All About Oral: Odor, Etiquette, and Why Some Women Don't Want It
So, I received an interesting email recently, and the reader had this to ask:I was wondering what your opinion is on oral sex etiquette. For guys AND girls, is one obliged to kiss someone who just finished going down on you? If your partner doesn’t feel like swallowing, what should he do about his come?Personally, I can’t wait to kiss a guy who’s just gone down on me. I’m not really sure why it is, but I like to think that a) it shows my appreciation, and b) he finds it hot. Similarly, if I go down on a guy, I also can’t wait to kiss him afterwards.
I find those kisses the hottest, most intense a kiss can get. I look forwards to them every time. Besides, planting a smacker on your lover after they've gone down on you is the subtle way of making sure you're tasting great.
I've often grabbed the guy mid-oral, made him kiss me, find out the taste-test way if I'm tasting as clean as I want, and if I am, he's shipped back south to finish the job, and my fears and insecurities are abated. Smart, crafty? Of course I am.
;)
I think it’s rude, really, not to kiss your lover after having received their oral services. I don’t know why, but I do. I’m not sure there’s a hard-and-fast rule out there, but really, if you avoid a lover who’s just been indulging in your bodily juices and such, it communicates that you’re repulsed by yourself.
It’s not that sexy. Own your sexuality, own your body, and prove it with a post-oral kiss.
When it comes to swallowing, I’m not one of those “good girls swallow” proponents.
I often don’t. It’s different in a relationship, I suppose, and it depends entirely on his hygiene and his personal flavours. I’ve occasionally swallowed, and the first time I ever did it, it was by accident and I was surprised it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as I thought it’d be.
I’ve sometimes chosen in the past to let a guy ejaculate in my mouth, and as I’ve snaked back up his body, kissing everywhere I go, I’ve deposited bits back on him, and then we kissed and squirmed happily together. I think it doesn’t really matter too much, but guys absolutely love a girl that swallows, not only because her lips are around him as he orgasms in that happy, warm place, but because it shows she accepts him in entirety, and that’s arousing no matter what sex you are.
If you haven’t brought him to orgasm orally, then it comes down to either finishing inside you, or by manual means, in which case either a condom catches the ejaculate, or it “goes where it goes.
” Again, what happens with his come in a manual situation’s pretty much up to you, him, and the moment. There’s no real etiquette involved. Want it on your belly?
Great. Want to take the chance that he’s not a squirter and your walls or floor won’t catch it? Great.
Do whatever strikes you as the right way to go.
It comes down to general health as well as diet.What can a guy (or gal) do to change the flavour of their ejaculate/personal juices?
Are you prone to infections? There might be little you can do to change flavours if UTIs and/or other infections find you regularly.
But usually it’s a diet-related thing.
Most sources tell you that a meat-heavy diet can result in a more bitter-tasting sperm. Rumour has it that vegetarians have the best taste out there. (For some reason, I just find vegetarians a little less sexy, though.
There’s something odd about a man who doesn’t like sinking his teeth in meat, you know?) Focusing your diet on more carbohydrates, fruits, and vegetables, as well as drinking a lot of water and other pure, non-sweetened juices can do a lot to giving you a better flavour (and odour).
Smoking, coffee, and alcohol can also result in a bitter, unpleasant come.
You want to eat foods rich in anti-oxidants, high in fibre, and with lots of juice content. Pineapple juice is thought to be one of the best things you can drink in regards to improving your flavour, and is great for overall health anyhow. Drinks like blueberry juice and cranberry juice are also great in this regard.
Celery is said to be a terrific food for come.
If you’re really wanting to get serious about things, you could invest in quality juicing at home. Cucumber, celery, pineapple, ginger, and so forth, all mixed together with some protein supplement can really help you develop a sweet, nutty flavour.
There are pills on the market that swear by improving the flavour of come, but what they don’t tell you is that the pills are rich in things like ginger, aromatic herbs and spices, and vegetable supplements. Sticking to a diet that’s rich in spices like ginger, low in sodium, high in natural sweeteners, will do the same trick.
There are women who resist having men go down on them.
These women are resistant for a number of reasons.
One, maybe they just don’t like oral. Strange, but true.
Oral’s a very intense experience, as most of us know, and for some, it’s simply too intense.
Two, they’ve had bad experiences. Lovers can be idiots.
We can say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, and it can turn a pleasant experience into a scarring one. It’s hard to shake the memory of someone who’s been a thoughtless lover, and it takes patience and encouragement and support to overcome a negative experience.
Three, they have a history of infections.
Some women are predisposed to infections. Maybe they swim in natural bodies of water too often, maybe they have a bad habit of shaving their legs in the tub, maybe they have poor post-workout hygiene, maybe they’re just built that way. Whatever the case, a history of infections can leave a woman with a really negative sense of herself and her privates.
Four, they simply have a negative sense of their personal odours. Like most women, I’ve had times when I’ve been self-conscious about my odour. I’ve avoided intimacy with a guy based on paranoia, not reality.
In the end, I’ve come to learn that I generally smell the way I’m supposed to, and I have an average, if not desirable, taste to me. The only way a woman overcomes these sensitivities is by way of supportive, open lovers who offer compliments and kindness, not crass observations. The odour a woman emits is filled with the pheromones that turn men on, but the pheromones don’t work on us.
Instead, it makes us paranoid. I actually worked in a fish restaurant as a teen, and was belittled by guy friends for smelling fishy after work. For years, I’d have issues about any odours my vagina emitted, and was never able to relax when a man went down on me, not until my mid-20s.
Five, your guess is as good as mine. I recently did the piece “Twats and Knives: Together at Last” in which I discussed the new trend of women getting cosmetic surgery done on their pussies. Why would a woman do that?
Who knows. It’s not always something we’ll understand.
The point is, whatever the reason, some women aren’t into letting a man perform orally.
If you’re a woman and you’re really, really concerned about your odours and tastes, you might want to try douching. It’s not something you should do regularly, as it kills natural bacteria that can fight infections, but if it’s something that gets you past the fear of having a man perform on you, then maybe it’s something worth trying. Including things like pineapple, ginger, celery, and other juice-altering foods in your diet might also give you a better sense of your emissions and scents.
If you’re a guy and you know she won’t let you go down on her, then don’t force the issue. Instead, sometime when you’re fingering her, you can lick your fingers and tell her you love the way she tastes, and you wish you could try it firsthand sometime. Comment on how her natural scents get you aroused.
Linger by her belly, kissing her groin and surrounding areas, and toy with her, breathe her in. Don’t be obvious and say all the positive comments all at once, just occasionally make statements, and you’ll probably slowly wear down her resistance.
Insecurities are a hard thing to overcome, and as women, we’re barraged by advertisements on television that tell us we have to worry about our smells.
Once every month, we get periods and there’s always inevitably that moment where we discover it’s a little on the ripe side. It’s not a wonder that women have insecurities about their sexual juices and aromas; it’s a wonder we ever overcome it, considering all the crap we see in the media. Any woman who’s ever had a yeast infection and has seen that look on their doctor’s face as he/she describes the “cottage cheese” within her knows how awkward it can feel to be aware of this thing growing inside of her.
It’s a struggle to overcome the paranoia, but supportive lovers get us there.
It's the organic version of what sex represents, essentially -- you become one through your exchanges. I really like that idea. Pretty cool.
It turns out the Supreme Court of the US has decided not to hear a case on internet-based obscenity, meaning that internet obscenity laws are to be decided on a local basis. IE, small towns can decide what's "obscene" on the internet.
Think about this for a minute.
REALLY fucking think about the ramifications of this, people. This is huge. You're going to have Buttfuck, Idaho deciding on whether or not materials that are being used and seen by people AROUND THE WORLD are obscene.
.. in the land of "free press.
"
It all comes back to you. Your vote. It comes down to voting for leaders and politicians because you're looking for a fucking tax break, but you fail to realize the implications of what that leader's choices for life-long appointments to the Supreme Court are. Life-long: Meaning decades of deciding the interpretation of YOUR constitution.
You want to tell me that America's passion for freedom of speech is greater than any other nation's. Not anymore.
Never has been. That's the greatest lie ever told, my friends.
This year's the 40th anniversary of the death of Lenny Bruce -- a guy who met the wrong end of every obscenity law ever passed in the US.
Four decades have passed, and this is the bullshit that's starting to cycle back into action.
AGAIN, I ask you: Where is your voice?
The timing of that news is just strange, since I'd planned to post this today anyhow.
A sad fucking day for freedoms, my friends. Know that.
To tell the truth, I’m barely a reader today. I seldom settle in with a book, but I hope to change that behaviour.
I recently took some time to organize my bookshelves, and this book in the photo, my tattered copy of Lenny Bruce’s How to Talk Dirty Influence People, still stands up on display, right behind my grandmother’s 1955 rotary dial phone, which still rattles and rings anytime someone dials me up.
Next to it, a first-edition of the Arrow paperback version of HST’s Fear Loathing in Las Vegas.
When I was 18, my narrow, protected view of the world was shattered by HST, but then came Lenny. Like HST’s classic tome, it gets off to an unforgettable start – particularly if you’re an 18-year-old kid.
Unbelievably, I had the balls to recommend this to my 14 year old student last week.
“Filipinos come quick; colored men are built abnormally large (“Their wangs look like a baby’s arm with an apple in its fist”); ladies with short hair are lesbians; if you want to keep your man, rub alum on your pussy.Lenny Bruce, if you’ve never heard much about the dude, was a pioneering comic who broke all the rules. The Jim Morrison of comedy, he had his ass busted for obscenity more times than Dick Nixon would proclaim he was not a crook.
Such bits of erotic folklore were related daily to my mother by Mrs.Janesky, a middle-aged widow who lived across the alley, despite the fact that she had volumes of books delivered by the postman every month -- A Sane Sex Life, Ovid the God of Love, How to Make Your Marriage Partner More Compatible--in plain brown wrappers marked “Personal.”
She would begin in a pedantic fashion, using academic medical terminology, but within ten minutes, she would be spouting her hoary hornyisms. Their conversation drifted to me as I sat under the sink, picking at the ripped linoleum, day-dreaming and staring at my Aunt Mema’s Private Business, guarded by its sinkmate, the vigilant C-N bottle, vanguard of Lysol, Zonite, and Massengill.
At this tender age, I knew nothing of douches. The only difference between men and women was that women always had headaches and didn’t like whistling or cap guns; and men didn’t like women – that is, women they were married to.
Aunt Mema’s Private Business, the portable bidet, was a large red-rubber bulb with a long black nozzle.I could never figure out what the hell it was for. I thought maybe it was an enema bag for people who lived in buildings with a super who wouldn’t allow anyone to put up nails to hang things on; I wondered if it was the horn Harpo Marx squeezed to punctuate his silent sentences. All I knew was that it was not to be used for water-gun battles, and that what it was for was none of my business.
When you’re eight years old, nothing is any of your business.”
It was on his heels, on his ground-breaking sacrifices and legal hassles that Richard Pryor and every other comedian would follow. Without Lenny Bruce, there might not have been a Pryor, or a Hicks, or a Rock, or a Leary. Lenny Bruce said fuck you to the man, and he said what was on his mind.
These days, there’s something still admirable about someone with the balls to say “What you think is obscene is what others do behind closed doors.” As someone I quite like recently said, let’s meet at the corner of The 21st Century and Get Over It.
Laws of acceptability are drawn by people with the courage (or the accidental happening) to push envelopes in defiance of what accepted norms are.
For instance, fucking can now be used as an adjective after 10 pm all because Bono accidentally said it as such during a broadcast of (insert irrelevant music awards ceremony name here).
But the ones who discover whole new lands, they’re the journeymen like Bruce because they’re the ones who consciously know what the accepted is, but choose to go far beyond it, consequences be damned.
You open to any fucking page, anywhere, and there’s something that even today is relevant.
Me, my copy’s so fucking tattered it’s permanently mated with an elastic band, the only thing that holds it together. The page where the spine breaks clean in half, page 91, yielded this pearl from 1963, 10 years before my birth.
“Why don’t religious institutions use their influence to relieve human suffering instead of sponsoring such things as the Legion of Decency, which dares to say it’s indecent that men should watch some heavy-titted Italian starlet because to them breasts are dirty?So many of us sex bloggers, we’re up in arms against this Moralizing of North America; the legislative attempts to arbitrate morality; this pitiful attempt to turn back the clock and eradicate sex and desire from the consciousness of the average person.
Beautiful, sweet, tender, womanly breasts that I love to kiss; pink nipples that I love to feel against my clean-shaven face. They’re clean!”
Got news for you, folks. We’ve been fighting this battle for decades. Whether it’s a brilliant writer and commentator like Lenny Bruce or a filthy fat fuck like Larry Flynt, the battles ain’t new, the war ain’t new, and the blood’s long from dry.
What’s different now, though, is the medium. Enter blogging. Enter podcasting.
Enter streaming video. Now we have a voice. Now we don’t have to wait any longer for a voice crying out in the night, for a black-as-hell knight to ride in with a filthy leer and a winning argument.
Now the undersexed, underfucked, randy-as-hell, crop-flogging, chain-wearing, paddle-using, nymphomaniacal, cross-dressing, same-sex fucking, porn-loving, and swinging folks, NOW they all have the ability to have a voice.
The thing about activism is that it’s not about ground breaking wide open in one fell swoop. Like any hole, it start with one push of the shovel.
And another. And another. There will be rocks and boulders that limit progress, but with persistence, it all comes out.
The greater the chorus of resistance, the harder it is to ignore. The greater the groundswell, the more ground we can break.
Unfortunately for the battle, Lenny Bruce died too fucking young.
He should’ve died right around now, in his 80th year. Instead, a needle in his arm, he toppled off his toilet, and crashed to his death – a disgraced, bloated man who was mocked and ridiculed out of the mainstream, and instead, placed post-humously upon a pedestal by those who would continue to wage what was known as his crusade against semantics.
“One last four-letter word for Lenny.
Dead.
At 40.
That’s obscene.”
And still, here we are, fighting for the same things, dreaming of the same freedoms as this long-dead Jewish-American comedian, in this, the 21st century.
The Weekend Blues
I’m a sucker for makeover shows. I’m addicted to TLC’s What Not To Wear. In fact, I’d say it’s played a major part in why I’ve lost 50 lbs, and why I will continue to take another 35 or so off. It’s why I wear makeup religiously again, something I got out of the habit of when life turned to shit at age 25. It’s why I’ve gotten hip and cute and usually find myself winking or smiling at myself when I pass a mirror (a conscious thing).
Self-esteem was something I just never had.
I never really liked myself and always considered myself an ugly duckling and uncool. I played the role of cool chick with cool attitude when I was out of high school and in early college, and always hung with the older, cooler crowd, but deep down inside, I felt I was a poseur.
There are days, still, when I’m left feeling like a poseur.
I’m genuinely shocked when I get emails and comments from people praising my writing, for example. I can’t fathom what folks see in it – some days. And other days, I feel like I’m really all that.
It’s a constant struggle, loving oneself, but it’s a fight worth fighting.
I get asked from time to time how one copes with being single. I’ll tell you, I’ve got experience in that.
When my life went to hell in a handbasket at age 25, with the demise of a longtime relationship, the death of my mother, and other fun events, the last thing I was interested in was my image. The next last thing I cared about was a relationship. I knew myself well enough to know that getting into a relationship would be a death knell for me.
It would, inevitably, go bad. (I mean, let’s face it – the average relationship is 90% likely to die within four years, and we all know relationships seldom go gently into thy good night.) And when it went bad, I would blame myself, hate myself, and go into a blind rage at He Who Caused It – and I knew it’d all be displaced anger I felt over all the other shit that was going on, and I knew it’d mean I wasn’t dealing with what needed to be dealt with.
So, I stayed single. For five years. I won’t even tell you what happened with sex – the occasional fling, which didn’t do much to help the self-esteem issue and instead left me hating myself even more.
I learned that having sex for fun is one thing, but having sex to fill emotional needs that aren’t really being met, that’s just destructive. So I stopped getting laid, too, and got my shit together first.
I had a serious car accident and was lucky – the insurance company paid for me to have a personal trainer.
Her name was Christine and wherever she is now, she played a major role in teaching me to learn to love myself and appreciate my health. I was fat, I was depressed, I was angry, and I had little to be thankful for, I thought, but I pushed myself despite the world of physical pain I was living in. She was incredible, she encouraged me so much and told me I was kicking ASS on her healthy, normal clients.
And I remembered something about myself – I was a determined, strong person. I can do this, I thought.
And I did.
I lost about 50 lbs over the next year or so, and have sort of stagnated for awhile, but never really gained anything back. Now, I’m losing weight again and plan to drop another 30 or 40 by September – without depriving myself of those things I love, like red wine and chocolate and all those delectable good things that add richness to my life. I’d rather bust my ass physically than lose the good things, y’know?
(Remember, I’m a big proponent of the all-sex diet. I’m not adverse to a good workout, and hey… I’m determined. ;)
But it wasn’t just the working out that helped me change.
It was realizing that I would eventually spend the rest of my life with someone, but here, now, I was alone, and the more I talked to those who were “spending their life” with the person they loved, the more I heard “I wish I could be single again, just for awhile. I’d do it differently…”
And I vowed to live my single life better. I could dine out alone with a good book and love the experience.
I’d occasionally hop on my bike, kill myself for a hardcore ride around the city, stop at a seaside café, and enjoy the moment. On Saturday nights stuck home alone, I’d have a long, lingering, oily bath and some nice red wine and make myself an incredible grilled steak meal with all the fixings. I’d enjoy the silence.
And sometimes I’d write about myself and all the things from my past and present that limited my enjoyment of life until then, and the dreams I had for my future.
Slowly, surely – and this process is ongoing, so don’t kid yourself about it being an overnight process because it takes years – I have come to love myself. Most of the time.
Like I say, there are times I don’t feel right. Times I feel like a poseur with writing. Times I feel out of my league.
But I plow through. I try to find something positive to hang onto on those days and that’s all I know I can do.
In the last couple years, I’ve had one “sort of” relationship that detonated because the guy had more baggage than a Samsonite shop, but I’ve been on an endless parade of dates with an endless assortment of men.
And none of them have been worth my time beyond that first date. No matter what I’ve learned about what I want from love, I know I love myself too much to bother getting involved with someone who’s not going to be all the things I need him to be.
I’m having a rare, rare second date tomorrow night, and I’m optimistic, but I’ll keep my mouth shut about that beyond saying this, he’s a nice guy and he’s different from most of the guys I’ve been seeing ‘cos there’s an intellectual connection that just works.
(So, possibly proof here that nice guys don’t always finish last. Take note.)
But if it doesn’t work out, you know what?
Not the end of the world. That’s just the way life goes. In the end, I’ve got myself, and that’s a pretty good consolation prize.
So, here’s the deal. If you’re stuck at home alone, sans relationship, with that “Why can’t I find anyone?” woe-is-me mindset this weekend, stop it.
Have a quality drink, a nice meal, wear whatever the hell you want, close the blinds, and have some nice time alone. Take a latenight walk with your iPOD, have a long hot bath, call someone you’ve not spoken to in ages, write a bit in your journal. But stop feeling sorry for yourself.
Being single is the freedom to be who you want to be, any time you want. And don’t forget it. Relationships, when they’re good, they’re great.
When they’re not, well, honey, you don’t need that shit. You got you. Enjoy it.
RANT: The Kid and the Long, Long Night (This is one of those things I've written spontaneously and am really very amused by. It starts slow, but bear with me.)
I should go back to bed. It’s a raining Tuesday morning and I have a few minor goals today. One, I want to write my goals.
(Ironic, isn’t that?) Two, I want to brainstorm a few ideas. Three, I want to have a nice breakfast, take a soggy walk up to the video store, come home, and write for a couple hours.
The reward? Episodes five and six of the second season of The Wire.
(If you like intelligence, you admire a well-written, complex criminal story, and you like good acting, editing, and directing (and I mentioned the writing) and you’ve not yet seen The Wire, then what, pray tell, are you waiting for?
Brilliance. Really.)
So, I sound like I’ve got it together.
Plans for a low-key day, chilling. But I should have plans for a massage. As yet?
None. Maybe he’ll call today, but right now, I just don’t give a shit. If he does, he does.
If he doesn’t, he doesn’t. I’m at that no-patience-for-men mode right now.
Let’s face it, there’s a certain point where we each get tired of the opposite sex’s bullshit in dating.
One of the luxuries of being single is that when it all gets exacerbating, we can pull up the stakes and say, “Nah, man, party of one this week.” Yeah, don’t think I ain’t considering it.
Okay, I try to keep things relatively benign here.
You don’t need to know my business. You probably want to know (filthy pervs) but you don’t need to know. Let’s break the rules this morning.
A special exception.
So, a week or so ago, I hooked up with this kid. I was going through this two week period where my hormones raged like some political coup d’etat in South America.
It was excruciating. I needed relief. I lowered the standards a bit, let’s say.
Sorry, but it’s true. Yes, I let one slip by me.
This kid.
I really, really, really hate to admit this, but I literally forget his name. I think I blocked it all out. I know I knew it earlier in the evening, but I remember thinking, at about 11, “What the fuck is his name?
” and I’ve never since found out. So, I think it starts with a J, but it might be a D, and either way, I just don’t care enough to look the damned name up. I wrote it.
Somewhere. But he’s The Kid.
I’m 32, he’s 26, not a big age difference.
The thing is, I realized right then that all the men I’ve been seeing have been 34-36 of late. It’s been wonderful. I’d always toyed more with younger guys, since I do have a pretty young disposition when I want to, given my music and culture tastes and love of rebellion and so forth.
But these guys I’ve been seeing have all kind of had it a bit more together, and certainly were far better lovers overall, with patience and dedication and openness being factored in, than I’d had in the past.
(You know, I got to say, there’s something much more attractive about divorced men now that I’ve had the privilege. They’ve had sex, regularly, and sorta know what they’re doing.So, he’s 26.Usually, even a sexless marriage means he gets out and gets free, then gets laid and gets open about it. Not an entirely bad set of circumstances, girls, if you’re looking for someone who has the geographical prowess to find your damned g-spot.)
One of these kids into
Anime and punk and foreign flicks and art-house indies and classical music on Sundays. You know how it is. “I am artist, hear you roar.”
We hooked up for a coffee and had basically already said we’d watch a foreign flick, cuddle up with blankets and some wine, watch the movie, and play with each other the whole night. Given it was snowing outside, it sounded like brilliance. We ordered Chinese in, laid about, and got pretty damned intimate.
The great thing about the couch-and-movie thing with someone you’re interested in, at the very beginning of an encounter or relationship, is that virgin groping of each others’ bodies. It lasts for a couple hours running time, and then things heat up exponentially. When you’re already in a relationship, you just press pause.
I like delay.
So, here’s where you need to know that I’ve gone from being a steamed milk lover to a vanilla lover to a malted milk lover. I ain’t chocolate yet, daddy.Necking, kissing, groping, ooh.You don’t really know much about those aspects of me, but yeah, the only thing I don’t do, really, is pain or humiliation. Maybe one day I might get interested with the right person, and I don’t rule it out at all, but this is not that day. Suffice to say, I’m certainly beyond “you show me yours, I’ll show you mine” and other basics that may well reside in another galaxy.
I obviously feel no fear about speaking out about sex, and certainly not while doing it. I’m very helpful. Older guys seem to enjoy this.
Most of the time, younger guys did, too. Again, this was not that day.
Nice. Of course, someone always needs to go to the bathroom, and it was him. Naturally, we decided the bedroom a more fitting place to play the extra innings.
Onto the bed we went.
Things escalated to all-over kissing and using fingers in orifices and all those fun things. Now, for me, I have to say the experience was a headtrip.
Longtime or thorough readers will have heard tell of
The Saga of J, that which sits unfinished still – you can read the tale in the sidebar – he was a guy I really fell for and was devastated by in my stupid 19th year, but someone I’ve always wondered what happened to. And this guy completely evoked J, except for the tendency to fumble and fuck things up a bit. J was slick, baby.I was cutting The Kid extra leeway because I knew the body type, the personality type, and for me, he was very much a throwback to that great guy who introduced me to my sexuality and gave me a glimpse at the lifestyle I now lead. Absolutely, the eyes, everything sort of reminded me of that sexy irreverent man of the past.
But make no mistake, regardless of where the “inspiration” came from, I was absolutely turned on.
It didn’t matter how he fumbled or did whatever the hell he did, I was into the moment because I was making it happen for me.
We rested later, and then after an hour or two of sleeping, I rolled over and snaked down his body and gave him a blowjob, thinking of J the entire fucking time. (Hence the post about oral last week.
) It was hot, probably last an hour or slightly longer, with a couple cuddle breaks for five, but yeah. The lights out, my mind was elsewhere. That part of the night went over very, very well.
But when he left, I knew I’d never be interested again. If you can’t get someone’s face out of your head when you’re playing with someone else, it just ain’t fair to do it again.
He left, though, because I finally rolled over, turned his face towards mine, and said simply, “You need to leave now” at 7:30am.
I mean, fuck. 7:30? I think there should be a law about inquiring in 90-minute intervals from 4:30 on about departures for first-night sleepovers.
Jesus. Then I won’t have to come shy of muttering “get the fuck out” when I need my sleep before work in the afternoon.
So, he left.
We exchanged kisses. “Another movie next time,” he said/I said. Nod.
Smooch. Buh-bye, and thanks for flying Indoor Air.
So, yesterday I encountered the kid.
“So, that’s that,” I commented.
“Yeah, well, that was no fun, you were way too aggressive,” the Kid says.
I honestly didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
I mean, if they’re rubbing something like a clit and it’s not a clit, it bears mentioning, yes? If they haven’t got a clue where the g-spot is, it’s kind of nice to give them the keys to the future,
n’est ce pas? And rolling over for an un-asked, un-told blowjob in the dead of the night, definitely a bad kind of aggression, I know, but I can’t help myself.I’m a monster. I should be locked up. Or tied up, at the very least.
Please?
Yes. You heard it here first, readers.
I’m too aggressive.
God, shoot me if I ever have to have feather sex again.** I’m implementing an “extraordinary cases only” rule about fucking guys under 30 now.
Yes, one bad apple spoiled the barrel, but shit, I’ve only heard rumours about the bad lovers thing before now. I just hate having evidence thrown in my bed. I tell you.
And on top of all that, he was the kind of guy who doesn’t pick up the condom after. Learn this, men: It pisses us off when you do that. Toilet seat up?
Not half as bad. Take your fucking condom with you. Please, and thank you.
That concludes this public service announcement.
End rant. Thank you for listening.
Now, which coffee shall I brew?
*To hell with the massage guy. I’m post-poning him if he calls.
Last thing I need is a man today. Sorry, boys. Usually, I love you all.
Come back tomorrow, today is not your day. Oh, by the way? The Kid?
Never did have sex with him. Whew. At least I can feel better about keeping my dignity there.
But the irony is, on his way out, he says, "So, you gonna write about me?" I wonder if this is what he had in mind.
**Oh, my, don't let this be misinterpreted.
I like it slow'n'sensual, but c'mon, don't you usually buy the multi-speed model, too? Get serious. Variety!
Mm! It's why they made seven days every week. You can do it again tomorrow -- different, like!
One where he’s told every day he needs to be sensitive to the plight of others, and at the same time, he’s told to be a “real man.”
So, which is it? What do women really want?
I can’t speak for all women, but I can certainly speak for myself, and don’t kid yourself. I don’t think I’m too far off from the masses on this one. But because I sometimes find it easier to write in the collective voice, I shall do that for this piece.
Thus, the royal “we” shall be affected throughout much of this, but it really means “me, the
prima donna, I think this.”First, this question was asked in earnest by both Albion and Mad Coyote this morning. But it’s been on my mind for two or three weeks now.
I’ve tried writing before now, but I’m having a hard time. It’s hard to put a finger on all the gender problems we’re currently afflicted with, because man, they’re a-plenty.
I’m a feminist with a twist.
I love ze men. I love masculinity. I don’t want equality, I just want to do what I want to do.
I think my gender’s in my favour, especially given that this writing’s something I love to do. But there’re a lot of fucking problems between men and women in this day and age, and the definitions of “feminine” and “masculine” are a great place to start.
Tackling both is too much in one post, so let’s talk about the boys, then, and just this issue of sensitivity.
A reader recently asked me what women think of men who cry in sad movies and the like. I flat-out said it was sissy. And it is.
A guy who gets a sniffle, okay. Maybe he gulps, you know, that’s sexy. That’s hot.
He’s affected. A guy who breaks down with some tears coming down his cheek, I’m sorry, but it’s perceived as weakness.
“Sensitive” means acutely affected, easily affected, so the word itself is actually the wrong word, and it’s part of the problem.
It's grown past being a mere issue of semantics. It's simply the wrong word. We don’t want sensitive men.
We want empathetic men. We want open men. Men who can understand where we’re coming from, who can be of support, who can express their sentiments about any manner of topic.
If you crumble, you are of no use to us. If you crumble, you defeat the purpose for us to pairbond with you.
As a woman, I am well aware of a few things.
I am strong, I am creative, I am resourceful, I am sometimes indefatigable. And sometimes, I am emotional. Sometimes it’s nice to have a man around who is empathetic, but not overwhelmed.
Then he becomes a pillar for me. His stoic aspects influence me, and I remember to look at things more objectively. It’s a yin to my yang.
It’s no secret, men and women tend to deal with problems and such in slightly different manners. Sometimes it’s nice to have that juxtaposition there. But if you get overly affected, overly emotional, you are of no use.
Period. It’s that simple.
There are times when a man can cry and it would be understandable.
The death of a parent or a friend, that sort of thing. At that moment, I’d be moved for him. I’d want to be his world, to help make it all better.
I’d never forsake a guy at that moment. Three weeks later and the mood’s still there? It’s hard to deal with as a chick.
When a man’s crumbled, it’s just a hard thing to see sometimes. To have that state maintain, it can begin to affect us on some pretty deep levels, too, and that’s hard to sometimes handle.
Remember 9/11, the horrible fucking footage of that day from the streets of New York?
It was unthinkable to see the towers, but devastating when the cameras took in the faces of the aghast men in the street. The women, crying, that was almost typical – tragic, but typical. I can remember the face of this one burly man, though.
A big broad man in his 40s of Irish or Scottish heritage, a ruddy complexion, piercing blue eyes, and he was staring up at that soon-to-topple tower, with people running in fear and panic all around him, dust filling the streets, screams and sirens raging in the background. His eyes were turning violently red, tears streaming down his face, and his body heaving with his gasps and sobs, his cries muffling in his throat, as he stood there fucking horrified at all this tragedy coming down around him, fully aware his life was changing then and there, and nothing would ever, ever be the same.
And that broke my fucking heart.
I cried like a little girl, my body wracked with sobs as it hit me, too, just how bad that day was becoming, how etched it would be.
That look, the posture, said, “This is the most horrible thing I’ve ever endured,” and anyone who saw it, we knew. We felt it, too.
And that’s the thing, when a man cries, it should be for something that would break the heart of any person, any where. Men are our measure of how bad things get. When it’s times like Hurricane Katrina or 9/11 or the Tsunami, it’s always the stricken fathers that leave us knowing how bad things have become.
So, how do you empathize just enough? It’s in the eyes, the way you listen to us. It’s in the way that you reach out to softly stroke our hands when you hear something that’s upsetting us, the timing of the squeeze after we tell you the worst of it.
Don’t respond every time we tell you something sad with a hug – it makes you look a little too soft. Stroking our hands, an arm over our shoulders – be there, but have a little distance from time to time, too. It’s really about listening, or really sharing your opinions.
Not being afraid to tell us you’re scared, but also not letting too much of it show.
But that should be true for everyone. A woman who lets all her fear show is less attractive than a woman who reveals just a glimpse of that terror.
A woman who’s strong tends to have more sex appeal than the fluffy kitten girl you know is gonna be high maintenance. It all correlates from one sex to the other, but masculinity ups the values of those traits, that’s all.
Be open about how you feel, but be a little reserved about showing too much of it, I guess.
I suspect there are some women who think I’m full of shit and way off base on this one? Lemme have it. If you agree, I’d love to know that, too.
Thanks.
(The photo up top, that's kind of a sexy image of a guy being a little overcome.)
"when you're slapped,
you'll take it.
and like it."
humprey bogart as "sam spade"
in the maltese falcon
when making Peter Lorre
his bitch.
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