Musing over Muses, or, Detox-Driven Girl-Blogger on Girl-Blogger Love

It's day eight in detox. And I think it's working. 


The first two days were predictably awful--me moping around in dumpy t-shirts with no make-up on through twitchy bouts of dopamine withdrawal, voluntarily isolated in an empty space that felt weirdly wired with a thousand eyes sardonically watching each pathetic example of my LAMENESS. It probably looked a bit like "check in" day on the shit show that is HBO's Celebrity Rehab, only no one confiscated the stash of klonopin I stuffed in a balloon and hid in my anal cavity and Dr. Drew was no where to be found, which is sad, because if he had been around I would have screwed that sexy, sensible, silver-haired poindexter until he took to his Twitter account and sent out a 140-character mayday for help.


Fortunately, around day four a few landmark things happened, one of those events being a relentless night of insomnia which would not be beaten into submission by anything, including two of the previously mentioned anally-stashed klonopin. So, like all sleep experts recommend, I stayed up until dawn going through the archives of my favorite bloggers.  


By sunrise I was delirious, overwhelmed with words and wit and bad puns and really fucking great bad puns and poetry that doesn't suck and pictures of assless leggings and months and months of the banal shit we occupy ourselves with on a daily basis that, in the hands of lesser personalities, would probably make me want to eat an entire balloon stuffed with butt-benzodiazapines...but doesn't, because when filtered through the prism of certain people it all becomes twisted, fascinating, relatable, and sometimes outright funny. And the best of it was written by women. 


Sleep-deprived and barely lucid, laying in someone's empty bed with dawn lapping at my face, my brain spun a wild, tongue-in-cheek Sapphic monologue, a talent-crush fantasy strewn with hyperlinks:


"I need an escape from my self-absorbed prison, where I let male guards piss in my cell and then ask why the floors are so sticky. 


Maybe I'll take off to Texas and have a torrid affair with the Hipstercrite, plying her with PBR until she blacks out and I can steal from her closet. But only after her cool Austin buds bail us out of jail, because if she (and this brain) and I meet and alcohol is involved we will inevitably get ourselves arrested...


...or maybe it's about staying local and fucking My Soul is a Butterfly's Hannah Miet like a palindrome, which is fine because she likes shit like that that. And when I'm through I'll loll naked and tangled in her sheets, praying she'll read a stanza of the poetry that flows through her as naturally as blood so I know what real poetry sounds like out loud... 


...I could marry The Sassy Curmudgeon, especially after this brilliant piece of insightful comedic foreplay, but someone beat me to it and she blogs about him frequently, and he really looks better with facial hair than I and I couldn't deal with the competition...


...I would fall for Ashley of lesbifriends, but it would never work out since her lesbian pals would find my bisexuality suspect and tear us apart like Tony and Maria (Toni and Maria?). So I'll just read posts like this on a fire escape "somewhere" (ha, get it? Oh man. Musical theater jokes. You hit the jackpot today guys...) and love her from afar...


...Meg of Blackberries to Apples is a good Southern girl who'd never tolerate my crass Northern bullshit, not even if I toned it down to write her name in the snow in romantic calligraphy like a proper suitor, but I can still watch her writing climb upwards like ivy and say that I knew her when she was a seedling...


...I've known Jenny of At a Loss for Words long enough to know she'd never biflingual, but I can certainly lay here and pray to see the world through her eyes someday, since I'd be beautiful enough to take pictures of (inside and out) if I could learn to quiet the sharpest words in my head... 


...and the first thing I'll do when I remember this ramble is thank the logical, unstoppable phenom that is Jessie at 20-Nothings, because she told me and taught me to write a blog, and opened a world beyond my old journal, and helped me find minds that make me feel crazy moments are okay, as long as you can make other people  laugh at them."


Then I finally fell asleep. I think.




So far the time in detox has done several things, some I don't totally understand. But I do understand it's made me want to spend more time in the company of minds like the ones listed above and fewer hours sequestered away obsessing like some far-off Rapunzel with an Aeon Flux bob and binoculars, as tends to happen when you get distracted by things without boobs. 

Resolutions Everyone With a Penis Should Make

In the predecessor to this post, I used some basic research and general "do as I say, not as I do" logic to get on women (yeah, go ahead, picture it) about the bullshit moves women as a gender need to axe in order to make the world a better place. Having called out vaginae across the globe, it's time to shift focus to the other end of the spectrum. Today, we're talking to you, peni.

Men, I get it: women are confusing. We've got hair triggers wired to bombs scrapped together from ovaries, tear ducts and emotions you don’t understand. We say one thing, mean another, pursue an unspoken third and expect you to navigate all three without a single fuck-up, lest the ovary-bomb detonate in your face (sometimes literally). We will, like clockwork, spoil your post-orgasm haze with excruciating over-analysis of "feelings" or some off-hand comment you delivered three weeks ago and don't even remember saying. And, when not clinging to you like koalas on eucalyptus branches, we will sometimes abandon you entirely...especially if you've developed feelings. 

Well, scrotum toters, you're no cakewalk either.

In order to help pave the divide between the sexes, I interviewed a group of 20 men and 15 women, gay and straight, single or dating, ranging in age from 22 to 56, to get a rough idea what behavioral changes would make 2010 a better year for ALL of us. Here, in no particular order, are the top five changes which could better the lives of the menfolk and the partners they love (or used to love) if implemented en masse, recognizing they're applicable to both genders:

RESOLUTIONS FOR EVERY PENIS:




1. IF YOU'RE JUST NOT THAT INTO HER, DON'T ACT LIKE YOU ARE. This one is the root of 90% of all female insanity.


Mixed signals have been a plague on humankind ever since Eve told Adam she was “totally happy” (direct quote), then took off to get happier with a fucking serpent and his quince (PS: that snake was totally gay. A quince? Really??). They’ve gotten no easier to deal with or interpret, and the reality you’ve been misled by someone you thought cared for you stings no less than being ejected from Eden.


While both genders struggle with this, the thrill of the hunt and validation of someone’s affection is something which seems to scramble the empathy chip in men faster than women. I sat over drinks with a male friend recently, watching as he rolled his eyes while his phone lit up with texts from a girl he’s been seeing several weeks without much fanfare. “She just can’t take a hint,” he groaned while nevertheless texting her back something with a cute emoticon at the end...before casually dropping how amazing sex had been with her the night before.


“Wait, so, you don’t really like her?”


“She’s cool, but not my type.”


“And you’re not interested in pursuing anything serious with her?”




“No. And I told her that.”



“But you were inside her less than 12 hours ago and are now texting her cute messages with little smiley faces?”


“Yes.”




It took everything not to reach across the table and slap him.


After a little more probing, it became clear that my friend is not a heartless cretin--just stupid. To him, the words “I’m not interested in anything serious” were in no way a contradiction to his actions. Hey, he’s warned her, right? When I explained that the combination of sex, daily texts and taking her to meet all his friends (which he did) could be interpreted as “boyfriend behavior” and would turn her into what all men fear most--a clingy, crazy woman--if he didn’t STOP, he seemed baffled.


Purposefully cultivating the affection of someone you do not have feelings for out of practice, sport, boredom or loneliness isn’t just childish--it literally breeds the sort of trust issues, game playing and maddening neuroses that can cripple the next relationship you really do want. No decent human wants to be the bad guy...but I guarantee you will be if reconciling your signals with your intentions is not a priority. If you really need the attention that badly? Get a dog.
 

2. STOP USING INFATUATION AS A BAND-AID. Again, both genders are guilty of this one, but men, largely because of the societal pressure to “man up and get over it,” are expert abusers.


Infatuation is one of the easiest and most effective remedies on the shelf. I know the set-up well: a partner breaks your heart; a major tragedy shakes you to your foundation; a difficult life change opens wounds you didn’t know you were nursing. The pain, anxiety and isolation that follows any of these events is almost too much to bear. When a distraction (particularly one with a pulse that can validate you with their attention) finally comes along, it feels like divine intervention.


Throw in a little sex and things get even better. Different from love-making, infatuated sex causes a potent cocktail of drugs to be released by the brain and into your depressed body, specifically oxytocin (a natural painkiller), vasopressin (a chemical which causes bonding between individuals) and endogenous opioids (your body’s own homegrown heroin)...basically, everything you need in that moment to feel not just human again, but superhuman.


You are not superhuman. You’re a junkie, masking the real issue with an intoxicant that makes absinthe look like O’Douls. And, like any junkie, the only way to keep the high rolling is to find the next fix. Since infatuation inevitably fades (our brains are wired to move to the next thing), a cycle begins: enter blissful plaything after plaything, each holding a fresh hit of distraction in their outstretched palm.


But infatuation is a poor dressing for wounds. It heals nothing and delays re-growth, allowing major trauma to fester for years before the smell of your damage finally alerts someone--if you’re lucky, you--that gangrene has set in. At best, you don’t lose any limbs and recover. At worst, your untended issues become your undoing...or become the kind of scars someone who would treat you the way you’ve always wanted won’t be willing to deal with.


A little post-break-up booty never hurt anyone. I’ve even practiced this ritual as a religion at times. But ignoring the heart of the matter (your own) entirely is an excellent strategy for longterm misery, and no amount of band-aids will fix a sucking chest wound.



3. STOP LYING--YOU'RE BAD AT IT. 
Men are fantastic fibbers, especially when it comes to the basics. "Where are you? Who's with you? Are you drunk? What happened?"

I've both witnessed and received completely fabricated answers to all those questions and seen them delivered with remarkable flair. But then, anywhere from a week to six months later, it comes: the inevitable fuck-up. 

The fuck-up is a two-pronged inevitability. First comes the predictable atrophying of the Male Lie. Like an overweight caribu falling behind the herd, one flubbed "fact"--a Facebook photo which contradicts the intel you gave your interrogator, a wingman's public admiration of what you had assured your woman was anything BUT bad behavior, a slip of the tongue that reveals one of your partner's rivals really WAS present on the night in question (after you said he/she was not), anything--loosens itself from your airtight story, compromising the stability of an otherwise solid untruth. This misstep then awakens an entity that has mystified and ultimately destroyed men for millenia: the Female Memory.


A Venus flytrap brimming with seemingly benign details, the Female Memory violently unwinds thousands of hidden tentacles once provoked, each demon-limb thorned with tiny details (from ex-girlfriend names to subway routes) you, the man, have long since let slip away. In a bloody scene that could have made the final cut of Clash of the Titans, these flailing appendages wind themselves around the petrified form of your flubbed factoid, slam it into the hard surface of reality until the spine shatters, then use the broken body like a hammer to break apart your lie until nothing but bare, raw truth lays naked on the ground.

More vicious than when this brutalizing happens openly (spurring a fight, an apology and, if you're lucky, make-up sex), however, is when the Female Memory rips something apart--and the woman says nothing. Sometimes we're waiting for more proof, even though the tidal wave of bad feelings is already headed toward the shore. Sometimes we've made the decision not to start a fight over something small...or to save a big one for another time. Sometimes we honestly don't know what to do with the truth. Regardless, once exposed to the Female Memory, the Male Lie becomes a landmine the man in question could set off at any time.


I’m not saying women don’t lie. (On the contrary, we are the only gender that can utter the phrase “I’m pregnant” when it’s not true, and we’ve all watched Maury enough to know how that story ends.) Lying and the erosion of trust is a major issue on both sides of the fence. What I’m saying is, simply: Women are better at lying than men are, which means we know when you’re full of shit. So, in the presence of the masters, don’t complete...don’t challenge...


...take notes.



4. KNOW WHAT YOU WANT. I discussed this one in detail on the women’s list already, so I'll just summarize here. As mentioned originally, the most emotionally raw people I interviewed all commented that they'd been hurt by the same two things: A) pursuing lives which didn't make them happy, and/or B) being misled by someone who said they wanted one thing but really wanted the complete opposite. This basically means people spend as much time lying to themselves as they do to other people, if not more.


The good news is that while self-ignorance is harmful to you and everyone you care about, it's remedied fairly easily. So go hit a retreat in Utah, meditate at an ashram in Bali, or simply grab a six-pack and go sit in the corner until you’ve figured out what you want from life...and us. Knowing thyself is the new yoga.




5. GO DOWNTOWN. I don’t know how else to put this, so I’m just going to say it: You. Have. To. Eat. The. Pussy.


During my many years nestled in monogamous (oral-filled) bliss, I heard grumblings from girls about non-reciprocating oral sexers. These weren’t isolated incidents retold by wildebeests you wouldn’t expect ANYONE to go down on. These were tales of dissatisfaction from women at the top of the sexual food chain, hot, discerning and Brazilian-waxed lovers that lavished oral attention on their partners willingly and without complaint...up until the point when the menfolk bypassed their turn and went plunging into the tunnel without paying the freaking toll.


I’d encountered one of these tongueless gremlins in college, but figured he was an anomaly--a charismatic alcoholic whose unfortunately tiny penis was frequently downed like a windsock on a still day by cocaine, his clitoral ineptitude seemed just another part of his complete, sexually retarded package.


He was not an anomaly. Since college (which was half a decade ago) I’ve crossed paths with his ilk once myself, consoled two friends and three different acquaintances from other social circles who've gone un-licked, and spent five years verbally berating wingman Red for actually dating one of these lazy S.O.B.’s for such an unreasonably long period of time (yeah, he was a vegan, but that’s no excuse).


So I ask: What is it, Vagaphobes? You don’t like the mess? Just stay north of the canal, it’s drier up there! Don’t know what you’re doing? It’s the internet age--you can Google it! Can’t stand all the time and effort? Cool...we’ll be happy to watch Project Runway while your handle yourself tonight.


Men, this denial of service is particularly unacceptable if your partner gives fantastic head. I’m not talking run of the mill, vanilla soft-serve tonguing; I understand you can find that anywhere. But if your woman seems to have been divinely assembled in a Dyson laboratory, DO NOT SCREW IT UP. For every guy out there who won’t give head there are three women who give totally average head...and life is too short for average oral.


Oh, and while we’re in the area: shave it or trim for Chrissakes. This isn’t Europe and the waxing we do for you doesn’t tickle, so man up and fucking groom.






And thus ends the penis-oriented installment of this series.


May all genders and orientations remember that, regardless of gripes, we love each other. We've just got some work to do.

Vagina Resolutions: What the Men Had to Say

In the last post, I laid out the five most immediately helpful New Year's resolutions anyone with a vagina (or immediately pre-op) could adopt to help make life, and specifically relationships, a little easier on everyone of any gender. I didn't just pull them out of thin air (or plagiarize them from a combination of Dr. Phil's column in O and back issues of The L magazine...that would be wrong). I actually talked to a total of 35 functional or near-functional adults, all of whom had strong opinions on the subject of what we need to do differently to make relationships more ecstasy and less agony in the future.


Before I launch into Resolutions Everyone With a Penis Should make (and that list is a-commin', don't you worry...), I wanted to share a few highlights from the men-folk themselves, as they almost all stem from the same issue: men and women still don't know how to talk to one another. While there's nothing groundbreaking about that news, the research is still fun to read when it's laid out in front of you.


The gentleman interview subjects, all hetero and between the ages of 22-49, were asked this question:  What is the ONE thing women, as a gender, should resolve to do to make us all, as a species, happier? Below are some verbatim highlights and insights from their occasionally impassioned responses (and my totally glib, entirely unserious first reaction to each while transcribing the interviews). All names have been changed:




Greg, 28: "Learn how to play video games. Trust me, that will help a lot."
Because all arguments should be settled via a winner-takes-all death-match down Mariokart's Rainbow Road.


David, 30: "No comment. I need some time alone in the shower to think about this. I'll call you back."
Odds he used shower time to masturbate: 3 to 1.  


Joe, 27: "It's shallow, I know, but keep dressing sexy? I love the woman I'm with no matter what she's in. But when the girl you love comes out in something sexy as Hell it's like Christmas. And when it's like Christmas, I'm like Santa."
Hoe, hoe...hoe?


Zack, 38: "Please remember men are from another planet and we really have no idea what language you're speaking. Like, we understand the words. They sound like words we know. Just not the way you say them. We don't know what you mean."
So dealing with women is essentially like dealing with a stroke patient? Interesting...


Philip, 23: "Stop lying. Little white lies especially. Like what? Like compliments you hear a woman give to the same woman she bashes 15 minutes later, or a lie about why she broke a date...picking and choosing what days she's into me, that's a lie too, either on the day she likes me or the day she doesn't. The point is lies are disingenuous and unpleasant and confuse the Hell out of us."
Omigod, I love your bracelet...no, no, no jokes, he's right. The sentiment is totally valid. So we'll stop lying...as soon as men do. Riiiiiight, that's what I thought. The Mexican standoff continues.


Jacob, 31: "Stop beating around the bush. If you're into me, grab an ass cheek or pull in for the kiss."
Kissing is for pussies. Next time, I'll grab the scrotum. 


James, 27: "Stop expecting us to know what you want. You can't spend 5 minutes telling us what you'd really like to do, but you can spend the next day AND night bitching about how we 'should have known' what you wanted--NO I SHOULDN'T BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T TELL ME. And lemme set this straight too: It's not that we're not capable of deciphering women's covert signals, it's just that we're not programmed to. That takes time."
You should come preprogrammed to know that The Olive Garden was a shit choice for our anniversary. 


Tim, 26: "Please don't date until you've completed rehab/therapy/work-release, etc. I'm begging you." 
Sorry, what was that? I couldn't hear you over the sound of this bong rip.


Sam, 23: "Give all guys a chance. Yeah, there's a lot of dicks out there. But if you start ruling out everyone in one category entirely because of a couple of dicks, you might miss that one worth having."
I'm trying not to be cynical. But the urge to pinch his cheeks and go, "Oh, Jesus, you are just so young and SO pretty that that really does make sense to you still, doesn't it?" was overwhelming. Then I got all distracted and starting thinking about dick...


Paul, 25: "Honestly? Short of tying a red ribbon around the neck of every mixed-up, insane chick I've dated in Williamsburg, I'm at a total loss about how to stop the bullshit that gets tossed at me. The mixed signals are too much. I like you, I don't, I'm into this, I'm not, etc. I'm starting to think it boils down to chicks lying to themselves about what they want. The differences from one night to the next make it seem like you don't even know yourself, let alone what you want from me."
My first reaction was to get all pissy. My second was to remind him that's what he gets for dating in Williamsburg. My third was to check my neck for a red ribbon. My fourth was to deduce he's right. 


Chris, 49: "Stop leaving anything you should talk about face to face in a note."
*crumples up paper, furtively tosses behind back. backs away slowly*


Kevin, 23: "Start wearing signs with adjectives or phrases explaining you/your damage on them."
Okay, fine: jaded; suspicious; flakey crust conceals deceptively sweet, stubborn, smart-ass filling. 115 calories per serving. Helpful, Kevin? 


Shawn, 39: "Stop playing the game. It's making me tired."
You're just pissed I own Boardwalk and Park Place. Now pay up.. 


and my personal favorite:


Frank, 32: "Stop asking us to turn the lights off. We're too excited about getting laid to notice your 'fat day,' break-out, saggy boob, or whatever you think is wrong. We're really not that observant."
And thank God for that.


Much love and thanks to all the male participants, listed or unlisted. 


Please discuss or add to this list as needed.

New Year's Resolutions Everyone with a Vagina Should Make

Ah, the obligatory resolutions post. Generally, I don't do public declarations of behaviors I will abandon the third time the Devil tempts me. However, I DO support making New Year's resolutions as a practice--it's one of those rare annual traditions which seems logical to adopt, particularly as a unified society. (Also, it's seasonal and these blog posts are chronological, so the subject was an easy out. I've got writer's block. Sue me.)

But expanding in a blog post on my own New Year's need to eat more leafy greens and stop dropping the word "motherfucker" during business meetings seemed ridiculous. So instead I interviewed a group of 20 men and 15 women, gay and straight, single or dating, ranging in age from 22 to 56, about what resolutions would make 2010 a better year for all of us. While there were a lot of overlapping answers, as well as some additional highlights which I'll post in the future, five in particular stood out as changes which could immediately improve the daily functionings of my fellow womenfolk and the men we love (or used to love) if we all made them simultaneously. In no particular order:

NEW YEARS RESOLUTIONS FOR EVERY VAGINA:

1. KNOW WHAT YOU WANT. No, seriously: know what you want. Sit down and think about it. Grab a beverage, it might take a while.

Do you want to make babies? Climb the career ladder? Date by the book with intent to marry? Blow blindly like seeds until rooting wherever the soil looks nice? 


Do your fantasies include a stable partner with a square jaw, a brooding artist who'll keep you infuriatingly titillated or a German Shepherd trained to keep all humans 100 yards away from your bunker? Would you rather settle down or whore around Babylon? (NOTE: I'm not knocking whoring in Babylon. In fact, if you haven't already, might I recommend taking your next conquest to the hanging gardens? They're exquisite.) There is no wrong answer.

The reason I ask is because the most emotionally raw people I interviewed all mentioned they'd been hurt by A) pursuing lives which didn't make them happy, or B) being misled by someone who said they wanted one thing but really wanted the complete opposite. Take it away, Cool Hand Luke: "WHAT WE HAVE HERE IS A FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE."

No more fooling ourselves, and no more testing out lifestyles on other people. Harm is done to innocent bystanders as much as the person in the mirror when we're misrepresenting ourselves, and most of us aren't pathological liars--we're just self-ignorant. So it stands to reason even a single dose of KNOW THYSELF could make a difference in 2010.

Yes, desire is a fickle and many of us don't know what we want. But you can't revise a plan that hasn't been drafted.

2. GROW (A LIFE) ORGANICALLY. This could be read as a partial contradiction to #1, but it's meant more as an addendum.

Knowing what we want is a double-edged sword. "Knowing" can lead to desiring; desiring can lead to impatience; impatience can lead to going bat-shit-estrogen-insane and demanding a new lover immediately label the relationship at 3AM in the morning, post-coitus, because we really need to know "what this is" RIGHT NOW. See? Scary.


Point is, knowing what we want and cultivating what we want are two totally different things, and the latter frequently relies on a nightmare variable: patience. The number of relationships I've seen die early deaths because one of the parties involved was trying to hydroponically rapid-grow a union like Silver Haze buds before a Phish reunion concert (and not letting nature wisely run its course) is unsettling.  


Remember: Engaging in control freakiness doesn't mean you'll actually control freakiness (it just makes you a freak). Let's all take a deep breath and try, just this once, seeing what happens when we're not trying to drag a happy ending into the picture by its hair. And don't worry. If this tactic fails, we'll go back to clubbing potential mates and pulling them back to the lair, caveman-style, in 2011.

3. REJECT ANYONE WHO WILL NOT GIVE AS MUCH AS YOU DO. This applies to friends, roommates, colleagues, anyone...but particularly those welcomed into hearts and beds.

Chronic non-reciprocators are an epidemic. I know it's a cliche, but women are wired for nurturing and empathy (and justifying others' bad behavior so we can nurture and empathize with their poor, tortured souls), so we do end up sucking the fuzzy end of the non-reciprocating lollicock more (and for longer stretches) than, say, most men.

With that point made, I have to admit watching plenty of otherwise admirable femmes taking and taking and taking lately...girls, this is unacceptable. It doesn't matter how pretty (or witty) you are. "Gimme gimme" behavior is the sort of shit that propagates the myth of women as merciless succubi.  Please knock it the fuck off, you're screwing up all the good mates and making life difficult for the rest of us.

And for those of us giving 100% while the people in our lives give just enough to keep us from killing them in their sleep? Time to cut the deadweights loose.  


Yes, it's hard parting ways without winning the validation a non-reciprocator's disinterest makes us crave (and stick around trying to get), but having a circle filled entirely with people who match our enthusiasm is worth the awkward housecleaning.

4. DISCONTINUE "DEATH BY SILENCE." We've all been Death by Silenced at least once; if you haven't been, you're probably a Silencer. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about at all, please send me a postcard from Narnia, I've heard it's lovely there around Christmas.)

For those Narnians unfamiliar with the scenario: You've been dating, or psuedo-dating, or intimately trekking through relationship purgatory, or enthusiastically sending flirty text messages. Maybe you've even crossed over into love-making and discussing the familial benefits of birthing two children instead of three. Regardless of the exact situation, it's blush-inducing bliss. Then, momentously...nothing. Tumbleweeds on a deserted plain. The phone goes silent. The text messages and Facebook "like" thumbs disappear. Your shared late night conversations evaporate into awkward, anxiety-ridden monologues...delivered by you to your lover's voicemail.

The person you've been entwined with literally up and fades away, as if you've hallucinated the whole thing, and you're left with so little closure you can't help but wonder if you did hallucinate the whole thing.

In many ways, Death by Silence is the single most callous and disgusting thing one person can do to another because of how efficiently it invalidates anything you shared as a pair. I understand from both sides that this isn't always intentional. On paper, exiting without a word can seem less cruel than saying, "You lay there like a piece of raw veal cutlet during sex and I just can't take it anymore." But it's not.  It's heinous. It's cowardly. It puts the person you've been dallying with in a state of stress and worry and self-loathing and loss so awful that all other end-of-relationship alternatives seem like a vacation by comparison.

A favorite of the aforementioned Non-Reciprocators, Death by Silence is its own epidemic. It's gotten to the point where all of us, at one point or another, have been spiraled into a neurotic panic if one of our flirty texts to a new partner goes unanswered for more than 12 hours. "He/she always texts me back. Did I say something wrong? OH GOD, I'M NEVER GOING TO HEAR FROM THEM AGAIN!" This is hardly healthy behavior. So, for the sake of our idealism, sanity and the future of unjaded human interaction, I'm proposing we all remove this one from our list of behavioral options and STOP DOING IT.

I venture that the effort invested in ending a relationship should match--and, in some cases, exceed--the effort invested in starting it. Karmically, this is just good practice...and you'll likely agree with me if you're ever silenced against your will.


We'll all be (marginally) less neurotic if Death by Silence dies.

5. STOP READING WOMENS' MAGAZINES. Sometimes you can judge a book by its cover. So ask yourself this: whatthefuck does reading a book with an airbrushed photo of Leighton Meester on the friggin' cover say about you??

Want to feel like you're too fat, too short, too blemished, inept with make-up, don't own enough stuff, are painfully unstylish, don't have enough hot shoes, live in an embarrassingly ugly home or need to max out your life savings for a beautiful but shallow wedding? Would you like to absorb dangerous blanket statements delivered by an "expert" who may have gotten their degree via the internet, or read incomplete summarizations of actual medical studies? Pick up a chick mag! They're glossy.

A wise man recently told me he dies inside when watching beautiful young women reading Cosmo or Elle, because he knows they're being fed plates of sterilized bullshit. I think he's right. Womens' mags are the Soilent Green of the publishing industry, processed from the grey, decaying bodies of other insecure women. Want to learn about real women? Talk to them. Want dress better? Talk to a gay. Want to learn about yourself? See #1...or hire a shrink. You'll also save a ton of money.

Thus ends the vagina-oriented installment of this seasonally appropriate blog post.

And don't think the men-folk got off easy. They're next.

[** NOTE: Before closing, let me squeak out a "thanks" to the witty, compassionate people who showed support following my sulking Sartre-dry-hump post. Your words were downright comforting, like a sweet, vanilla-scented grandmother smearing Vick's Vapor Rub under my clogged nose.

I don't do New Year's resolutions, but after those  heartfelt emails and encouraging messages (cue saccharine Capra-esque music swell), I've resolved to keep writing here. I'm still finding my footing (and figuring how much real life can currently be documented on this newfangled interweb without people getting hurt), so cut me a hot slice of slack if the next few posts, uh, blow. But I am soldiering on, and thank you]

Happy New Year.

South American Pregnant Sex, or, What Lovers Leave Behind

You only clicked on this because it said South American Pregnant Sex, right? Filthy, dirty minds, all of you........I like it.

I'm only a chapter in to Marriage, A History...and already I'm seeing a theme, which is that our traditional, modern-Anglo definition of marriage

 

1. Has little to no bearing outside of our hemisphere, and 
2. Has only existed for about 200 years (meaning the Conservatives who want to "protect the sacred institution of marriage" by keeping gays from marrying really just want to protect the questionably sacred, relatively new institutions of their great-grandaddy's marriages...guaranteeing another generation of Republican women who’ll end up like Anne Coulter because no one cares if they orgasm. But I digress...).

One of the most interesting factoids so far hailed from South America, where some cultures allow and encourage women to take multiple lovers during pregnancy, believing the sexual contributions of the men will manifest themselves in a healthy, happy child with all of the males' best qualities (this is what I believe they they were trying to achieve in the immortal film Twins, a la the scientists' “sperm milkshake”). Allow Stephanie Coontz to explain:

"In these groups, people believe any man who has sex with a woman during her pregnancy contributes part of his biological substance to the child. The husband is recognized as the primary father, but the woman's lover or lovers also have paternal responsibilities, including the obligation to share food with the woman and her child in the future. During the 1900s researchers taking life histories of Bari women in Venuzuela found that most had taken lovers during at least one of their pregnancies. Their husbands were usually aware and did not object.

When a woman gave birth, she would name all the men she had slept with [and you thought airing dirty laundry on a blog was edgy...] since learning she was pregnant, and a woman attending the birth would tell each of these men: 'You have a child.'"

(That last section is Maury Povich's wet dream. Can't you see it? Beautiful Sorjuana has birthed an equally beautiful baby, now suckling at her sexy teat. At the other end of the room stands Sorjuana's husband, five other men, and a studio audience of people who voted for Sarah Palin. An envelope-toting Povich is in front of them. Maury clears his throat. "Juan, Mao, George, Roberto, Santino and Alexjandro: In the case of 5-minute-old Jose....you ARE the father." Studio audience goes nuts.)

This is an interesting piece of sociological maneuvering. The woman, body throwing off pheromones like manic perfume spritzer at Macy's, attracts lovers with her glow and the assurance his seed lives on in her baby. The lovers, in turn, feed and protect the woman and her child, increasing the survival rate of both--who are usually the first to fall ill and die in poorer cultures--during tough times. The husbands are cool with it, because it takes the pressure off him as lone provider.

Clearly this wouldn't fly so well in the States. We’re quick to look down our noses patronizingly and go, “Tsk, tsk. I took biology and sex ed. Don't you know throwing a lover’s load on an already fertilized egg is like throwing more sauce on a finished plate of penne vodka--it’s fun and tasty, but you’re not adding anything special to that entree.” 

BUT...and this is a stretch, I know...when you think about it, lovers (the standard kind, not the ones you bang while pregnant) do leave a piece of their substance with us after sex, even if its not absorbed by our unborn babies. 

Whether its an emotional scar, a song that stupid makes you think of them (damn you, Coltrane), a new bias against a certain kind of guy, or the knowledge of where your G-spot is, lovers leave things behind. And these things stay with us. They fill our baggage, for good or bad. What lingering pieces have your lovers left behind?

PS: We do eventually pass that baggage/bias/song/book (not the G-spot--that’d be weird) down to our children through the naturalistic practical joke which is parenthood. Go figure.

I don’t have kids. But in the spirit of the Bari, I’d say there’s at least a few lovers out there who owe me some food. So get cooking--I think I'm in the mood for grilled cheese...with tomato and bacon...yeah. Bacon.