How come no one ever discusses how impossible having sex with a vampire would actually be?
Forget the biting (a nice guy like Edward Cullen would surely do his best to resist) but his body temperature, or lack of one: does no one ever consider what that would feel like during intercourse?
“Rock hard and icy cold.” These are undeniable features Stephanie Meyer’s has emphasized about her vampires all through-out the Twilight saga. Yes, Edward is a physical masterpiece, a 20 on a scale of ten in the looks department: his demeanor, smile, class and obvious tenderness are enough to make a girl heat up in his presence: unless she gets too close. THAT close.
That stone like chest might be tolerable to cuddle up against on a hot summer day (especially if clothed in a soft shirt or sweater) but – intimacy with the guy? Only a really naive virgin could have such a fantasy without wincing at the thought.
In New Moon, Bella jumps into the water and almost drowns. After being rescued, she is huddled in the front seat of her truck, across from Jacob, shivering painfully from the cold. Despite being as taken with Edward’s charm as Bella is, I will admit that Jacob’s offer to Bella of, “It’s a 108 degrees over here,” did bring up a tempting reality: getting close to HIM is is not only within the realm of possibility for her, but if she ever did get REALLY close, she wouldn’t end up with the most embarrassing case of frostbite any young girl could ever imagine.
Are you kidding me!!!...This story took my breath away as I thought that I could not be surprised by any level of hypocrisy and hatred that could be piled upon our people, but this indignity has even surpassed my low expectations that I have become accustomed to, as it has to do with the treatment of my black people in these natural disasters.
First, the bumbling of Katrina, …and now Haiti.
How dare you turn any one of them away for any reason of payment.We are a nation of many that can and will cover whatever expense,but the priority is to save the lives of our people immediately.
If we can not pay, do you expect us to die?…We could aid Haiti in ways that they are incapable of,… but playing and bargaining with life, is not the business we should ever be in….
If we have the ability to save the Haitian patients, then we need to do it immediately, without any form of hesitation!!!!
Let’s do everything possible short of federalizing Haiti ,http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Federalism,to save and rescue all the people, put a temporary UN /USA military base there, and save the country immediately.
Back up the Red Cross and the U N run effort to restore peace to Haiti, and distribute the aide to the people.
It is directly in the Western Hemisphere,maybe we could all mutually benefit from a rebuilt and strong Haitit.It seems to me that they need a stronger infrastructure as do many countries, and may be so under the gun with national debt, that possibly a different model could be visible for Haiti, but these things should be discussed AFTER the people are rescued, and provided for, and our nation along with the UN should lead that effort.
…but our main priority now is to rescue, and save the people of Haiti, without hesitation!!!!
…Or we will vote you out of office… whoever is responsible for this indignity!!!!!
Let’s put aside our hatred of black folks and help these people….of course they don’t have health care!!!!…
..they live in Haiti!!!
This is a disgrace!!!!
MY GOD!!!!…Halting Medical Evacuations????….Mr President…VICE PRESIDENT,…HILLARY, NEOCONS …SOMEBODY????!!!!…CHANGE THIS IMMEDIATELY….
…you all have the power to make this happen, and to save lives!
I know you see these same photos that I see everyday…truly horrific!!!!We must rescue whoever we can at any cost!!!!!
Ok, well another story during my younger years was when I was in high school. I was very naughty, too grown up for my age and snuck out of the house at night. I went to a bar downtown because they allowed underage people in there.
This was a gay bar, I was not gay, I was 15/16 years old. I just wanted to have fun. Party and dance dance dance. I loved dancing. Every weekend and even some days during the week I would sneak out and go to this bar. Of course it had a lighted floor, everything just like the seventies, it was great and the music was even better; Gloria Gaynor, Blondie, Donna Summer, the list could go on forever, sigh.
The queer guys and the drag queens were so much fun. They just knew how to have fun and I didn’t feel threatened by them, because they had no interest in me and I didn’t feel like the lesbians there cared about me either, good grief I was 15 and 16 years old. I looked good but I’m sure I looked really young too.
Well, it was halloween and everyone wore a costume, well I dressed up like a play boy bunny in chocolate brown bunny type outfit, fishnet stockings, high heels. (I once had some red ones that even at the young age my mom and I had a joke and we called them, “Joan Crawford come fuck me pumps!”) with a little brown velvet blazer a choker, bunny ears and a bunny tail. I had so much fun dancing that night.
Later on I was standing in line for the bathroom and there was this girl. I had seen her before, she was very pretty with just enough make up and lipstick, cute hair cut and was very muscular. Like I said, we were standing in line and she forcefully grabbed me and kissed my deep and long our tongues locked. Oh my gosh, I was so shocked and so turned on. I thought for sure I would be turned off by another girl, but she threw me for a loop and I loved it. For the next several years I had girls my life. I hadn’t even graduated high school and my life had taken such a turn.
Somehow a real dyke butch girl (we will call her Deb) came after me and we were a thing for nearly a year. We hung out at a local country bar (dive) Dave and Ann’s was the name. Along the way another girl was vying for my attention and she was really cute, very domineering she wanted what she wanted and wouldn’t stop until she got it. So, she got me, Ricky.
Ok back to the first lesbian relationship, Deb as I said was a real dyke type girl. I mean she was very nice and cute just very masculine. I can’t remember ever really having an orgasm with her. What we did felt good, but I don’t remember having what I have now, a trembling, mind stopping orgasm. What she taught me to do and what she like was to fuck me until I squirted. Squirting had a different effect and I did it mostly because that is what she wanted. Now, the lesbian fucking we did was her putting her thumb in front of her like she had a dick and and fucking me until I squirted. Nevertheless, I left her for the cute brunette (Ricky) with brown eyes that followed me everywhere. I never had an orgasm with her either, so needless to say I was very frustrated all the time. I didn’t realize it then, but when I look back that was exactly what I was experiencing, frustration. She had plenty of orgasms with me doing what she wanted me to do and I did it. However, I was so in love with her, I loved kissing her and she had the most beautiful breast I have ever seen to this day.
Along the way I met a guy in this same community, he had a little spot of land he lived and worked on. He was a great guy, older. and he was so in love with me, my mom always thanked him for bringing me back home. I had left home at age 16 (for the girl) and barely graduated high school. Anyway, this guy brought me back and got me integrated back into my family. It was a bit sad at times when my two little brothers had friends over and I remembering them saying to my little brother, “I didn’t know you had a sister”. POW! That hurt, but it was my own fault…trying to grow up too fast.
Now, another time can’t remember exactly where it fits into the above stories (1-2 years after the above stories), but there was a guy (Brock) I knew, younger than me but so hot, cute, sexy young man. His father and my father worked together and we would see each other from time to time during the holidays, for instance we would go dancing on Christmas night. I always thought about sex with him but never thought he would even consider me. But oh one night we got together and it was so good, we were walking around the college campus bar hopping, a huge popular univeristy. I had actually moved to another state but was home visiting during the holidays.
After our bar hopping he suggested we drop by his apartment as it was on campus. I am a skirt girl, I love skirts, the shorter the better in my younger days. (I still wear them now (more age appropriate tho) because I love to stick my husbands hand up my skirt, or have him just pump his dick in me a few times as we are going about the house doing our thing on any given night or weekend.) Brock and I stopped by his apartment for a minute and he literally threw me on his bed, shove my skirt up, pulled my panties down and started eating my pussy, it was so so good. It was the best pussy eating I had ever had. For some reason the gilt was killing me and I made him stop eating my pussy and of course would not let him fuck me either. Don’t ask me why I didn’t let/want him to fuck me because it was so good. Anyway, he drove me to my parents and that may have been one of the last times I saw him.
Ok, now I’m back in the town my mother shipped me off to because I was not flourishing where I met all the girls, plus the girls were after me sort of. Wanting me back as their toy…sex slave toy I guess. So, I ran several hundred miles south.
Now, in the town I’m living I met a girl (Ryne) that dated a family member of mine, a guy. She was great and I really cared for her. Looking back I think she wanted to have sex with me but we never did, she was pretty but she wasn’t my type eventhough I cared for her, I just couldn’t initiate the sex. During this time (21 yrs old) she invited a friend of hers over, Jenny. Jenny came after me and I liked it. The first night I met her we were at Rynes house downstairs in the den floor and she insited on eating my pussy. Oh my gosh, she ate my pussy so good, she sucked my clit and gently with a flat tongue slowly moving across my clit and all around, she stayed after it until I had the first orgasm I had ever had with another human being. The only true ones were the ones I had masturbating, never with a person. I had done the squirting but that was never really satisfying. Now, Jenny was older than me and after that we saw each other occasionaly but we never had sex again.
Now, on to the guy. There was a guy in this town that was a friend of my brother and he (Pat) and I had occasionally been attracted to each other but had never gotten together, believe it or not we started dating it was so fun. I think he was a guy I had so much fun with rather we had so much fun together doing really odd things. Not always sexual either, just fun knocking around together and seeing stuff. Ok, to the sex part he and I were hanging out drinking with another couple, it was during Tracy Chapman’s hey day and I got so drunk I even ate some Étouffée. We left the restaurant, went to couples house and rocked to Tracy Chapmans Fast Car and another song I can’t recall, Pat and I dirty danced for an hour, we went to his house, passionately kissing, sucking each others neck, face, ears, fingers and undressing as we went. Pat layed back on the bed and I jumped on his dick, sitting squarly on it as far as it would go. Pat actually had a small penis, I didn’t realize it then because I’d never had intercouse so far (don’t hold me to that, I’m still thinking). The size really didn’t matter it felt great, I rode his dick for all it was worth. Of course I was uninhibited due to my drunken state. Suddenly I started feeling a feeling I had never felt before and realized I was about to have my first orgasm with a man during intercourse when he started moaning and came.
Needless to say I was left feeling unfulfilled, but it was ok. I was happy about the realization that I could actually have an orgasm with a man during intercourse. The story of Pat and I had actually started before this and continued after this (*I might add that in later). The last time I saw him (2 years ago), it was late and I had to go to bed, times have changed I was working, etc. Nevertheless, I said I’ve got to go to bed before I turn into a pumpkin. Briefly I saw him again the next day and he told me that when I made the comment about going to bed, he wanted to say, “Peter Peter Pumpkin Eater”. He still turns me on,probably always will, but I’m married now.
*Ok, had to add this it’s one part of the two parts I was going to add later. We used to go to the beach together and boy did we have fun, he loved for me to lay on my stomach on the beach while he rubbed tanning lotion into my legs, he would put so much oil on my thighs it was rediculous, he would put it on and just rub my thighs over and over, it made me so hot, my pussy would just be throbbing by the time we left the beach and got back to his place. He threw me on the bed and ate my pussy, I still had my panties on and he had just shoved them aside and was licking and sucking me, one time he had an orgasm when he was eating me. Then we would fuck fuck fuck, it was so fun. Like I said, I haven’t seen him in two years, wonder when the next time will be.
The 80beats blog at Discover blogs is reporting on a French/British argument over the female G-spot. Personally, I’d assume that the French, who are supposed to be the world’s best lovers are right. (Have I mentioned that I’m half French? My Mom was born in Paris.)
The Brits did a study of 902 twin pairs – some of which were monozygotic (identical) twins, and some of which were dizygotic (fraternal) twins. Twin studies are important in research, because it is one way to have a genetically-informed sample without having to do actual analysis of the DNA. Identical twins share 100% of their DNA, and fraternal twins share 50% of their DNA, and therefore the genetic relatedness between fraternal twins is the same as between regular siblings.
The Brits say:
If the G-spot did exist, then genetically identical twins would have been expected to both report having one. However, no such pattern emerged [The Telegraph]. As a result of the study, coauthor Tim Spector said, the study “shows fairly conclusively that the idea of a G-spot is subjective.”
The French argument:
The angry French gynecologists said they’d found the real problem with their British counterparts: that they’re British. The King’s College study, they said, had fallen victim to an Anglo-Saxon tendency to reduce the mysteries of sexuality to absolutes. This attempt to set clear parameters on something variable and ambiguous, they said, was characteristic of British scientific attitudes to sex [The Guardian].
Gynecologist Odile Buisson went even further in blaming national sex attitudes for supposedly leading the British researchers astray: “I don’t want to stigmatise at all but I think the Protestant, liberal, Anglo-Saxon character means you are very pragmatic. There has to be a cause for everything, a gene for everything,” she said, adding: “I think it’s totalitarian” [The Guardian]. She also told The Telegraph that the G-spot is real for upwards of 60 percent of women, and that saying anything else is “medical machismo.”
As it happens, I believe the French are right on this one, at least in principle if not in the rationale. But I went to find the original paper. Because I don’t automatically trust The Telegraph, or The Guardian (or really, any popular press, when it comes to sensational headlines). And my institution doesn’t have access (THAT, however, is a rant for a different time). The lab at King’s College seems to have it on their website, but the file was corrupt. Luckily, I am crafty and managed to get myself a copy of the PDF anyway.
Sci takes this paper down quite beautifully, but I have a few more bones to pick with it.
But let me re-iterate the problems that Sci brought up:
1. The average age of the women questioned was 55 years. Given that women are supposedly at their sexual peak around age 30, and given that the average age for menopause in the Western world is 51, this seems like pretty poor sampling.
2. Bisexual and homosexual women were excluded from the study, because “of the common use of digital stimulation” in such populations. I’m sorry, but since when did the existence of the G-spot vary according to the manner in which you try to find it? And since when do heterosexual women only use penises for stimulation?
3. Bad definition of the g-spot. They asked women “Do you believe you have a so-called G-spot, a small area the size of a 20p coin on the front wall of your vagina, that is sensitive to deep pressure?” Are all women anatomists now as well? Would you ask people “Do you believe you have a so-called hippocampus, a small area of cortex located deep within the temporal lobe, roughly occurring in the shape of a seahorse?” Whether or not they believe it, they certainly have one.
Figure 1: Hippocampus. Look at it upside down and you’ll see the seahorse shape.
Also, terribly pointed language. “so-called”?! And what about “believe”? Perhaps, if the study had been titled “Genetic and Environmental Influences on the Belief of the Existence of G-Spots in Women: A Twin Study.”
Also, how many women have systematically explored the entire front wall of the vagina searching for the location and relative size of a location that could bring them to orgasm, and then also varied the pressure with which they stimulated it? That is the study that needs to be done.
Okay, here is my beef:
They assumed that the twins – whether or not they were identical or fraternal – had 100% shared environments. How many 55 year old women do you know that have 100% shared environments? How about 100% shared sexual partners? Or sexual preferences? Or masturbation styles? or, or or? This is, like, Intro Psych stuff, friends. Until we know more about the genetic and anatomic basis of orgasm, I don’t think the conclusions of this paper can be made. They say: “we postulate that the reason for the lack of genetic variation—in contrast to other anatomical and physiological traits studied—is that there is no physiological or physical basis for the G-spot.”
My prediction is that once we know more about what causes female orgasm, we’ll be a closer to having some answers about the G-spot. I think there’s a gene-environment interaction occurring.
The gene in question involves serotonin (a neurotransmitter) regulation in the brain. The probability of a major depression episode changes depending both on your genotype (the combination of short and long versions of the gene), and the number of stressors in the environment (along the x-axis). With few environmental stressors, there is no difference in the probability of depression for the different groups. Only with more life stressors is there significant variation in depression, with the short/short group being more vulnerable, and the long/long group being more protected. One can imagine two identical twins, genetically identical (let’s say, sharing the S/S version of the gene). One has only a few life stressors and one has many life stressors, and therefore they have different depression-related experiences.
So too with the female orgasm and g-spot, I think. We just need to figure out which genes and which environmental variables are important.
Reference: Burri, A., Cherkas, L., & Spector, T. (2010). Genetic and Environmental Influences on self-reported G-Spots in Women: A Twin Study Journal of Sexual Medicine DOI: 10.1111/j.1743-6109.2009.01671.x
Spoiler for ni dia orangnya gan:
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KOMPAS.com – Ganahari Takahasi sebenarnya telah menghasilkan jutaan yen sebagai kepala perusahaan video porno Soft on Demand. Namun tahun 2006 dia memutuskan untuk meninggalkan bisnis mesum itu dan mendirikan Kunitachi Farm dengan modal 1 miliar yen. Menurut Takahashi, lompatan dari pornografi ke pertanian ini tidak sesembrono yang disangka orang.
Dikatakannya, saat memasuki industri video untuk orang dewasa, pihak yang paling diperlukan, yaitu yang membuat produk itu, malah tidak mendapat penghasilan. “Distributorlah yang meraup semua keuntungan. Jadi saya membuat industri dimana para produsennya dihargai dengan selayaknya. Ketika saya berpikiran untuk hidup sebagai petani, saya sadar bahwa di bidang ini pun, kegiatan produksinya tidak dihargai selayaknya. Jadi saya berpikir untuk menerapkan cara sukses saya di bidang industri untuk orang dewasa itu kepada bidang pertanian,” papar Takahasi.
Maka lahirlah ide Takahashi untuk mengadakan reformasi pertanian.
Dari pertanian langsung ke mulut konsumen
Kunitachi Farm kini bekerja sama dengan 200 petani di daerah sebagai sumber sayuran untuk semua produk di semua outletnya. Semua pertanian itu harus memenuhi standar minimum yakni menghindari pemakaian herbisida, dan terlebih lagi menyesuaikan diri dengan visi Takahashi, yaitu petani muda yang gaul.
Hasil panen disalurkan ke Nouka no Daidokoro (Dapur Peternakan), yaitu restoran yang dibuka Takahashi pada awal 2007 di daerah Kunitachi, di sisi barat Tokyo. Sementara untuk produk-produk yang sudah diolah, seperti adonan miso dan selai, dikirim ke pertokoan-pertokoan terpilih.
Restoran Nouka no Daidorkoro kini telah memiliki dua cabang di perkotaan Tokyo, yaitu di Ebisu dan Shinjuku. Keduanya terkenal selalu dipenuhi pelanggan wanita pada waktu makan siang. Selain menyediakan paket-paket makanan dengan harga terjangkau, juga ada salad bar dengan berbagai sayuran ditata di atas es, dan juga berbagai jus yang juga dibuat sendiri oleh restoran itu.
Dengan dekor tembok putih dan pilar-pilar kayu, restoran ini mengingatkan orang pada rumah pertanian tradisional, dan interiornya juga dipenuhi poster-poster para petani yang produknya disajikan di sana.
Citra-citra ini membantu para pelanggan menyadari hubungan makanan di piring mereka pada orang-orang yang berjasa menyediakannya. “Saya meminjam tenaga petani-petani yang mengagumkan ini untuk mereformasi seluruh industri pertanian,” kata Takahashi.
Lakukan, Lihat, Rencanakan
Kunitachi Farm merupakan usaha yang modern, yang juga merangkul jajaran selebriti terkini. Nouka no Daidokoro ini seperti versi Planet Hollywood-nya toko sayur. Dan dengan bersamaan, situs Kunitachi Farm juga memelihara beberapa blog yang mengukuhkan citra eksklusifitas pada para bintang petani ini.
Media massa terdepan juga telah meliput cerita ini, sehingga muncul di sampul berbagai majalah, mulai dari majalah yang sarat-kultur sampai ke yang pakar-tren, dan belum lagi semua acara TV yang tak terhitung lagi banyaknya. Kunitachi Farm bukan saja mengangkat pertanian ke media massa tapi juga membuatnya jadi trendi.
Pendekatan Takahashi untuk Kunitachi Farm memang mengalami juga proses coba-coba alias trial and error, atau disebut Takahashi sebagai pendekatan “Lakukan, Lihat, Rencanakan”.
Dalam tiga setengah tahun terakhir ia telah melakukan sejumlah proyek selain Nouka no Daidokoro. Pada bulan Februari 2008, ia membeli pertanian telantar di dekat daerah Chiba.
Lalu ada pula “Kunitachi Farm Girls’ Farm” di pedesaan Yamagata, yang dimulai tahun lalu dengan tujuan menjalankan pertanian dari sudut pandang wanita. Tim kaum hawa di pertanian itu tengah berusaha menghasilkan produk yang menurut mereka bisa menarik perhatian para konsumen wanita, seperti tomat-mini.
Walau penjualannya cukup baik, namun Takahashi telah menghabiskan 90 persen dari modal awalnya. “Aku akan memakai sisa 100 juta yen supaya usaha ini bisa mulai meraup keuntungan,” katanya.
http://www.kaskus.us/showthread.php?t=2944187
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“I don’t love you anymore,” she says. I sense her trepidation. It is important for her to be nice. She believes she is nice. There is nothing else she can do. Her whole being cries out to prove it. “I am nice!” It screams in everything she does and says. A nice person cannot hurt another even with her words. She cannot now be any different. It is a habit.
I stare at her without saying anything. I have nothing to say. She has a right to change her mind. I cannot stop that. People change their minds all the time. It is their prerogative. I like to know what she really wants to say. Has she found someone else? Do I bore her? Is she not happy anymore? The questions are many. Yet I wait. If she doesn’t want to explain I can live with that.
“I am sorry,” she speaks looking down at a world I do not see and seems to be at her feet.
“Why?” I am confused by her apology. Why would someone want to do something they have to apologize for.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” her eyes are moist. I want her to know she doesn’t. No one can hurt another without their consent. She doesn’t have mine. I let no one hurt me. I find it unnecessary. The pain, the hurt, the blame game. They all look too stupid and petty to me.
I think about what is it she denies me now. Her love? What was it to begin with? Companionship? A few laughs shared over a coffee? Some nights in each others arms, in a warm bed? Some expectations, unspoken hopes? I wonder what she means she doesn’t love me anymore? What did she love anyway? Me? Who am I? Does she know anything of it? And if she does know who I am and has loved that how can she stop loving me at any moment in time? Has her values changed? How can a man who loves beauty stop loving beauty in life? Is that possible? How can someone who loves honesty stop loving honesty? Does it mean the person has lost his or her integrity? If so, should I be sad now or should she?
“Are you listening to me?” she looks at my face enquiringly. I must have lost something she said.
“Yes. You do not love me anymore. So you say,” I reiterate. To mirror someone’s thoughts reassures them that they are understood. So says pop psychology.
“We had some good times. But I cannot continue anymore. I have to move on. I hope you understand.”
I don’t. I am not interested either. If people want to move on, they can and must. I never was her friend because of any pre-agreed conditions. She wanted me and I wanted her. That was the moment. That was the truth in our lives. Everything else was either a memory or a dream.
“I don’t. But that’s OK. You really don’t need to explain,” I am looking at a fly that is sitting on her shirt, right on top of the left breast. I try to imagine how it felt to hold them in my hands. How they felt against my naked chest. I no longer remember.
I believe everything moves on in life. We move away from places, things and experiences. People move away from us. Nothing is permanent. Unless until a man has integrity. And his values are lasting. Then his experiences last. His love and his relationships last. So does his passion. But what when there is no integrity? What when Man lacks permanence in values? What if he is not expressing his values in his thoughts, actions and speech instead seeking them? What if his very existence is a desperate need to justify his life?
“What did you love in me?” I ask on an impulse.
She looks at me perplexed. “I don’t know. I just loved you,” she is defiant. Yet hesitant.
“I understand. I wish you well. Good bye,” I light a cigarette, and inhale deeply.
“You have nothing to ask me? To tell me?” I am not sure if I heard her plead. But there was an underlying tone that could be easily mistaken for it.
“No. I am clear now. You have been clear before me. So we both can walk away without holding on to the residues of the fog we travelled through.”
The smoke travels in the air and makes strange shapes before my eyes. I wonder if I see truth in it, smiling at me, mockingly.
‘Big Mike’ looks very similar to the late Chris Penn, both in appearance and perceived sleaze. He’s chubby and perpetually sweating, always decked out in the Italian jewelry trifecta — gold watch, rope chain nuzzled under a thatch of chest hair, and a ring that looks like it belongs to a national champion.
A man who is never charged cover at any strip club in the downtown area, he drives an Escalade, refers to blacks as ’shines’, and his nose – which is about five years from swelling into a vein-busted strawberry – always seems to be whistling. If his office door is locked, that means he’s either doing a line, jerking off to internet porn, or getting blown by a member of his staff.
Big Mike is my boss.
“You juh way up?” he asks, his voice muddled by the ball of mashed donut in his mouth, a mist of powdered sugar covering his lips. He slaps a clipboard into my stomach and, sucking on his fingertips, walks back towards his office without waiting for an answer. His office is slightly smaller than the rest of the place, which is always kept around sixty-five degrees and bathed in the dull florescent lights that reflect off art deco white tile. If one didn’t know any better they’d think they were in Miami.
Sitting in the far corner at a cramped desk overflowing with stacks of paperwork and an outdated computer is Lee, Big Mike’s right-hand. Lee works the phones, and generally lurks behind the scenes unless a particular situation can’t be handled civilly. He sports a thick, graying fu manchu, a shaved head and a leather vest over a black t-shirt. Faded tattoos cover his thick, leathery arms, and one of his eyes is dormant, the result of a decades-old altercation outside of a bar he once worked security for. He often has the TV hanging in the corner tuned to Fox News, though he rarely pays attention to it. Tonight he leafs through a wrinkled skin mag from the 80’s, a disturbing grin creasing his face.
“You got Mari doing her usual at eight,” he mumbles, not bothering to look up from his jizz-encrusted copy of Oui. “Bianca’s on with some out-of-towner at the Renaissance about ten…sounded like a business dude or somethin’. Kelly’s floatin’.”
I rifle off three signatures and give the clipboard back to Mike, who in turn hands over a nine millimeter, a clip, a few bill-sized manila envelopes, two Nextel radios and the keys to a 2006 Lexus IS 350. The gun goes into the center console, and the clip into the glove box, where they will most likely stay until it’s time to turn them in at shift’s end.
Though I’ve always held an affinity for public transportation, the car is one of our society’s greatest sanctuaries. And for the next eight hours, my sanctuary comes equipped with heated leather seats, a six-disc changer and excellent reception. The tranquility before the night’s first pick-up is usually enough for me to shake the grim scene over at dispatch, although initially it took a good while before I could easily shake the sight of Lee surfing some bizarre fetish site while Bill O’Reilly ranted about ‘Hollywood pinheads’.
Maricel had left Quebec with the intention of making it to New York City as an exotic dancer, but, as all plan go awry, she somehow found herself in Cleveland seven years later. She lives in an old apartment building just outside of Coventry, is (legitimately) thirty, prefers 96.5 FM, and likes mango iced tea, a can of which I always remember to pick up at the gas station around the corner from her place.
“Hello, darling,” she says as she swings open the door, her back turned and walking away before I even enter. If it weren’t for several misguided tattoos and the wear and tear of lifestyle, she could easily be the most beautiful woman of any room she walked into. She has the full lips that women inject chicken fat into their face to achieve, cocoa skin and thick, teased out hair that reeks of exoticism.
“There’s some in the box above the T.V. if you’d like,” she calls out from the bathroom, fixated on the last few crucial touches of make-up that the intended audience will never notice. Mari always keeps small quantities of high-grade grass around, in a little faux-Chinese box that sits on a shelf of her entertainment center, though she rarely ever partakes. As far as I can tell, most of the time I’m the only one who smokes it.
She only turns one trick a week, with the same john, a polite and well-off man in his fifties whose wife passed away that we refer to as ‘Mr. C.’. Every Saturday he takes her to dinner, sometimes a show, and then they retreat to a room at the Renaissance for two hours.
This is a unique case — most johns merely want a stranger to whip in and out of a hotel room, occasionally a drink or two at the hotel bar to set the mood. They don’t want a date, but rather to dominate. Standard procedure consists of me having a brief chat with the john where I give a perfunctory listing of terms before I return with the girl and collect the initial fee, never to be seen again unless things go awry.
The Mr. C gig requires me to be a chauffeur of sorts, a position I often find myself uncomfortable with, not out of any shame or degradation, but because I feel that neither the situation or myself possess the class necessary to not feel like a complete schmuck wearing the only suit he owns catering to a very lonely man. But the free buzz Mari provides while she does her make-up and the twenty Mr. C. always slips me at date’s end combine to make it one of the routines I look forward to.
“You on all night, darling?” She calls everyone ‘darling’, unless we’re working the act. Somehow I get the feeling that Mr. C’s guts would drop like bricks if he ever realized that the moniker wasn’t reserved for only him.
“When am I ever not?” I ask with a wheeze as I hold in smoke, thumbing through the same coffeetable art book I’ve flipped through about a half dozen times.
“You’re an old soul in a baby boy’s body, you know that right?” I always find that the ‘old soul’ compliment bats 1.000, as everyone believes it about themselves, and it carries the compliment of sophistication and scarcity.
She glides into the living room as she affixes an earring, reaching two shelves above the grass box to grab a tray containing a small octagon shaped mirror and a thin glass straw. Sitting over the table on her knees, she taps out a small pile and carves herself a line, looking towards me for my usual dismissive head shake.
“Whew,” she says, vacuuming her sinuses and blinking rapidly for a few seconds after intake. Once again, I picture whatever warped fantasy Mr. C harbors being painfully destroyed if he were to ever know. I don’t know what’s sadder — this scenario or the fact that most relationships aren’t that much different. One revelation, one realization, one hidden secret away from collapsing the whole house of cards.
I do not look him in the eye. I do not speak unless spoken to. Once the rate has been set and the retainer has been paid, I am a ghost in the presence of the john. He does not know my name. I do not know his. I am entirely anonymous, aside from the fact that I am in a way the guardian of this girl and his secrets.
I try not to think so much during the down time. The Cavs game on the radio, late night call-in talk shows, crossword puzzles, hollow but needed conversation with strangers at the hotel bar — any and all distractions must be utilized to avoid the quicksand of thinking about what I’m doing or where I’ve been. Like so many others, I focus on and lead a life within a life, carrying on text and phone conversations with friends and lovers of a past life who are hundreds and thousands of miles away in geography and beyond. Technology has provided us with the opportunity to transform them from static memory to active distraction from present reality.
Though I try not to, I picture Mr. C’s contorted face in the heat of the moment, and in my mind it’s not much different than Lee’s back at dispatch. I see through Mari’s act to the bored face and dead eyes. A drop of Mr. C’s sweat falls on her collarbone and it chills her to the core. She tries to focus on the Saturday Night Live monologue coming from the unwatched T.V., but can’t block out the pathetic and passionate call of her name. Then again, maybe it’s not all that bad.
Once boredom sets in, I find myself chastising him out loud, demanding that he hurry up and get on with it. I ponder how a man as old as he is can go this long. I rifle through the radio dial and light a cigarette and sometimes take an unnecessary spin around the block to watch the parade of the desolate stalk through the decaying streets of Cleveland. Perhaps she’s in the midst of receiving an awkward display of affection or confession. They’re fairly common from what I’ve been told. A lot of the girls have reported tricks that involved more rudimentary forms of therapy than fucking.
Most roads of thought lead to the conclusion that the hollow transaction between the two aren’t much different than the vast majority of relationships I’ve survived and witnessed. I’d like to think that more often than not I let romanticism win out over cynical nihilism, but it’s not easy in the confines of a heated Lexus, protected from the schizophrenics that pound the pavement looking for marks, floors below Marciel and Mr. C, listening to the news at the top and bottom of every hour that’s made up of reports of chaotic inhumanity and gross incompetence; talking idly with ghosts from the past who converse for the exact same reason – a lack of passion for what’s in front of us and a desire for a life that’s passed.
On the way back, he kisses her neck softly. The stereotype in our business is true — kissing isn’t cool. But, ever the exception, Mr. C pays hefty bonus money for his hourly romance. She puts on a fine act, but I can hear the patronization in her breaths and giggles, and I can feel her body worm as it happens, and, every once in awhile, she darts a quick, frantic and hopeless glance directly at the rear view mirror and I catch it.
Lately, when that happens, it’s the closest and most honest bond that I feel to anyone.
I recently viewed a video of a boy that spoke out about what happened to him when on a trip with Ted Haggard. It appears that the Church paid Haggard 380k to stay out of the public spotlight and they paid the boy (the victim of 21 years of age) to keep quite.
However, the boy decided it was more important to break their confidentiality agreement and let everyone know. I find it ironic that the boy could be charged with a crime by breaking the agreement, even though he was the victim. I also find it ironic that the person the committed the sin/crime got paid more than twice what the victim was paid. All in the name of God.
These fucking people will coverup anything and pretend to be so holy and pure and disciples of Jesus Christ. Of course, they don’t think they did anything wrong. Amazing, isn’t it?
Well readers the weekend has come to a close and so has yet another weekend. A weekend for some probably resulted in some drunken bar makeouts, maybe a date, maybe a walk of shame or maybe a quite night in. I will have to admit while the opportunity to go out and have fun was presented, I opted to stay in and have a quite weekend… but it was not without event. For you see… it does not matter where or what or who you are doing… you can always be the victim or bestowed the honour of a sext..
Whats a Sext?? Well with our modern age of iPhones, Blackberrys and Microsoft knock off phones many have resorted to sending sexy or dirty “text messages”… Thus “Sext’s” (Sex + text for those challenged people). And as luck would have it I got a few myself.. Normally a sext is received after the witching hour and often full of spelling and grammatical errors.
For Example
“Hey this bar sucks… what are you doing?” (Translation: I’m horny, drunk and want to come over to your place/bed)
“I wanna do things to you” (Translation: I don’t know how to be sexy over the phone but really do i need to say more?)
“I’m horny… whatcha doin?”
“Where are you….”
Granted there are many other examples, permutations, levels of sexyness but it all depends on who or what is sexting you. I often am the subject of the ever subtle sexts like “This bar sucks” or “Hey wanna hang out” followed either by “Can i Come over”… which readers if you haven’t figured out at 1:00am+ it is not a social call for tea.. Often if you are lucky and they are drunk enough you will even get a photo via SMS… which if your mean means you will most likely post it on your blog at some point…. *wink*
So before I end this post I will give you some advice on keeping the upper hand in these situations
1. Never make yourself too available… Chances are if they want you at one point they will still want you later
2. Immediate reply’s are never good… they make you look desperate… unless your too horny to function.. take a break before a response
3. Never seem too eager, just respond in a way that makes it seem like it’s no big deal for you
4. If you are not interested but want to continue enjoying the odd Sext, be flirty, sexy and fun.. but never follow through.. always forget, or have your phone suddenly die, or fall asleep.
5. Remember if you go to their place it gives you the opportunity to leave asap!! No worry about having to coerce them into leaving when this special friend has served his or her.. his and hers’ or his and his or hers and hers.. purpose.
Remember readers in any situation whether dates, sexts, hookups it is always important to keep the power and make sure you keep the upper hand, don’t let yourself be the victim of being used and thrown away with the morning trash.
This is quality horror. Great characters. Not quirky kind of great, real people in extraordinary circumstances kind of great. The actors are top notch. Tom Cavanagh stars as the man who’s life goes from perfection to hell instantly. He hits every note with perfection. A real man who’s fears become reality and endures with all the courage humanly possible.
I loved the film but felt it fell into some major traps. Writer Erik Jendresen and director Tony Krantz, as far as I can tell, are not horror people. They have worked in numerous genres. This is possibly why the strength of characters and fresh dialogue. No snappy horror one liners. However, I think they were afraid this scary movie wouldn’t get the horror moniker without some gratuitous sex and violence. That’s what horror is, right? Sex and violence with some startling moments thrown in? Yes. It is. But no, it doesn’t have to be to get to sit on the horror shelf at Blockbuster (or I guess, as you kids call it, list in the horror section of Netflix). it could have been about 15 minutes shorter, though. At some point, the ending becomes obvious and the scary scenes aren’t necessary. We’re following the characters on a journey so we don’t need the gore shots. I’m afraid that’s what the mistake was.
When people think of rape, they only think of the perpetrator as someone who is a stranger jumping out of a shadowy place and sexually attacking someone.
But it’s not only strangers who rape. In fact, about half of all people who are raped are on familiar terms with the person who attacked them. Girls and women are most often raped, but guys also can be raped.
Even if the two people know each other well, and even if they were intimate or had sex before, no one has the right to force a sexual act on another person against his or her will. Although it involves forced sex, rape is not about sex or passion. Rape has nothing to do with love. Rape is an act of cruelty and violence. You may hear some people say that those who have been raped were somehow “asking for it” because of the way they were dressed, or the way they acted. That’s wrong: The person who is raped is not to blame. Rape is always the fault of the rapist. And that’s also the case when two people are dating, or even in an intimate relationship. One person never owes the other person sex because they had to pay for a date or drinks. If sex is forced against someone’s will, that’s rape…
Read more http://www.sevafrica.com/modules/safety/article.php?news_id=51
“Does the paddle hurt?”
It’s one of the search terms that landed people in my blog. It isn’t one of the oddest ones I’ve seen by any means but this particular one caught my attention because it just sounds… well so cute!
Let me explain.
When I saw it, I immediately imagined a fellow bdsm spanko ingénue sitting in front of their computer, typing this up. Maybe they’ve never had a spanking and have been fantasizing about one… or maybe they’ve been spanked but just lightly and are *just* venturing into something more serious… maybe their top has made promises of impending doom and they are shaking in their boots and dying of arousal. I didn’t imagine any particular gender or age mind you… just that particular mindset of the virginal. I remembered/imagined the sense of intrigue, the near obsession, the curiosity, all so rich in desire and heavy in yearning that they almost have a unique taste or texture, oddly satisfying and yet by innate nature lacking in sensory input which makes it all maddeningly lacking. Can you see it? (remember it?)… looking at pictures, videos… watching the expressions on the bottom’s face, the grimace, the yelp and moan… listening to the sound the wood makes on flesh. Watching the flesh flatten and bounce, see the bruises bloom… reading stories… wondering, “is it that bad?” or “is it worse than this?”.
Tee hee.
Well sweet innocent ones…
It HURTS.
It will overload your senses. It will set all your neurons firing at such rate that you will literally will get stuck between the fight and flight response. The pain will be sharp enough that you wonder why you ever wanted to be on the receiving end.
Then endorphins kick in.
Don’t get me wrong, it still hurts. But now it’s also niiiice. But still hurty.
THEN I started thinking about when I used to work on the hotline for teens to ask any questions they had about sex, etc and the creeps that used to call in and ask the same question over and over again just to hear someone talk about it. There was this one particular guy that kept calling with the same question. The older operators knew his voice and disconnected but anytime he got a new person, he’d trick them into answering his seemingly innocent question and as they were explaining, he would just start asking weirder and weirder questions geared to have you repeat certain terms like “vagina” or “penis” and by this point you could hear he was getting excited and probably jacking off.
*shudder*
For those of you… you know who you are… one word:
EW
EWWW
EEEEEW
EEEEEEWWW
At least you aren’t doing it to poor volunteers who take time out of their busy life to help teens have a safe space to learn about sex.
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Bald bist du nur noch mein Spielball, ein schwaches Objekt in den Fängen einer starken Lady, die dich benutzt, wie es ihr gefällt und ihre bizarren Phantasien und Gelüste an dir auslebt.
Ich belohne dich mit meiner Nähe, oder treibe dich zum Wahnsinn, weil ich dein Begehren schüre, und allein ich entscheide, welchen Lauf unser gemeinsames Spiel nimmt.
Erregt dich der Gedanke von mir gezwungen zu werden, mir hilflos ausgeliefert zu sein, als mein willenloses Spielzeug benutzt zu werden? Dann vereinbare einen Termin mit mir, und sei dir gewiß, ich werde dich berühren und nie mehr loslassen!
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Disclaimer: I’m a Democrat. I support Planned Parenthood and their mission to serve those who are underprivileged and cannot afford healthcare. However, I am now going to freely hate on that institution.
Ever since I’ve moved to PA, I’ve been hitting up Planned Parenthood for my womanly needs. Mostly this means that I frequent their association for my birth control.
Yes, I have health insurance. No, I don’t need to utilize Planned Parenthood in lieu of a regular doctor’s office. It’s close to my apartment. And, being a Democrat, I like to support institutions that provide that kind of medical assistance for women.
HOWEVER, this Planned Parenthood is shady. The location isn’t really that shady, but the facility itself is a pile of weird. Aside from the fact that you have to produce your license before they buzz you into the waiting room, the waiting room is sort of gross and dingy. Whatever, I’m not that pretentious, I can handle a little grime.
What I can’t handle is their extreme disorganization. Don’t get me started. Seriously. Don’t. Let me just say that I went there to pick up birth control, a process that just requires them looking up my health insurance, swiping my debit card, giving me some pills, and me leaving. That process could take 15 minutes, right? Ha. It took an hour and forty five minutes. And, that is the norm. TWO HOURS OF WAITING FOR SOME PILLS. Sigh.
The only redeeming quality? I get to listen to the craziest stories in the waiting room. And I get to text Sarah #1 with the play by play.
For instance, tonight, one particular patron was sitting with her friend who told her about a good book she had read. The girl replied, “I don’t read. The last time I read a book was when I was locked up.”
Wowza. Maybe if she read more books she wouldn’t be pregnant with her 3rd kid, there for an abortion (while she told her boyfriend she was going for a bladder infection), and MAYBE she’d know to talk quieter.
And, let’s not forget the gentleman who was there for an STD test, fighting on the phone with his girlfriend who apparently said she’d get a pap smear and hasn’t done it. Meanwhile, he was getting tested for the SAKE OF THEIR RELATIONSHIP. His words.
The last time I was there, a group of middle school (um, do middle schoolers know what sex is?) Catholic kids were staging a demonstration outside in the parking lot. They marched in a straight line, wearing their school uniforms, clutching their rosaries, and reciting prayers. I should feel bad that I openly laughed when I walked past them to my car, but I don’t.
Until that 12 year old boy praying for me can say “vagina” without blushing, I don’t need him to pray for my vagina related sins. Thanks though, I appreciate your effort.
I just didn’t realize God didn’t want me to go to Planned Parenthood to make sure I don’t have any cancer up in there. My bad. God totally wouldn’t approve of my breast exam. God hates my boobs. It’s in the Bible, I’m sure. Thou shalt not visit Planned Parenthood for a glucose test. Sorry, God.
Sarah #1, my vehicle to God, did not inform me that I shouldn’t take care of my personal health. Blame her.
So, I guess what I’m trying to say is that if you have 2 hours to spare and want to listen to some trashy conversations that will make you question the world you’re living in and want to lecture all those around you, check out Planned Parenthood. It’s like a soap opera. Only scarier because it’s real.
Plus, you can spend the time guessing who’s there for what? Blue shirt girl – STD. Girl in dress – pregnant. Ugly chick – no health insurance. It’s a fun game.
But, beware, God won’t approve of your visit. Even if it’s just for the stories.
WASHINGTON, D.C., January 2010–Terry Lee Wright will speak at Georgetown Law this Thursday, January 21st, at noon, about modern human slavery and his experience writing River of Innocents.
“Slavery is everywhere today, even a few dozen blocks from the U.S. Capitol,” explains Wright. “Slavery is a living fact: thousands of people are enslaved for the first time every day, many of them teenagers in the United States. I wrote River of Innocents because we can end that slavery–because of the people who can and should be free. Each of us can help make that freedom a reality.”
The U.S. State Department’s Trafficking in Person’s Report indicates that human trafficking is a criminal enterprise with millions of victims annually but fewer than five thousand prosecutions world-wide each year.
The Anti-Human Trafficking and Migrant Smuggling Unit of the UN Office on Drugs and Crime has called River of Innocents “A global call to arms in the fight against trafficking.”
Lots of HIV figures you see in the newspapers are national averages. What you DON”T know, but SHOULD be looking at, are the rates amongst the sub-groups you are having sex with.
‘Cos by averaging the cases across the entire country’s huge population, the HIV rates looks less scary, the countries don’t look so bad. High risk sub-groups are where most of the HIV cases are concentrated in.
.
.
Your risk :
In Asia, MSM (Men who have Sex with Men) are disproportionately affected by HIV. HIV prevalence amongst MSM in Bangkok estimated at 28%. If you went to Bangkok and had unprotected sex with 3 men who have sex with men, at least 1 of them could be HIV+.
.
.
In Sg, >90% of HIV+ are male. 1/4 these men are/were married. >90% females are/were married. (See diagram)
What does this mean?
.
It means that if you (female or male, married or not) are having sex with a MSM, the statistics alone put you at much higher risk.
.
If you’re having anal sex, (female or male), the biology puts you at a much higher risk.
.
.
.
If you think you can get away by having a young girl or boy, that’s the stupidest assumption to ever make in your life. Yes, even if you’re straight.
.
In Asian cities where the sex workers don’t ask for condoms, half of them can be HIV+. And because people presume younger sex workers are less risky, more people go for the young ones. Hence, HIV prevalence amongst the under-20yr olds can be >2 times that over the above-20yr olds.
.
.
.
In Sg, ~50% the HIV infections detected only in the late stage. This means that there are probably many more HIV+ people who are very healthy, unaware of their status, and transmitting it if they’re having unprotected sex.
.
That means you could unknowingly spread it to your wife, and by the time you fall ill, it’s been 5 years too late.
.
.
Your life as a consequence
In Dec08, we thought HIV was going to be treated like any other chronic diseases, and generic drugs subsidised (http://mathialee.wordpress.com/2008/12/02/say-yes-to-aids-treatment-subsidies/ )
.
( Health Minister Khaw Boon Wan told The Straits Times he agreed with the view that HIV should be treated ‘like any chronic disease’. ‘The committee of experts will apply the same approach as they do when evaluating drugs for other diseases. We should not single out HIV for special treatment,’ he said. ….. Health Minister asked the Communicable Diseases Centre (CDC) to draw up a list of drugs that should be eligible for subsidies. http://app.mfa.gov.sg/pr/read_content.asp?View,11626, Full Report in Comments)
.
.
Over the weekend, we learn that HIV treatments are NOT going to be subsidized. They can now be funded by Medifund.
.
(Offering subsidies for all patients could “open a floodgate”, he noted. While previous media reports pointed to the ministry subsidising HIV medication, MOH told MediaCorp on Friday: “Minister Khaw Boon Wan and MOH did not commit in 2008 to subsidising HIV medication.” “Our stand in 2008 was that HIV should be considered like any other chronic disease when evaluating the suitability of providing subsidies for medications.” “MOH has chosen to use the Medifund route to more flexibly help HIV patients with their bills, including that for anti-retroviral drugs if needed. Doing so allows available funds to be focused to provide appropriate amounts of assistance to the most deserving cases.” http://www.todayonline.com/Print/Singapore/EDC100116-0000124/Medifund-to-help-needy-Sporeans-who-require-HIV-treatment )
.
.
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This means that you still have to fork out ~$1200 of your salary each month for HIV treatments. That’s if you keep your job, because there are no laws protecting your job. It means that this (http://mathialee.wordpress.com/2008/11/11/living-with-hiv-in-singapore/ ) could still be your life. When you get to a desperately poor stage however, you can now use Medifund. Or you can still go to Thailand to get 3-months supply at a time for $100-200 at anytime.
.
.
.
What’s my point? What can you do?.
My point is that, please, just NEVER have unprotected sex. ALWAYS use a condom. Condoms are 99% protective, when used 100% of the time, correctly.
.
.
Please remember, HIV is NOT like other Chronic Diseases (and will NOT be treated as one, in terms of subsidies too).
Why?
.
One cigarette won’t give you lung cancer. One fatty MacDonald’s meal won’t give you a heart attack. One huge glass of coke won’t give you diabetes. You have to screw up again and again, over years and years, by smoking and eating/drinking unhealthily.
.
.
But HIV is different.
You can do the right thing 99.9% of the time. Use a condom 99% of the time. Be faithful 99% of the time. Probably even abstain 99% of the time.
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But just one slip-up. One mistake. One moment of carelessness when you were drunk.
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Just ONCE. And that’s enough. HIV infection is not something you accumulate through years of casual unsafe sex. It’s something you get in a single sex session.
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And for that you pay. You pay with your health, your dignity, and your finances.
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While the guy next door who ate char kway teow for 50 years and now has a stroke lies in the C class ward with loads of subsidies and sympathy.
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Life is not fair. The world is not fair. People are not fair.
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So don’t let yourself down. You’re the only one who can take care of yourself. Please stay safe, always use a condom (yes, 1 condom, not 2) .
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( I would love to ask you to help spread this message. However, be warned: there will be people who will accuse you of encouraging homosexuality or a gay lifestyle or immorality. Since male homosexuality is against the law, you may be accused of abetting a criminal act. You may lose your friends.)
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( Sources: WHO Best Practices publication “HIV and Men who have Sex with Men in Asia and the Pacific”.
-J Infect. 2006 Oct;53(4):255-9. Epub 2005 Dec 27.
-AIDS. 2000 Dec 1;14(17):2731-40.
- MOH http://www.moh.gov.sg/mohcorp/statistics.aspx?id=246 )
I was so hopeful! Great progesterone numbers and well over a week late. But unfortunately, it was too good to be true. Friday was a very tough day/night for me. First of all, I am not used to all these extra hormones in my body, and I think that at age 27 I finally have learned what PMS is. Wow, hormones can make me one moody mommy-wannabe. I had at least 4 short crys over it, but I’m okay now. Certainly disappointed. And much poorer. I took an at home PT every day I was late (because I couldn’t wait to know) totaling over $70. Then add nearly $35 to that for the OPK, and another $20 for my Clomid, and the $30+ for the blood draw. I guess all of these extra expenses will help me learn to adjust my budget for diapers or other baby expenses.
I am considering taking a few months off of drugs (aka: clomid) after this month if it is not successful. If not this one then shortly thereafter. I am not willing to undergo a bunch of invasive treatments. Also, I don’t like how lovemaking is becoming sex. It isn’t always that way, but I feel like TTC for a long period of time really takes the romance out of the intimate part of a relationship. I want to hang on to that romance, so if it means taking a few months “off” where there are no OPK’s or Clomid then it is worth it to me. My husband is the most wonderful man in the world and it is so important to me to keep things as alive in our marriage as possible. I am sure that sounds desperate in a way, but if you’ve ever been in a bad relationship you may be able to relate. My bad experience was my first marriage which was a sexless marriage. It is such an important part of a loving healthy relationship. I’m not desperate, just in love and am grateful for my husband.
Speaking of keeping romance in the relationship…we will be celebrating our one year wedding anniversary this month! I have a very steamy gift for my hubby. (For those of you who do not like personal details I have whited out this section. To make the words magically appear, highlight the white section following this and there will be a reverse black image for you to read.): I had a two day photo shoot with my wedding photographer since we were also models for her for competition photos. So…before day two’s official shoot on the beach and in the ocean, we took some TASTEFUL boudoir/lingerie shots. My photographer sent me a text a couple days ago saying the photos are ready and that she is having her assistant mail them out on Wednesday. Can’t wait to see how they turned out. It is so not like me to do anything like that, so I’m sure he will be totally surprised. We have a strict no strippers, no porn philosophy in our relationship. But I understand that men are very visual creatures, so I hope that he enjoys this gift. And, someday when I am 30 years older, I will look at my young body and appreciate that I documented my former youth.
So, back to the TTC process. I mentioned adoption to my husband a night or two ago. He doesn’t think we are ready for that yet and is convinced that we will have our own biological children. I think it has always been in my heart to adopt. Even we are lucky to have one or two biological children I would still love to adopt! Personally, I think it would be very healthy for us to adopt now so that I feel less pressure on myself to get pregnant. Chad is not ready for that, so it I guess it isn’t an option and I need to get that idea out of my head.
Well, on to month three of clomid. I hope it does the trick again with getting my progesterone numbers right where they need to be. That was definitely one BIG positive of last month. Good luck to all my readers out there who are also on their TTC/motherhood journey.
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Aseara, stateam linistit in casa. Planurile mele de a iesi la o betie au fost anulate din motive de o stare de lene cronica. In schimb, dupa o zi destul de obositoare, ma relaxam in fata calculatorului cu un pahar de whiskey simplu cu geata si o asteptam pe R.
Cat timp am fost disparut in bucatarie, incercand sagasesc raportul corect de whiskey si cola pentru ea, a disparut si ea pe undeva, lucru pe care l-am realizat cand am ajuns cu bautura ei in living. Dupa 2-3 minute a aparut, in toata spledoarea ei: camasa alba cu o esarfa neagra pe post de cravata, o portjartiera neagra- transaparenta, ciorapi negrii si pantofi nergrii cu toc; parul ei de cularea cognacului, cu ii place ei sa-i zica, prins la spate cu un creion. Ochelarii i-a uitat pe biroul meu. Totusi, era o fantezie materilizata. Inca una.
R, o persoana atat de naturala si de sincera, atat de provocatoare…pe-atat de galagioasa. In timp ce ii faceam sex oral colo, pe canapea, ma uitam la ea, o priveam cum se desfata primind placere orala. Erotismul momentul consta in simplu fapt ca nu am dat nimic jos de pe ea. Totul s-a terminat printru-un geamat puternic de-al ei. Pentru mine placerea suprema in aceste momente e atuci sa imi simt capul strans intre coapse puternice.
Dormitorul, muzica si noi doi facand sex. Vecini batand in pereti (norocul meu e ca acei vecini stau un alta sacara). Pe parcurs ce inaintam in noapte s-a termitat si sticla de whiskey pe masura ce se termina si R. La un moment dat mi-a zis ca a pierdut numarul orgasmelor, lucru care m-a facut sa ma simt ca un zeu al sexului.
Dimineta a plecat la birou, lasandu-ma sa imi continui somnul de care aveam atata nevoie.
Cat de buna poate fi cafeaua si in dimineata aceasta.
People have different reasons for cheating their partners or putting themselves in an illicit relationship or discreet affair. Usually, men do it for four reasons:
• Virility. Men want assurance that they are still virile and desirable even though they are already married. It boosts their ego to get attention and acknowledgment from women other than their wife.
• Excitement. There are men who believe that having a discreet relationship is more exciting than having a legal one. For some married men, this allows them to relieve their excitement felt during their early dating days.
• Sex. Boring sex is often the major reason why men go astray. When they realize that sex with their wives is not happening as frequently and as exciting as before, they try to look for it somewhere else.
• Exits. Men who feel trapped of their current relationship and duty as a breadwinner make affairs as the escape route to relive family pressures.
Meanwhile, here are the top reasons why some women cheat:
• Attention. Women usually want to get more attention. If they do not get enough attention or emotional needs at home, they try to find it elsewhere.
• Sex. It is not as prevalent compared to men, but women still consider desire for more sex as one of the reasons for cheating.
• Escape. There are times when women get bored on their daily routines at home. So, they consider cheating as a way to escape boredom.
Generally, cheaters consider a discreet affair as a way to temporarily forget their problems or escape their current depressing situation.
However, discreet relationship is not always easy and healthy. Aside from ruining the marital relationship, it always has an emotional effect on the children. Therefore, it’s wise to just stay away from any affair as much as possible, and if ever you suspect your partner to be having an affair, address it at once and resolve any relationship issues you have before it leads to divorce.
my attempted separation with the lawyer didn’t take. she’s a bitch that way and that’s the way i like her. so i didn’t see the point in breaking it off.
just another attempt to push them all away. she says she doesn’t want to go anywhere, i’ve heard it so many times before.. and i guess it’s been long enough that i’m going to take a chance on believing it. i’m staying un-invested.. distant.. unavailable most of the time. if she doesn’t get to know me she won’t have any reason to leave.
i have these flashbacks of being on the train in boston… my right arm gripping the bar above me, my left arm wrapped around her. so close, so secure, so comfortable. i remember being really happy in that moment.
maybe i want that again, but maybe nothing lasts forever and i can’t take the chance again.
if i could put myself back in that moment, i would’ve held her closer.
I don’t know what to write about today, but I feel that I should write about something. Hmmmm…
Well…Tomorrow starts the date that I start to majorly work on advertising for my next gallery showing in the little sleepy town of Paola Kansas. I know that some people won’t say that it is THAT bad in that city, but when you have lived through what I have, Paola is boring. However, from what I’ve been told, Paola is a nice little artist haven…which is odd since the Kansas City Crossroads Art District is not more than, what…like an hours drive north? But I guess a lot of “older” artist live in Paola who show down in the Crossroads a lot and have works in collections all over the world and they all live there. I guess it is because it is a cheap place to live…so one could live on a artist income.
The thing is though, that all of the artist around here still seem content on showing only locally and not really trying to branch out to see what they can maybe do. At least the artist that I personally know and ones that I’ve just talked to or even just heard about, they all seem content on either A. having one gallery showing per year, or B: just doing nothing.
Personally, I want to show in as many places and I can, all over the world. I want to take it over! And I need Your Help. If you do like my work, let me know (and if you’ve never seen it then Shame ON YOU…lmao, but really, you need to. go check it out
Just watch out, someday, you, the person who is reading this email, will know my name.
The past couple of days I have been horny as hell.
Well, that might have been a bit of an exaggeration, but at least I have been hornier than I was in the months and months before. Then suddenly it hit me: I had stopped taking my contraceptives pills, because I kept forgetting them, and I would be getting a new contraceptive soon (Implanon). The pill is known for lowering libido, and apparently this effect had been greater than I thought. (I had quit contraceptives before, for a few months, but that was just after the rape, so the higher libido was overshadowed by the negative effects of that event).
I got my implanon yesterday. And now I’m afraid my libido will be gone again. I just started to feel like myself again!
This week’s Dustinland was, in its earliest form, going to be a sort of discussion about how lyrics in popular music have gotten just a wee bit more explicit as time has progressed, but I thought that was a pretty boring, obvious subject, at least if considered in the way it traditionally is. So here’s a little twist on the matter — one that’s hopefully more entertaining than it would have been in illustrated essay form, if you will.
Oh, and just in case you’re not getting this one: all the dialogue in this strip is from song lyrics.
Special thanks to Daisy for bringing this to my attention.
Apparently it’s all very simple. I am trying to use my beauty to seduce a mate who will father my children. I’ll judge him by his strength, status and power. I’ll try to remain captivating for as long as I can, so that he will provide for my children, rather than pursue his goal of promiscuous, indiscriminate sex with younger women (probably secretaries). I should really stop writing and pluck my eyebrows.
This is what evolutionary psychology tells me, anyway. The thesis is that I am pre-programmed to act in this way, because I inherited the genes from ancestors who did it and survived. As objections clamour in my mind to be heard, the one that shouts the loudest is “if that’s true, then how, after all these years of men choosing beautiful women, do we still have so many utterly ugly women?”, but I’ll put that to one side for now.
What I find interesting is the time which they choose to fix on, when men killed hairy mammoths and women dusted the cave. It’s the same one fantasised by both Hobbes and Rousseau, a ‘state of Nature’ before culture got its grubby hands on us and bent us to its will. It’s the one early anthropologists thought they had discovered in Africa and the colonies when they were trying to prove that white people are better because they are ‘more civilised’. The idea of a time before culture is very appealing; in it we can find an image of our purer selves freed from the mores of society, freed even from morality.
Another thing I find interesting is how terminally useless we are at understanding other societies. Even today, in a globalised society with better communication technology than has ever been known, British Islamophobia has reached such fevered levels that I sometimes wonder if we’ve moved far beyond maps with “Here Be Dragons!” written on them. When European artists went east they came back with paintings of hordes of scantily clad sexually available women. Few of them bothered mentioning that they hadn’t actually been allowed inside the harem, and the women’s more accurate paintings strangely didn’t prove as popular. When anthropologists went to Africa they told tales of animalistic, super-sexed women. The kind who leave scratch marks on your back.
Henriette Brownie, A Visit: Harem Interior, Constantinople, 1860,
Are you noticing a theme here? Yes, when men don’t know the answer, they fantasise about sex. Reporting on cultures, they fantasise one in which the women are sexually available. It’s hardly a new discovery, Homer represented it pretty well with Odysseus’ sexual exploits. To be fair, I’m prone to the occasional fantasy about sexually available women myself. It gets dangerous, however, when you call it science. Well respected men published studies about the sexual voracity of African races; black women still have a reputation for animal lust and are constantly depicted that way in pornography. Harem images, I’m sure, have influenced our understanding of relationships in the Muslim world and fed into our burka panic.
So what does this tell us about evolutionary psychology? It tells us to be wary of conclusions drawn from examination of another society, because we may well be mistaken about the nature of that society. It tells us to be suspicious if the tale we are being told is one of the candy-shop of girls variety. And is it? I’m afraid so. Evolutionary psychologists envision a society in which women did their utmost to be pleasing and men slept around, so we do it, too. I do wonder what their wives think.
I think we can learn more from the fact of evolutionary psychology’s speculation than we can from its contents. Men like to envision a world in which they get to shag pretty women. Hang on, we already knew that. So why go to all the effort of putting the label of science on it? Because most people believe that there is objective truth to be found in science. If you take the long view, most science, most of the time, has been wrong, but we are positive about its potential. Often we find what we want to find. So why do we want to find that men are promiscuous and women clingy?
I suspect that it is because you can do a lot of things with the word “natural.” It sells everything from face cream to potatoes. Being a vegetarian, I hear the argument “it’s only natural” often from defensive meat-eaters. I usually suppress the retort that I could name any number of natural things they wouldn’t do in front of me. So when we fantasise about a prehistoric time when we did what was natural, what is our response to it? A bit of philandering only natural. So’s rape, too, when you come to think of it.
I’m not saying that there’s a mass conspiracy of evolutionary psychologists advocating rape. I’m not even saying that even a significant proportion of the population would think like that. I’m just pointing out that when we dip into science, we should recall its tendency to disguise mass communal fantasies. We should keep in mind the Black and Asian women still fighting inaccurate perceptions today. We should remember that these are real people, including the gays, lesbians, childless, promiscuous women and, God love them, the monogamous men.
Megan Fox was phenomenally sexy, full luscious curves, come hither eyes, wonderful smile and silky smooth skin. Then for no explicable reason she went funked herself up with a bunch of tattoos. Not just a tramp stamp to entertain whoever is lucky is enough to bend her over. No we’re talking full on skank level "ink".
It breaks my heart to see a perfectly serviceable piece of ass ruin her God given gifts by having a bunch crap drawn all over herself with indelible ink.
COME ON LADIES »» Body art is for convicts and drunken sailors.
Here’s a little secret for you. The only reason men tell you it’s sexy is because they’re envisioning you in a dingy, low class tattoo parlor, butt in air with some burly guy making you wince. After all everybody knows girls with big tattoos are into anal sex.
Now here’s how she’s supposed to look:
Challenge Of The Day: Work the phrase "butt snorkling" into conversation.
Fun & Tell Challenge is where you accept the challenge then come back and post a comment telling everybody about it.
You know what I am thinking? I am thinking: OK this was supposed to be one measly little post. How the heck did it blow up to a 3 part series?! “Concise” I ain’t.
Pardon the grump-puss routine.
We got some bad news today. Well I got some alarming sounding news after I woke up and before I was half way into the phone convo trying to assess the damage (which was really minimal), I got hit with the second actual bad news. All this before I was fully awake. I knew I should have stayed in bed today.
Monkey’s ass I say.
*sigh*
Oh well. What is one to do? Stuff happens. You gotta work around it. I don’t WANT to work around it. But I don’t really have a choice do I? No I don’t. I’ll figure it out. It could be worse.
BUT, it’s the weekend and I won’t face or deal with reality until Monday.
Now back to our normally scheduled programming…
Luke is the star of most of my fantasies. (Some say unimaginatively so but *I* prefer thinking that I am infatuated!) I tell ya, this makes it hard to masturbate when I’m mad at him. I am serious! Call me crazy but when I am mad at him I don’t want to imagine him pulling my hair, tanning my hide and fucking my ass. *laughing* Yes I know how ridiculous that sounds.
I do imagine other “figures” when I fantasize but these characters are usually faceless and vague… you know, place holders. The only “celebrity” I’ve ever masturbated to is K.D. Lang. I’ve always wondered if she ever sings between her lover’s thighs. *drool*
Anyhow.
If I fall in love with a new fantasy I write it down erotica style and send it to Luke. I usually have 2 or 3 stories in progress going. I am pretty decent at short stories but longer stories require more attention than I am always willing to give… so I just write sections and string them together later. I write non-erotica too but not nearly as much.
Speaking of erotica, I love me some Patrick Califia. I wish he’d write more. He writes amazing erotica. Have you read his stuff? Queer bdsm erotica at it’s very best. Go read one of his books. As a matter of fact go buy one.
But I digress (I see you rolling your eyes!) Most of the time Luke just reads them as entertainment but once in a while, he decides to act on one. Of course he always changes them to suit his own taste which I actually like because while it has elements of my fantasy, I don’t quite know what will happen next. When we both get off on something, it’s just amazing.
BUT the thing about not dating your clone is that regardless of how similar minded you are about sex, you still don’t have an identical fantasy profile. So there has to be compromises. Of course, in a d/s relationship the scales tend to tip towards the top.
For example, I like playing with knives but I don’t necessarily get off on cutting my own damn self. He has to do it to me for it to be hot. He, however, doesn’t like it nearly as much as I do. I’ve already talked about how he feels about threesomes or group sex which is another one of my big turn ons.
And then comes the part about equipment. Sometimes, you just HAVE to have the right equipment. For example, I’d spontaneously orgasm from the mere idea of being locked in a cage and fucked through the bars. I tell you after we put together the big dog crate for our Dane, I was wet for a week. But we don’t have a human cage or really any space for one. Or complete sensory depravation… a decent blindfold and earphones with relatively loud music works pretty well but not as well as a decent hood designed for the job. But that’s way too expensive. Same goes for a good corset. I am not talking about the mass designed junk but a custom made one. Actually I think of being corseted as a cross between bondage and sensory deprivation.
The thing about sensory deprivation and bondage, although they are a heck of a lot less dramatic than being flogged or cut or set on fire… is that they have a deeper degree of mental submission. By that I mean, when I am enduring pain, I have something to do. I am in there, fighting and submitting to the pain. I am patting myself on the back for taking it with grace… or feeling giddy at how he’s reduced me to a puddle. But in sensory deprivation or prolonged bondage, I am not “doing” anything. Even if he is whipping me under bondage, I am not doing as much since I am pretty much stuck there at his mercy, All there is to know is he wants me this way and let what emotions may come wash over me.
It’s so very much more difficult than just submitting to pain. This is much more threatening to one’s identity. You have to, well, willingly give up personal metal/emotional space. Watch yourself become property, utterly controlled. That’s a hell of a lot more difficult and takes a much deeper brand of submission. (only in my opinion) And it’s not something one can do with any old top because it takes much more intricate set up and build up. (once more, I am just speaking for me) And even after I found the right top… it’s not something we can do every day. I come out of a mental submission session much more drained than any other scene, regardless of severity. But this is the domain of MY deep dark fantasies so I am not saying no more. A girl’s gotta have some secrets!
Now in interest of diversity, here are a few of Luke’s favourite fantasies:
-Being sucked off while he is working out – specifically for me to just show up mid workout and service him without a word – can you say narcissistic? *g
-Fucking and torturing me in front of and for an audience – what did I tell ya about the narcissism?
-Me in a wonder woman custom – (I don’t get this one, it’s apparently a guy thing… I can’t imagine wonder woman as a submissive anyway)
-Fisting, always with the fisting… if it’s not golden showers, it’s fisting… I might start needing bigger Kegel weights to keep tight… that or if I ever give birth, it’ll go very smoothly (just kidding, even I am not that delusional)
And finally, I’d like to share the single oddest fantasy I have heard of within consensual kink:
-Fantasy of being devoured… as in eaten… like… as in food. Also known as Vorarephilia.
It produces a problem for me… namely you aren’t around to enjoy it happening caused you’ve been… well slaughtered and stewed. Unless someone cuts off only a piece… but then you probably are in a bit much of physical agony to appreciate it… or maybe not…? Anyway. This would be the point my kink fuse would blow. Yes, I realize I am being a bit literal! That it could very well involve just the role playing for many and I don’t mean those cases… I mean the few cases who literally want to be dinner… you think the fantasy extends to how they are prepared? Like is there a, ooooh marinate me in a wine sauce type thing? And we in the kink community like to say we respect everyone’s kink. To each their own, right? Hard to be as understanding here though… even though nobody is getting hurt unwillingly.
But you gotta keep in mind… there are all shades of rainbow out there.
***Thank you for your attention. This ends this section of ramblings on the subject of fantasies. Please stay tuned for future silly-erotic compositions. Dirty Ingenue out***
I had one of Oprah’s Aha! Moments. You know the moment I’m talking about. It’s when a light bulb goes off in your head and suddenly some issue you’d been struggling with becomes crystal clear.
My Aha! Moment came after I finished writing my January 5th 2010 blog. I ended the blog with these words, “Paul left me, dear reader, because he never loved me. And that’s the truth.”
If I were a famous writer I would talk about my Aha! Moment in “O, The Oprah Magazine”. But since I’m an unknown writer I have to talk about my Aha! Moment in my blog, “A Bad Marriage Is Fattening.”
But before I talk about my own Aha! Moment, I want to digress and talk about my relationship with The Queen of Talk – Oprah Winfrey. Perhaps the most influential woman to ever grace our planet.
Now we all know Oprah has a very big life and knows many famous and influential people. Why Oprah has even shared the cover of “O, The Oprah Magazine” with the First Lady of The United States, Michelle Obama. And in December 2009 Oprah shared the cover of “O, The Oprah Magazine” with Ellen Degeneres.
What most people don’t know is that I’m a personal friend of Oprah’s. Gayle King is not Oprah’s only best friend. I’m Oprah’s other best friend. Before you think I’m delusional let me tell you that I have solid proof that I’m Oprah’s other best friend.
I have at this very moment 1,492 unread emails from Oprah. That’s right. You’ve heard me right. Oprah has been filling my email box with emails and they’re all addressed to me personally.
But honestly, who has time for all of Oprah’s emails? Certainly not me. I might have a small life, but even my small life can’t handle all of Oprah’s voluminous emails. Morning, noon and night she incessantly emails me and with no thought, whatsoever, as to what hour of the day it is. For example, I’ll get an email at 3:13 in the morning from who else but Oprah. A loud chime will go off at my computer, abruptly awakening me from my sleep. I’m dreaming of having sex with a man who loves what he calls, “my Renoir body.” Does Oprah care that I haven’t had sex in twenty years and now I’m at least having it in my dreams? No. All Oprah cares about is that I get her email. And what’s so important that Oprah has to pull me out of my dream just when I’m about to climax? Why — she wants me to know who’s going to be on her show the following Monday.
I never reply to Oprah’s emails because I don’t want to encourage her. It’s enough already. I couldn’t possibly read everything that Oprah sends to me in an email. It would absorb my entire day, and I’ve got a blog to get out. Of course, it’s a small blog about how my bad marriage got me fat, how I’ve shed my husband, and now how I want to shed my weight in 2010.
I’ve tried to be gracious and not unsubscribe to Oprah’s website because I don’t want to hurt her feelings. And I don’t want her emailing me asking me why I unsubscribed, because even people with very big lives like Oprah sometimes get lonely in the middle of the night and need a friend they can email to.
And truthfully, the last thing I would ever want to do is to have a confrontation with Oprah. Remember what she did to James Frey, who wrote “A Million Little Pieces” when she heard rumors that he had fabricated large parts of his memoir? Oprah invited him back on her show for a second time to directly confront him about whether the accusations against the book were true. Believe me, you don’t want the powerful Ms. Oprah Winfrey confronting you on her show.
“Joan, why did you unsubscribe to me? Even though I have a very big life, sometimes I get lonely in the middle of the night and I need a good friend I can email to. I thought you were that friend.” Oprah’s eyes fill up with tears.
Believe me, you don’t want to be the one who’s responsible for Oprah’s tears.
“I understand, Oprah, and I am your good friend, but it was humanly impossible for me to keep up with all your emails.”
“I’m very hurt about this, Joan. Gayle manages to read all my emails. I can’t understand why you cannot.”
“I’m really sorry, Oprah. I really am.”
“And you’ll be more sorry when your book, “A Bad Marriage Is Fattening”, comes out and I don’t invite you to be a guest author on my show. An appearance on my show would ensure that your book would become an instant bestseller.”
“Oprah, you do have a point and I’m definitely having one of your Aha! Moments. I’m going to re-subscribe to your website immediately.”
“I’m so happy that you‘ve decided to change your mind and re-subscribe. And you will read all of my emails that I send to you, won’t you, Joan?”
“Each and everyone of them. I promise.”
“You’re not just saying that because you want to be on my show when your book comes out?”
“Oprah, would I lie to you? You’re my best friend.”
Dear reader, today’s blog was supposed to be my Aha! Moment about my ex husband, Paul, never loving me, but that will have to wait.
Right now I have 1,492 emails to read. And she’s sending me more.
The 80beats blog at Discover blogs is reporting on a French/British argument over the female G-spot. Personally, I’d assume that the French, who are supposed to be the world’s best lovers are right. (Have I mentioned that I’m half French? My Mom was born in Paris.)
Figure 1: Hippocampus. Look at it upside down and you’ll see the seahorse shape.
Figure 2: Gene-environment interaction.
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KOMPAS.com – Ganahari Takahasi sebenarnya telah menghasilkan jutaan yen sebagai kepala perusahaan video porno Soft on Demand. Namun tahun 2006 dia memutuskan untuk meninggalkan bisnis mesum itu dan mendirikan Kunitachi Farm dengan modal 1 miliar yen. Menurut Takahashi, lompatan dari pornografi ke pertanian ini tidak sesembrono yang disangka orang.
When people think of rape, they only think of the perpetrator as someone who is a stranger jumping out of a shadowy place and sexually attacking someone.
, chatten und flirten.
