http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2010/01/less_men_are_marrying_wealthie.html
But, according to the Times, this "trend" isn’t valid in New York, because it’s still very very hard for a very very smart woman in NYC to find a husband. Duh. Let me repeat that for my more stupid readers: Duh. Duh. Duh.
Let it lie that the article author isn’t educated enough to read statistics correctly. (Duh.)
Or that other statistics would tell them that there are in fact more women than men in NYC. (Duh.)
Or that the women interviewed are really poor examples of successful New York women. (Duh. Duh.) One of them is out of work, one is a German stylist, and one finds it genial to use the question "do you have a passport and a library card?" as some kind of litmus test to men she meets in bars. (Duuuuuuuh. And a well-meant note to everyone even considering for a second trying this: Not only do most people have this, not only will most people find it insulting that the other person presumes they don’t, but plenty of people would probably also take the passport question to mean that they’re sent packing. Alone. For a solo trip. To a galaxy far far away. Never to return.)
The interviewees seem to be chosen for one reason alone: They all seem to think of themselves as brilliant, and they all accept this for a reason why they can’t find a man. (I’m out of duhs.)
If anyone is interested: The real reason why it’s hard to find someone to marry in NYC, for men and women alike is this: There are so many other options out there, it’s hard to settle for just one. Plenty of us don’t even feel like trying.
Links are here, for the original article:
http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/19/us/19marriage.html?em
And for the deserved ridicule committed by NYMag (“Ladies, it’s not that you’re too smart, it’s that you’re too freaking crazy”):
http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2010/01/less_men_are_marrying_wealthie.html
Friday, August 21, 2009
Polluted
Time Out New York put out their annual sex poll this year. I won't link to it, it's not at all female sexuality-friendly. But here’s how I responded, plus what I would have responded, had Dan Savage made the poll and included answers for those of us who actually like sex. He may be gay, but he understands a woman way better than his competition.
This is the poll for straight women:
How old are you?
33
What neighborhood do you live in (at this point Time Out’s sex columnist Jamie Bufalino finds it necessary to define what a neighborhood is, “Chelsea, Williamsburg etc”):
Lower East Side
Question 1:
I wish every guy I date could...
a. do cunnilingus right
b. fuck with both our orgasms in mind
c. pick up the telephone on occasion
d. live life without porn
My comment: Where’s answer e. fuck me eagerly as often as I want to be fucked? In lack of it, I responded a. But truly, I can’t remember the last guy who didn’t know the art. Actually, I don’t remember a man who can’t do a, b and c with his hands tied and his eyes blindfolded. As for d, I don’t understand what that’s got to do with me. His choice how he spends his spare time, right?
Question 2:
I wish I could learn how to…
a. deep-throat
b. achieve orgasm
c. be more vocal in bed
d. take it up the ass
Well. Again, the answer is e. Seriously, what 33 year old New York woman does not know this stuff? (In lack of this alternative, I responded d. Because that is the least easy of four easy feats.)
Question 3:
The last thing I would ever do is…
a. swallow
b. give a one-night stand a rim job
c. fuck without protection
d. allow another woman in bed with a man
My comment: I’ve done all this stuff. But I did respond c., because that is what I usually do not do. One man only has gotten the honor. Yes, baby, I can hear your “damn” all the way to here, all the way from the West Coast. Don’t do b. very often either, though.
Question 4:
The genre of guys I find the hottest are:
a. hipsters
b. nerds
c. cocky banking types
d. artsy dudes
What??? Where are the athletes??? I want my gym addicts!!!! In lack of them, I responded “artsy guys”. Because well-built jazz musicians are kind of dude-y and kind of artsy, and I’ve been there... “Cocky” isn’t that dumb a word either, but what’s that got to do with finance, these days??? And why put “hipsters” and “nerds” into each their category, as they look the exact same??? Seriously. If this is a man's world, at least give me one that looks a man.
Question 5:
My main deal breaker is…
a. bad breath
b. a shithole of an apartment
c. a pencil dick
d. a guy who’s selfish in bed
Well, finally something one could respond to by using one of the responses suggested. The answer is c. But what on earth has a shitty apartment got to do with a SEX POLL?
Question 6:
I would have sex with another woman if…
a. my man asked me to
b. I was drunk enough
c. I found her irresistibly hot
d. she asked me (I’m easy!)
My comment: For the record, the “I’m easy” parenthesis belongs to Jamie the Buffalo, not to me. Here, the answer is a. rewritten: I had sex with another woman because my man asked me to. But I’d like to expand that: I had to know he was potent enough to take care of both women’s pleasure, and I had to know she really wanted to and knew what to do. What would it take for me to do it again? The answer is e. having at least one man there with us, knowing he was equally competent. And he should be so desirable I’d know in advance my juices would suffice for both of them.
Question 7:
As far as plastic surgery goes, I would be most interested in…
a. enlarging my tits
b. reducing my tits
c. liposuction
d. butt implants
The answer is e. None of the above, for Jesus F-ing Christ’s sake! My body looks great and there’s nothing wrong with my tits and my ass is nicely shaped as it is, and who the fuck needs liposuction when there is yoga???? And yet again, what the hell has this got to do with a sex poll? Oh, yeah, I know, shouldn’t have forgotten that for a second. Buffy the eternal buzz killer thinks the sexuality of a woman is all about being the object for a man’s eye, not the subject of her own desires. And of course, her abilities to attract are not about the way she feels about herself, but the way she looks. How could I have forgotten! Did he ask the males the same, by the way, gay or straight? And the lesbians? Or the bisexuals? NO, HE DID NOT! This question was, for some reason, only relevant for straight women!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Question 8:
Whenever I am looking to hook up, I…
a. wear a short skirt
b. show off the girls
c. don’t wear underwear
d. all of the above
Well, I responded b, in lack of e: the right kind of smile is all it takes, baby. Actually, walking towards a man and giving him your hand while saying "come here" is all it takes.
Question 9:
Which reality star would you most like to fuck?
a. Jon Gosselin from Jon & Kate Plus eight
b. That dude Sebastian from NYC Prep (as soon as he is of age, of course)
c. 12 Pack from Daisy of Love and I Love New York
d. One of the rich husbands in one of those Real Housewife nightmares
Who the fuck are these fellows? Ok. Answer is not a, because him, I know who is. Not a chance in hell. It’s not b, because a boy can never be more than half a man, and it’s not d, because I gather a husband with a housewife nightmare is not exactly a dream himself. So it must be c, I do not have the slightest idea who 12 Pack is, but I do love New York, and with that kind of nick, chances are he’s got to be black, or at least have a six-pack, right?
Question 10:
My tried-and-true-place to get lucky is…
a. a dive bar
b. a hotel bar
c. Chelsea Piers
d. Craigslist
Again, the lack of imagination! Enough said.
Question 11:
What’s your ultimate sex fantasy?
Finally a good question, and what makes it best is that I do not have to follow ANY suggestions from the Buffalo. So the answer is short and easy:
Two men (or more) and me.
Question 12:
Tell us (in lurid detail!) about your most shameful or embarrassing sexual encounter:
The “lurid” is Buffy’s, of course. Because, like I responded, I do not think of sex as shameful or embarrassing. But the closest I do get to embarrassing, was that one time a girlfriend of mine introduced her new boyfriend, and I was sure I had seen him someplace before. He denied knowing me. I asked him if he may know my brother, one of my exes or so on. I didn’t remember until she left the room and he hissed to me to drop the subject. Turned out I had slept with him. Whoops.
Question 13:
Where’s your favorite place (public or private) to get frisky?
The good old bed holds the most opportunities. But everywhere goes.
Question 14:
What’s the sexiest person, place or thing in New York?
THING???? Ok, let that one go. My response was that the entire city is sexy, but that certain Harlem jazz clubs are places I never leave alone.
Question 15:
What else should we know about your sex life in New York?
My response: Volumes. But a lady got to keep some of her secrets.
What should have been my response: Who, but a 14 year old virgin, is supposed to take this question, or 12 of the others in this poll, half seriously????? Jamie Bufalino, you wouldn’t know a woman’s sexuality if it bit you in the ass. And if you’re half as ignorant to women in real life as in your column, I bet not many of them do bite your ass.
This is the poll for straight women:
How old are you?
33
What neighborhood do you live in (at this point Time Out’s sex columnist Jamie Bufalino finds it necessary to define what a neighborhood is, “Chelsea, Williamsburg etc”):
Lower East Side
Question 1:
I wish every guy I date could...
a. do cunnilingus right
b. fuck with both our orgasms in mind
c. pick up the telephone on occasion
d. live life without porn
My comment: Where’s answer e. fuck me eagerly as often as I want to be fucked? In lack of it, I responded a. But truly, I can’t remember the last guy who didn’t know the art. Actually, I don’t remember a man who can’t do a, b and c with his hands tied and his eyes blindfolded. As for d, I don’t understand what that’s got to do with me. His choice how he spends his spare time, right?
Question 2:
I wish I could learn how to…
a. deep-throat
b. achieve orgasm
c. be more vocal in bed
d. take it up the ass
Well. Again, the answer is e. Seriously, what 33 year old New York woman does not know this stuff? (In lack of this alternative, I responded d. Because that is the least easy of four easy feats.)
Question 3:
The last thing I would ever do is…
a. swallow
b. give a one-night stand a rim job
c. fuck without protection
d. allow another woman in bed with a man
My comment: I’ve done all this stuff. But I did respond c., because that is what I usually do not do. One man only has gotten the honor. Yes, baby, I can hear your “damn” all the way to here, all the way from the West Coast. Don’t do b. very often either, though.
Question 4:
The genre of guys I find the hottest are:
a. hipsters
b. nerds
c. cocky banking types
d. artsy dudes
What??? Where are the athletes??? I want my gym addicts!!!! In lack of them, I responded “artsy guys”. Because well-built jazz musicians are kind of dude-y and kind of artsy, and I’ve been there... “Cocky” isn’t that dumb a word either, but what’s that got to do with finance, these days??? And why put “hipsters” and “nerds” into each their category, as they look the exact same??? Seriously. If this is a man's world, at least give me one that looks a man.
Question 5:
My main deal breaker is…
a. bad breath
b. a shithole of an apartment
c. a pencil dick
d. a guy who’s selfish in bed
Well, finally something one could respond to by using one of the responses suggested. The answer is c. But what on earth has a shitty apartment got to do with a SEX POLL?
Question 6:
I would have sex with another woman if…
a. my man asked me to
b. I was drunk enough
c. I found her irresistibly hot
d. she asked me (I’m easy!)
My comment: For the record, the “I’m easy” parenthesis belongs to Jamie the Buffalo, not to me. Here, the answer is a. rewritten: I had sex with another woman because my man asked me to. But I’d like to expand that: I had to know he was potent enough to take care of both women’s pleasure, and I had to know she really wanted to and knew what to do. What would it take for me to do it again? The answer is e. having at least one man there with us, knowing he was equally competent. And he should be so desirable I’d know in advance my juices would suffice for both of them.
Question 7:
As far as plastic surgery goes, I would be most interested in…
a. enlarging my tits
b. reducing my tits
c. liposuction
d. butt implants
The answer is e. None of the above, for Jesus F-ing Christ’s sake! My body looks great and there’s nothing wrong with my tits and my ass is nicely shaped as it is, and who the fuck needs liposuction when there is yoga???? And yet again, what the hell has this got to do with a sex poll? Oh, yeah, I know, shouldn’t have forgotten that for a second. Buffy the eternal buzz killer thinks the sexuality of a woman is all about being the object for a man’s eye, not the subject of her own desires. And of course, her abilities to attract are not about the way she feels about herself, but the way she looks. How could I have forgotten! Did he ask the males the same, by the way, gay or straight? And the lesbians? Or the bisexuals? NO, HE DID NOT! This question was, for some reason, only relevant for straight women!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Question 8:
Whenever I am looking to hook up, I…
a. wear a short skirt
b. show off the girls
c. don’t wear underwear
d. all of the above
Well, I responded b, in lack of e: the right kind of smile is all it takes, baby. Actually, walking towards a man and giving him your hand while saying "come here" is all it takes.
Question 9:
Which reality star would you most like to fuck?
a. Jon Gosselin from Jon & Kate Plus eight
b. That dude Sebastian from NYC Prep (as soon as he is of age, of course)
c. 12 Pack from Daisy of Love and I Love New York
d. One of the rich husbands in one of those Real Housewife nightmares
Who the fuck are these fellows? Ok. Answer is not a, because him, I know who is. Not a chance in hell. It’s not b, because a boy can never be more than half a man, and it’s not d, because I gather a husband with a housewife nightmare is not exactly a dream himself. So it must be c, I do not have the slightest idea who 12 Pack is, but I do love New York, and with that kind of nick, chances are he’s got to be black, or at least have a six-pack, right?
Question 10:
My tried-and-true-place to get lucky is…
a. a dive bar
b. a hotel bar
c. Chelsea Piers
d. Craigslist
Again, the lack of imagination! Enough said.
Question 11:
What’s your ultimate sex fantasy?
Finally a good question, and what makes it best is that I do not have to follow ANY suggestions from the Buffalo. So the answer is short and easy:
Two men (or more) and me.
Question 12:
Tell us (in lurid detail!) about your most shameful or embarrassing sexual encounter:
The “lurid” is Buffy’s, of course. Because, like I responded, I do not think of sex as shameful or embarrassing. But the closest I do get to embarrassing, was that one time a girlfriend of mine introduced her new boyfriend, and I was sure I had seen him someplace before. He denied knowing me. I asked him if he may know my brother, one of my exes or so on. I didn’t remember until she left the room and he hissed to me to drop the subject. Turned out I had slept with him. Whoops.
Question 13:
Where’s your favorite place (public or private) to get frisky?
The good old bed holds the most opportunities. But everywhere goes.
Question 14:
What’s the sexiest person, place or thing in New York?
THING???? Ok, let that one go. My response was that the entire city is sexy, but that certain Harlem jazz clubs are places I never leave alone.
Question 15:
What else should we know about your sex life in New York?
My response: Volumes. But a lady got to keep some of her secrets.
What should have been my response: Who, but a 14 year old virgin, is supposed to take this question, or 12 of the others in this poll, half seriously????? Jamie Bufalino, you wouldn’t know a woman’s sexuality if it bit you in the ass. And if you’re half as ignorant to women in real life as in your column, I bet not many of them do bite your ass.
Friday, July 24, 2009
25 things about Lady in Red
Inspired by Hedgie the Hedonist, who recently did this on his blog (http://646hedonist.blogspot.com/2009/07/25-things-about-646hedonist.html), I am now doing a “25 things” about myself I will NOT put on Facebook.
1.) First lover I ever had was an Italian. It happened on a beach in Bournemouth, UK, the summer before my 16th birthday. We were wrapped in a blanket, it happened at night, and we did it as silently as we could, because our friends had a barbecue some 200 yards away.
2.) I don’t remember that specific Italian’s name. It could have been Mario, one of my two Robertos, Zach (real name Sachario?) or something along the line of Enrico/Erico/Sergio. I think Mario was first, but I can’t say for sure.
3.) Italy is NOT the country from which I have had the most lovers. At least three others, possibly four or five, get into the list ahead of it.
4.) I have had cocks off every continent. Provided you can count New Zealand as Australia.
5.) First orgasm I ever had I don’t remember, but I was a kid, and I discovered how on my own.
6.) Vaginally, I have never needed lube in my life.
7.) Lack of lube is my main reason to turn down anal advances, though. I tend to forget buying it and if a man wants to use the backdoor, he should go shopping in advance.
8.) I am usually not the silent kind, but I always try to keep the volume down. And then I forget. Fucking me with the window open is a bad idea, unless you want your neighbors to know exactly what you’re at.
9.) I like having sex in semi-public places where I know we can be discovered.
10.) I don’t mind an uncut man, but I prefer a man to be cut. Vaginally I don’t feel the difference, but when I give a BJ, I have a larger repertoire if I do it with a representative of the cut variety. It usually also tastes better.
11.) I love giving BJs. I love the taste, the texture and look of it. Watching a man get off and feeling his gratitude wash over me (literally…) makes me feel goddess-y. But I want at least one orgasm of my own before I start it. I give head a lot more impatient and finish a lot faster if I haven't.
12.) I never come just once, and I can have at least six different types of orgasms.
13.) Those six are as follows: Outside only. G spot only. G spot plus those little spots longer in combined. Outside and inside combined. Squirting. And, most interesting, all-body-earthquake like, where my spasms take over my body, his body, the bed and/or every other piece of furniture in the room.
14.) Whenever watching SATC, I identify the most with Miranda the feminist workaholic.
15.) Biggest lover I ever had, had a cock the size of my underarm, fist included. Smallest was the size of my middle finger. They were both white and neither of them would get into a top-ten list of my favorite fucks. But they both eventually got me off by fucking.
16.) I have only NOT achieved an orgasm by fucking thrice in my life, and I know the exact reasons why it didn't happen at those three occasions.
17.) I fear pregnancy more than STDs.
18.) For 16 years, I was on the pill and I did fuck (some) men without a condom during that time. Only those I was monogamous with, only after both of us had tested. But I have only ever fucked ONE man without birth control in my entire life, and that I did from the very first time I met him.
19.) Yes, you all know who that man was. What you don't know is this: During our relationship, every time I got my period, I felt relief. Every time, he felt sorrow.
20.) In my early 20es, I was married. He was the kindest and most generous man I have ever met and he was such an amazing lover I thought this had to be true love and accepted. Despite of this, I knew it wouldn’t last, because we were way too different. I told him. He was too conservative to live with a woman outside of wedlock and wanted to marry me yet the same.
21.) I was a bad wife. I didn’t cheat. We had sex at least twice a day for our entire relationship. I did not treat him bad. In every manner possible, I tried to behave properly. I cooked, I baked, I cleaned, I hosted. I put his career come before my own. I also felt this was all a lie, and I ached for every other man I saw in the street.
22.) After we got divorced, I kept having sex with my husband for almost a year. That’s how good he was.
23.) I want to live alone until I find a man I feel I can grow with. Not necessarily “grow old” with, but grow as a person with. There are not that many of them, but I know they exist.
24.) I may fuck a woman again, but I won’t do it to unless there is a man with us, and I won't do it unless I know for sure that he has the stamina to satisfy both women. Pussy is simply not that interesting alone.
25.) I still have not had two men at a time. And I desperately desperately desperately want to.
1.) First lover I ever had was an Italian. It happened on a beach in Bournemouth, UK, the summer before my 16th birthday. We were wrapped in a blanket, it happened at night, and we did it as silently as we could, because our friends had a barbecue some 200 yards away.
2.) I don’t remember that specific Italian’s name. It could have been Mario, one of my two Robertos, Zach (real name Sachario?) or something along the line of Enrico/Erico/Sergio. I think Mario was first, but I can’t say for sure.
3.) Italy is NOT the country from which I have had the most lovers. At least three others, possibly four or five, get into the list ahead of it.
4.) I have had cocks off every continent. Provided you can count New Zealand as Australia.
5.) First orgasm I ever had I don’t remember, but I was a kid, and I discovered how on my own.
6.) Vaginally, I have never needed lube in my life.
7.) Lack of lube is my main reason to turn down anal advances, though. I tend to forget buying it and if a man wants to use the backdoor, he should go shopping in advance.
8.) I am usually not the silent kind, but I always try to keep the volume down. And then I forget. Fucking me with the window open is a bad idea, unless you want your neighbors to know exactly what you’re at.
9.) I like having sex in semi-public places where I know we can be discovered.
10.) I don’t mind an uncut man, but I prefer a man to be cut. Vaginally I don’t feel the difference, but when I give a BJ, I have a larger repertoire if I do it with a representative of the cut variety. It usually also tastes better.
11.) I love giving BJs. I love the taste, the texture and look of it. Watching a man get off and feeling his gratitude wash over me (literally…) makes me feel goddess-y. But I want at least one orgasm of my own before I start it. I give head a lot more impatient and finish a lot faster if I haven't.
12.) I never come just once, and I can have at least six different types of orgasms.
13.) Those six are as follows: Outside only. G spot only. G spot plus those little spots longer in combined. Outside and inside combined. Squirting. And, most interesting, all-body-earthquake like, where my spasms take over my body, his body, the bed and/or every other piece of furniture in the room.
14.) Whenever watching SATC, I identify the most with Miranda the feminist workaholic.
15.) Biggest lover I ever had, had a cock the size of my underarm, fist included. Smallest was the size of my middle finger. They were both white and neither of them would get into a top-ten list of my favorite fucks. But they both eventually got me off by fucking.
16.) I have only NOT achieved an orgasm by fucking thrice in my life, and I know the exact reasons why it didn't happen at those three occasions.
17.) I fear pregnancy more than STDs.
18.) For 16 years, I was on the pill and I did fuck (some) men without a condom during that time. Only those I was monogamous with, only after both of us had tested. But I have only ever fucked ONE man without birth control in my entire life, and that I did from the very first time I met him.
19.) Yes, you all know who that man was. What you don't know is this: During our relationship, every time I got my period, I felt relief. Every time, he felt sorrow.
20.) In my early 20es, I was married. He was the kindest and most generous man I have ever met and he was such an amazing lover I thought this had to be true love and accepted. Despite of this, I knew it wouldn’t last, because we were way too different. I told him. He was too conservative to live with a woman outside of wedlock and wanted to marry me yet the same.
21.) I was a bad wife. I didn’t cheat. We had sex at least twice a day for our entire relationship. I did not treat him bad. In every manner possible, I tried to behave properly. I cooked, I baked, I cleaned, I hosted. I put his career come before my own. I also felt this was all a lie, and I ached for every other man I saw in the street.
22.) After we got divorced, I kept having sex with my husband for almost a year. That’s how good he was.
23.) I want to live alone until I find a man I feel I can grow with. Not necessarily “grow old” with, but grow as a person with. There are not that many of them, but I know they exist.
24.) I may fuck a woman again, but I won’t do it to unless there is a man with us, and I won't do it unless I know for sure that he has the stamina to satisfy both women. Pussy is simply not that interesting alone.
25.) I still have not had two men at a time. And I desperately desperately desperately want to.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Truth in numbers
I don’t think I have EVER been with a man who has not asked me how many men I’ve been with before him. I can’t remember one. Even the one night stands want to know, and though I have a couple of theories why, I don’t understand why this should be SO incredibly important they all HAVE TO ask it.
If the motive is to prevent jealousy or to reduce the “risk” I have had lovers better than the one sharing the bed with me at the second the question is asked, I can assure you: The answer will not lessen any anxieties.
If you want to enter a relationship with me, and fear I am going to stray, knowing my number will hardly calm your feelings.
If you have a need to judge and/or to feel morally superior, you should not and are not likely to share my bed to begin with.
If you want to feel like a stud and/or to brag you are experienced to an extreme degree, well, then again, there is a risk you’ll be disappointed.
If you’re simply curious, ok. But please say so, when I ask why you want to know. Don’t go all quiet. This particular silence is speaking volumes. More often than not, it’s the kind of silence that tells me I’ll meet another kind of silence after.
Men who can’t bear this one specific number tend not to dial my other specific number later on. I know it in advance. They, I suppose, know it in advance. But they still ask. Whereas to me, the following numbers matter way more than the one you all seem to think is so important:
The number of years since I was a virgin: Seventeen.
The number of other serious, monogamous relationships I have had: Seven, including one marriage.
The number of years my serious relationships have all in all lasted: Nine, or close to ten.
The number of years I have been a single, adult and sexually active woman: That leaves seven to eight, doesn’t it?
The frequency of which I want sex when in a relationship: At least ten times a week.
The frequency of which I want sex when I am not in a relationship: At least ten times a week.
The frequency of which my wishes are fulfilled: Well, lately, answer is “all the time”. But if I see my life as a whole and include the times when I have not been neither as fit nor as socially active as I am now, a more honest response will be “mostly, but from time to time, not”. Life doesn’t give you everything you want unasked for. Most of the time, you have to make some kind of effort.
The number of times I have cheated on a boyfriend: Zero. No effort.
The number of times I have lied to a boyfriend: Zero, or zero that I know of/can think of. I have no qualms in not volunteering things I do not feel like telling. But if you ask me a question, I don’t lie to you. If you don’t want an honest answer, ask another woman.
The total number of women I have had sex with: One.
The total number of men I have had sex with: Ok, there we go... I can only guess. I can give you an approximate. But I don’t write a diary. And I have long ago gotten beyond the point where I can even try to make some sort of list. I am no good at remembering names, dates or years. I am no good at remembering faces. Also, I think the following facts matter and should matter more than any grand total measured in numbers:
*I know how many men I have loved.
*I know how many men I have had long term relationships to.
*I know how long these relationships have lasted and I know how many years of my adult, sexually active life I have single.
The truth come to numbers, is that morals, opportunity, looks, gender, sexual competence and social skills have less to say than most people think.
What really decides your grand total is how lucky you’ve been in love. You found the love of your life at the first try, you were only ever with him or her, you have never felt a need to be with any other? Ok. Your number is one. You may lose out on something, but you're still a lucky bastard. Yet, there is no reason in the world you should feel morally superior to me or anyone else.
Most people need more attempts. Some of us need many. And to stop trying? If you ask me, being a coward was never brave, honest, responsible, kind nor heroic.
If the motive is to prevent jealousy or to reduce the “risk” I have had lovers better than the one sharing the bed with me at the second the question is asked, I can assure you: The answer will not lessen any anxieties.
If you want to enter a relationship with me, and fear I am going to stray, knowing my number will hardly calm your feelings.
If you have a need to judge and/or to feel morally superior, you should not and are not likely to share my bed to begin with.
If you want to feel like a stud and/or to brag you are experienced to an extreme degree, well, then again, there is a risk you’ll be disappointed.
If you’re simply curious, ok. But please say so, when I ask why you want to know. Don’t go all quiet. This particular silence is speaking volumes. More often than not, it’s the kind of silence that tells me I’ll meet another kind of silence after.
Men who can’t bear this one specific number tend not to dial my other specific number later on. I know it in advance. They, I suppose, know it in advance. But they still ask. Whereas to me, the following numbers matter way more than the one you all seem to think is so important:
The number of years since I was a virgin: Seventeen.
The number of other serious, monogamous relationships I have had: Seven, including one marriage.
The number of years my serious relationships have all in all lasted: Nine, or close to ten.
The number of years I have been a single, adult and sexually active woman: That leaves seven to eight, doesn’t it?
The frequency of which I want sex when in a relationship: At least ten times a week.
The frequency of which I want sex when I am not in a relationship: At least ten times a week.
The frequency of which my wishes are fulfilled: Well, lately, answer is “all the time”. But if I see my life as a whole and include the times when I have not been neither as fit nor as socially active as I am now, a more honest response will be “mostly, but from time to time, not”. Life doesn’t give you everything you want unasked for. Most of the time, you have to make some kind of effort.
The number of times I have cheated on a boyfriend: Zero. No effort.
The number of times I have lied to a boyfriend: Zero, or zero that I know of/can think of. I have no qualms in not volunteering things I do not feel like telling. But if you ask me a question, I don’t lie to you. If you don’t want an honest answer, ask another woman.
The total number of women I have had sex with: One.
The total number of men I have had sex with: Ok, there we go... I can only guess. I can give you an approximate. But I don’t write a diary. And I have long ago gotten beyond the point where I can even try to make some sort of list. I am no good at remembering names, dates or years. I am no good at remembering faces. Also, I think the following facts matter and should matter more than any grand total measured in numbers:
*I know how many men I have loved.
*I know how many men I have had long term relationships to.
*I know how long these relationships have lasted and I know how many years of my adult, sexually active life I have single.
The truth come to numbers, is that morals, opportunity, looks, gender, sexual competence and social skills have less to say than most people think.
What really decides your grand total is how lucky you’ve been in love. You found the love of your life at the first try, you were only ever with him or her, you have never felt a need to be with any other? Ok. Your number is one. You may lose out on something, but you're still a lucky bastard. Yet, there is no reason in the world you should feel morally superior to me or anyone else.
Most people need more attempts. Some of us need many. And to stop trying? If you ask me, being a coward was never brave, honest, responsible, kind nor heroic.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
I am a moralist
I am a woman fucking around. I am also a sexual moralist.
Despite the fact that I am this very moment located on the Other Side of the Atlantic, I can hear my regular readers rolling on the floor laughing right now. But you will understand what I mean once I say what I am now about to say:
My sexual morals is not about a having a double set of moral standards. Nothing is as dishonest as a double set of standards, and one should always apply the same rules to sex as to the rest of one's life.
Read this week’s Sex Diary in NYMag, and you will see an example of a person who does not:
http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2009/07/the_small_business_owner_with.html
My comment to her, posted on NYMag already, shortened down for my blog readers (full comment on page 5 of NYMag comments:
I get the impression she sticks to this BF for two reasons: She doesn't think she'll find anyone better than him (because she has herpes), and she realizes he is after all a good man (he stuck to her despite her disease and cares enough to argue with her).
But she takes advantage of him and she does not respect him, and she shows him CLEARLY she doesn't, by visiting dating sites AND telling him she does, by leaving him alone on the phone when they're having a serious convo/quarrel AND by writing a Sex Diary based on their relationship despite his expressed dislike that she does.
What will kill this relationship is a STD more lethal to relationships than Sexually Transmitted Diseases. Sexually Transmitted Dishonesty & Sexually Transmitted Disrespect both kill faster and are more infective than the STDs one can actually live with.
--
My PS, only posted here:
Why on earth should another set of moral standards apply to your sex life than the rest of your life?
Why on earth should you pretend to be another person as a sexual being than who you are as a human being?
And why on earth wouldn't you be a whole person, the same person wherever you are and whatever you do, rather than a compartilized person acting a different role for every part of your life?
Personally and professionally, psychologically and physically you are ONE.
With my clothes on, I believe in honesty, integrity, respect & freedom. I believe in enjoyment and generosity.
Without my clothes on, I believe in honesty, integrity, respect & freedom. I believe in enjoyment and generosity.
Despite the fact that I am this very moment located on the Other Side of the Atlantic, I can hear my regular readers rolling on the floor laughing right now. But you will understand what I mean once I say what I am now about to say:
My sexual morals is not about a having a double set of moral standards. Nothing is as dishonest as a double set of standards, and one should always apply the same rules to sex as to the rest of one's life.
Read this week’s Sex Diary in NYMag, and you will see an example of a person who does not:
http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2009/07/the_small_business_owner_with.html
My comment to her, posted on NYMag already, shortened down for my blog readers (full comment on page 5 of NYMag comments:
I get the impression she sticks to this BF for two reasons: She doesn't think she'll find anyone better than him (because she has herpes), and she realizes he is after all a good man (he stuck to her despite her disease and cares enough to argue with her).
But she takes advantage of him and she does not respect him, and she shows him CLEARLY she doesn't, by visiting dating sites AND telling him she does, by leaving him alone on the phone when they're having a serious convo/quarrel AND by writing a Sex Diary based on their relationship despite his expressed dislike that she does.
What will kill this relationship is a STD more lethal to relationships than Sexually Transmitted Diseases. Sexually Transmitted Dishonesty & Sexually Transmitted Disrespect both kill faster and are more infective than the STDs one can actually live with.
--
My PS, only posted here:
Why on earth should another set of moral standards apply to your sex life than the rest of your life?
Why on earth should you pretend to be another person as a sexual being than who you are as a human being?
And why on earth wouldn't you be a whole person, the same person wherever you are and whatever you do, rather than a compartilized person acting a different role for every part of your life?
Personally and professionally, psychologically and physically you are ONE.
With my clothes on, I believe in honesty, integrity, respect & freedom. I believe in enjoyment and generosity.
Without my clothes on, I believe in honesty, integrity, respect & freedom. I believe in enjoyment and generosity.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Carry on, baby
Extremely busy on all accounts, this week, lots to post about, but it will have to wait.
But this one, as I am travelling for the time being, I couldn't help myself from noticing:
http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2009/07/you_know_that_thing_youre_afra.html
Or to comment on, expanded here, from what I said on NY Mag:
So maybe all those movie stars claiming that their sex tapes "accidentally" got out are telling the truth after all. Airport employees find them when they open their luggage & log on their why-on-earth-not-carried-on and why-on-earth-not-protected-by-passwords laptops... And whoopsy daisy, there's this compromising thing showing star X at his/her hottest, something that always happens to happen at a time when a career is on the rise, but can need an extra little attention to peak, or, alternatively, so very rapidly on its way down an extra little attention is not just needed, but needed DESPERATELY.
Interesting question on the same note: What should I do when I am travelling with a vibrator? (Not an entirely hypothetical thing...) Carry it through security to have it shown off to the line when X-rayed and asked stuff like "what is this thing?" or "does this really need batteries to work?" or put it in your checked luggage not to be sure where it's been or what it's done when you unpack?
PS: On the tags on this post, today's luggage tags: "Things I love" refer to movie star tapes & vibrators & travelling. "Things I hate" refer to snooping. In case anyone wondered.
But this one, as I am travelling for the time being, I couldn't help myself from noticing:
http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2009/07/you_know_that_thing_youre_afra.html
Or to comment on, expanded here, from what I said on NY Mag:
So maybe all those movie stars claiming that their sex tapes "accidentally" got out are telling the truth after all. Airport employees find them when they open their luggage & log on their why-on-earth-not-carried-on and why-on-earth-not-protected-by-passwords laptops... And whoopsy daisy, there's this compromising thing showing star X at his/her hottest, something that always happens to happen at a time when a career is on the rise, but can need an extra little attention to peak, or, alternatively, so very rapidly on its way down an extra little attention is not just needed, but needed DESPERATELY.
Interesting question on the same note: What should I do when I am travelling with a vibrator? (Not an entirely hypothetical thing...) Carry it through security to have it shown off to the line when X-rayed and asked stuff like "what is this thing?" or "does this really need batteries to work?" or put it in your checked luggage not to be sure where it's been or what it's done when you unpack?
PS: On the tags on this post, today's luggage tags: "Things I love" refer to movie star tapes & vibrators & travelling. "Things I hate" refer to snooping. In case anyone wondered.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Pictorial pleasures
I like visuals. I like them when they're direct & obvious. A man's cock... There's nothing more beautiful in the world than that. But sometimes, still, what's between the lines can be a lot more sexy than what's spelled out.
Take a look at Time Out Magazine's slideshow, and you'll see what I mean. Ain't the clothed photos the sexiest of the bunch?
http://newyork.timeout.com/articles/sex-dating/76168/sexy-and-the-city-photo-exhibit-at-yosi-milo-galley-preview
Then visit Yossi Milo Gallery in Chelsea, see the exhibit for real. It's open all summer. I guess I'll be going there myself one of these days.
Take a look at Time Out Magazine's slideshow, and you'll see what I mean. Ain't the clothed photos the sexiest of the bunch?
http://newyork.timeout.com/articles/sex-dating/76168/sexy-and-the-city-photo-exhibit-at-yosi-milo-galley-preview
Then visit Yossi Milo Gallery in Chelsea, see the exhibit for real. It's open all summer. I guess I'll be going there myself one of these days.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
On Michael and the rest of us
The NYMag Vulture discussion on Michael Jackson’s death and memorial has somewhat developed into a discussion on black and white.
http://nymag.com/daily/entertainment/2009/07/mj_memorial.html
I do not refer to the MJ song by the same name, but to people saying things like “I can’t stand f***in white people” and “Most of you are mad that a BLACK man (that’s right I said a BLACK man) can get this type of tribute” on one side, and “this freak should have been put down years ago” on the other side. Some of you may fail to see the racial in the latter sentence, but as it was written by a person calling himself “White35”, the quote has a somewhat different air and a more bigot undertone than a name like, say, “IHatePedos” would have implied.
I don’t think it should be necessary to point out what I just did on the same board. But obviously, the following is not clear to everyone, and it can’t hurt repeating it here. Some of you will think this is so self-evident it’s unnecessary to say it. I love you for that, but I still think it's important to make it clear this is our point of view. It deals with humanity, and the right to own humanity is and should always be the human right topping the list. The headline for the rest of them, or the groundwork, if you will.
The “you” I am referring to in the below, is the original poster dissing whites:
Generalizations about/hatred towards white people are no less racist than white hatred/generalizations. We're different, too, you know, different values, different viewpoints. All people are individuals, whatever origin. There are white scum and black scum and white goodness and black goodness. Most often, pardon the pun, it's not as black'n'white as many people, either hue, pretend. Grey zones aplenty, and it doesn't go with the skin color, goes with the personality.
I say that, and I wholeheartedly mean it, but I am by no means ignorant of the fact that culture matters in shaping personalities, and that black culture/communities have suffered way more under white racism than the other way around. White people were never slaves under black ownership in this country. White people do not still suffer under different socio-economic dynamics. I think you're entitled to be angry for that, I am, I find it most unfair. But don't you be mad at those of us who've never made ourselves guilty of that particular sin.
Do not put all of us under the white supremacy umbrella.
Most of the white people I know do not belong under it, just like most of the black people I know do not accept black racism towards white people. Being in doubt of the moral character of a person repeatedly accused of the same disgusting crime does not make anyone a racist. Let's just remember that.
We're all people, and every generalization is as much a lie as a truth. Except for this one, of course: Whoever fails to realize the truth in what I just said is an idiot.
http://nymag.com/daily/entertainment/2009/07/mj_memorial.html
I do not refer to the MJ song by the same name, but to people saying things like “I can’t stand f***in white people” and “Most of you are mad that a BLACK man (that’s right I said a BLACK man) can get this type of tribute” on one side, and “this freak should have been put down years ago” on the other side. Some of you may fail to see the racial in the latter sentence, but as it was written by a person calling himself “White35”, the quote has a somewhat different air and a more bigot undertone than a name like, say, “IHatePedos” would have implied.
I don’t think it should be necessary to point out what I just did on the same board. But obviously, the following is not clear to everyone, and it can’t hurt repeating it here. Some of you will think this is so self-evident it’s unnecessary to say it. I love you for that, but I still think it's important to make it clear this is our point of view. It deals with humanity, and the right to own humanity is and should always be the human right topping the list. The headline for the rest of them, or the groundwork, if you will.
The “you” I am referring to in the below, is the original poster dissing whites:
Generalizations about/hatred towards white people are no less racist than white hatred/generalizations. We're different, too, you know, different values, different viewpoints. All people are individuals, whatever origin. There are white scum and black scum and white goodness and black goodness. Most often, pardon the pun, it's not as black'n'white as many people, either hue, pretend. Grey zones aplenty, and it doesn't go with the skin color, goes with the personality.
I say that, and I wholeheartedly mean it, but I am by no means ignorant of the fact that culture matters in shaping personalities, and that black culture/communities have suffered way more under white racism than the other way around. White people were never slaves under black ownership in this country. White people do not still suffer under different socio-economic dynamics. I think you're entitled to be angry for that, I am, I find it most unfair. But don't you be mad at those of us who've never made ourselves guilty of that particular sin.
Do not put all of us under the white supremacy umbrella.
Most of the white people I know do not belong under it, just like most of the black people I know do not accept black racism towards white people. Being in doubt of the moral character of a person repeatedly accused of the same disgusting crime does not make anyone a racist. Let's just remember that.
We're all people, and every generalization is as much a lie as a truth. Except for this one, of course: Whoever fails to realize the truth in what I just said is an idiot.
Monday, July 6, 2009
On bullshit & being a woman
Sometimes, when I listen to male friends tell me about the bullshit some women put them through, I am wondering if we do indeed live in the same world.
There are the women who insist on a certain number of dates before they let themselves be kissed or touched or fucked. And there are women who “has to” be treated to this or that, shall they find a man “interesting”. Women demanding flowers or a certain amount of compliments or a certain number of phone calls or attention this way or the other before they even accept dates. The women “punishing” a man if he forgets to text or call when she finds it appropriate, most often without having told that man when those times are. There are women who tell a man to “forget about it” when all he’s done is asking if the chair next to her is taken or when he is actually just paying her a compliment on her haircut. And then there are the women who spend the time they spend with a man looking disinterested and acting disinterested just so that he will not find her “desperate”. And there are women actually really aching to go to bed with a man (these are who I find the silliest and did believe to be rarities, but my male friends insist there are many of them) but still deny themselves to go for it, because their girlfriends think one way or the other less about the fellow. And yeah, this is even worse, there are the women “accepting” to go to bed with a man, but COMPLAINING about it, in terms of sacrifice – to the guy or to her girlfriends after! Even worse than all of this: These women seem to think of themselves and talk about themselves as “class acts” because of their impoliteness. Not paying genuine attention to whoever you spend time with IS and WILL ALWAYS BE impolite, whatever your motives. And LYING on what you think about someone is and will always be a stupid, dishonest, childish thing to do.
Advice to guys: Never go out with a woman telling you she doesn’t “put out” without this or that happening first. A woman talking about getting down’n’dirty in terms of “putting out” does not get down and dirty. And if she does, you can be sure she expects some special treatment after, probably also without giving you some special treatment during. That kind of woman is high maintenance, whether she’s worth it or not. Unless you do already find her special to begin with, and there’s something about her intriguing you, you’re most likely to find her not worth it.
Likewise, advice to girls & women: If you like a man and enjoy his company, and are willing to show him you do by paying him the same attention you expect him to pay you, you’re likely to have fun with him. If you have fun with him, he’s likely to have fun with you. And that sex you’ll be having, when you’ll be having it, will be way better than it had been, had you put him through a number of tests and he’d been feeling he has to jump through hoops to please you. You will feel more relaxed, he will feel more relaxed. Most likely, you’d both be more playful and you may even feel ready for it sooner. And if the bed is the only place you leave it to him to please you, I can almost guarantee you he will.
Ok, enough on the world some people I know live in. I realize the truth in all of the above, though I do still from time to time think there cannot be THAT many people living in that world. But I have heard the same stories from too many men to deny it does exist as some kind of parallel universe, and I’ve heard the woman’s version of the story too many times to think that only those men live in that world. I have thought of that as a possibility, can’t deny that – suggesting that the men complaining about this kind of women are really men who do not relax with women themselves and/or men who think sex is their birth right, needing to cut some women some slack and realize that they are not interested in fucking every woman there is, either, and that women have the same right to be selective and to expect a man to raise to her “level” as he has for her. I have sometimes, too, told men that they do not notice the more subtle signs a woman has interest in a man and that they have to listen to what she’s not saying as much as to what she’s saying. I think that’s partly correct. But I do realize that it is not the full picture, because I’ve heard women tell me about this world too, realizing they (some of them) are finding it somewhat normal.
Her side of the story, for those of you interested, most often goes like this: She wants him to show her she is “special” to him, because she wants to BE special to him, and she wants to be “special” just by “being herself” and being appreciated for it – from the “beginning” on. So she sees nothing wrong in “testing” if she is. That she should put down some effort for his sake too, she thinks she does: She painted her nails before the date, right? She spent an hour getting ready, doing her hair this way and that, waxing her legs only yesterday, I know how much that hurts, don’t I, please keep that in mind, and she gave her outfit great thought, trying things over and over. She listened to his stories about his boring job, no complaint, even asked him some questions and let him dominate the conversation, though he didn’t ask once about her day. And she was “polite”, like her mama told her, she did say “thank you” when he paid for the drinks and asked her if she’d like some more, sure. That doesn’t mean she’s “obliged” to “go to bed with him, he should know that, and if he doesn’t, she’s willing to “teach” him. When I ask her if she doesn’t want to go to bed with him for HER OWN SAKE, answer too often is this: Sure, that would be nice, he’s looking good and smelling great, but she isn’t ready for it YET. And she doesn’t want him to think she does it with “everyone”.
Seriously, women: No one thinks you do it with everyone. No one even thinks I am doing it with everyone. If you only accept dates from men you actually like and only fuck men you actually want, you’ll enjoy it AND have that air of exclusivity without trying so freaking hard for it. He’ll feel special enough by seeing and feeling you enjoy it to the core. No man thinks every man can do that for you. They all think they do it like no other…
Me, I feel lucky, cutting myself some slack, being as honest as I feel like being. The men I like, I like, the men I don’t like, I don’t bother with. Why should I pretend otherwise? Wouldn’t improve anything for anyone, just a waste of time. And what’s so complicated about understanding that? Nothing! Sometimes, like when reading today’s Sex Diary in NYMag (http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2009/07/the_gay_commodities_trader.html) I think my life is more similar to the lives of the gay men I know, than to some of the straight women who share my status as a 30-something single.
Example: I just had a fuck date, a few hours ago. Man whose last name I didn’t think of asking about. That little fact leaves me feel a bit silly, but it doesn’t matter, really, I’ll find it if I want it. He is a friend of a friend, and it was our fellow friend who linked us, telling me he knew someone I should meet, considering my “lifestyle” and my “fitness fetish”, he was sure we’d “like” one another “very much”. And yeah, we did, though I can’t say we talked much. Man in question called me an hour or so before we met, just having gotten my number from our fellow friend some minutes before that. We hit it off, sending each other pics while still talking on the phone, both telling the other we liked what we saw. Neither of us having THAT fixed plans for the hours to come. It developed rather quickly, you can say, and when we discovered we were only a ten minute walk apart, he came over. He was hard as he came in the door, I was wet as well, and within seconds, we were both naked. And I am now just the right amount of tired and just the right amount of satisfied, and the man has left to do what he had to do for the rest of the day, not quite done working yet. I am free to spend my time how I want to, too, having just finished my work day before he called.
Maybe he’ll call me later, maybe we’ll repeat it later, and maybe we won’t. Either way, it was the nicest way to spend an afternoon. And though he was not quite my preferred size and not quite my preferred thickness, he was close enough, and he knew how to swing it. I liked that, I enjoyed it, and I sure wouldn’t mind doing it again. The simplicity of it all didn’t lessen the pleasure, rather the opposite.
Will I put this man through tests? No, why the hell would I bother with that? Will I give him hell if he doesn’t call me and I meet him again via our fellow friend? Seriously! He is not in any way obliged to. We spent an afternoon together, we did not enter a relationship. We enjoyed each other’s company, but we did not give each other promises. He’s got my number, and he’s allowed to use it if he wants to. If he doesn’t, there are other men who have the same number. And I am not incapable of dialing a phone number myself, if I want to. Women have phones too. Some of us even pay our own bills for it.
So sometimes I just thank my destiny I was born a woman. I suppose you’re right, guys, when you tell me we have it easier.
There are the women who insist on a certain number of dates before they let themselves be kissed or touched or fucked. And there are women who “has to” be treated to this or that, shall they find a man “interesting”. Women demanding flowers or a certain amount of compliments or a certain number of phone calls or attention this way or the other before they even accept dates. The women “punishing” a man if he forgets to text or call when she finds it appropriate, most often without having told that man when those times are. There are women who tell a man to “forget about it” when all he’s done is asking if the chair next to her is taken or when he is actually just paying her a compliment on her haircut. And then there are the women who spend the time they spend with a man looking disinterested and acting disinterested just so that he will not find her “desperate”. And there are women actually really aching to go to bed with a man (these are who I find the silliest and did believe to be rarities, but my male friends insist there are many of them) but still deny themselves to go for it, because their girlfriends think one way or the other less about the fellow. And yeah, this is even worse, there are the women “accepting” to go to bed with a man, but COMPLAINING about it, in terms of sacrifice – to the guy or to her girlfriends after! Even worse than all of this: These women seem to think of themselves and talk about themselves as “class acts” because of their impoliteness. Not paying genuine attention to whoever you spend time with IS and WILL ALWAYS BE impolite, whatever your motives. And LYING on what you think about someone is and will always be a stupid, dishonest, childish thing to do.
Advice to guys: Never go out with a woman telling you she doesn’t “put out” without this or that happening first. A woman talking about getting down’n’dirty in terms of “putting out” does not get down and dirty. And if she does, you can be sure she expects some special treatment after, probably also without giving you some special treatment during. That kind of woman is high maintenance, whether she’s worth it or not. Unless you do already find her special to begin with, and there’s something about her intriguing you, you’re most likely to find her not worth it.
Likewise, advice to girls & women: If you like a man and enjoy his company, and are willing to show him you do by paying him the same attention you expect him to pay you, you’re likely to have fun with him. If you have fun with him, he’s likely to have fun with you. And that sex you’ll be having, when you’ll be having it, will be way better than it had been, had you put him through a number of tests and he’d been feeling he has to jump through hoops to please you. You will feel more relaxed, he will feel more relaxed. Most likely, you’d both be more playful and you may even feel ready for it sooner. And if the bed is the only place you leave it to him to please you, I can almost guarantee you he will.
Ok, enough on the world some people I know live in. I realize the truth in all of the above, though I do still from time to time think there cannot be THAT many people living in that world. But I have heard the same stories from too many men to deny it does exist as some kind of parallel universe, and I’ve heard the woman’s version of the story too many times to think that only those men live in that world. I have thought of that as a possibility, can’t deny that – suggesting that the men complaining about this kind of women are really men who do not relax with women themselves and/or men who think sex is their birth right, needing to cut some women some slack and realize that they are not interested in fucking every woman there is, either, and that women have the same right to be selective and to expect a man to raise to her “level” as he has for her. I have sometimes, too, told men that they do not notice the more subtle signs a woman has interest in a man and that they have to listen to what she’s not saying as much as to what she’s saying. I think that’s partly correct. But I do realize that it is not the full picture, because I’ve heard women tell me about this world too, realizing they (some of them) are finding it somewhat normal.
Her side of the story, for those of you interested, most often goes like this: She wants him to show her she is “special” to him, because she wants to BE special to him, and she wants to be “special” just by “being herself” and being appreciated for it – from the “beginning” on. So she sees nothing wrong in “testing” if she is. That she should put down some effort for his sake too, she thinks she does: She painted her nails before the date, right? She spent an hour getting ready, doing her hair this way and that, waxing her legs only yesterday, I know how much that hurts, don’t I, please keep that in mind, and she gave her outfit great thought, trying things over and over. She listened to his stories about his boring job, no complaint, even asked him some questions and let him dominate the conversation, though he didn’t ask once about her day. And she was “polite”, like her mama told her, she did say “thank you” when he paid for the drinks and asked her if she’d like some more, sure. That doesn’t mean she’s “obliged” to “go to bed with him, he should know that, and if he doesn’t, she’s willing to “teach” him. When I ask her if she doesn’t want to go to bed with him for HER OWN SAKE, answer too often is this: Sure, that would be nice, he’s looking good and smelling great, but she isn’t ready for it YET. And she doesn’t want him to think she does it with “everyone”.
Seriously, women: No one thinks you do it with everyone. No one even thinks I am doing it with everyone. If you only accept dates from men you actually like and only fuck men you actually want, you’ll enjoy it AND have that air of exclusivity without trying so freaking hard for it. He’ll feel special enough by seeing and feeling you enjoy it to the core. No man thinks every man can do that for you. They all think they do it like no other…
Me, I feel lucky, cutting myself some slack, being as honest as I feel like being. The men I like, I like, the men I don’t like, I don’t bother with. Why should I pretend otherwise? Wouldn’t improve anything for anyone, just a waste of time. And what’s so complicated about understanding that? Nothing! Sometimes, like when reading today’s Sex Diary in NYMag (http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2009/07/the_gay_commodities_trader.html) I think my life is more similar to the lives of the gay men I know, than to some of the straight women who share my status as a 30-something single.
Example: I just had a fuck date, a few hours ago. Man whose last name I didn’t think of asking about. That little fact leaves me feel a bit silly, but it doesn’t matter, really, I’ll find it if I want it. He is a friend of a friend, and it was our fellow friend who linked us, telling me he knew someone I should meet, considering my “lifestyle” and my “fitness fetish”, he was sure we’d “like” one another “very much”. And yeah, we did, though I can’t say we talked much. Man in question called me an hour or so before we met, just having gotten my number from our fellow friend some minutes before that. We hit it off, sending each other pics while still talking on the phone, both telling the other we liked what we saw. Neither of us having THAT fixed plans for the hours to come. It developed rather quickly, you can say, and when we discovered we were only a ten minute walk apart, he came over. He was hard as he came in the door, I was wet as well, and within seconds, we were both naked. And I am now just the right amount of tired and just the right amount of satisfied, and the man has left to do what he had to do for the rest of the day, not quite done working yet. I am free to spend my time how I want to, too, having just finished my work day before he called.
Maybe he’ll call me later, maybe we’ll repeat it later, and maybe we won’t. Either way, it was the nicest way to spend an afternoon. And though he was not quite my preferred size and not quite my preferred thickness, he was close enough, and he knew how to swing it. I liked that, I enjoyed it, and I sure wouldn’t mind doing it again. The simplicity of it all didn’t lessen the pleasure, rather the opposite.
Will I put this man through tests? No, why the hell would I bother with that? Will I give him hell if he doesn’t call me and I meet him again via our fellow friend? Seriously! He is not in any way obliged to. We spent an afternoon together, we did not enter a relationship. We enjoyed each other’s company, but we did not give each other promises. He’s got my number, and he’s allowed to use it if he wants to. If he doesn’t, there are other men who have the same number. And I am not incapable of dialing a phone number myself, if I want to. Women have phones too. Some of us even pay our own bills for it.
So sometimes I just thank my destiny I was born a woman. I suppose you’re right, guys, when you tell me we have it easier.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Buying tips? (I need a new vibrator...)
This is embarrassing, kind of. Embarrassing and a chance to make fun of self at the same time, and as I have decided to not care about embarrassing in this blog, here it goes:
I need a new vibrator. I just broke my old one last night. No, I am not going to tell you how. For one, it's not as interesting as it sounds. I was by myself, and I didn't break the shaft of it, I broke the part where you put in the batteries. Second, I have no idea how it happened, it just did, and I am unable to repair it. It's not as if I want to go to the nearest maintenance tool store to ask the local handyman to help me. (Come to think of it, maybe that is just what I should do...)
This is not exactly an urgent crisis. Yes, I am out of town in a nothing-happens-location for a bit, no handymen or other men in sight, and yes, it would be nice, had it worked. I use orgasms as means to go to sleep, for the time being, and getting my sleep is the main objective of being where I am. But I do have two others, plus ten working fingers, so I'll manage. That said, this WAS my favorite vib for one specific (and most important) use. It was the thickest and the longest and it was rubbed just the right way. Looking almost real, save the color (and color has never topped my list, come to what I look for). It was a little not-that-flexible, but ok. You have living men for flexibility, and a substitute thing is never more than a substitute.
But. If there is a substitute thing a little bit bigger than my last subsistute thing AND a little bit more flexible too, now is when I want to know. Alternatively: If there are, in this world of toys, a substitute thing working and feeling and looking almost as good as the real thing, even better.
So please give me suggestions in the comments field, if you have input on what to buy. I am sure the babes at Babeland can help me find a good one when I get back to the City, but I find it easiest to know what I want, get in there, get it, get out again. I may not be AS liberated as I think, but I do know so many people in that neighborhood I don't feel like going long-time-shopping. Plus I may have to get this somewhere else, where I can't expect staff to be as great as the Babeland babes, as I will be staying out of the City for a little while, and I do like to have access to restorative powers wherever I go.
So, input, anyone?
I need a new vibrator. I just broke my old one last night. No, I am not going to tell you how. For one, it's not as interesting as it sounds. I was by myself, and I didn't break the shaft of it, I broke the part where you put in the batteries. Second, I have no idea how it happened, it just did, and I am unable to repair it. It's not as if I want to go to the nearest maintenance tool store to ask the local handyman to help me. (Come to think of it, maybe that is just what I should do...)
This is not exactly an urgent crisis. Yes, I am out of town in a nothing-happens-location for a bit, no handymen or other men in sight, and yes, it would be nice, had it worked. I use orgasms as means to go to sleep, for the time being, and getting my sleep is the main objective of being where I am. But I do have two others, plus ten working fingers, so I'll manage. That said, this WAS my favorite vib for one specific (and most important) use. It was the thickest and the longest and it was rubbed just the right way. Looking almost real, save the color (and color has never topped my list, come to what I look for). It was a little not-that-flexible, but ok. You have living men for flexibility, and a substitute thing is never more than a substitute.
But. If there is a substitute thing a little bit bigger than my last subsistute thing AND a little bit more flexible too, now is when I want to know. Alternatively: If there are, in this world of toys, a substitute thing working and feeling and looking almost as good as the real thing, even better.
So please give me suggestions in the comments field, if you have input on what to buy. I am sure the babes at Babeland can help me find a good one when I get back to the City, but I find it easiest to know what I want, get in there, get it, get out again. I may not be AS liberated as I think, but I do know so many people in that neighborhood I don't feel like going long-time-shopping. Plus I may have to get this somewhere else, where I can't expect staff to be as great as the Babeland babes, as I will be staying out of the City for a little while, and I do like to have access to restorative powers wherever I go.
So, input, anyone?
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
On self-promotion and unfair accusations
I warn you: This posting is going to be a lot less interesting for those not following NYMag’s Daily Intel than for those who do. (If you don’t, bookmark it already, it’s one of my favorite web pages and a great source to rage, annoyance, snark, sarcasm, intelligent observations and other fun. But you don’t need to read the rest of THIS posting if you haven’t followed Intel for a while. You may not get it.)
I am a web wise woman, and I know there are even more idiots online than offline. The invisibility cloak of the former allows idiocy free reigns. That’s a good thing and a bad thing, I think. It allows for good, honest debate on stuff one wouldn’t or couldn’t have discussed under full name & real life identity, and for bad, too-honest-to-stick-to-case debate spewing shit at the same time.
I am, too, fully aware that mine is the Alpha type of personality, and that some people dislike me intensely and others like me as intensely. Offline and online, same goes. I’m good with that, too, a decade or more has gone since I gave up the idea everyone has to like everyone. Part of growing up. As long as you accept people to be different than yourself and still as valuable as yourself, you don’t need to like a single person to be a goody'ol'heart in my book. I do in general find people awakening sympathies and antipathies a lot more interesting company than those awakening just indifference, though.
But still. STILL. Sometimes, some people can make me so raging mad their idiocy stick with me for hours, and as that’s the case right now, I JUST HAVE TO SAY THIS TO GET IT OFF MY CHEST. It’s been bothering me since before I got to sleep, it bothered me through those three holy uneasy hours I did sleep, and it’s been bothering me since I gave up sleeping and started working at half past five. (To FG77: Don’t flatter yourself on your ability to throw me off balance. Everything throws me off balance these days and this is my average sleep pattern for the time being.)
To the rest of you: You see, there was this one comment. It was going very personal, without even bothering to do the slightest research on who I am or what I stand for. And that provoked the hell out of me. It’s not as if I am at my normal balanced self to begin with.
Let me take this point by point:
*I am a self-promoting narcissist. Ok, I accept that one. Sometimes get that in real life too. It goes with that type A personality, and though I do normally try to put on the breaks and stay away from dominating every single conversation I am in, I have long realized breaks are broken for now.
*I am banal, a drain and yawn-inducing. Ok. I accept that one too, even wish it to be true. I’d like a yawn, not to stay as hyperactively maniac as I am right now forever. Would be SO nice to go tired SOMETIMES and anyone who can learn me a trick to help me go to sleep: I'll be forever grateful!
*I am not a sexual creature. Hahaha. That one I enjoyed. Just one thing to add: FG77, I don’t know if you’re a man or a woman, but either way, I can guarantee you that you will never see my sexual self close up. I don’t do judgmental idiots. I don’t do people I see as in the middle of a middle age crisis, and I especially do not do people having middle age crisises while I suspect them still to be in their teens. Woman's got certain principles.
*In addition to being a non-sexual creature, I am an old, fat, sad, male Las Vegas whore. Ok. Tip on improving your insults: They work better if you try sticking to a certain continuity and to hit where it hurts. One of these may have done the trick. All of them? Nope.
*And, and this is what I think is the worst part of it: I have a need for acceptance from RANDOM STRANGERS ON THE INTERNET. This, ladies and gentlemen, I think is what really makes me mad.
First of all: I do not want your acceptance, I want your honest opinions. I don’t really want to ask my real life friends what they think on me having had sex with 16 persons in the span of a month, but I do trust the NYMaggers to be honest in their opinions. Opinions matter. Your own opinions matter the most, but it's always the opinions from others that take you further.
Second: I don’t consider the regular commenters on the Daily Intel board to be ”random strangers”. To a person having registered two minutes ago, I guess you are. To me, most of you are the coolest, wisest, smartest smart-ass bunch there is. You’re all true New Yorkers, even those of you never having lived in the City. (Yes, Till and Rebecca, and Cheesesteak, if you still live in Philly, I am talking to you.) You, and (most of the rest of) the regulars are distinct voices with distinct opinions and distinct platforms from which to speak. I value your points of view, I value them so much I consider you all among my best friends never met. Rebecca Rose – I wholeheartedly love you, and I think your blog should be a preinstalled bookmark in Internet Explorer settings at all computers & Macs sold in the world (http://www.rebeccarose2004.blogspot.com/). Hedgie – your blog has given me lots of fun (http://www.646hedonist.blogspot.com/). Meow: You’re hilariously funny and have often made my day. LZA, you’re my married hero, proof it’s possible. Loobs: Yeah, same goes for you. Sternman, GayNarcissus, Cheesesteak, Seamus, Till, TheLessYouKnow, Bulging Bracket, NYAaron, you’re all great guys, and if I ever suspect our paths to be crossing in real life, beers are on me. That's a promise. Smug: I almost never agree with you, but I find arguing with you great fun. Spice to everyday life. We all need that, those of us leading crazy everyday lives as much as those who don’t. (And to anyone I should have mentioned, but forgot about: Sorry about that, head’s not altogether gathered.)
Rant over. I may have lost all my readers at this point, but I do feel like self again, so in my opinion, writing this was totally worth it. I just want to add one more thing before posting this, probably for my own pleasure only. (This is MY blog, I am ALLOWED TO DO THAT.)
My ability to feel pain and my ability to feel pleasure may annoy or confuse people without the same emotional capabilities. From time to time, even people I dearly love and I know love me dearly back can ask me to chill it and please calm down. But I am who I am, and I think if there is ANYTHING following the Sex Diaries on Daily Intel has taught me, it is that not all living people are truly alive. Lots of people, even among those considering themselves to be happy, are not true to themselves. I am. I have my share of bad habits & annoying sides, but I am 100 % alive, and I am honest. And for that, I am incredibly grateful my life is mine, even when I feel at my most insane.
Life is short. Live it.
I am a web wise woman, and I know there are even more idiots online than offline. The invisibility cloak of the former allows idiocy free reigns. That’s a good thing and a bad thing, I think. It allows for good, honest debate on stuff one wouldn’t or couldn’t have discussed under full name & real life identity, and for bad, too-honest-to-stick-to-case debate spewing shit at the same time.
I am, too, fully aware that mine is the Alpha type of personality, and that some people dislike me intensely and others like me as intensely. Offline and online, same goes. I’m good with that, too, a decade or more has gone since I gave up the idea everyone has to like everyone. Part of growing up. As long as you accept people to be different than yourself and still as valuable as yourself, you don’t need to like a single person to be a goody'ol'heart in my book. I do in general find people awakening sympathies and antipathies a lot more interesting company than those awakening just indifference, though.
But still. STILL. Sometimes, some people can make me so raging mad their idiocy stick with me for hours, and as that’s the case right now, I JUST HAVE TO SAY THIS TO GET IT OFF MY CHEST. It’s been bothering me since before I got to sleep, it bothered me through those three holy uneasy hours I did sleep, and it’s been bothering me since I gave up sleeping and started working at half past five. (To FG77: Don’t flatter yourself on your ability to throw me off balance. Everything throws me off balance these days and this is my average sleep pattern for the time being.)
To the rest of you: You see, there was this one comment. It was going very personal, without even bothering to do the slightest research on who I am or what I stand for. And that provoked the hell out of me. It’s not as if I am at my normal balanced self to begin with.
Let me take this point by point:
*I am a self-promoting narcissist. Ok, I accept that one. Sometimes get that in real life too. It goes with that type A personality, and though I do normally try to put on the breaks and stay away from dominating every single conversation I am in, I have long realized breaks are broken for now.
*I am banal, a drain and yawn-inducing. Ok. I accept that one too, even wish it to be true. I’d like a yawn, not to stay as hyperactively maniac as I am right now forever. Would be SO nice to go tired SOMETIMES and anyone who can learn me a trick to help me go to sleep: I'll be forever grateful!
*I am not a sexual creature. Hahaha. That one I enjoyed. Just one thing to add: FG77, I don’t know if you’re a man or a woman, but either way, I can guarantee you that you will never see my sexual self close up. I don’t do judgmental idiots. I don’t do people I see as in the middle of a middle age crisis, and I especially do not do people having middle age crisises while I suspect them still to be in their teens. Woman's got certain principles.
*In addition to being a non-sexual creature, I am an old, fat, sad, male Las Vegas whore. Ok. Tip on improving your insults: They work better if you try sticking to a certain continuity and to hit where it hurts. One of these may have done the trick. All of them? Nope.
*And, and this is what I think is the worst part of it: I have a need for acceptance from RANDOM STRANGERS ON THE INTERNET. This, ladies and gentlemen, I think is what really makes me mad.
First of all: I do not want your acceptance, I want your honest opinions. I don’t really want to ask my real life friends what they think on me having had sex with 16 persons in the span of a month, but I do trust the NYMaggers to be honest in their opinions. Opinions matter. Your own opinions matter the most, but it's always the opinions from others that take you further.
Second: I don’t consider the regular commenters on the Daily Intel board to be ”random strangers”. To a person having registered two minutes ago, I guess you are. To me, most of you are the coolest, wisest, smartest smart-ass bunch there is. You’re all true New Yorkers, even those of you never having lived in the City. (Yes, Till and Rebecca, and Cheesesteak, if you still live in Philly, I am talking to you.) You, and (most of the rest of) the regulars are distinct voices with distinct opinions and distinct platforms from which to speak. I value your points of view, I value them so much I consider you all among my best friends never met. Rebecca Rose – I wholeheartedly love you, and I think your blog should be a preinstalled bookmark in Internet Explorer settings at all computers & Macs sold in the world (http://www.rebeccarose2004.blogspot.com/). Hedgie – your blog has given me lots of fun (http://www.646hedonist.blogspot.com/). Meow: You’re hilariously funny and have often made my day. LZA, you’re my married hero, proof it’s possible. Loobs: Yeah, same goes for you. Sternman, GayNarcissus, Cheesesteak, Seamus, Till, TheLessYouKnow, Bulging Bracket, NYAaron, you’re all great guys, and if I ever suspect our paths to be crossing in real life, beers are on me. That's a promise. Smug: I almost never agree with you, but I find arguing with you great fun. Spice to everyday life. We all need that, those of us leading crazy everyday lives as much as those who don’t. (And to anyone I should have mentioned, but forgot about: Sorry about that, head’s not altogether gathered.)
Rant over. I may have lost all my readers at this point, but I do feel like self again, so in my opinion, writing this was totally worth it. I just want to add one more thing before posting this, probably for my own pleasure only. (This is MY blog, I am ALLOWED TO DO THAT.)
My ability to feel pain and my ability to feel pleasure may annoy or confuse people without the same emotional capabilities. From time to time, even people I dearly love and I know love me dearly back can ask me to chill it and please calm down. But I am who I am, and I think if there is ANYTHING following the Sex Diaries on Daily Intel has taught me, it is that not all living people are truly alive. Lots of people, even among those considering themselves to be happy, are not true to themselves. I am. I have my share of bad habits & annoying sides, but I am 100 % alive, and I am honest. And for that, I am incredibly grateful my life is mine, even when I feel at my most insane.
Life is short. Live it.
Post Diary: As of now
The world is spinning fast around its axis. I am spinning faster around mine.
These last four weeks I have been keeping up a frantic pace. I drown myself in work. I drown myself in men. I work out doubles and triples in the hope one more will calm my mind. I seem incapable of relaxing, and I hardly sleep. I get mad for nothing. I bitch for nothing and I cry for nothing. And all the while, I know exactly why I feel like I do. I say his name out loud, I let it ring in the room, and I know I can’t call him and hear him say the same. That alone would be too much for me to bear. I miss him so much it physically hurts, and I can’t even call him and tell him. That phone call would end with me agreeing to give up my life and promising to live his. And I can’t do that. I can’t.
I have had sex with some 12-14 men since my breakup. Yeah, I’ve fucked twelve. I’ve given two more BJs. They’ve all been great. Hot guys. White guys, black guys, one Latino guy. Able lovers. Nice cocks. Smooth tongues. It’s been a fucking frenzy. They’ve all made me feel goddess-y. And still, when I fall asleep at night, if I fall asleep at night, I am alone, and it’s his touch I am feeling. I detect his smell in the air and my skin remembers the warmth of his skin. Those other guys have not decreased his presence. I remember exactly how he felt inside me. The exact pressure. The exact size. Just how he shivers the second before he comes. I can still come myself, from the memory alone. But I can’t go back to him. I can’t.
I sedate myself on work and sex and yoga, a psychotherapist close to me says. I respond I find it healthier than pills and alcohol and sugar, and she tells me not to be fresh. She adds I am in mourning and I need to face my pain. I don’t go to therapists and I don’t think you need to be one to realize that. But I cope. A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do, right? What this woman has to do is make herself feel good. Whatever it takes. It takes hard work. It takes hard workouts. Fucking strangers helps, too. At least, it has always helped before. I've always been able to escape my thoughts in the arms of a man. On the yoga mat. In my work. These methods have always worked for me, and I need them to work now too. Everything, not to pick up that phone and tell him I’ll give up my whole life for him. I really can’t.
These last four weeks I have been keeping up a frantic pace. I drown myself in work. I drown myself in men. I work out doubles and triples in the hope one more will calm my mind. I seem incapable of relaxing, and I hardly sleep. I get mad for nothing. I bitch for nothing and I cry for nothing. And all the while, I know exactly why I feel like I do. I say his name out loud, I let it ring in the room, and I know I can’t call him and hear him say the same. That alone would be too much for me to bear. I miss him so much it physically hurts, and I can’t even call him and tell him. That phone call would end with me agreeing to give up my life and promising to live his. And I can’t do that. I can’t.
I have had sex with some 12-14 men since my breakup. Yeah, I’ve fucked twelve. I’ve given two more BJs. They’ve all been great. Hot guys. White guys, black guys, one Latino guy. Able lovers. Nice cocks. Smooth tongues. It’s been a fucking frenzy. They’ve all made me feel goddess-y. And still, when I fall asleep at night, if I fall asleep at night, I am alone, and it’s his touch I am feeling. I detect his smell in the air and my skin remembers the warmth of his skin. Those other guys have not decreased his presence. I remember exactly how he felt inside me. The exact pressure. The exact size. Just how he shivers the second before he comes. I can still come myself, from the memory alone. But I can’t go back to him. I can’t.
I sedate myself on work and sex and yoga, a psychotherapist close to me says. I respond I find it healthier than pills and alcohol and sugar, and she tells me not to be fresh. She adds I am in mourning and I need to face my pain. I don’t go to therapists and I don’t think you need to be one to realize that. But I cope. A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do, right? What this woman has to do is make herself feel good. Whatever it takes. It takes hard work. It takes hard workouts. Fucking strangers helps, too. At least, it has always helped before. I've always been able to escape my thoughts in the arms of a man. On the yoga mat. In my work. These methods have always worked for me, and I need them to work now too. Everything, not to pick up that phone and tell him I’ll give up my whole life for him. I really can’t.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Sex Diary: The workaholic yoga addict returning to single life
Well, well, Daily Intel didn't publish me. I guess I gotta do it myself.
The workaholic yoga addict: 33, female, LES, breaking out of a relationship. Straight. She’s Lady In Red.
DAY ONE
5.50 a.m: Impressive hard-on is poking my back and I wake up. Owner is X, my boyfriend of long term/long distance relationship. We’re breaking up, spending that one last week of sex, sadness and clarification together.
5.52 a.m: Except for hard-on, X is asleep. I start licking his balls.
6 a.m: Midfuck. He is so good I can’t believe we’re breaking up. But reason isn’t related to sex. We’ve had this settlement discussion for a year. When, where, how. Disagree on all accounts. Lately, I’ve been realizing I have to let him loose or lose myself. He thinks this is hyperbole. We’re doing the right thing.
6.03 a.m: He is def. doing the right thing. I have one of those earthquake-like orgasms after which he smiles as if he’s reached Mount Everest.
7 a.m: We’ve showered together, more sex in shower. He is now wearing suit, looking all serious over hotel breakfast. I’m in yoga attire, and we attract even more looks than usual. Maybe because I’ve just kicked his leg. I ordered my coffee ”very black and very strong”, upon which he couldn’t help himself from adding ”just how she likes it”. X is very black and very strong. I am very white, petite, but fit and curvy for my size. He knows I hate it when people think we’re purely sexual. Many do.
7.20 a.m: Back in room. Business suit on floor. He’ll be late for work.
8.15 a.m: He has just uttered the words ”We should have a threesome”. He has a female friend, bi, who ”really wants to do” me, he says. I don’t like it when he discusses our sex life with others, and that particular threesome fantasy doesn’t excite me. Whenever I have a threesome fantasy, two men are tending to me. X knows, as we don’t keep secrets, and until now, we’ve agreed to let fantasies stay fantasies. Something, apparently, has changed. He denies having slept with the woman in question, but tells me I would have the time of my life. Translation: HE would have the time of his life. I say I won’t do it. He leaves without kissing me, saying ”don’t be narrow minded”. This too feels unfair.
10.40 a.m: Double yoga session, aborted for online 3way discussion. Both fail to calm me.
11.59 a.m: X calls, asks if I am mad. I say if he wants his threesome, he can give me my MMF first. He says we’ll talk later.
1 p.m: Out walking streets crowded with memories. We’re in a city neither of us lives in, but we’ve often met here, as he often visits for work. I often visit for him. No more.
3 p.m: Thoughts have left wellknown territory for unknown territory. Feel manipulated, but consider. One should try everything once. This is safe, we’re breaking up anyway. Jealousy isn’t a factor. But I have never felt lust for any woman, and I know going to bed with someone I don’t lust for is a bad idea. I don’t want to do it just to make my man happy. I know he’ll soon have a sexual life post me, but to kickstart that? I feel so insecure I even wonder if he can be using me as a prop to get her into bed or want revenge for BU. I’d freak out if he ignored me and showered her with attention. At the same time, thoughts make me feel petty, insecure and ungenerous, not who I want to be. He deserves a parting gift. Could I possibly enjoy it? Wonder what it would be like, touching another woman like that. Mind moves in circles. I walk.
5 p.m: He calls. Yes, I’m still mad. He says we’ll drop it. He’ll take me to dinner.
8 p.m: Dressed up, fancy place. He says he wants a nice evening, no arguments, but would like to say two things before burying the subject. Ok. He says he is sure I’d enjoy it, and that we’d break it off any time if I didn’t. And he says I always say the world is there for exploration. He adds ”But if you don’t want to, we’ll let it go.” I reach over the table, kiss him on the cheek and thank him. He kisses my lips, orders oysters for the two of us and goes on to deciding entrees without consulting. Hate it when he does that. Waiter leaves, and I tell him. He says he’ll change the order if I want something else. No, choice was perfect. He smirks.
8.45 p.m: Dinner’s lovely. So is he. Beautiful couple next table ask if we’re newlyweds too. X says we’re celebrating our divorce. They laugh and congratulate, think he is joking. I want to cry and go to bathroom. I don’t cry. I stand in front of the mirror for a long time, watching my eyes until I know they won’t go red or puffy.
10 p.m: I whisper that when we get back to our room, I’ll fuck him as if I were five different women. He cancels dessert.
10.20 p.m: Hotel room, X naked on the bed. I pretend to be the maid coming to clean, teasing him with a wet towel. Later, I’ll be the receptionist, the breakfast waitress and wifey eating next to us tonight, cheating on her new husband. I’ll finish with a special treat of my own.
3 a.m: Mission accomplished. He says he preferred the last one by far. Silly triumph. We fall asleep spooning. I love this man.
DAY TWO
6.30 a.m: My turn to be awakened to being eaten. He. Is. Good. At. It.
7 a.m: Skip breakfast, long shower together. He’s bought some huge sponges. Whatta man.
8 a.m: He is ready to leave, I feel sexy and satisfied, and surprise us both by saying he can take his friend over for drinks after work. The second the words are out I think “I did not say that”. Quickly add I don’t promise anything, but I’m open to meeting her, see how we get along. Stomach calms. He gives me a big smile and a big kiss, says I am the best and that they won’t touch each other or myself unless I say I want it. Shall there be sex, I shall initiate it. I say that sounds good. He kisses me again and leaves. I go down for breakfast, eat heartily, and throw up once I am back in room. Down again, just a little fruit, return to room for a nap.
9.30 a.m: Wake up, feel good, decide for double yoga.
12.30 p.m: Triple yoga finished. Heart’s racing.
2 p.m: Out to buy some wine. Shop attendant surprises me by asking for ID. I am 33 and have barely slept for a week! Shop snacks and eat late lunch, too.
5 p.m: Hotel room. Been out longer than I thought. Quick shower.
5.25 p.m: Whoa, they are early! Hear key in door as I put on heels. X kisses me, Guest gives me her hand, stroking mine. Ok. We all sit down and make conversation. It feels like a more or less normal cocktail party, only that we’re all drinking a little faster than we would normally have. He acts nervous, talking silly and shifting his position every five seconds. She’s relaxed and funny. I like her, think we could have made friends. For now, just as well I won’t see her again.
6 p.m: X has taken off his shirt and is sitting on the bed watching me and Guest intensely. We share a chair and pretend not to notice. I can’t see it, but I know he is hard. Knowing makes me wet too. Not ready yet.
6.10 p.m: X takes off his pants. He’s changed his boxers during the day. It makes me laugh. In my most sexy voice I say ”Somebody is getting impatient”. He says ”Yes”, voice choked. He then gets up and drops his shorts. That cock is perfection. I give him one long slow lick, root to tip and around its head, before I turn towards G and kiss her. She starts touching my breasts and we make out, me touching hers. He is kissing and undressing my body. Both naked, we undress her, while she and I give him a two-tongue BJ. This is going to work.
6.19 p.m: It works. It works so well it becomes a five hour non-stop fuckathlon, everyone doing everything to everyone, me getting a whole lot more than my fair share. Both X and G are a lot more into me than each other. She is married and has what she calls ”unlimited access to cock at home”. He, suddenly realizing this is the very last night, wants what he can get. He probably also wants to demonstrate one cock is enough. I feel like the world’s greatest sex goddess. Enjoy every second and also find it v. educative. Night’s discoveries:
* Because of height differences, 69ing a woman is so much easier than 69ing a man. And isn’t it just incredible how different two pussies can be?
* Yoga experience is even more useful in threesome than twosome. I can take pleasure in positions most people wouldn’t think of trying. I am also a lot stronger than I look, at one point being able to lift and roll X’s full weight off me and to the side, 180 degrees – without him even sliding out of me. This is my most acrobatic feat, and they’re both sufficiently impressed, but what awes me is his stamina. He only comes thrice, but he manages to fuck me some 14-16 times and G some 5-6 times in the span of five hours. New personal best.
* One can get off by pussy-against-pussy-action, but pussy-against-pussy-plus-penetration-action works better.
* Correction: Some women actually do come harder on the outside than the inside. I’ve always believed this to be one of those nasty good-girls-don’t-really-enjoy-myths and have arrogantly denied it. The ”then they don’t know how to”-argument is not valid. I have to examine it again. Same result.
* Some women can actually even come on the outside just by climbing man’s back when he is moving in and out of other woman. I feel a second of envy before remembering orgasms from being pounded are SO much stronger.
* Intense moments of twosomedome even midway into threesomedome exist. It’s also possible being the third in such a situation without being remotely offended.
* She really is both hot and cool. When X kicks her out of bed claiming she interferes, she climbs back laughing ”the two of you should really get married”. Insult may have been lessened because I, midkick, told him not to be rude. I suppose I am both hot and cool too.
* Almost forgot about this one: Tittyfucking is not necessarily giving a penis massage using tits. Turns out there are other possibilities too. I do not have the imagination I thought I did.
11.30 p.m: X declares himself exhausted. Not even two women 69ing on top of him change it. I suddenly feel tired too. Not Guest. She wants to go out for a drink. I don’t want to leave my man. He really wants some rest and asks me to take one glass and return.
12.30 a.m: Sidewalk, think we’ll be okay now. One drink became more, then a series of rowdy confrontations between me, Guest, strangers. She’s v. drunk and acting it, even inviting two men to hotel to fuck me, me protesting. Strangers were not quite sure if offer was serious, but either way, I’ve just had two hard-ons pressed against ass through jeans and three tongues in mouth. Solution: Acting half lady, half tramp, saying my man is waiting, strong enough to kick both their asses. Then batting eyes and ”can you please help me get us a cab”. To my surprise we’re now waiting for said cab. Both men try to kiss me, G turns them down saying she does not make out with strangers. This night has officially crossed all limits to absurdity.
1.10 a.m: Back in room. My man’s pacing the floor. He has tried calling me eleven times before finding on-silent phone in room. I tell him everything and every muscle in his body tightens. I hug and stroke him, assuring him she is all right. He says she is not who he has been worried for, I am too nice. I then tell him I love him, and we start making sweet slow love.
1.45 a.m: In the bathroom, throwing up. X is with me, making bad jokes connecting swine flu and animal action. He asks if I want to take a bath. We do.
2.30 a.m: Trying to make love in water filled bathtub. This never works.
2.45 a.m: Rough sex on bathroom floor while holding ON to bathtub, on the other hand…
3 a.m: But the good ol’fashioned bed is, after all, the best option.
4 a.m: Is this the last time we’ll ever have sex? We do it so emotionally I think it is, both crying and whispering declarations of love. It lasts almost an hour. When he finally comes, he does not pull out. We fall asleep, him on top and still inside me. I feel his heartbeat.
DAY THREE
5.50 a.m: I wake up, as if an alarm has set off. He isn’t here!
5.53 a.m: Flushing. Of course, bathroom.
5.56 a.m: He has brushed his teeth, too. I feel sleep in my mouth and want to clean up. He says he wants to taste me just like this, bad morning breath, mascara down my face’n’all. How can I let this man go?
6.15 a.m: Making love again. I am deadly tired, but senses are at high alert.
6.45 a.m: Lying in each others’ arms, caressing and whispering I love you’s.
7 a.m: Sex for the last time. That very, very last time.
7.30 a.m: He is dressed to go in a hurry. His stubble hurts my face. I am wearing just a towel, but I don’t care. We hug in the door, and none of us want to let go, but we have to, or he’ll miss his plane. For the last time he says ”I love you, and I set you free”. When I want to reply, I am unable to pronounce the words. He sssshs me and leaves. We look into each others’ eyes until elevator doors closes and I can no longer see him. I love him. I have to set him free.
11 a.m: As if mood wasn’t pissy already, I’ve decided to practice fiscal discipline: The bus.
11.07 a.m: Bus has free wifi. Mood improves. Decide against sentimental e-mail to X. We have said it all, over and over. Instead, Craigslist. I am single and the best way to get over a man is to get under or on top of another.
11.15 a.m: Have advanced from MF to MMF ads. Under AND on top of two others must be twice as efficient? Craft an e-mail to three most promising candidates. Only good thing about LDR (except the occasional fuckfest) is having hot, recent pics of self readily available.
11.40 a.m: Spend online time with craigslisters. All responded. I dump one, am e-mailing with another, chatting with third. One white, one black, different duos, both attractive. I feel v. slutty, in a good way. Want to touch myself, but can’t. Still on bus.
1 p.m: Bus stopping, passengers on. I shut laptop down as man sits down next to me.
4 p.m: Home! Hungry, too. I know exactly what I need – one of those huge mozzarella-tomato sandwiches of Di Palo’s, best in the City. Walk over.
4.15 p.m: Noooo! Di Palo is closed for renovation. Disappointment so deep I want to cry. Have to do with Alleva’s, nowhere near as good. Lacks that sweety soury vinegar, and today, not even basil. Wonder if this is a metaphor for future love life: Best option not available, stuck with not-even-second-best.
4.20 p.m: Walk streets I love to keep from crying, telling myself I’d be mad to leave. City’s back to life after winter’s financial depression. Everyone flirts and talks to everyone. Or maybe it’s me, back to self after tough winter of trying to make up my mind.
6 p.m: Home after long walk. Message from White Hottie says buddy is not available today, but how about the weekend? We agree to talk later. No more from Black Hottie. I am tired anyway. An hour of yoga, then bed.
10 p.m: Awake and unable to go back to sleep. Decide to put on clothes and go down to neighborhood favorite for drink by my lonesome. Bouncer’s hot.
Midnight: Drink by my lonesome has somehow evolved into bouncing the bouncer. Turns out he is not just F-ing hot, but also hot F. Come thrice before I decide party is over.
1 a.m: Bouncer’s cool, too. Did not object when I said I wanted to sleep alone, just kissed me, saying I know where to find him. Guess his job makes him familiar with politely showing people the door, nothing personal. I fall asleep feeling all right.
DAY FOUR
8 a.m: Wake up, no nonsense.
8.15 a.m: Start working, no nonsense.
10 a.m: Want yoga break, but first, just a little nonsense. Check my secret identity mailbox, and pop, there’s BH again, wants to chat. We do. Now I’m free to touch myself.
11.30 a.m: Yoga, then lunch. Feel like self.
1 p.m: Workaholic mode.
5 p.m: Need something to eat before theatre. Decide to spoil myself with old favorite. As far as I can, I eat here before exposing myself to Midtown madness.
7 p.m: Embarrass myself by cleaning out handbag at restaurant, putting condoms on the counter. Don’t notice before eight pairs of eyes look at me as if I were a slut. F.U.C.K. 80 yr old woman next to me gives me comforting look, patting my hand and croaking “I wish I could be young again”. Whole counter crack up in laughter. You gotta love New York.
7.15 p.m: Hot Italian tourist slips me his check, saying “I shhiiiink ‘is juuurs”, which I gather means he thinks it’s mine. He’s wrong, I just paid, but take a look yet the same, noticing hand writing. Message says: “Want use an condoms? Mens room 3 minutes”. Guy has balls.
7.18 p.m: Why not? Sneak out to bathroom. Place has those nasty boxes in a row, but choosing the men’s was smart. No line, less of a risk being discovered.
7.42 p.m: Am so F-ing late. I hate Times Square. I hate tourists. And I say this with the passion of a person having consciously chosen NYC as THE place to live: IF YOU CAN’T WALK THE CITY, STAY THE F OUT OF IT! A woman even steps my toe, so heavily blood splatters, before she turns, smiling!“Sorry, I did not realize anyone was there”, she says. I feel like yelling “This is F-ING TIMES SQUARE, FOR F’S SAKE, DO YOU THINK YOU’RE ALONE?” Instead I say “Look where you put your feet, please”, no smile. She’ll tell her friends New Yorkers are rude, but what’s rude is F-ING STEPPING ON OUR FEET, LADY!
7.58 p.m: Made it.
10.45 p.m: Play over, so worth it. Crying, laughing, feeling cleansed. Call BH to ask if he feels like meeting right now, just the two of us. He can’t. Ah, never mind. Take the subway down to West 4th, want to walk home instead of changing to the F. I love to walk.
11.20 p.m: Even my hottest male friends complain they don’t know why it’s so hard to score women. This is why: Even the sluttiest only have so much time, and you’re not as creative as you think. On my way home, four guys try catcalling by Chris deBurgh. I always get that.
12.10 a.m: Home. Going to bed alone feels perfect, but I still need some self-loving to fall asleep. So much easier post O. Do not even think of calling X while I am at it.
DAY FIVE
10 a.m: Yoga. Love yoga. Am a smug bitch, but love the way my abs look because of it, too.
11.30 a.m: Online. Nothing from WH, BH wants to chat. Don’t have the time, but ask if he is ready to meet, say I want buddy there, too. He says tonight. He’ll e-mail me when and where.
11.35 a.m: Quick self-loving. V. quick.
Noon: Lunch, then theatre with GFs.
4 p.m: Play over, was great. Made me think of where I could have been in ten years: An exhausted wife and mother letting others push her around. Buy a smoothie of the street and decide to walk east to avoid TS. Let GFs loose as X calls. I tell him about the play, and before I’ve even gotten to real life comparison, he says “It wouldn’t have been like that, it would have been a new adventure”. I put the phone down and throw up on a street corner.
4.07 p.m: X back on phone, asks me what happened. It must have been the smoothie, tasted great, but stomach’s been uneasy a few days. He says he hopes I’m not coming down with the flu. I should drink some ginger tea and go to bed. Good idea. I promise to call later.
5 p.m: Starbucks, buying ginger tea and staring at X’s splitting image. Only some 20 years younger. Doppelganger notices and comes over. I explain. Say he is so much like my ex he could have been his son. Idea makes stomach turn again. DG laughs, telling me his age. Quick calculation. Possible, not likely. I say nonchalantly I hope his mother did not spend time in X’s home state approx. 24 years ago. He says she was here, and his siblings look just like him and his father. I relax and laugh. He asks me if I want to meet tonight, a friend is doing slam poetry. I say I may. Go home to sleep. Nothing from online hotties.
10 p.m: Awake. I might as well go to poetry club.
10.30 p.m: Great poetry, mostly sexual. Love this place, but haven’t been here for a long time. DG buys me a glass of wine, then drags a finger along my cleavage, asking me about the baby father. What? He says he doesn’t get why I came to see him when I am so obviously pregnant. WTF! I’m down to a size 4! Abs are flatter than ever! I am NOT pregnant and have NOT been so offended in my LIFE! Excuse including words “small frame”, “full breasts” and “looking real” doesn’t improve mood. I leave DG by counter to finish drink standing by wall.
Midnight: Burlesque. Great fun. They’re doing a tribute to Janis Joplin. I love Janis Joplin.
2 a.m: Show over, tired. Tall white in suit jacket insists on following me to my door. He says I live in a dangerous neighborhood. Oh, please. This is such a cliché.
2.20 a.m: Of course, suit jacket tries to kiss me in my street. I tell him my man is waiting upstairs. He does not seem insulted when I tell him he can catch a cab at the Bowery. I suppose he is an Uptown Uptight and do not know.
2.30 a.m: Call X and tell him about my night. He laughs. I say I love him. He says he loves me too, and we both cry.
DAY SIX
Non-sexual day with friends. I have such a great time I even forget about calling White Hottie.
DAY SEVEN
8 a.m: Workaholic mode.
11 a.m: Yoga break. Make it a double for skipping it yesterday.
1.30 p.m: Out of shower, checking e-mail. Mail from X in standard mailbox. I can’t bring myself to read it right now. Secret mailbox contains lame excuse from BH. I guess he is a fake. Nothing from WH. I guess he thinks I am fake, but send a “sorry I didn’t call” message. Then CL, see if there is any promising. There is. Duo looking great.
2 p.m: Still no lunch, busy e-mailing CL guy. Out-of-towner at Midtown hotel, buddy at work but available around four. Perfect. No risk of running into anyone I know. He asks if I can be there 03.30, see how we all feel together. I agree, log off, call Best Gay Friend telling him I am meeting a guy and am on my way to the 6 within the hour. BGF is my security guy if meeting people off the net.
2.50 p.m: Train. Eat a pizza slice on the sly, fully aware I am breaking a rule. Naughty girl.
3.35 p.m: Hotel bar, almost on time. Don’t see the duo, though. Only man is on the phone. Middle age, fat, not much taller than self. Hookups should be tall and fit. Guess I have to wait.
3.38 p.m: Low fat approaches, gives me his hand and introduces himself with e-mail name. He knows who I am, I look like my pictures. He has never looked like his. Before I can say so, he tells me he is “so sorry, but Mark can’t make it”. He claims they just got off the phone, something came up at the office. B-shit. There is no Mark. The photo e-mailed to me does not show this guy or a friend of his. I don’t want to make a scene in public, so I lower my voice, telling him I signed up for something very specific, and that he is not it. Then I leave.
4.48 p.m: Text BGF, tell him meeting is off.
5.25 p.m: Getting out at Canal. Plenty of missed calls. BGF and X. BGF is hysterical. Didn’t get my text, I haven’t heard him call. Oh, subway. I try to calm him, explaining. Decide he now needs yoga as much as me. I’ll treat him to a studio class and some drinks after.
8.30 p.m: Class over. Male teacher. BGF asks me if we can postpone drinks, he wants to hit on instructor. I declare he deserves it, kiss him, and go home. Suddenly tired.
9 p.m: X calls as I am walking home. He’s been trying earlier too, he says. I say I’ve been crazy busy. He asks if I’ve had sex. I won’t lie to him, but tell him not today. He sighs, says he still loves me and wants to marry me. I say I love him too and that he is the best. He cries. I want to cry too, but am outside and have to keep myself together.
9.30 p.m: Home. Read e-mail from X. It says “Call me, I love you”. I cry. Then decide to devote the rest of the evening to my most grandmotherly pleasures. Crossword, then vibrator.
10.20 p.m: Even the crossword is sexual today. 97 across asks for “what the ideal husband should be”. Letters three and four are both L’s, and I immediately come up with “well endowed”. Does not match. Evening project part two ensues. Need it, shall I be able to sleep.
TOTALS: Approx. 35 sessions of intercourse with four partners (three males, one female), approx. 110 orgasms with four real life partners and one online partner, one act of threesome, approx. 14 acts of eating or being eaten out, four acts of butt play (two receiving/two giving), ten acts of making out/almost making out in public/semipublic with seven partners, two acts of cybersex with one partner, one act of masturbation with vibrator, three acts of masturbation without vibrator, three sentimental phone calls with X. Twelve hours of yoga in attempts to calm mind, only about half succeeding. Zero acts of accepting proposals and one act of creative tittyfucking, plus at least ten minutes spent trying to solve this mathematics puzzle.
The workaholic yoga addict: 33, female, LES, breaking out of a relationship. Straight. She’s Lady In Red.
DAY ONE
5.50 a.m: Impressive hard-on is poking my back and I wake up. Owner is X, my boyfriend of long term/long distance relationship. We’re breaking up, spending that one last week of sex, sadness and clarification together.
5.52 a.m: Except for hard-on, X is asleep. I start licking his balls.
6 a.m: Midfuck. He is so good I can’t believe we’re breaking up. But reason isn’t related to sex. We’ve had this settlement discussion for a year. When, where, how. Disagree on all accounts. Lately, I’ve been realizing I have to let him loose or lose myself. He thinks this is hyperbole. We’re doing the right thing.
6.03 a.m: He is def. doing the right thing. I have one of those earthquake-like orgasms after which he smiles as if he’s reached Mount Everest.
7 a.m: We’ve showered together, more sex in shower. He is now wearing suit, looking all serious over hotel breakfast. I’m in yoga attire, and we attract even more looks than usual. Maybe because I’ve just kicked his leg. I ordered my coffee ”very black and very strong”, upon which he couldn’t help himself from adding ”just how she likes it”. X is very black and very strong. I am very white, petite, but fit and curvy for my size. He knows I hate it when people think we’re purely sexual. Many do.
7.20 a.m: Back in room. Business suit on floor. He’ll be late for work.
8.15 a.m: He has just uttered the words ”We should have a threesome”. He has a female friend, bi, who ”really wants to do” me, he says. I don’t like it when he discusses our sex life with others, and that particular threesome fantasy doesn’t excite me. Whenever I have a threesome fantasy, two men are tending to me. X knows, as we don’t keep secrets, and until now, we’ve agreed to let fantasies stay fantasies. Something, apparently, has changed. He denies having slept with the woman in question, but tells me I would have the time of my life. Translation: HE would have the time of his life. I say I won’t do it. He leaves without kissing me, saying ”don’t be narrow minded”. This too feels unfair.
10.40 a.m: Double yoga session, aborted for online 3way discussion. Both fail to calm me.
11.59 a.m: X calls, asks if I am mad. I say if he wants his threesome, he can give me my MMF first. He says we’ll talk later.
1 p.m: Out walking streets crowded with memories. We’re in a city neither of us lives in, but we’ve often met here, as he often visits for work. I often visit for him. No more.
3 p.m: Thoughts have left wellknown territory for unknown territory. Feel manipulated, but consider. One should try everything once. This is safe, we’re breaking up anyway. Jealousy isn’t a factor. But I have never felt lust for any woman, and I know going to bed with someone I don’t lust for is a bad idea. I don’t want to do it just to make my man happy. I know he’ll soon have a sexual life post me, but to kickstart that? I feel so insecure I even wonder if he can be using me as a prop to get her into bed or want revenge for BU. I’d freak out if he ignored me and showered her with attention. At the same time, thoughts make me feel petty, insecure and ungenerous, not who I want to be. He deserves a parting gift. Could I possibly enjoy it? Wonder what it would be like, touching another woman like that. Mind moves in circles. I walk.
5 p.m: He calls. Yes, I’m still mad. He says we’ll drop it. He’ll take me to dinner.
8 p.m: Dressed up, fancy place. He says he wants a nice evening, no arguments, but would like to say two things before burying the subject. Ok. He says he is sure I’d enjoy it, and that we’d break it off any time if I didn’t. And he says I always say the world is there for exploration. He adds ”But if you don’t want to, we’ll let it go.” I reach over the table, kiss him on the cheek and thank him. He kisses my lips, orders oysters for the two of us and goes on to deciding entrees without consulting. Hate it when he does that. Waiter leaves, and I tell him. He says he’ll change the order if I want something else. No, choice was perfect. He smirks.
8.45 p.m: Dinner’s lovely. So is he. Beautiful couple next table ask if we’re newlyweds too. X says we’re celebrating our divorce. They laugh and congratulate, think he is joking. I want to cry and go to bathroom. I don’t cry. I stand in front of the mirror for a long time, watching my eyes until I know they won’t go red or puffy.
10 p.m: I whisper that when we get back to our room, I’ll fuck him as if I were five different women. He cancels dessert.
10.20 p.m: Hotel room, X naked on the bed. I pretend to be the maid coming to clean, teasing him with a wet towel. Later, I’ll be the receptionist, the breakfast waitress and wifey eating next to us tonight, cheating on her new husband. I’ll finish with a special treat of my own.
3 a.m: Mission accomplished. He says he preferred the last one by far. Silly triumph. We fall asleep spooning. I love this man.
DAY TWO
6.30 a.m: My turn to be awakened to being eaten. He. Is. Good. At. It.
7 a.m: Skip breakfast, long shower together. He’s bought some huge sponges. Whatta man.
8 a.m: He is ready to leave, I feel sexy and satisfied, and surprise us both by saying he can take his friend over for drinks after work. The second the words are out I think “I did not say that”. Quickly add I don’t promise anything, but I’m open to meeting her, see how we get along. Stomach calms. He gives me a big smile and a big kiss, says I am the best and that they won’t touch each other or myself unless I say I want it. Shall there be sex, I shall initiate it. I say that sounds good. He kisses me again and leaves. I go down for breakfast, eat heartily, and throw up once I am back in room. Down again, just a little fruit, return to room for a nap.
9.30 a.m: Wake up, feel good, decide for double yoga.
12.30 p.m: Triple yoga finished. Heart’s racing.
2 p.m: Out to buy some wine. Shop attendant surprises me by asking for ID. I am 33 and have barely slept for a week! Shop snacks and eat late lunch, too.
5 p.m: Hotel room. Been out longer than I thought. Quick shower.
5.25 p.m: Whoa, they are early! Hear key in door as I put on heels. X kisses me, Guest gives me her hand, stroking mine. Ok. We all sit down and make conversation. It feels like a more or less normal cocktail party, only that we’re all drinking a little faster than we would normally have. He acts nervous, talking silly and shifting his position every five seconds. She’s relaxed and funny. I like her, think we could have made friends. For now, just as well I won’t see her again.
6 p.m: X has taken off his shirt and is sitting on the bed watching me and Guest intensely. We share a chair and pretend not to notice. I can’t see it, but I know he is hard. Knowing makes me wet too. Not ready yet.
6.10 p.m: X takes off his pants. He’s changed his boxers during the day. It makes me laugh. In my most sexy voice I say ”Somebody is getting impatient”. He says ”Yes”, voice choked. He then gets up and drops his shorts. That cock is perfection. I give him one long slow lick, root to tip and around its head, before I turn towards G and kiss her. She starts touching my breasts and we make out, me touching hers. He is kissing and undressing my body. Both naked, we undress her, while she and I give him a two-tongue BJ. This is going to work.
6.19 p.m: It works. It works so well it becomes a five hour non-stop fuckathlon, everyone doing everything to everyone, me getting a whole lot more than my fair share. Both X and G are a lot more into me than each other. She is married and has what she calls ”unlimited access to cock at home”. He, suddenly realizing this is the very last night, wants what he can get. He probably also wants to demonstrate one cock is enough. I feel like the world’s greatest sex goddess. Enjoy every second and also find it v. educative. Night’s discoveries:
* Because of height differences, 69ing a woman is so much easier than 69ing a man. And isn’t it just incredible how different two pussies can be?
* Yoga experience is even more useful in threesome than twosome. I can take pleasure in positions most people wouldn’t think of trying. I am also a lot stronger than I look, at one point being able to lift and roll X’s full weight off me and to the side, 180 degrees – without him even sliding out of me. This is my most acrobatic feat, and they’re both sufficiently impressed, but what awes me is his stamina. He only comes thrice, but he manages to fuck me some 14-16 times and G some 5-6 times in the span of five hours. New personal best.
* One can get off by pussy-against-pussy-action, but pussy-against-pussy-plus-penetration-action works better.
* Correction: Some women actually do come harder on the outside than the inside. I’ve always believed this to be one of those nasty good-girls-don’t-really-enjoy-myths and have arrogantly denied it. The ”then they don’t know how to”-argument is not valid. I have to examine it again. Same result.
* Some women can actually even come on the outside just by climbing man’s back when he is moving in and out of other woman. I feel a second of envy before remembering orgasms from being pounded are SO much stronger.
* Intense moments of twosomedome even midway into threesomedome exist. It’s also possible being the third in such a situation without being remotely offended.
* She really is both hot and cool. When X kicks her out of bed claiming she interferes, she climbs back laughing ”the two of you should really get married”. Insult may have been lessened because I, midkick, told him not to be rude. I suppose I am both hot and cool too.
* Almost forgot about this one: Tittyfucking is not necessarily giving a penis massage using tits. Turns out there are other possibilities too. I do not have the imagination I thought I did.
11.30 p.m: X declares himself exhausted. Not even two women 69ing on top of him change it. I suddenly feel tired too. Not Guest. She wants to go out for a drink. I don’t want to leave my man. He really wants some rest and asks me to take one glass and return.
12.30 a.m: Sidewalk, think we’ll be okay now. One drink became more, then a series of rowdy confrontations between me, Guest, strangers. She’s v. drunk and acting it, even inviting two men to hotel to fuck me, me protesting. Strangers were not quite sure if offer was serious, but either way, I’ve just had two hard-ons pressed against ass through jeans and three tongues in mouth. Solution: Acting half lady, half tramp, saying my man is waiting, strong enough to kick both their asses. Then batting eyes and ”can you please help me get us a cab”. To my surprise we’re now waiting for said cab. Both men try to kiss me, G turns them down saying she does not make out with strangers. This night has officially crossed all limits to absurdity.
1.10 a.m: Back in room. My man’s pacing the floor. He has tried calling me eleven times before finding on-silent phone in room. I tell him everything and every muscle in his body tightens. I hug and stroke him, assuring him she is all right. He says she is not who he has been worried for, I am too nice. I then tell him I love him, and we start making sweet slow love.
1.45 a.m: In the bathroom, throwing up. X is with me, making bad jokes connecting swine flu and animal action. He asks if I want to take a bath. We do.
2.30 a.m: Trying to make love in water filled bathtub. This never works.
2.45 a.m: Rough sex on bathroom floor while holding ON to bathtub, on the other hand…
3 a.m: But the good ol’fashioned bed is, after all, the best option.
4 a.m: Is this the last time we’ll ever have sex? We do it so emotionally I think it is, both crying and whispering declarations of love. It lasts almost an hour. When he finally comes, he does not pull out. We fall asleep, him on top and still inside me. I feel his heartbeat.
DAY THREE
5.50 a.m: I wake up, as if an alarm has set off. He isn’t here!
5.53 a.m: Flushing. Of course, bathroom.
5.56 a.m: He has brushed his teeth, too. I feel sleep in my mouth and want to clean up. He says he wants to taste me just like this, bad morning breath, mascara down my face’n’all. How can I let this man go?
6.15 a.m: Making love again. I am deadly tired, but senses are at high alert.
6.45 a.m: Lying in each others’ arms, caressing and whispering I love you’s.
7 a.m: Sex for the last time. That very, very last time.
7.30 a.m: He is dressed to go in a hurry. His stubble hurts my face. I am wearing just a towel, but I don’t care. We hug in the door, and none of us want to let go, but we have to, or he’ll miss his plane. For the last time he says ”I love you, and I set you free”. When I want to reply, I am unable to pronounce the words. He sssshs me and leaves. We look into each others’ eyes until elevator doors closes and I can no longer see him. I love him. I have to set him free.
11 a.m: As if mood wasn’t pissy already, I’ve decided to practice fiscal discipline: The bus.
11.07 a.m: Bus has free wifi. Mood improves. Decide against sentimental e-mail to X. We have said it all, over and over. Instead, Craigslist. I am single and the best way to get over a man is to get under or on top of another.
11.15 a.m: Have advanced from MF to MMF ads. Under AND on top of two others must be twice as efficient? Craft an e-mail to three most promising candidates. Only good thing about LDR (except the occasional fuckfest) is having hot, recent pics of self readily available.
11.40 a.m: Spend online time with craigslisters. All responded. I dump one, am e-mailing with another, chatting with third. One white, one black, different duos, both attractive. I feel v. slutty, in a good way. Want to touch myself, but can’t. Still on bus.
1 p.m: Bus stopping, passengers on. I shut laptop down as man sits down next to me.
4 p.m: Home! Hungry, too. I know exactly what I need – one of those huge mozzarella-tomato sandwiches of Di Palo’s, best in the City. Walk over.
4.15 p.m: Noooo! Di Palo is closed for renovation. Disappointment so deep I want to cry. Have to do with Alleva’s, nowhere near as good. Lacks that sweety soury vinegar, and today, not even basil. Wonder if this is a metaphor for future love life: Best option not available, stuck with not-even-second-best.
4.20 p.m: Walk streets I love to keep from crying, telling myself I’d be mad to leave. City’s back to life after winter’s financial depression. Everyone flirts and talks to everyone. Or maybe it’s me, back to self after tough winter of trying to make up my mind.
6 p.m: Home after long walk. Message from White Hottie says buddy is not available today, but how about the weekend? We agree to talk later. No more from Black Hottie. I am tired anyway. An hour of yoga, then bed.
10 p.m: Awake and unable to go back to sleep. Decide to put on clothes and go down to neighborhood favorite for drink by my lonesome. Bouncer’s hot.
Midnight: Drink by my lonesome has somehow evolved into bouncing the bouncer. Turns out he is not just F-ing hot, but also hot F. Come thrice before I decide party is over.
1 a.m: Bouncer’s cool, too. Did not object when I said I wanted to sleep alone, just kissed me, saying I know where to find him. Guess his job makes him familiar with politely showing people the door, nothing personal. I fall asleep feeling all right.
DAY FOUR
8 a.m: Wake up, no nonsense.
8.15 a.m: Start working, no nonsense.
10 a.m: Want yoga break, but first, just a little nonsense. Check my secret identity mailbox, and pop, there’s BH again, wants to chat. We do. Now I’m free to touch myself.
11.30 a.m: Yoga, then lunch. Feel like self.
1 p.m: Workaholic mode.
5 p.m: Need something to eat before theatre. Decide to spoil myself with old favorite. As far as I can, I eat here before exposing myself to Midtown madness.
7 p.m: Embarrass myself by cleaning out handbag at restaurant, putting condoms on the counter. Don’t notice before eight pairs of eyes look at me as if I were a slut. F.U.C.K. 80 yr old woman next to me gives me comforting look, patting my hand and croaking “I wish I could be young again”. Whole counter crack up in laughter. You gotta love New York.
7.15 p.m: Hot Italian tourist slips me his check, saying “I shhiiiink ‘is juuurs”, which I gather means he thinks it’s mine. He’s wrong, I just paid, but take a look yet the same, noticing hand writing. Message says: “Want use an condoms? Mens room 3 minutes”. Guy has balls.
7.18 p.m: Why not? Sneak out to bathroom. Place has those nasty boxes in a row, but choosing the men’s was smart. No line, less of a risk being discovered.
7.42 p.m: Am so F-ing late. I hate Times Square. I hate tourists. And I say this with the passion of a person having consciously chosen NYC as THE place to live: IF YOU CAN’T WALK THE CITY, STAY THE F OUT OF IT! A woman even steps my toe, so heavily blood splatters, before she turns, smiling!“Sorry, I did not realize anyone was there”, she says. I feel like yelling “This is F-ING TIMES SQUARE, FOR F’S SAKE, DO YOU THINK YOU’RE ALONE?” Instead I say “Look where you put your feet, please”, no smile. She’ll tell her friends New Yorkers are rude, but what’s rude is F-ING STEPPING ON OUR FEET, LADY!
7.58 p.m: Made it.
10.45 p.m: Play over, so worth it. Crying, laughing, feeling cleansed. Call BH to ask if he feels like meeting right now, just the two of us. He can’t. Ah, never mind. Take the subway down to West 4th, want to walk home instead of changing to the F. I love to walk.
11.20 p.m: Even my hottest male friends complain they don’t know why it’s so hard to score women. This is why: Even the sluttiest only have so much time, and you’re not as creative as you think. On my way home, four guys try catcalling by Chris deBurgh. I always get that.
12.10 a.m: Home. Going to bed alone feels perfect, but I still need some self-loving to fall asleep. So much easier post O. Do not even think of calling X while I am at it.
DAY FIVE
10 a.m: Yoga. Love yoga. Am a smug bitch, but love the way my abs look because of it, too.
11.30 a.m: Online. Nothing from WH, BH wants to chat. Don’t have the time, but ask if he is ready to meet, say I want buddy there, too. He says tonight. He’ll e-mail me when and where.
11.35 a.m: Quick self-loving. V. quick.
Noon: Lunch, then theatre with GFs.
4 p.m: Play over, was great. Made me think of where I could have been in ten years: An exhausted wife and mother letting others push her around. Buy a smoothie of the street and decide to walk east to avoid TS. Let GFs loose as X calls. I tell him about the play, and before I’ve even gotten to real life comparison, he says “It wouldn’t have been like that, it would have been a new adventure”. I put the phone down and throw up on a street corner.
4.07 p.m: X back on phone, asks me what happened. It must have been the smoothie, tasted great, but stomach’s been uneasy a few days. He says he hopes I’m not coming down with the flu. I should drink some ginger tea and go to bed. Good idea. I promise to call later.
5 p.m: Starbucks, buying ginger tea and staring at X’s splitting image. Only some 20 years younger. Doppelganger notices and comes over. I explain. Say he is so much like my ex he could have been his son. Idea makes stomach turn again. DG laughs, telling me his age. Quick calculation. Possible, not likely. I say nonchalantly I hope his mother did not spend time in X’s home state approx. 24 years ago. He says she was here, and his siblings look just like him and his father. I relax and laugh. He asks me if I want to meet tonight, a friend is doing slam poetry. I say I may. Go home to sleep. Nothing from online hotties.
10 p.m: Awake. I might as well go to poetry club.
10.30 p.m: Great poetry, mostly sexual. Love this place, but haven’t been here for a long time. DG buys me a glass of wine, then drags a finger along my cleavage, asking me about the baby father. What? He says he doesn’t get why I came to see him when I am so obviously pregnant. WTF! I’m down to a size 4! Abs are flatter than ever! I am NOT pregnant and have NOT been so offended in my LIFE! Excuse including words “small frame”, “full breasts” and “looking real” doesn’t improve mood. I leave DG by counter to finish drink standing by wall.
Midnight: Burlesque. Great fun. They’re doing a tribute to Janis Joplin. I love Janis Joplin.
2 a.m: Show over, tired. Tall white in suit jacket insists on following me to my door. He says I live in a dangerous neighborhood. Oh, please. This is such a cliché.
2.20 a.m: Of course, suit jacket tries to kiss me in my street. I tell him my man is waiting upstairs. He does not seem insulted when I tell him he can catch a cab at the Bowery. I suppose he is an Uptown Uptight and do not know.
2.30 a.m: Call X and tell him about my night. He laughs. I say I love him. He says he loves me too, and we both cry.
DAY SIX
Non-sexual day with friends. I have such a great time I even forget about calling White Hottie.
DAY SEVEN
8 a.m: Workaholic mode.
11 a.m: Yoga break. Make it a double for skipping it yesterday.
1.30 p.m: Out of shower, checking e-mail. Mail from X in standard mailbox. I can’t bring myself to read it right now. Secret mailbox contains lame excuse from BH. I guess he is a fake. Nothing from WH. I guess he thinks I am fake, but send a “sorry I didn’t call” message. Then CL, see if there is any promising. There is. Duo looking great.
2 p.m: Still no lunch, busy e-mailing CL guy. Out-of-towner at Midtown hotel, buddy at work but available around four. Perfect. No risk of running into anyone I know. He asks if I can be there 03.30, see how we all feel together. I agree, log off, call Best Gay Friend telling him I am meeting a guy and am on my way to the 6 within the hour. BGF is my security guy if meeting people off the net.
2.50 p.m: Train. Eat a pizza slice on the sly, fully aware I am breaking a rule. Naughty girl.
3.35 p.m: Hotel bar, almost on time. Don’t see the duo, though. Only man is on the phone. Middle age, fat, not much taller than self. Hookups should be tall and fit. Guess I have to wait.
3.38 p.m: Low fat approaches, gives me his hand and introduces himself with e-mail name. He knows who I am, I look like my pictures. He has never looked like his. Before I can say so, he tells me he is “so sorry, but Mark can’t make it”. He claims they just got off the phone, something came up at the office. B-shit. There is no Mark. The photo e-mailed to me does not show this guy or a friend of his. I don’t want to make a scene in public, so I lower my voice, telling him I signed up for something very specific, and that he is not it. Then I leave.
4.48 p.m: Text BGF, tell him meeting is off.
5.25 p.m: Getting out at Canal. Plenty of missed calls. BGF and X. BGF is hysterical. Didn’t get my text, I haven’t heard him call. Oh, subway. I try to calm him, explaining. Decide he now needs yoga as much as me. I’ll treat him to a studio class and some drinks after.
8.30 p.m: Class over. Male teacher. BGF asks me if we can postpone drinks, he wants to hit on instructor. I declare he deserves it, kiss him, and go home. Suddenly tired.
9 p.m: X calls as I am walking home. He’s been trying earlier too, he says. I say I’ve been crazy busy. He asks if I’ve had sex. I won’t lie to him, but tell him not today. He sighs, says he still loves me and wants to marry me. I say I love him too and that he is the best. He cries. I want to cry too, but am outside and have to keep myself together.
9.30 p.m: Home. Read e-mail from X. It says “Call me, I love you”. I cry. Then decide to devote the rest of the evening to my most grandmotherly pleasures. Crossword, then vibrator.
10.20 p.m: Even the crossword is sexual today. 97 across asks for “what the ideal husband should be”. Letters three and four are both L’s, and I immediately come up with “well endowed”. Does not match. Evening project part two ensues. Need it, shall I be able to sleep.
TOTALS: Approx. 35 sessions of intercourse with four partners (three males, one female), approx. 110 orgasms with four real life partners and one online partner, one act of threesome, approx. 14 acts of eating or being eaten out, four acts of butt play (two receiving/two giving), ten acts of making out/almost making out in public/semipublic with seven partners, two acts of cybersex with one partner, one act of masturbation with vibrator, three acts of masturbation without vibrator, three sentimental phone calls with X. Twelve hours of yoga in attempts to calm mind, only about half succeeding. Zero acts of accepting proposals and one act of creative tittyfucking, plus at least ten minutes spent trying to solve this mathematics puzzle.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Pre-posting the Sex Diary: Diary from another, random day
Ok, it’s not that random, really. It was Day Eight of the Sex Diary I submitted to Daily Intel. Maths have never been my forte and I named two different days as Day Four, finishing the account of the whole week plus before I discovered. What can I say… I have other strengths.
So now I am posting this. We can call it an appetizer to tomorrow's Sex-Diary-in-full posting. Or a dessert, as it really should be, as it is chronologically coming after the main entree.
DAY EIGHT:
8 a.m: Wake up and start working.
1.30 p.m: Yoga/lunch break over. The weather is too nice to sit inside, and I take my laptop out to work there. It’s not efficient. It’s one of those days when people won’t leave me alone. Strangers shower me with compliments. Hot men bring me coffee. Tourists take their picture with me. A Florida Latino in his early twenties even has the balls to jump all over me and kiss me while we’re being photographed, without as much as asking if I am ok with it. I get mad and yell at him, then think “never mind, boy’s got guts, and it’s not worth my time”. I refuse to give him my e-mail for him to “send me the picture”, though, and I warn him that other women would have hit him over the head. He smiles sheepishly and says it was “totally worth it”. And so the day goes.
4 p.m: A Chinatown kid wants a hug and says “buti”. I am shocked that a two-year old knows the word “booty” until I realize he means to say “beauty”. I overcompensate by answering “and you are a cutie pie”. His mother does not understand enough English to make that one out, and I feel like an idiot. V. glad X didn’t see me now, as I know what he would have said. For myself, I am not so sure I’d “make a great mother”. I consider one of my points proven, though: I def. would not have been able to get much done should I have spent the day with kids. I work the best when I am left to myself.
5 p.m: Happy hour and I am hungry already. Haven’t eaten any fruit today, as I usually do between lunch and dinner. So I decide to put my laptop down, and I treat myself to a glass of rosé and a tuna steak on sidewalk café. Attention galore continues. After eating, I want to keep sitting, watching people without really talking to anyone. But I feel drunk after just those two glasses of wine, and these passersby don’t stop talking to me. So I pick up my crossword. Good idea. Ain’t drunk if you can do the crossword!
6 p.m: Realize my crossword is full of mistakes.
8 p.m: Back home with laptop, incapable of understanding how I can feel intoxicated after just a couple of glasses. I then decide evening is too young to call it a night anyway. I know I’ll start thinking of X if I stay at home. I don’t want to feel sad. So I take the subway uptown, deciding to catch some Harlem jazz. Love jazz.
10 p.m: Great jazz. Love this club.
11 p.m: Am making a new friend, a singer living nearby. She won’t sing tonight, though. We share stories, talk about music and the danger in living close to where one likes to hang. I tell her my bouncer story and admit I want to go back there to hook up with him again, and she laughs, responding “we’ve all been there”. Still, she looks sort of resigned when man after man approaches me and ignores her. Sure, anyone can accuse me of having a black man fetish, but honestly? A single white woman in a black club, looking all right, gets a whole lot more attention than she should have. My new friend is at least as good-looking as me, maybe even more so. She’s got one of these classic beauty faces, but with a white woman next to her? No one notices.
1.30 a.m: Concert over. One of the musicians offers me a ride home. He’s not drinking, and his car is just around the corner. My new girlfriend shakes her head and points her finger to me, laughing. I ape the gesture, but I still accept. Why not? I like him, we’ve already been talking a lot during his breaks.
2 a.m: Stop at diner, talking and laughing and getting a bite. I like this man, but in diner light, I can see he is too old for me.
2.30: Diner bathroom. I just got my period. Ah, never mind. One night stands on the period? Not very polite.
3 a.m: Back in car, driving across Times Square. “I bet you’ve never seen it like this”, he says. He is right, it’s empty. Strange feeling. It feels like a parallel universe. New York without a single New Yorker. Not even a tourist. My body, all of a sudden, turns cold. No people. Is this what the apocalypse looks like? Jazz musician doesn’t notice, keeps talking. After half a minute, I shake it off, continue the conversation. Man’s funny, makes me laugh.
4 a.m: Making out in car, outside my building. This is getting silly. I tell him. He laughs and keeps kissing me, craving my mouth with his, feeling up my breasts. He’s got these big amazing hands. Musician hands, muscular fingers, sensitive palms. I have been with too many jazz musicians already, but they’ve all been amazing lovers. I think about the trumpeter and his tongue. The guitarist and his hands. The saxophonist, oh-so-good with both hands and tongue. The drummer and his never failing rhythm, that cock! The singer, so curious, exploring, so young. And that bass player, going steady, and then suddenly surprising me by adding new tunes to the repertoire… This one feels great too. He’s a marvelous kisser, and he’s managed to open my bra without putting his hand inside my top. V. nice. I like it, I love it, and I know he can feel I do, but I don’t want to take him up. Not tonight. He’s too old for me and I feel tired. My period I have forgotten about. His moves turn me on, and I can tell there’s a great cock inside of those pants. It salutes me through the fabric, and I love a big cock. For a second, I consider giving him a BJ in the car. Then I remember I am outside my own building in my own street and that any one of my neighbors can see us. So I lie. I tell him I’m a tourist, staying with friends, and that I can’t bring up a man because I’m sleeping on their living room couch. He understands and tells me he’ll look me up if he ever gets to my native country. Feel slightly bad about myself, and then suddenly remember about my period. I could have just told him I got it at the diner. True excuse, no need for lies. But it's too late now.
4.30 a.m: Hits bed alone. Oh, I really need my sleep now.
So now I am posting this. We can call it an appetizer to tomorrow's Sex-Diary-in-full posting. Or a dessert, as it really should be, as it is chronologically coming after the main entree.
DAY EIGHT:
8 a.m: Wake up and start working.
1.30 p.m: Yoga/lunch break over. The weather is too nice to sit inside, and I take my laptop out to work there. It’s not efficient. It’s one of those days when people won’t leave me alone. Strangers shower me with compliments. Hot men bring me coffee. Tourists take their picture with me. A Florida Latino in his early twenties even has the balls to jump all over me and kiss me while we’re being photographed, without as much as asking if I am ok with it. I get mad and yell at him, then think “never mind, boy’s got guts, and it’s not worth my time”. I refuse to give him my e-mail for him to “send me the picture”, though, and I warn him that other women would have hit him over the head. He smiles sheepishly and says it was “totally worth it”. And so the day goes.
4 p.m: A Chinatown kid wants a hug and says “buti”. I am shocked that a two-year old knows the word “booty” until I realize he means to say “beauty”. I overcompensate by answering “and you are a cutie pie”. His mother does not understand enough English to make that one out, and I feel like an idiot. V. glad X didn’t see me now, as I know what he would have said. For myself, I am not so sure I’d “make a great mother”. I consider one of my points proven, though: I def. would not have been able to get much done should I have spent the day with kids. I work the best when I am left to myself.
5 p.m: Happy hour and I am hungry already. Haven’t eaten any fruit today, as I usually do between lunch and dinner. So I decide to put my laptop down, and I treat myself to a glass of rosé and a tuna steak on sidewalk café. Attention galore continues. After eating, I want to keep sitting, watching people without really talking to anyone. But I feel drunk after just those two glasses of wine, and these passersby don’t stop talking to me. So I pick up my crossword. Good idea. Ain’t drunk if you can do the crossword!
6 p.m: Realize my crossword is full of mistakes.
8 p.m: Back home with laptop, incapable of understanding how I can feel intoxicated after just a couple of glasses. I then decide evening is too young to call it a night anyway. I know I’ll start thinking of X if I stay at home. I don’t want to feel sad. So I take the subway uptown, deciding to catch some Harlem jazz. Love jazz.
10 p.m: Great jazz. Love this club.
11 p.m: Am making a new friend, a singer living nearby. She won’t sing tonight, though. We share stories, talk about music and the danger in living close to where one likes to hang. I tell her my bouncer story and admit I want to go back there to hook up with him again, and she laughs, responding “we’ve all been there”. Still, she looks sort of resigned when man after man approaches me and ignores her. Sure, anyone can accuse me of having a black man fetish, but honestly? A single white woman in a black club, looking all right, gets a whole lot more attention than she should have. My new friend is at least as good-looking as me, maybe even more so. She’s got one of these classic beauty faces, but with a white woman next to her? No one notices.
1.30 a.m: Concert over. One of the musicians offers me a ride home. He’s not drinking, and his car is just around the corner. My new girlfriend shakes her head and points her finger to me, laughing. I ape the gesture, but I still accept. Why not? I like him, we’ve already been talking a lot during his breaks.
2 a.m: Stop at diner, talking and laughing and getting a bite. I like this man, but in diner light, I can see he is too old for me.
2.30: Diner bathroom. I just got my period. Ah, never mind. One night stands on the period? Not very polite.
3 a.m: Back in car, driving across Times Square. “I bet you’ve never seen it like this”, he says. He is right, it’s empty. Strange feeling. It feels like a parallel universe. New York without a single New Yorker. Not even a tourist. My body, all of a sudden, turns cold. No people. Is this what the apocalypse looks like? Jazz musician doesn’t notice, keeps talking. After half a minute, I shake it off, continue the conversation. Man’s funny, makes me laugh.
4 a.m: Making out in car, outside my building. This is getting silly. I tell him. He laughs and keeps kissing me, craving my mouth with his, feeling up my breasts. He’s got these big amazing hands. Musician hands, muscular fingers, sensitive palms. I have been with too many jazz musicians already, but they’ve all been amazing lovers. I think about the trumpeter and his tongue. The guitarist and his hands. The saxophonist, oh-so-good with both hands and tongue. The drummer and his never failing rhythm, that cock! The singer, so curious, exploring, so young. And that bass player, going steady, and then suddenly surprising me by adding new tunes to the repertoire… This one feels great too. He’s a marvelous kisser, and he’s managed to open my bra without putting his hand inside my top. V. nice. I like it, I love it, and I know he can feel I do, but I don’t want to take him up. Not tonight. He’s too old for me and I feel tired. My period I have forgotten about. His moves turn me on, and I can tell there’s a great cock inside of those pants. It salutes me through the fabric, and I love a big cock. For a second, I consider giving him a BJ in the car. Then I remember I am outside my own building in my own street and that any one of my neighbors can see us. So I lie. I tell him I’m a tourist, staying with friends, and that I can’t bring up a man because I’m sleeping on their living room couch. He understands and tells me he’ll look me up if he ever gets to my native country. Feel slightly bad about myself, and then suddenly remember about my period. I could have just told him I got it at the diner. True excuse, no need for lies. But it's too late now.
4.30 a.m: Hits bed alone. Oh, I really need my sleep now.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Why can't the idiots leave NYC because of "the recession"????
Some women are idiots. Lots of men are idiots, too, but let me tear these women apart first, because today, they’re who provoke me the most. I read this article in NYMag’s Daily Intel just now. It annoyed me so much I temporarily lost the ability to spell.
It deals with dating during the recession. And ”deals” seems to be the word. Certain women are complaining men can’t afford to take them on dates. Certain men are complaining women won’t date them because they can’t afford "real" dates. All those ”best things in life are free” stuff aside (what’s WRONG with a walk on Brooklyn Bridge and/or some happy hour drinks?) what made me the most mad was not these people’s lack of creativity, but their stuffed up ideas on what a date should be AND what a man should pay for AND what a woman ”deserves” for accepting to give him a portion of her time (as if he doesn’t have to spend time with her and her fucked up ideas of the whole dating ”business” too). Of course, the real reason I’m really so freakin’ mad right now, is that this is too very telling of what they think about what kind of balance their (STILL POTENTIAL!) relationship should have later on. I know I’m not exactly at my most balanced myself for the time being, just having broken up with the love of my life for not wanting to give up my career, but still: WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE? WHAT THE F ARE THEY THINKING?
Why, oh why, should the most important part of a date be to compare bank accounts? What happened to meeting people to get to know them, see if you feel attracted to them, see if you have fun with them, and, most importantly, see if you want to drag them somewhere private IMMEDIATELY RIGHT THIS SECOND and fuck them like crazy? Seriously – are you planning to be a stay-at-home-Mom before you even know if working-overtime-Dad can get it up???? These people sort of confirm the old idea that the most idiotic of women only want one thing for themselves: To bear so many children they can be sure to pass idiocy on to new generations.
One of the women in this article puts it this way: If he can't afford to take her to lunch (“nothing fancy, just a casual place to sit and get to know each other”) he probably shouldn't be dating. ”He shouldn't bring someone in his life if he can barely take care of himself," she said. SERIOUSLY: SHE should not be dating if finding a man TO TAKE CARE OF HER is her objective. A woman who goes on a first date to find a man rich enough to keep her at home painting her nails does not need a date, but a more fun job for herself.
What’s talking next may be my Scandinavian upbringing, but I’ll say it yet the same: A woman is not adult until she can pay for herself AND take care of herself. A woman who is not adult should NOT be dating. Sure, it’s nice being treated. Sure, it’s great to see that a man is eager enough to see you he wants to give you a present or take you somewhere special or do something special for you or with you. Yes, it’s great feeling important to a man, and a nice date can give you that feeling. But that should come from the way he pays attention to you, NOT how much he spends while doing it. YOU, sister, are responsible for your own economy and taking care of yourself, and that goes whether you’re dating or in an actual relationship. The man’s ONE AND ONLY responsibility is taking care of himself. OK, should you decide to get married and have kids and see it necessary that one of you stays at home, blahblahblah and so on, the other has to make enough money to support the whole family. But ONE LITTLE DATE? Screw the whole thing, if what he has in his back pocket is more important to you than what’s between his pockets in the front.
Rant over.
It deals with dating during the recession. And ”deals” seems to be the word. Certain women are complaining men can’t afford to take them on dates. Certain men are complaining women won’t date them because they can’t afford "real" dates. All those ”best things in life are free” stuff aside (what’s WRONG with a walk on Brooklyn Bridge and/or some happy hour drinks?) what made me the most mad was not these people’s lack of creativity, but their stuffed up ideas on what a date should be AND what a man should pay for AND what a woman ”deserves” for accepting to give him a portion of her time (as if he doesn’t have to spend time with her and her fucked up ideas of the whole dating ”business” too). Of course, the real reason I’m really so freakin’ mad right now, is that this is too very telling of what they think about what kind of balance their (STILL POTENTIAL!) relationship should have later on. I know I’m not exactly at my most balanced myself for the time being, just having broken up with the love of my life for not wanting to give up my career, but still: WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE? WHAT THE F ARE THEY THINKING?
Why, oh why, should the most important part of a date be to compare bank accounts? What happened to meeting people to get to know them, see if you feel attracted to them, see if you have fun with them, and, most importantly, see if you want to drag them somewhere private IMMEDIATELY RIGHT THIS SECOND and fuck them like crazy? Seriously – are you planning to be a stay-at-home-Mom before you even know if working-overtime-Dad can get it up???? These people sort of confirm the old idea that the most idiotic of women only want one thing for themselves: To bear so many children they can be sure to pass idiocy on to new generations.
One of the women in this article puts it this way: If he can't afford to take her to lunch (“nothing fancy, just a casual place to sit and get to know each other”) he probably shouldn't be dating. ”He shouldn't bring someone in his life if he can barely take care of himself," she said. SERIOUSLY: SHE should not be dating if finding a man TO TAKE CARE OF HER is her objective. A woman who goes on a first date to find a man rich enough to keep her at home painting her nails does not need a date, but a more fun job for herself.
What’s talking next may be my Scandinavian upbringing, but I’ll say it yet the same: A woman is not adult until she can pay for herself AND take care of herself. A woman who is not adult should NOT be dating. Sure, it’s nice being treated. Sure, it’s great to see that a man is eager enough to see you he wants to give you a present or take you somewhere special or do something special for you or with you. Yes, it’s great feeling important to a man, and a nice date can give you that feeling. But that should come from the way he pays attention to you, NOT how much he spends while doing it. YOU, sister, are responsible for your own economy and taking care of yourself, and that goes whether you’re dating or in an actual relationship. The man’s ONE AND ONLY responsibility is taking care of himself. OK, should you decide to get married and have kids and see it necessary that one of you stays at home, blahblahblah and so on, the other has to make enough money to support the whole family. But ONE LITTLE DATE? Screw the whole thing, if what he has in his back pocket is more important to you than what’s between his pockets in the front.
Rant over.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Cats and dogs and Sonia Sotomayor
Some people, not known for their racial sensibilities, now claim Sonia Sotomayor is a racist. A «new racist», they call it, to make sure their audience will understand her background is different from the «old racist»’s.
She once said: «I would hope that a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experience would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white man who hasn’t lived that life».
As those of us being experienced in reading now can tell, Sotomayor spoke about the value of a diverse life experience. She did not value people of one ethnic background higher than another. That the «certain people» I am talking about fail to understand the truth in this, or that they choose to twist it their way, does not make our new Bronx born hero a racist. It rather proves her point, and it shows «old racism» is still alive and kicking.
Let me put it this way: Of course an underdog is more street smart than a house cat. Only the house cat can fail to see the truth in this. True, it is not as if house cats do not have a certain knowledge of their own. They know where the milk is kept. They know how to purr to get it. But one does not need to be an underdog to hope that the new home owner will dole out the milk in a more just manner than the last. Sure, for himself, he does not regard pedigree the same way as the one who just moved out, but this gentleman, too, will have to consider what the neighbors think, or he will be forced to move again.
Sonia Sotomayor is a street dog having been accepted within the house. House needs a new watch dog, and she can do the job. She’s among the lucky few and she knows it. But she has not gotten her own food bowl yet. The house cats show their claws, scratch and scream and try kicking her out in the cold. They’d rather have a lapdog doing the service the way they direct him to. Let’s hope their meowing won’t keep the home’s family up at night. Owner needs to stay calm to do his job to feed his family, cats and dogs included, and he should be able to focus his energy on that, rather than on silencing the cats’ complaints.
Me, I am an alley cat. I was born a house cat, with what they call the finest of pedigrees in the richest of houses. But I found my golden cage a bit too tight. I wanted to roam the world, and one of those days, I simply slipped out the back door. I was just a kitten, really, and luckily, they hadn’t started breeding on me yet. I easily adjusted to the alleys. I am fully aware I am among the privileged here too. My pedigree is visible. My manners are exquisite, but I know how to fight. I don’t have to resort to catching my own prey, but can eat the leftovers from the fancy restaurants, and the chefs will even stroke my back so I purr when I do it. I know, too, that if something should change, say, if one of my friends should knock me up, I could go back to the garage to deliver my offspring. Some house would most likely take me in if I wanted to, whatever reason. I don’t need to fear that exterminators will get to me, I know how to avoid them.
But, exterminators, and house cats: Don't you dare thinking, for even a second, that looking like you make me agree with you. I can assure you of this. I will kick and scream and scratch you with my claws, when you target one of my fellow animal friends. Keep this up, and you’ll have to watch your eyes and lick your wounds before you know it. And there are other cats like me in this world too, you know. When survival of the fittest rules, we’re a great deal stronger than you.
She once said: «I would hope that a wise Latina woman with the richness of her experience would more often than not reach a better conclusion than a white man who hasn’t lived that life».
As those of us being experienced in reading now can tell, Sotomayor spoke about the value of a diverse life experience. She did not value people of one ethnic background higher than another. That the «certain people» I am talking about fail to understand the truth in this, or that they choose to twist it their way, does not make our new Bronx born hero a racist. It rather proves her point, and it shows «old racism» is still alive and kicking.
Let me put it this way: Of course an underdog is more street smart than a house cat. Only the house cat can fail to see the truth in this. True, it is not as if house cats do not have a certain knowledge of their own. They know where the milk is kept. They know how to purr to get it. But one does not need to be an underdog to hope that the new home owner will dole out the milk in a more just manner than the last. Sure, for himself, he does not regard pedigree the same way as the one who just moved out, but this gentleman, too, will have to consider what the neighbors think, or he will be forced to move again.
Sonia Sotomayor is a street dog having been accepted within the house. House needs a new watch dog, and she can do the job. She’s among the lucky few and she knows it. But she has not gotten her own food bowl yet. The house cats show their claws, scratch and scream and try kicking her out in the cold. They’d rather have a lapdog doing the service the way they direct him to. Let’s hope their meowing won’t keep the home’s family up at night. Owner needs to stay calm to do his job to feed his family, cats and dogs included, and he should be able to focus his energy on that, rather than on silencing the cats’ complaints.
Me, I am an alley cat. I was born a house cat, with what they call the finest of pedigrees in the richest of houses. But I found my golden cage a bit too tight. I wanted to roam the world, and one of those days, I simply slipped out the back door. I was just a kitten, really, and luckily, they hadn’t started breeding on me yet. I easily adjusted to the alleys. I am fully aware I am among the privileged here too. My pedigree is visible. My manners are exquisite, but I know how to fight. I don’t have to resort to catching my own prey, but can eat the leftovers from the fancy restaurants, and the chefs will even stroke my back so I purr when I do it. I know, too, that if something should change, say, if one of my friends should knock me up, I could go back to the garage to deliver my offspring. Some house would most likely take me in if I wanted to, whatever reason. I don’t need to fear that exterminators will get to me, I know how to avoid them.
But, exterminators, and house cats: Don't you dare thinking, for even a second, that looking like you make me agree with you. I can assure you of this. I will kick and scream and scratch you with my claws, when you target one of my fellow animal friends. Keep this up, and you’ll have to watch your eyes and lick your wounds before you know it. And there are other cats like me in this world too, you know. When survival of the fittest rules, we’re a great deal stronger than you.
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