Thoughts From the Celibate Side

Let's talk about sex, baby.

After a passionate and somewhat graphic discussion with a good friend over lunch yesterday, I realized that women in general have done me - yes, me personally - a grand disfavor. It has come to my attention over the course of several months that men of similar age and status as I have been very well trained to approach sex in a certain way - slowly, tenderly, and with great regard for the needs of their partner.

Pardon my vulgarity (again), but what a fucking shame. Feel free to read that literally.

Gone are the youthful days of quick, violent, exploratory, fun sex. Now, every man I know talks of "foreplay" and "the g spot" and (oh, God help me) "cuddling." And every single one of them is convinced that this utter tripe is what women in general want and need. And let's don't forget that each of them brings with them years of that training I mentioned earlier, which has effectively eradicated any trace of the bullish and blind-with-hormones young men that each of them surely were. Should my absent husband decide to stay absent, I am doomed to spend the sexual prime of my life bored out of my fucking skull.

Ladies, you've taught your men to be anything but men. Men rut. They sweat. They push and pull, grab and tear. They eat your pussy just to hear you scream while they hold your hips so you can't escape the excruciatingly pleasurable pain. They take their pleasure as they will, with no regard for you or your "needs." And men - men the way they were made to be - will expect you to do the same . Our ridiculous quasi-feminist culture has taught men to subvert the very thing that attracts us to them in the first place: their raw, unadulterated power. Their sensed and half-feared ability to take what they want, when they want, how they want.

The only power we've ever had in this regard is the fact that once they thrust inside our slippery and fragrant darkness, they are no longer in control. And that - that moment of utter truth, perfect honesty, and the true nature of Man - that is the thing I crave. That is what I want. I don't want "sharing." I don't want questions about what position is most pleasurable for me. I don't want endless distractions in order to escape the inevitable. And I will be happy for the rest of my days if I never, ever, ever hear the question "did you come?" again. Who cares? I'll get mine eventually, believe it. I don't want a man to give a rat's ass about my "needs," I want it RAW. I want to see the MAN who thrusts blindly and uncontrollably because he cannot help himself. I want to feel the barely contained rage as I take my lips from his shaft in teasing little increments; the frightening speed with which he will pin me, my hair firmly held in a fist, to brutally finish what I teasingly started - because he cannot wait. I want sex - pure sex - no questions, no expectations, come-as-you-are-and-leave-your-training-behind sex.

Observation, experimentation, and discussion reveal the sad conclusion that I'm not going to get what I want, I'm going to get what other women want. Thanks a lot, girls.

Open Apology

Sorry about that, y'all. You'll be happy to know that my ass is scarred, but back to normal.

The Ranting of the Truly Exhausted

Okay. I'm tired. My body is engaged in a full-scale rebellion. My house is falling apart. My bank account is a disaster area. I have a knot the size of Ft. Lauderdale wedged under my right scapula, the unrelieved depository for stress, that makes me look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Did I mention that I'm tired? So you'll excuse me if this post is less than politically correct. I don't have diplomacy in me these days... and frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. If you're offended by body fluids, vulgarity, or self-pity, don't read any further.

Let me start by stating that this has been an extremely difficult year for my butt. Last winter, while putting a log on the fire before bed, the wood popped and a spray of sparks and one small piece of burning wood landed on my left cheek. The resulting burn made sitting, walking, laying down, and being clothed (like for 9 hours of work and 90 minutes of commute time) excruciating. Not to mention the lovely scar it left on my otherwise pristine ass. Now, in almost the exact same place, I have what appears to be a staph infection, probably the result of an insect bite that I never noticed until it turned into a gaping, bloody maw on my nether region. Not only is it horribly painful, it's ugly as all hell. Good thing for me no one is going to see me unclothed any time soon, oh ha ha ha. Let's don't forget that I will have to visit the doctor about this little treasure on my backside, and I'm finding it difficult to get excited about finding time for that in an already frenetic schedule. But consider the alternative!!!

As if that wasn't enough, my wonderful, exquisitely female, and often celebrated menstrual cycle has firmly established itself at 15 days. Yes, you saw that right - 15 days. A few months ago, I thought a 21-day cycle was a pain. About a year before that I thought a 24-day cycle was a pain. Now I'd give the rest of my left breast to have the freakin' 21-day cycle back. What does this mean? Yet another visit to the clinic, Hallelujah!! It'd be nice if I could take care of both problems in one visit, but since appointments are scheduled 2.5 minutes apart (this is not an exaggeration), I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to prioritize and get the suppurating hole in my ass taken care of first. Then I'll be able to worry about being either the most fertile or the most f**ked up woman on the planet.

Too much information, you say? What is the point of this post, you wonder? Please refer back to the title. Hell, refer back to the beginning. Falling apart starts slowly... it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that this is only the start.

Close Call and a Small Victory

You don't mean to, but
you ask the question
laughing at yourself, really
because the wound is only
barely held together
by a gossamer stitch of time
the pain so near surface
(for you, for me)
to even think about sudden movement
But the thought! strung between
and woven through us
for a brief and sweet second
I laugh out loud
to prove I understand
the ridiculousness of it all
as though contributing more fuel
to the hungry fire of Fate
should be a thought dismissed
before its very completion
We look, sheepishly, at each other
(ourselves, our past)
and make hurried excuses for flight
this moment of intensity
too comfortable and close
and I walk away thinking
yes, I must, I will.

D-Day

The dreaded day has come and gone. It was wonderful.

If I have accomplished anything in these 40 years on this Earth, it is that I have gathered the most amazing conglomerate of friends and family imaginable. I've been the recipient of a dazzling outpouring of love this day, and have been greatly suprised by some of the sources. Gifts great and small were presented, all in recognition of this past half of my life lived fully and in perfect love; each and all precious and priceless and perfect. Today I know I am a wanted child of a benevolent Universe. Today - and every day - I am loved.

Disappointed though I was to hear not a word form certain individuals who I had thought held special counsel, I have learned in no uncertain terms that Perfect Love and Perfect Trust are their own reward, brought back to me this day three-fold by the ka-tet I call my own.

Ichi wa zen... zen wa ichi. Happy Birthday to me.