I’ve been thinking a lot about how and when I decide to give a guy the heave ho. “What if?” are words that whisper in the back of my consciousness. Do I want to live with the glaring gaps that seem to show up sometime between the first email and the 4th date.
Take the Cyclist, for example. A very nice guy. But we definitely had a humor gap! Our emails were too brief to know for sure, but after an hour with him, it was fairly apparent that laughter and silliness weren’t a part of his personality. I thought maybe it was nervousness, but the second date was even less fun. The Beer Guy was hilarious – in emails, on the phone and in person. We had a natural repartee that was stimulating and delightful. He was intelligent too. But we experienced an emotional gap: he performed the “push me, pull yous,” with so much ease I soon realized it was second nature for him to “invite me in, and then push me away.” He even copped to it when I called him on it. But he wasn’t able or willing to try to change. The surfer and I had a different kind of emotional gap. He got scared when things got too close, and off he ran.
The Engineer and I had a “values gap.” He owned a huge house and wanted to buy land and build, and have more and more stuff. He drove a fast Porsche on the weekends, and SUV during the week. I’ve had a few “what if” moments about him. But I let him loose before I did a reality check.
Sexual gaps? I’ve encountered a few of those. He can’t get it up. He’s not that interested in sex. He kisses badly. STDs. Or the Forestry Guy who made love with his eyes open. I had great sex with the Beekeeper, and often. But his old girlfriend was obviously still in love with him, and kept showing up.
I want to be able to go for a hike or a bike ride with my man. I don’t think I can tolerate much of a “physical gap.” The surfer was great for a 50-mile bike ride, or a hike in the hills. He was a great kisser, but couldn’t get it up regularly. The Engineer liked to ride bikes, too. The Beer Man liked a stroll, but didn’t have much stamina. The Cyclist and I never got around to a bike ride. The Beekeeper and I rode bikes together and he could have sex for hours. I went on a 1st date stroll with a Lawyer last August. He panted and sweated the whole time. But he took me out to dinner and played some great rock and roll on his most-excellent stereo system.
Which brings us to the cultural gap. This can come from age difference, ethnic differences, or merely mindset differences. Music, food, events, and other lifestyle issues make up our culture. I like to try new things, but I want some comfortable compatibility in the culture arena.
The Urban Farmer is hilarious, sexy, handsome, intelligent, fun, easy-going, physically fit, forgiving, and kind. And he lives 1000 miles away. Distance is definitely a gap.
I’m not about to break the no connecting first rule just yet, but it doesn’t stop me from getting obsessive about checking my phone. Doesn’t stop the dreams from coming. Every night. I’m infuriated with myself for letting him get to me like this, for even thinking that I was going to be more than a weekend of pleasure for him. Thinking about it he’s probably got girls scattered everywhere the bastard. So on we go, trying to get back to normal after meeting the best fuck of my whole damn life so far, and that’s not easy.
I work in a small office in the City, most of the girls work in the type pool, I’m a PA, and my boss is a jackass. Not to put too fine a point on it, he’s old enough to know better. I’m the only PA he’s had who’s lasted longer than three weeks. That’s because I don’t let him get away with anything. And keep commenting on his wife and children. That usually brings them back to the real world pretty quickly.
Anyway, this morning I arrive in early take my position in front of my phone and computer and order coffee for the meeting at ten. It’s empty at this time of morning just before eight. Dreams woke me up hot and bothered before six, so I took a run through the local park to de-sex myself before work. It’s now seven twenty. I drift and think of X, I feel the small fair hairs on my thighs react to the vision in my head of his fingers on me. And then I am ripped from the moment from a loud grunt from my boss’ office. I sit in silence a moment in panic thinking what to do when someone has a heart attack, because that’s what it sounds like.
Grunt.
Strained breath.
Grunt.
Fuck, why me? I don’t want to touch him let alone give him CPR.
Tentatively I get up and press my ear up against the door of the office, the glass surrounds are covered in blinds which are all drawn.
Grunt.
Either he’s close to death or being strangled alive.
I burst the door open and it takes a while for my eyes to adjust. But the do.
What I see before me is the office junior, butt naked bent over the desk. She’s twenty, maximum, incredibly skinny but gorgeous in a fragile way. She has one hand in between her thighs, the other still tugging her non existent breast. And him, stood there behind, grunting pants around his ankles, sweat dripping off his face. Grunting.
I’m quite aware that my mouth is wide open at this point but I can’t quite get my jaw to listen to my brain and shut up, so I raise my hand to cover it up instead. She has noticed I’m there but he is past caring and makes the most hideous squealing noise, and releases into her. He then coldly asks her to “go clean up” and she squirrels away getting dressed quickly looking at me all the while.
He simply hocks up his old man pants and Closes his zipper, completely unabashed that I’ve just seen his cock and will mortify me for life.
“Discretion Miss Woo, is the better part of valour.”
I get it, he wants me to keep my mouth shut? Well it will be interesting to see what he does about my pay rise at Christmas. I nod, still unable to remove my mouth from my hand or close my mouth. I can do secrets, but I will tell a few select friends, of course.
I return to my desk, and glance over the face of my mobile. Used to seeing nothing there, I switch on my pc and do a double take. The screen is flashing with an alert. 2 missed calls and a text. No voice mail. I grab it and run to the ladies where I find junior patting her face with tissues. I run to the fist free cubicle and take a seat.
“Tried to call, things difficult here. Will call soon. X.”
I hold out my hand, beckoning her to take it. She looks up at me and laughs cooly, the moonlight glancing off her flushed cheeks. She wraps her fingers around mine and I pull her up on the rock. Our jeans are rolled up; still wet though after wading through the frothy surf. The barnacles scratch the soles of our feet, but I guess she didn’t seem to mind much. The incoming waves pound against the rocks in front of us, throwing up foam that caresses our faces. The night is clear, except for a single wispy cloud near Sagittarius. Off in the distance, there the city sleeps quietly with its lights glowing gently, while around us the sand basks in the glow of the moon and stars.
My finger points at the swirling froth in the waves, clockwise, counterclockwise, each spin shimmering with the welcoming lights of a million bio-luminescent creatures coming to life. I can hear her mouthing gasp, her amazement, her childish wonder, her anticipation of the wait. I pick my moment, slipping my fingers between hers. We both crack a sarcastic smile before bursting into laughter, piercing the dry night with life.
It’s moments like these, it’s moments like these, she repeats softly as I lead her back to the sand, taking short hops from rock to rock. It’s moments like these, as our toes wiggle into the wet sand. Moments like these … as we plop onto the blanket I’ve hidden with care behind the towering cliff face. Yeah, it’s moments like these that I truly love.
The sudden breeze tucks her wavy hair behind her ears, and she glowed. She puts her hand on my heart, and asks, “Do you always have to be like this, J.?” How could I reply to such a question? I mumble, I mouth a reply, but I guess it doesn’t matter anymore once our lips are locked. And it’s moments like these, that the world stops around us, leaning in, struggling to hear the whispers inside.
How many crazy fucking days has this been going on? I don’t know how much more I can take at once without losing my mind- or what is left of it. Last night, I was informed that not only had Steve decided to put my cunt into retirement… he told K all about it. He told K a lot last night about me… my sick obsession with this game… my twisted, broken body… my twisted, broken mind. My fear and terror of his women, particularly her. She laughed her ass off at me. So did he.
Heidi fucked me last night, with one of our giant, specialty dildos while egging me on verbally to get a rise out of me because I had just shut down from exhaustion, humiliation, fear, tension… you name it. She finally revived me with the information that she and I had to find Steve a woman for today or tonight as none was scheduled. She pointed out that in times like these I won’t be capable of servicing him and her odds aren’t even that high… he needs fresh meat. It’s the only answer. And she’s right. I can’t take it. I’m not really coping anymore. But she’s right. So, he must be served… we must provide.
First, some stuff: I’m no longer updating the Benrik blog because I’ve quit doing the Tasks for this year. Next year I’ll attempt the next book, but until then . . .
I’m also going to try and update this blog every day, and to make sure that the entries are actually coherent instead of just the random musings of a madman, which is all we were going on before.
As y’all know (I’ve told you enough), I’m serializing my urban fantasy novella, Ghost Dance, on another WordPress blog. Chapter seven (in which Linda kicks some more ass, the true nature of Ol’ Scratch is hinted at, and Linda’s father has shenanigans) was posted just the other day. If you like mythology, folklore, the north Georgia mountains, or any of the various subdivisions of fantasy, I suggest you check it out. It can be found here: http://authorofghostdance.wordpress.com/
And now, onto the meat of today’s entry:
The other night, in a fit of what may have been temporary insanity, I wrote the following letter to Brian Keene of http://www.briankeene.com:
Brian Keene
P.O Box 281
Craley, PA 17312
Dear Mr. Keene,
You can call me Nate. I just turned eighteen in December, I’m an aspiring novelist (amongst many other things), and I live in Mississippi. You may remember me; I used to post on the Keenedom, but I had a bit of a “fanboy moment” (sorry about that . . .) and decided to quietly make an exit; I’m not much of a forum guy anyways. I’m writing you because the other day I picked up The Black Train by Edward Lee at my friendly neighborhood bookstore and it reminded me of how much I like paperback horror novels (I’ve been moving more towards classics these past few months); as soon as I got home I randomly picked The Conqueror Worms off of my bookshelf and devoured it in just a few hours. It’s not your best, out of what books of yours I’ve read, but it’s still very good and I enjoyed it even more upon the second reading.
I remembered seeing a P.O box on the contact page on your website and it occurred to me that I haven’t gotten a letter in the snail-mail in years, so I decided to send one off. I haven’t been following your blog since my silent departure about a year ago, so I hope that things are going well for you and you have my condolences and good wishes if they’ve been less than awesome. I look foreward to hearing from you just as soon as you find the time and/or money for stamps; I’m not going anyplace. I wish you the best of luck; so long as you keeps on a-writin’ them there books, I’s gonna keep a-buyin’ ‘em!
Sincerely,
Nate.
P.S.: I’m a little short of funds right now, but as soon as I can spare fifty bucks I do plan on subscribing to the newsletter. If it’s half as great as the other stuff you’ve written, that’s chump change.
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As some of you may or may not know: Brian Keene is a totally awesome horror writer. He was born in Pennsylvania sometime around when Brian chased the Dane (he falls into the “not as old as my dad but still alot older than me” demographic) and still lives there to this day. He’s the author of such celebrated titles as The Rising, City of the Dead, Dark Hollow, Ghost Walk, Terminal, The Conqueror Worms, and many, many others. I found out about him a couple of years ago through a History Channel special on zombies and was hooked immediately. I cumbered around on his forum for a little while until the aforementioned “incident”; since the place had never been to my liking anyway, I ducked out all silent-like instead of making a big stink because I really respect Brian Keene and didn’t want to piss him off too much or pollute his forum with aimless griping. (Since then I found out they banned me, which thought was weird since nobody’d mentioned it before I left; I reckon that once it became clear I’d sodded off, they figgered it didn’t matter.)
(NOTE: THE FOLLOWING CONTAINS SPOILERS)
Excluding Sympathy for the Devil and Unhappy Endings (an article collection and a short story collection, respectively), I’d order those books of his I’ve read from best to worst as follows:
Ghost Walk The Rising
Dark Hollow
Ghoul
The Conqueror Worms
City of the Dead
Ghost Walk is my favorite for a number of reasons. First and foremost, it’s exactly the right length to tell the story. Keene is a very verbose writer, and it seems like in some of his books (especially the last two) he’s mincing words; Ghost Walk is without a doubt the slimmest volume listed. Second, the mechanical execution is flawless; I got a real The Great Gatsby vibe while reading it, by which I mean that I didn’t see a single wooden phrase, dying metaphor, or poorly-chosen word in the whole thing. Third (and perhaps most important of all), it’s the only end-of-the-world-is-imminent book listed where the humans (er, human, in this case) manage to thwart the Thirteen. The others are full of ass-kicking (zombie upon zombie upon zombie gets wasted in The Rising and City of the Dead, and the scene in The Conqueror Worms where carl kills Behemoth made me almost as happy as in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves when Friar Tuck piles all those heavy sacks of gold in the bishop’s arms and is all “And here’s thirty pieces of silver, to pay your way to HELL!” shoves him out the window), but in the end things always turn sour for our heroes (except in City of the Dead, which as a sort-of happy ending; at least, as happy an ending as can be expected). Ghost Walk doesn’t really have a happy ending either, but the world gets saved and the evil monster dude gets thwarted.
The middle ones all have their ups and downs. The Rising is epic, not just long but really epic (of Stand-like proportions), and the characterization and description are beautiful, but it’s Keene’s first novel and has all the faults one might expect in a first novel; the language gets a bit choppy in places, for instance, and I think he really screwed the pooch on the ending (hint: he never intended to write a sequal). Dark Hollow and Ghoul are both personal favorites of mine; both are tragic, brutal, and humorous in just the right ammounts and places, and both revolve around awesomely horrible monsters (Dark Hollow is one of the only books I’ve read that made me really honestly lose sleep; if you’re a man, or if you’re a fan of Bill Hicks’s Goatboy sketch, I reccomend reading it with the lights on). The Conqueror Worms we’ve already discussed.
I put City of the Dead at the bottom of the stack because it’s much too fat; it has all the same qualities that made me love The Rising and with fewer of those first-novel flaws, but it seems to just go on and on and on forever with no tangible hope of a happy ending (sort of like being trapped in a videogame you know you can’t win). But all of the good qualities far outweigh the bad, and if you don’t mind a good long yarn (and a bit of a shaggy dog story, let’s be honest) I highly reccomend it; if you enjoyed Stephen King’s Dark Tower books, you know what I mean.
So enough about that crusty old bastard. Let’s talk about ME!
I finished reading William Golding’s The Inheritors the other day; I enjoyed it, though it was kind of sad. Today I cracked open The Phantom Legion by Cameron Judd; I loved The Shadow Warriors (the first book in the trilogy) and I can’t wait to see what happens in this next volume, plus I really need the inspiration for the Overmountain man story I’m trying to write.
I picked up a couple of printed-on-dead-trees job applications from stores, and I’m about to start filling out an online one for the Books-a-Million at the mall here; looks like my trip to Canada this summer will be a go! I don’t need much cash, as I’ve got no qualms about eating spam-and-ketchup sandwiches and sleeping in my truck for a week or two. The most expensive thing will probably be gas.
After a bit of deliberation, I’ve decided that, yes, I will go to community college. I feel like an elitist ass for objecting to it for so long, but the truth is I only want a college degree so I can get my teaching job; anything I could learn at some fancy-pants expensive-as-Hell university, I could teach myself at a public library. So what does it matter if I get said degree from a community college?
I’ve hit a little bit of a roadblock on my writing. I can’t wait for ScriptFrenzy (www.scriptfrenzy.org) to start so that I can get all of these ideas for my Song of Roland stage play out of my head. I’ve decided that once I get my hundred pages for ScriptFrenzy done, I can start on this awesome new novel idea I had; this commitment is important, because I have a bad habit of throwing all my energy into a new project for a week or two and totally burning out. This new idea was inspired by Forbidden History, an anthology of fringe-science and fringe-history essays put out by the folks behind Atlantis Rising magazine; not to say too much, but it involves cavemen. Thus my reading Golding’s The Inheritors, and placing Auel’s Clan of the Cave Bear next in my stack after Phantom Legion.
I’m going to try and put most of my energy into finishing Parcel O’ Rogues (a zombie novella that is without a doubt the most politically-charged thing I’ve ever written) and the sequal to Ghost Dance. Said sequal will be called Houses of the Holy, and if I splice it with Ghost Dance, well, I’ll have myself a complete novel! I’m hoping that Dr. Pus (http://libraryofthelivingdead.lefora.com/) will be interested in it.
Desire can be a sign of positive bloodflow. Photograph courtesy of Victor Jeffreys II, phiary.com/diary/victor.
Dear Yenta,
I’ve been dating my best friend Taylor off and on for about two years now. It’s been really great and I love him so much. He’s helped me through my dad’s death in the past year and we are very close. Lately though I’ve started having feelings towards other people and being less interested when we are intimate. On top of that, I’ve stopped ignoring the feelings I’ve had for one of my good girl friends. She wrote me a letter and in it told me how she’s always felt about me.
She said in it that when she first met me that she knew there was something nerve-wracking and beautiful about me. I don’t know what to do because I think about her all the time and how wonderful it would be to be with her! I think about the way her eyes sparkle when she laughs and how she always looks perfect to me and I just have this desire to be with her, even though she thinks she is dorky. I don’t know if this is just a phase or not. Also, lately I’ve just been wanting to have sex a lot. With Taylor and with my other guy friends that are interested in me, or my ex boyfriends. It’s like I don’t even care anymore.
Am I morally obstructed for wanting to be with more than one person?
-Sweet Jewish Girl
Dear SJG,
You would only be morally obstructed if you were to act on all of your desires while feigning commitment to your boyfriend. There is no sin in entertaining thoughts. However, nine times out of ten, when you start thinking about sleeping with everyone around you more than about sleeping with your man, it is a sign that things between you aren’t right.
When people help us through hard times, it is hard to let them go. Your boyfriend, I have no doubt, is a wonderful man who made the pain of losing your father far less difficult. But just because someone was there when you needed them most does not mean you need to be with them forever. relationships shift and it might be time to end the romantic element of this one.
According to Elisabeth Kübler Ross, there are 7 stages of grief. These are:
1) Shock stage: Initial paralysis at hearing the bad news.
2) Denial stage: Trying to avoid the inevitable.
3) Anger stage: Frustrated outpouring of bottled-up emotion.
4) Bargaining stage: Seeking in vain for a way out.
5) Depression stage: Final realization of the inevitable.
6) Testing stage: Seeking realistic solutions.
7) Acceptance stage: Finally finding the way forward.
You, I am guessing, are somewhere between the Testing and the Acceptance phases. It sounds like you have waxed and waned through the hard work of letting a parent go and are now ready to begin to come alive again.
You can still show your love and your friendship, but sticking around out of obligation or guilt is not what relationships are about. Your desire to sleep with your friend and to sleep with everyone else is just your body’s way of saying that it is time to move on. Get bad with your lesbian half. Find what makes you tick.
Sometimes, sadly, those people who help us through hard times also remind us of the suffering we experienced. It might be time to end your intimacy with your boyfriend because he holds a lot of the grief you just walked through, and now you need distance from those feelings. It isn’t fair, but it can be part of the process of mourning, moving on, and continuing to live a good life.
You only live that good life once, so be true to yourself. You can show your love and appreciation for your boyfriend without being his significant other. It is possible to end this era of the relationship, while expressing how important he was and is to you. For help, see these tips on gentle breakups from AllWomenStalk.com. Figure out what you want and then go get it. Just be sure to be kind and gentle as you untie yourself from this guy: he sounds like someone who deserves it.
A Canadian girl at breakfast this morning also advises going out with a royal final hurrah. She suggests giving your man a threesome before dipping out. To each her own.
As I wrote a few days ago, The Young One has decided to completely disregard my request to stop pestering me for sex. He is persistent – well he did chase me for 6 years before I gave in and let him have a sniff of pussy. Today he and I have been messaging each other, starting out tame (ish) on our work emails, then moving to our personal emails when the messages became less… tame.
I have been haughty and unattainable, he has been lustful and hard and explicit. He tells me it has been a long time since we have been so dirty, yet, to be honest, I havent been dirty (much), but I have been making him chase hard, and this has made me hornier than I have been for a very long time.
The breathlessness, waiting for his replies to my demanding texts, my pussy lips and clit swollen and slick reading the words of what he wants to do to me while fingers type prim and properly shocked phrases. Nipples as hard as marbles erect against my modest work shirt, betraying the tormented unsatisfied desire to my work colleagues and staff. Discretely crossing and uncrossing my legs under my desk, putting pressure on my clit as I type, thinking about him across town with an achingly hard cock, a cock that is hard precisely because I want it to be. Lust, desperate to release. Pics taken in the toilet and sms’ed to me, fingers again reprimanding such filthy behaviour and demanding further depravity whilst shakingly prying between my legs in my own work-toilet torment.
This is how it was for years before we fucked, and to be honest, it was better then.
I want to be chased. I want to be hunted, to feel predatory eyes on me, readying for the pounce. Skillfully evading each attack and further increasing the hunger and desperation of both. Sometimes succumbing to the claws of raw lust, only to scramble to safety at the last moment… I think perhaps he isn’t really that keen on catching me either. I think he likes this game, and it is one he plays very very well.
I am not sure that the catch is my favorite part of the hunt.
The point of attraction and vibration weight that you now have, is due to what you are paying attention at this moment, those aspects of your life that you live in the present moment, on what you’re wishing or imagining. That is, if you want to be thin but at the moment you are quite fat, the aspects of what you are looking at from your experience will likely exceed your vibrations.
The Law of Attraction does not respond to words, but the vibrations radiating from your words. That is, whether you use words like “I want to be there” or “I want what’s there”, your vibration should refer more to where you want to be now than where you are at the moment (not like). Therefore, even more far-fetched words, if you’re in a moment of resistance towards your Welfare it will be useless, for the words you use are not important, what matters is how you feel.
The process called “search for new sensations,” will help you radiate a vibration that will be useful, as this makes you to be aware of what you are attracting. It’s about using your imagination to pretend that your desire has been fulfilled and you experience the details of that desire. Again, the universe does not know if you offer a vibration because of what you are doing or because of what you are imagining to be living. In any case, the Universe responds to vibration and allows the event to occur.
When you use this process:
1. When you want to improve a situation.
2. When you want to get more money.
3. When you want to get a better job.
4. When you want a more satisfying relationship.
5. When you want to have a body that makes you feel better.
Your goal in this exercise is to invoke images to create better vibrations that will allow what is wanted, to flow to you.Your goal is to create images that make you feel good, or looking for “new sensations”, that will make you feel how you’d feel if you had enough of what you want, instead of feeling the way you feel about not having it.
For example, if you wish money. You may remember a time when you had more money or a time when, at least not suffered from the stress of knowing that the debts would accumulate. When you give with that memory, try to get as many details as possible to feel it more intensely.
You can pretend you have an unlimited credit card with which you can buy anything you want, a kind of “Carrie Bradshaw” magic card that you use several times a day because it is very useful, and once a month, write a check to pay for all purchases done with the card. Imagine how much money you have in the bank compared with the purchases you’ve made this month with the card is so superior that paying the bill does not affect you at all.
The more you practice this game of “Check for new sensations” you will find it easier and more fun to practice. When you pretend or remember selectively, you active a vibration that changes to a new point of attraction, your life improves in all areas over which you have sought to experience new sensations and best of all is that you attract to you what you’re waiting for to manifest.
This picture is disturbing on so many levels. For one thing, the actress on the far left is only 16. For another, the guy in bed next to her plays her BROTHER. The photographer really should have thought this one through a bit more . . .
WARNING: Tonight’s episode of Gossip Girl has been rated . . .
. . . with heavy emphasis on the “F.” Viewer (and reader) discretion is advised.
Food, Fake Os, Family and Fun!
“The Lady Vanished” began with Nate and Serena, more or less, doing what they did throughout the entire last episode: screwing eachother’s brains out. Poor Nate! Once cast as the show’s leading man, he has, of late, been relegated to the roll of Porno Pizza Delivery Guy.
“Did someone order extra sausage?”
Since the show has returned from hiatus, all this guy has had the opportunity to do in terms of “acting” is give smoldering looks to the camera and make mildly suggestive comments, while being ravaged by his current femme fatale, Serena.
Don’t worry, Chace Crawford. We still think you’re pretty.
I’ve been told that Nate’s and Serena’s food-filled sex romp was a send up to this classic film . . .
. . . which, I will admit, I never saw, because I was too young when it came out (and, from the looks of it, may still be!)
However, I was shocked to find out that the sexy hunk of man in the above-poster “grew up” to be none other than this guy from The Wrestler . . .
“This should be a lesson to all you kiddies. DON’T DO DRUGS!”
Aside from being a super sexy scene, it was nice to see one of the Gossip Girls actually eating. Because, as Blair mentioned during the episode, Serena hasn’t ”eaten bread since middle school” or, likely, anything else, for that matter . . . (well . . . except . . . nevermind. This blog post has gone far enough into the gutter as it is.)
Serena and Nate are interrupted from their “meal” by the loud sexual moans of Blair Waldorf. (Seriously, could this episode get any more pornographic?) Of course, Nate and Serena immediately assume that Blair is having her own ”meal” with Chuck. However, when Chuck phones Nate, requesting that the latter retrieve the former’s cell phone from Blair’s and Chuck’s apartment, without Blair finding out about it, it becomes apparent that Blair is home alone, flying solo . . . WOAH!
“What? I’m not man enough for you, in my neon orange peacoat?”
As it turns out, Blair is “just reading.” (Isn’t that what everyone says, when they are caught?) Her moans were merely intended to make a point about Nate’s and Serena’s inconsiderate “loudness” and sexcapades of recent days past.
“Glad I got Chuck’s couch scotchguarded,” she remarks. (I totally forgot N and S did it there last week too! The writers were loving Leighton Meester, this week. She got all of the episode’s best lines.)
While Blair confesses to Serena that her and Chuck are “not connecting,” Nate arrives with a lame excuse as to why he suddenly needs Chuck’s cell phone. “I had to check a tweet,” he offers.
Good ‘ole Gossip Girl. Always up on what the “cool kids” are doing . . .
Of course, because Blair almost got into Yale, and, therefore, must have an IQ above 20, she doesn’t buy Nate’s Tweety Excuse. “I so miss dating a horrible liar,” she sighs.
Upon examining the phone, Blair learns that Chuck has been receiving calls from the woman who, last week, claimed not to be, but actually is, his mother. And he has been ignoring her. Chuck walks in on this exchange, and explains that he wants nothing to do with his mother. Blair surprises us all, by supporting Chuck’s decision. Serena “Buttinsky” Van Der Woodsen, however, is not as understanding.
Serena arranges a dinner date with Chuck, Blair, Nate and herself, and secretly invites Mommy Bass along for the ride.
(I did a little research on Laura Harring, the actress who plays Chuck’s mom. From this, I learned precisely two things: (1) she starred in that bizarre David Lynch movie Mullholland Drive; (2) when you search for pictures of her on Google Images to include in your blog, more nudie pics appear than clothed ones. Based on her not-so-hot acting during these past two episodes, I can’t say I am all that surprised.)
Anyway, Chuck approaches Mommy Not-So-Dearest, and hands her a large check in exchange for her leaving his life for good. She takes the cash. Later, Chuck admits to Blair that he HAD wanted a relationship with his long-lost mother. Giving her the check was a test, and she failed.
Refusing to accept defeat Nosy Nellie Serena pays another visit to Mommy Bass.
I just couldn’t resist . . .
You see, this whole “Chuck thing” was about SERENA all along! Serena is hurt that her dad hasn’t made an effort to meet her, and she’s hoping Mommy Bass can give her some sort of an explanation for his action. Mommy Bass does provide an explanation, but not exactly the one Serena wants. As it turns out, it was Chuck’s Mom’s idea for Bart Bass to tell Chuck his mom had died during childbirth. She was young at the time, and simply didn’t want any part in raising a child.
Horrified, Serena stalks out, immediately leaving a message on her absentee father’s machine, stating that she no longer wants to find him. However, given that they have already offered the role of Serena’s father to this guy . . .
And the award for Baldwin Brother Who Aged the Best Goes to . . . BILLY!
. . . I’m assuming Daddy Van Der Woodsen doesn’t regularly check the messages on his cell phone.
At the episode’s conclusion, Mommy Bass decides to stay in town and get to know her son; Chuck makes amends with her; and they all live happily ever after . . . at least, until next week.
The Runaways
Meanwhile, Little Jenny Humphrey is hiding in her bedroom, with Poor Man’s Jared Leto Drug Dealing Damien. The two are messing around amid thousands of pharmaceuticals, while Jenny’s oblivious parents are still moping about the fight they got into last week.
And the Parent of the Year Award goes to . . .
Jenny is understandably a bit miffed when Drug Dealing Damien’s dad calls and her refers to Jenny as “his friend.” However, she doesn’t have much time to pout about this, because her parents finally wake up from their self-indulgent stupors and realize that Jenny has an older boy in her bed. Just to prove she’s “bad ass,” Jenny drops a bag of pills on the floor and tells her parents that they are hers. When her father balks at the discovery, Jenny calls Hypocrite on his Aging Rocker tush. “I know you didn’t spend all those years on the tour bus, reading,” she remarks.
“I WOULD HAVE . . . I just don’t know how to read . . .”
A surprisingly gallant Damien tries to deflect blame off Jenny, by admitting the pills are his, and telling Mommy and Daddy Humphrey a sob story about his drug-addicted dad (a story he later told Jenny was true, but I’m not buying it). However, Daddy Humphrey, a.k.a. Rufus, will not back down. He uses Jenny’s rebellion as an excuse to escape the swanky Van Der Woodsen residence and return to Brooklyn.
Although Rufus claims he is doing this for his daughter, I cry bullshit. I’m pretty sure this has more to do with Mommy Humphrey’s “little white lie” to Rufus last week about her recent dalliance with Serena’s dad.
And yet, it seems that Mommy Humphrey isn’t the only parent getting a little action on the side. Once Rufus has left the house, Lily learns from the doorman that Daddy Humphrey has been spending time in Slutty Neighbor’s apartment, and has even left certain items of clothing there.
At the episode’s conclusion, Jenny leaves home and runs off to live with Drug Dealing Damien, who accepts her with open arms.
Shame on you Poor Man’s Jared Leto! She’s 16! If you even THOUGHT you would be cast in the remake of My So Called Life, you could just forget about it now!
Which reminds me, didn’t we do the whole “Runaway Jenny” storyline two seasons ago?
I guess this works for plotlines too . . .
In other news, these two reunited at a beach-themed party, and decided to make a go of it as a couple . . .
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ . . . .
Ooh, sorry, I must have dozed off for a moment there.
So, there you have it folks, another nearly R-rated Gossip Girl episode in the can. Until next week . . .
Coming back is never easy…especially when you’re not sure what you were running from.
A reunion sparks thoughts of a lost love as a woman returns to her old town, and an old flame.
Coming Back by M. King ISBN: 978-1-907623-05-9 Genre: Sensual Romance/Erotica Length: Under 4000 words (13 .pdf pages) Rating: 2 (sexual content)
This title is released as part of our Alpherbites line – short stories available for free download. Why not take a nibble at a new author or genre today? Excerpt:
God, but it’s been a long time.
Since we spoke on the phone the other night, I’ve been trying to work out just how long, but I’m really not sure if it’s five or six years.
Have I really forgotten?
I imagine, if I confess this to you, you’ll tease me for being so forgetful, maybe say I must be starting to get old. Yet I can’t believe I could ever come anywhere near forgetting you.
Not that I’ll tell you that.
Even so, I’m slugging back the vodka tonics, waiting for you, and it seems like no time has passed at all. It’s as if it was only yesterday we were in The Holly Bush illegally, sneaking furtive drinks we were too young for, and furtive kisses we couldn’t put names to.
To be brutally honest, I’m glad you left. We were, I think, too young. Too young to cope with what was happening.
Of course, perhaps I just told myself that, because I didn’t want to admit what a coward I’d been. That would be shameful, I know, but I’ve done worse things since then.
I don’t think of them now, and I don’t think anymore about the past because—as always—I’ve got myself a table with my back against the wall, so I can see the door opening, and I can see that you’ve arrived.
My stomach does that little jump it’s done every time that damn door’s opened tonight, but this time I know it’s you, even though your body is turned to the side, turned away from me as you pass some dark-clothed woman in the doorway. Immediately, I recognise your shoulders. And, immediately, my nipples contract a little, even as my eyes are adjusting to fit your welcome shape back into the world.
It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? The thinking part of me, the small part that doesn’t automatically become a crotch on legs the second I watch you walk to the bar, is amused by the fact that this hasn’t changed. I knew it wouldn’t, somehow. I hadn’t really thought about you in years, but the reunion last month was like a flare to my memory, like a match to the curling corner of an old photograph. Something that time had compressed, made flat and distant, suddenly blistered into life, coiling and writhing in the snare of a growing flame. I’d half-expected to see you there, surprised at my disappointment when I didn’t, and I knew I had to see you.
I had to find out.
Put it all to rest, I suppose.
You get your drink and my hand is raised, fingers half-curled, half-waving, just waiting…yet again, stuck somewhere between inaction and decisive movement. I want to bite my lip—you’ve made me nervous—but I don’t dare wreck my lip-gloss. It doesn’t matter, because you see me then, and you smile. God, you haven’t forgotten how to smile, that’s for sure. I am caught up and held in that megawatt grin, and as you walk over you don’t seem to have changed at all. You reach my table, and I’m sure I’ll knock something over as I stand up but, miraculously, I don’t. You set your drink down and say hello and, rising, I lean across to kiss your cheek. The evenings are still warm—I’m wearing a summer dress, my wrap abandoned on the back of the chair—and your fingers are cool as they curve against my arm. You smell different, a far better aftershave than you used to use, and your skin’s rougher on my lips.
I try to leave you unmarked, unblemished by the make-up I put on, I admit it, purely to impress you, and that seems funny, because once I tried so very hard to mark you.
Audrey and I gave each other some DVDs for Valentine’s Day, and today finished watching the fourth of four movies. How did they stack up?
The best, I think, was “Charlie Wilson’s War.” Tom Hanks isn’t always great, he was, after all, in a terrible movie with a dog once, and he has been featured in marginal movies made from marginal books by a marginal author whose name rhymes with “Tan Clown.” But this is a good one, and Hanks does have a talent for “period” films—think “Saving Private Ryan,” “Apollo 13,” or even, thought the events were totally fictional, “The Green Mile.”
Anyway, in “Charlie Wilson’s War,” he plays a somewhat tainted Congressman who nonetheless champions the cause of Afghanistan after the Soviet invasion. It’s not always remembered as well as it ought to be that the Taliban takeover of that country was partly due to the face that we were willing to arm anybody who would kill Russians, but the Russian invasion was every bit as cruel as it was depicted in the movie, and forcing them to leave Afghanistan was an achievement.
Hanks is good in the movie, and so is an actor who has a somewhat more uneven record, in my opinion—Julia Roberts, who actually plays a complex and mature woman in the film. And Amy Adams? Well, she’s Amy Adams. I know it’s probably for all the wrong reasons, but yes I am a fan.
America’s post-Vietnam history is too full of fits and starts—of foreign involvements either handled very badly or begun well but ended too soon. Such is the case with this movie, where, as Charlie so colorfully says, we “messed” up the end game.
My rating? Four and a half of five daisy petals. Definitely worth a look.
Next, in my opinion, was “The Invention of Lying.” I was a bit troubled by the film, whose star, Ricky Gervais, is pretty open about his atheism in real life and certainly espouses that philosophy in this flim. I can see why some religious people are troubled by this film, which treats religion as the uber-lie.
Still, the film cleverly creates and presents an alternative universe where humans are not capable of lying. That somehow works. I loved the movie company in the film, which, since humans could not write fiction, was reduced to having “readers” recite history. Gervais’ character, Mark Bellison, is stuck with the 13th Century, and thus is not very successful. Jennifer Garner is charming as his love interest, although the weakness of the film, one that is shared by too many movies, is that the entire basis of love appears to be sex.
Still, another thought-provoking, watchable movie. The humor is a bit harsh and anti religion, but then again there is noting duplicitous or dishonest about it, and I don’t mind if people don’t share my philosophy as long as they are thoughtful and honest about theirs.
Four of five petals. (Daisy petals just seems like a good rating system for movies.)
Somewhat less successful was Wallace and Gromit, “A Matter of Loaf and Death.” I like W and G, and this was somewhat funny, but not as inventive as some of their earlier work. And for some reason, Wallace was not as obsessed with cheese as he should have been. I missed the cheese.
Three petals. Just as an Ebert review of three stars is favorable, I would say this is more of a plus than a minus, but if you have not encountered the clay British chap and his more intelligent canine sidekick, this would not be the best first introduction, but if you enjoy W and G it’s certainly worth a look.
Finally, “Vicky, Cristina, Barcelona.” Did I like it? Just saw it, and honestly, I’m not sure. It was nice to see that Spanish actor from “No Country for Old Men” being passionate rather than being a serial killer.
It’s a Woody Allen film, and like some of his other movies, sometimes bogs down a bit as characters sit around and yack and the camera pans back and forth and you get a bit tired of the verbal ping-pong. And the characters irritate you by saying one thing and doing another.
It’s a “love” story that is really a sexual lust story. Of course, lust and sex are strong adult motivations, and I don’t mind if a movie maker explores those motivations.
And I like a lot of Woody Allen movies.
Also, Penelope Cruz is always watchable. And Scarlett Johansson is very interesting as the glue that holds Penelope and Javier Bardem together.
Furthermore, I really liked Spain, want to go there.
On the other hand, I found the movie slightly yucky. The husband comes off as a bore simply because he is one of the few characters who acts like an adult. Bardem’s artist character is particularly irritating, and I couldn’t help but think he was partly Allen’s alter ego (and Allen himself seems more than slightly creepy).
How many petals? I guess three, but a more mixed three than W and G. Still worth seeing, but has some minuses, too.
That’s it for now. I’m reading an old Bill Bryson book, “The Mother Tongue,” and a memoir by another author, “The Last Kid Picked.” When I finish one, I’ll blog about it. Planted Hollyhocks a week ago, they are supposed to take 10 to 14 days to germinate but are already showing. Morning Glories and Moon Flowers will be started next, but not yet, since germination time is pretty quick for them and it will be some weeks before plants can go in the gardens. Gardens themselves are a beehive of activity—the Sedum from last year doesn’t look like it’s been in the dark for three months under three feet of snow, but it has. The new rose bush in front looks particularly vibrant with almost totally green canes. Most bulbs in the new garden haven not declared themselves yet, but in sunnier back gardens many green things are showing.
It’s officially spring in Iowa. Very early spring, still chilly and I would not be surprised by a last season snow fall one of these cool, wet days, but still. Cedar Rapids doesn’t look as sunny as Barcelona yet, but it’s not Siberia anymore, either.
I haven’t written in a really long time. I guess you could say I have ‘writers block’. I feel like a half full tomato ketchup bottle with a clogged up neck… there are words waiting to come out, but they’re stuck.
Sometimes I’m lost as to where to begin, and at night I lay wide awake with a running commentary jogging through my mind, thinking about things I can write about and is it funny… is it appropriate?
Since my break up last year I have been lucky enough to have ‘dated’ three new guys; the guy that doesn’t want a relationship, the sex addict and the best friend.
Who knew there were so many different types of men or even ‘dating rituals’ that we go through?
With a lot of my dates I could see that they were using ‘tried and tested’ methods of seduction… and sometimes, I even let them.
Anyway, enough rambling! Topics for the next few months are-
I work to support my unemployed husband of 10 years now,thank you we LoovVve each other sooo much. I also am a laid of Office Manager. i am so tired but i thought I would try a hand at this blog thing since it’s been a while since my first intro blog.
I spend all day in this place with no windows. I cannot even daydream out a window to see the FINALLY spring weather in DETROIT – and feel that feeling i get every spring…GROWTH, CHANGE, MOVING FORWARD. I have to get out of this place, but how? I will become a bum, lose my car, oh man.. what to do. I am going to start going to the gym more I think.
My hubbie of 10 years (even tho we are NOT married) has degenerative disk disorder and is in bed right now trying to sleep. He is in so much pain. I am so proud of him. He has gotten off of Pain Pills FINALLY. They took over our lives, that addiction was worse than the pain he goes through. It dampened our relationship in not only the obvious ways but the not so obvious ways…he couldn’t get an erection!!!!!!! but I love him so much nothing will come between us. we are getting through it and sex is getting better. thank GOD! anyway I’m getting personal enough for the night. These are just a few thoughts.
My sister is over so we are watching the movie The Breakfast Club… love that movie. LOVE LOVE LOVE that movie
Hope you all have a good night and hit me up if your in the detroit area and want to do the 3 day Cancer walk with me in August 13-15!
Edaurdo Jones is the Voice of the Doomed. His stories shock and enthrall. They draw readers into a painful, depraved world they prefer to imagine doesn’t exist. That’s fine. You just think that… If it makes life easier, if it makes you feel safer, then you go ahead and think that. It’s probably best you do.
Part Two of his warped vision, the prophetically titled “Deep Fried Duct Tape and Sushi Knives” follows on from Issue Four’s most beloved entry… A story set in the world’s least favourite city, Detroit, as our drug-dealing sociopath goes on a rampage of revenge.
It is the continuation of this century’s greatest and most repulsive tale of drug-abuse, severe paranoia, carnal lust, and hideous violence.- David S. Wills
You lent me the book you said I was too young to read. In which
A man had an orgasm that killed him. In which a woman ran naked
From the kitchen, across fields, to jump on a horse behind a man.
I did not understand their behaviour, but I understood the desire
To touch – like the women plunged their hands into the dough
And oil, fried their chests in the window-and-doorway sun when
They worked, pressed themselves to tables and walls, ate secretly
After dark the richest cheeses and mushrooms. So I located you.
You see, if I’d touched you, you would have moved. But nose down
In your cardigan, I was in ecstasy. I used an insolent finger on the
Blue grains left behind by your dry-erase pen. Chose a seat – mine,
That to me became your resting place in the 8 you made, and the
Bright, bodied centre of my thousand and one new delusions.
A woman waits for me—she contains all, nothing is lacking,
Yet all were lacking, if sex were lacking, or if the moisture of the right man were
lacking.
Sex contains all,
Bodies, Souls, meanings, proofs, purities, delicacies, results, promulgations,
Songs, commands, health, pride, the maternal mystery, the seminal milk;
All hopes, benefactions, bestowals,
All the passions, loves, beauties, delights of the earth,
All the governments, judges, gods, follow’d persons of the earth,
These are contain’d in sex, as parts of itself, and justifications of itself.
Without shame the man I like knows and avows the deliciousness of his sex,
Without shame the woman I like knows and avows hers.
Now I will dismiss myself from impassive women,
I will go stay with her who waits for me, and with those women that are warm-blooded and
sufficient for me;
I see that they understand me, and do not deny me;
I see that they are worthy of me—I will be the robust husband of those women.
They are not one jot less than I am,
They are tann’d in the face by shining suns and blowing winds,
Their flesh has the old divine suppleness and strength,
They know how to swim, row, ride, wrestle, shoot, run, strike, retreat, advance, resist,
defend themselves,
They are ultimate in their own right—they are calm, clear, well-possess’d of
themselves.
I draw you close to me, you women!
I cannot let you go, I would do you good,
I am for you, and you are for me, not only for our own sake, but for others’ sakes;
Envelop’d in you sleep greater heroes and bards,
They refuse to awake at the touch of any man but me.
It is I, you women—I make my way,
I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable—but I love you,
I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you,
I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for These States—I press with slow
rude muscle,
I brace myself effectually—I listen to no entreaties,
I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated within me.
Through you I drain the pent-up rivers of myself,
In you I wrap a thousand onward years,
On you I graft the grafts of the best-beloved of me and America,
The drops I distil upon you shall grow fierce and athletic girls, new artists, musicians,
and singers,
The babes I beget upon you are to beget babes in their turn,
I shall demand perfect men and women out of my love-spendings,
I shall expect them to interpenetrate with others, as I and you interpenetrate now,
I shall count on the fruits of the gushing showers of them, as I count on the fruits of
the gushing showers I give now,
I shall look for loving crops from the birth, life, death, immortality, I plant so
lovingly now.
An excerpt from “Desires that you can only tame to know” by:Ivan Donn Carswell
A drama in a field I saw before
while walking near the horses. A filly
frisked and nipped the stallion sore
until his thick, black rod arose
all of a metre long,
and he mounted her and rudely thrust it in
with heaves that drove her flanks apart.
His nostrils bulged and flared
in the frenzy of his ride until she twitched,
disgorged his shaft and cantered off aside.
He followed, softened cock a sway,
flopping side to side, a comic sight,
unfinished in his business, intimidated
by her flight. She lead him far and teased
him every turn, standing quiet to take his shaft
a moment, half a thrust, a touch, and fleeing
as of whim. She milked him dry and raw,
his rod withdrawn, her cleft engorged
and glistening while I watched enthralled.
Her wanton wiles and artist’s touch had stirred me deep,
it was a game she played so well
I only wish her season never ended.
There is faint motive in your hunt of sexual game,
of craving for extension, of seeking out exotic fruit
emboldened by invention. Life’s cup spills diversions
in a bounty that confuses, you savour without style,
relentless urges palter, you are afraid it seems
to counter this inanity in case it proves a dream.
A weakness of your yielding flesh,
the treachery where wit cannot compel
it quiet, clouds the nature of reality, and
drives this single-minded search
where each new conquest proves you right
and fuels desire that swells until it hurts.
We are the watchers stirred to witness sex,
thrilled with sympathetic energy
which quickens in our breath;
but other forces guide your bodily design
and moisten nether lips in unctuous flow
without correction. Your cerebrum in muzzled
with sensations, you are coming with your mind aglow
in riot of desires you can only tame to know;
and in the mellow ebb of truth you find
that passion’s flight has left you, too, behind.
“Erotic Energy” by:Chase Twichell
Don’t tell me we’re not like plants,
sending out a shoot when we need to,
or spikes, poisonous oils, or flowers.
Come to me but only when I say,
that’s how plants announce
the rules of propagation.
Even children know this. You can
see them imitating all the moveswith their bright plastic toys.
So that, years later, at the moment
the girl’s body finally says yes
to the end of childhood,
a green pail with an orange shovel
will appear in her mind like a tropical
blossom she has never seen before.
“Sex” by: Michael Ryan
After the earth finally touches the sun,
and the long explosion stops suddenly
like a heart run down,
the world might seem white and quiet
to something that watches it in the sky at night,
so something might feel small,
and feel nearly human pain.
But it won’t happen again:
the long nights wasted alone, what’s done
in doorways in the dark by the young,
and what could have been for some.
Think of all the lovers and the friends.
Who does not gather his portion of them
to himself. at least in his mind?
Sex eased through everyone,
even when slipping into death
as into a beloved’s skin,
and prying out again to find
the body slumped, muscles slack.
and bones begun their turn to dust.
Then no one minds when one lover
holds another, like an unloaded sack.
But the truth enters at the end of life.
It enters like oxygen into every cell
and the madness it feeds there in some
is only a lucid metaphor
for something long burned to nothing,
like a star.
How do you get under your desire?
How do you peel away each desire
like ponderous clothes, one at a time,
until what’s underneath is known?
We knew genitals as small things
and we were ashamed they led us around,
even if the hill where we’d lie down
was the same hill the universe unfolded upon
all night, as we watched the stars,
when for once our breathing seemed to blend.
Each time, from that sweet pressure
of hands, or the great relief of the mouth,
a person can be led out of himself.
Isn’t it lonely in the body?
The myth says we ooze about as spirits
until there’s a body made to take us,
and only flesh is created by sex.
That’s why we enter sex so relentlessly,
toward the pleasure that comes
when we push down far enough
to nudge the spirit rising to release,
and the pleasure is pleasure of pure spirit,
for a moment all together again.
So sex returns us to beginning, and we moan.
Pure sex becomes specific and concrete
in a caress of breast or slope of waist:
it flies through itself like light, it sails
on nothing like a wing, when someone’s there
to be touched, when there’s nothing wrong.
So the actual is touched in sex,
like a breast through cloth: the actual
rising plump and real, the mind
darting about it like a tongue.
This is where I wanted to be all along:
up in the world, in touch with myself. . .
Sex, invisible priestess of a good God,
I think without you I might just spin off.
I know there’s no keeping you close,
as you flick by underneath a sentence
on a train, or transform the last thought
of an old nun, or withdraw for one moment alone.
Who tells you what to do or ties you down!
I’d give up the rest to suck your dark lips.
I’d give up the rest to fix you exact
in the universe, at the wildest edge
where there’s no such thing as shape.
What a shame I am, if reaching the right person
in a dim room, sex holds itself apart
from us like an angel in an afterlife,
and, with the ideas no one has even dreamed,
it wails its odd music for pure mind.
After there’s nothing,
after the big blow-up of the whole shebang,
what voice from what throat
will tell me who I am? Each throat
on which I would have quietly set my lips
will be ripped like a cheap sleeve
or blown apart like the stopped-up
barrel of a gun. What was inside them
all the time I wanted always
to rest my mouth upon?
I thought most everything
stuck dartlike in the half-dome of my brain,
and hung there like fake stars in a planetarium.
It’s true that things there changed into names,
that even the people I loved were a bunch of signs,
so I felt most often alone.
This is a way to stay alive and nothing to bemoan.
We know the first time we extend an arm:
the body reaches so far for so long.
We grow and love to grow, then stop, then lie down.
I wanted to bear inside me this tender outcome.
I wanted to know if it made sex happen:
does it show up surely in touch and talk?
does it leak from the mind, as heat from the skin?
I wanted my touching intelligent, like a beautiful song.
“I like my body when it is with your” by: e.e. Cummings
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,
This is the news, “Women activists present condoms to Philippine bishops.” What’s new? The Philippine Catholic bishops have been waging a bitter war with the government against the use of contraceptives. The Catholic church has never been weakened with its stiff stand against Family Planning and the use of artificial methods of birth control.
The Philippine Catholic Bishops have always been critical of any administration or political parties that support birth control and family planning. In fact presidential aspirants in the like of Senator Noynoy Aquino have been very careful with their stand with regards to population issues. The Bishop can always call on the Catholic faithful some 75 millions out of the 90 to 100 million Filipinos not to vote for any candidate who supports the family planning program of the government. One of the important criteria the good Bishops are looking to any politician vying for an elective position in the government is his policies and stand on the issues of family planning and birth control.
Even if President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo knows the significance of high birth rate in combating poverty problems in the Philippines, having been once a DSWD secretary, she tends to be careful with its population management program so as not to provoke the ire of the already critical Clergies to her administration. The bishops also took advantage of the government soft stand on Family Planning and birth control by calling for a ban on the advertisement of condom however the Arroyo’s administration only shrugged off their demands.
As if trying to maim the bishops stiff opposition on birth control and contraceptives, here comes Health Secretary Esperanza Cabral (former DSWD Secretary) “handing out condoms on February 13 as part of an information campaign on HIV-AIDS.” Her action may not necessarily be the collective stand of the government but nobody in the bureaucracy stood up to sanction her. She had not violated any law, she just exercised her political independence to promote actions responsive for the health and general welfare of the entire population. Yet the Bishops angrily called for her to resign.
But Health Secretary Cabral found allies on women’s health and rights advocate groups like the Party of the Workers who picketed and presented two baskest full of condoms at the headquarters of the Catholic Bishops Conference.
Judy Ann Miranda, the party’s secretary-general asked the bishops to “bless the condoms as a conciliatory gesture to unite for reproductive health and women’s rights” but unfortunately no bishop was around to receive/bless it.
As a response to the women activists action the bishops said, through spokesman Monsignor Pedro Quitorio, that they could not compromise on the church’s opposition to birth control devices. Again, a manifestation of the unwavering Catholic dogma on contraceptive devices which are perceived to tamper with the flow of nature and life. They the bishops however have no specific response on how to promote women’s reproductive health and quality of life.
“If contraceptives are immoral, nothing can change that… not even the vote of the whole country can change that,” Quitorio said. But should he not consider also immoral to see the health of women deteriorate just because couples are denied on the used of contraceptive devices. I think there is nothing more immoral than allowing spread of diseases and overpopulating the limited space we have in this country just because we can not control our rapid population growth.
And going back to politics, is the issue on contraceptives a leverage for a politician to improve his chances of winning in the presidential race? Will the good bishops support senator Manny Villar if he makes a covenant with the Catholic Church in the Philippines never to support legislative measures that advocate the use of contraceptives and other birth control devices? What will happen to the leading presidential candidate on surveys now should he decide to go against the bishops on their resistance to contraceptives and population control programs of the government?
I guess the guys all chipped in to buy Jesus a table dance sense he was reborn as a man but about to die, only to live again. I’m confused. I never did like magic tricks. Especially the primitive ones.
So, I haven’t written for a couple of days, I have to admit even though it’s lame, that I am a bit discouraged that nobody seems to be reading the stuff that I am writing, and I am perfectly aware that it is utter crap, and probably not worthy of being read by the large You, and I DID write even, in my initial post, that I didn’t care whether or not people read it, but I guess I lied. I was so psyched there when people actually commented on something! It was a minor high! I guess I need to learn something about the laws of shameless self-promotion here on the interwebs. I just had a strange memory, hahaha, to put this into perspective in a roundabout sort of way: Me, about nine or ten, and my friend Leanna, and we are putting time capsule messages into a newly built rock wall. Basically we are writing things on mini pieces of paper, rolling them up, and shoving them into the cracks and imperfections – we thought – for eternity to find. Of course by now they have disintegrated into their individual molecules and somehow made their way to the sea, like everything else, but anyways, I distinctly remember writing something about the Information Superhighway, as I had just read in a Reader’s Digest (I know, how lame is that! But I would always find them at my grandma’s place, and loved the Disaster in Real Life stories, kind of a sick fascination I suppose, stories of people getting run over by tractors and such. Anyways, back on track here, I had just read an article on how the Information Superhighway was going to revolutionize our lives. (I wish I could read it now, because I’m sure it would be a good laugh!) And I had this image of myself, magic carpet like, floating through this magical land. So I wrote it on one of my little scrolls, “the Beginning of the Information Superhighway is now.” Comical! Anyways, this brings me to another article I read recently, in Psychology Today, one of my favourite reads and one of the few magazines I feel compelled to read cover to cover, because it is totally fascinating! So yeah, this article was all about early experiences and how they shape you in the long run. One of the examples they used was Michael Jordan, and how he scored a major clutch win early on, as a nobody, and how that set him up to perceive himself as the kind of person who does that type of thing, etc etc etc. So that got me to thinking about men in general (Michael Jordan…..men — see my train of thought is not always as illogical as it may seem) and I was thinking specifically about boyfriends. Ladies, have you ever wondered what it would be like to gather together all the men that you’ve been with, into one room, and just spy on them? Or maybe make it like a cryptic clue, like, “You all have one thing in common — figure out what it is,” And then wait and see how long it would take them to all figure out that it is me? Like I wonder if they would get along with one another? None of them have ever met, which would just make it all the more interesting. Ok, Ok, so just in case you are picturing like, an arena here, I am talking about maybe ten guys, c’mon, give me some credit here!) Anyways, this all got me to thinking about what these wierdos all have in common. Other than me, somewhere in their past. And I realized I have been a major SPCA for Men. I have dated losers! Why, you ask? As did I? I think it is inherently tied into your – mine – everybody’s self-perception, and the people that fit into that, just naturally come to you. Me, having rather low self-esteem, especially in high school, never felt like I deserved to date the guys that I really wanted, or was attracted to, and ended up instead with the mediocre ones. Of course, my current boyfriend, who is more than amazing, does not at all fit into the generalization, and has helped me advance leaps and bounds in my own self-worth, but the rest of them, to put in a totally reality-TV way, “Not so much!” And I would like to hereby blame it all on Calen, my first “boyfriend” in grade eight (I think we may have held hands, and kissed, and that was it). Anyways, Calen was quite popular, athletic, listened to Tupac, etc, and I was shocked and awed that he was interested in me, ME! Well, it turned out, after a few months of this charade, that he actually only ever dated me to get closer to my beautiful friend Lauren. Heartbreaking! But it’s funny how these particular archetypal scenarios replay themselves like bad movies on late night TV. Fast forward ten years, and I am 23, head over heels for my Alaskan fisherman/mountaineer boyfriend who was impossibly captivating and good looking and adventurous and all those good things. We are on a rock-climbing road trip in California and Nevada, and things have been going fairly well, although I am far from being a good climber and overly conscious the entire time that I am holding him back from doing the “hardcore” climbs that I know he would rather be doing. Anyways, we are in Yosemite, the last stop on our adventure, I am, to be honest, pretty sick of the whole living out of a truck thing, not to mention it is January and seriously sub-zero. Things have been going downhill, we’re fighting a bit, scrapping about money and stupid things. I decide I’m going to go on a solo hike, up as high as I can, and spend the night up there, so I do it, all the way to the top of the falls in Yosemite, it is incredibly beautiful, and I feel like a legend, sleeping under a rock as the wind howls around me. It takes me almost all day hike back down, and by the time I get there, He-Who-Shall-Remain-Unnamed is loading his climbing gear into a van. This van belongs to a girl named Lisha whom we met the previous day in one of the lame Yosemite tourist stores. Lisha is a super climber. She’s also ridiculously thin, with a perfect complexion, and gorgeous, ass-long black hair. Shithead (as he will henceforth be known) is like, hey, wanna come along? We’re going climbing. What could I do?? I didn’t really want to go climbing, I was fucking sick of it, but was I going to let this vixen disappear with my boyfriend for the day? I think not, ladies. So anyways, the day is exactly as disastrous as you can imagine. I feel totally incompetent, as Lisha spiders up walls in her petite Lulu Lemon perfection. (You might be picturing her as being a bitch, and that’s the worst part — she was super nice). So nice in fact, that she invites us over for dinner. Predictably, that night, Shithead spontaneously is feeling like he “doesn’t really want to commit to a relationship right now, etc etc etc,” So when the sun rises, I throw all his shit out of my truck, and drive home, 3000 miles of bawling.
Sorry people, I really didn’t mean to bore you with this depressing rant, I just thought it was interesting, that I have attracted several similar situations. And my question to you is: do we create this situations for ourselves, somehow? Just by having the expectation that things are going to go that way? I often express this fear to my wonderful, awesome Now Boyfriend and he reassures me that he loves me, etc, and I believe him. But there is still this fear in the back of my mind that some beautiful, competent, nymph is going to come along and steal him from me. Hmmmmm…. I think this could have something to do with – might be one of the keys to – the puzzle of me, one of the reasons I struggle so much with body image and feeling inferior to every woman who is prettier than me. Not a nice place to be! Don’t really know the way out! I’m sure I will get there, somehow, someway, and in the meantime, I’m terribly sorry for having spewed all this on You, but I have to admit it was cathartic.
Didn’t see missy yesterday, she was sick so we figured it’d just make me sick, so backed out. Then this evening rolled out.
She went to Jaz’s house to chill, (More on Day [33]), and then a friends house party. I was at Cool Runnings Fourways and got called by her to see what I was doing. [New confusion!] I left Cools and missed down the highway to this party where she was. We had a drink and decided movies were in order. Cue mission back to my place. Walked inside and all great and epic. Got coffee, set up the computer and all. Leaned in to kiss her, and she kissed me back.
Fast Forward; and we slept together. Yip. Miss Confused decided to sleep with me. Oh, on top of this there was an accident and we needed to get a morning after pill. *Disaster.* Rewind a few hours… Pillow talk was a disaster. She was stressing about our accident. Which is fine, it is kinda mental for an 18 year old girl to have to take one of those pills that fuck you up so badly. She went home, slightly very angry with me… I spoke to her the next morning and she was now sick. Eventually convince her to at least let us get the pill. Off I go, sort it. She was going to come out to my awesome friends 30th, but, alas, she was asleep.
Oh well, it happens. So at the end of Saturday, we were ok.
I pull into one of the hippest neighborhoods in the city ready for a jazzy night.
After 30 minutes of searching for parking I’m officially ten minutes late and must surrender to pricey valet.
I just love passing the truck’s keys to a man who parks BMWs all night.
He hands me the valet ticket and I race to the door to avoid the rain pelting my wavy locks. Naturally I don’t have an umbrella. I knew it was raining, I don’t know why I don’t have an umbrella. I actually bought a really cute blue and white vintage style umbrella. I just never have the umbrella when it’s actually raining.
Inside is like a 1940s nightclub where Humphrey Bogart would have smoked cigars and drank scotch while sitting at a small round table listening to a jazz band.
So this is jazz – no singing, just lots of meandering rifts from guys wailing on instruments for hours on end.
I don’t have a clue where to begin looking for this guy. The place is packed with people and I barely know what he looks like. Put more than one photo online buddy.
At least he thought to pass along his phone number.
I text: “I’m here, standing at the end of the bar.”
It’s an odd scene – meeting a stranger hoping he’ll provide you marriage and babies. It calls for alcohol. Dirty gin martini straight up.
A tall, slim, dark-haired man makes his way over.
He has a mug of beer in hand, gives me a hug and asks if I would like a drink. Just then, the bartender hands me the martini complete with two fat green olives.
Now what?
I ask about his job.
He hates his job. He works too much. He travels too much.
I ask where he lives.
He lives in the priciest part of the city (cha-ching – mental cash register bells ring). He doesn’t like his new neighborhood. He used to live in this artsy swank neighborhood. That was better. Why did he leave the artsy swank neighborhood? Because his relationship with some chick fell apart.
So I ask about jazz. Does he play?
He did, but doesn’t have time now because of the lousy job and the lousy commute from the lovely, oh excuse me, horrid neighborhood.
I want to kill myself.
I order another drink.
With two martinis tossed back, the jazz sounds jazzier and Jazz Guy is a little less dreadful. He actually smiled a few times – when he wasn’t complaining about not finding seats, hovering over people with seats or trying to sneak into seats where we shouldn’t be seated. By the way he was definitely on drink number five.
I passed the one hour mark and had enough of Jazz Guy and his jazz club.
Mental note – always, always give an advanced warning for ditching after an hour and a half – dinner with girlfriends, late night drink with girlfriends, movie with girlfriends. Basically fib about any plans so you can escape your date. What if you’re having a great time? Leave ‘em wanting more.
After two hours of a lot of jazz and little talking (the music was too loud for talking, thank god) I hinted about having a work obligation in the morning and suggested wrapping up the night.
Before heading out the door, I excused myself to the bathroom. As I stood up from the toilet and turned to flush, I watched my valet ticket fall out of my pocket and into the toilet.
Great.
I explain the problem to the valet in detail. I simply could have said ‘I misplaced my valet ticket.” But no, I figured the valet would be less apt to suspect me for a car thief if I offered excessive, uncomfortable information.
I tell Jazz Guy there’s no need to wait. I secretly don’t want another guy seeing my dirty pickup. We hug goodbye. He hops into a cab and drives off.
Still waiting for the valet to pull up my truck, I receive a text.
It’s Jazz Guy: “Had a great time tonight.”
I don’t know whether to respond. I don’t want to lead him on. I’m pretty sure he’s not my husband.
My red truck arrives but is barely recognizable since it hasn’t been rinsed with water since the last rain shower.
I pull onto the road and my mind begins to drift. Oh Canada.
Whenever a date fails to excite me the wheels in my brain reverse. I revert to giggling in bed with Oh Canada while watching Reality TV, or riding an elephant together in Thailand where my toes continually, and intentionally, bumped his toes. My thoughts land on any one of the lustful memories of Sunday afternoons where we took hours to get out the door to meet friends.
Work has gone so smoothly in one hour I can pack and reach Swifty for doing some horseriding (easily the best way to have amazing legs and mantain them ).
Yesterday it has been a calm, cozy night.
Karim and I ended talking about philosophy, life pleasure and then sex.
That was both an ending of talks and starting of practices, true .
We started talkin about philosophy because Karim will soon meet Richard David Precht for matter of interwining contacts.
Precht is a philosopher and a scholar and hasa wonderful way of making people connect with my favourite subject.
Why?
Maybe because, beside being good at what he does, he looks like… THIS (you wouldn’t believe is almost 50, would you??):
Precht would be someone I’d love to meet as well, hence I am trying to follow Karim on his trip to Germany for it
No, I won’t be nasty.
Man is married with a plethora of sons.
I am a respecteful gal .
We were talking out from the first step about pleasures in life and technique of makin out.
We ended talkin about skin scents and… reciprocal height of lovers.
Being myself quite tall for being an Italian girl (5′9”, where the average here is 5′6”) I have often got partners around my height (here being around 5′10” is quite an achievement for males…), which is in my opinion the best combination for sex.
Huge disarmonic heights are not fine for some of the finest sexual plays (not that it matters fully.. once laid down, heights count less…), but then Karim argued that we match more then well together (and he’s 6′3”).
To re-enforce the concept, look at the Shakira-Nadal video for Gipsy: she’s a midget compared to him, but laid down, really.. who cares? They are awesome in this video (song’s not really any of that, but the video compensate a lot for its lukewarm effect…)
There are ways to overcome the disarmonic compenetrations, but I still love the look in the eyes sight, probably because I have always been used to it.
We ended finding tantra tips on that. And practicing them.
And listening to Billy Idol while.. practicing
No.. seriously.
We did.
In that practice I lost traces of latest Maroon5 blog post (awwww), and I also had to wait till this morning to admire the pic Jesse tweeted from their practice in the afternoon…
Isn’t he adorably lost on that carpet?
Divine Adam in Morpheus hands yesterday afternoon
If their mastering the mixes, it can take around two three weeks before the work is properly done.
I try to cross fingers: late April release?
Sounds a bit soon with all the PR duties, but ehi, can’t we hope?
Talkin about Adam’s sleepy mood, who can’t understand why he needed some rest?
I mean…
*sure* he has been taken these past three weeks, hasn’t he?
One more of Adam and Lenny talkin at the Lakers game, with Anne in between..
There’s one more pic from last Lakers game (we play again today… but versus a nobody team…), and I will post it again cos ehi!!! it’s another one of the Lenny’s chit chat .
See folks?
This picture explaines some of the points of today’s blog post.
First of all, it explaines why Adam had to sleep a bit in the previous carpet shot.
Ehi… have you seen Anne?
Do you really think they rest that much while together?
LOL.
They sure don’t .
Then Anne and Adam are pretty much the same height: she’s 5′10”, Adam’s in between that and 5′11”.
But the best thing for the mere “tech tips of lovemaking” is that Anne’s legs are as long as a highway.
Evidence here:
Well, the disproportion of their legs actually makes the reciprocal baricenters perfectly matching in… *certain moments*.
Result: HUGE FUN.
Trust me.
HUGE.
I can be a scientist in every field, but I am particularly good in *some* fields, ya’ll.
And in this specific field, I am like Galileo Galilei: I study my subject, I come up with a theory on it, I practice it and out of experiments I validate it.
When I said this Karim laughed for about an hour, yesterday.
No, I am lying. He smirked and then proved me that people disequal in height can have still LOTTA fun.
I am sure after riding Swifty today, he will be all up to keep prove me that again and again.
And if it sounds like a call out…
Well, it is
Have a wonderful day everybody
Yesterday I finally remet Marghe after her honey moon to Brazil (for the Carnival as well.. the bitch ). She’s SHINING.
I’m sick and tired of the witnesses the wussification of American men. For the entirety of human history, men have run the show. That’s not coincidence. It’s not specific to any culture, but has remained a steady fact for thousands of years across the globe. There are many reasons for this, and I’ll delve into them as appropriate.
To begin with, we need to all understand a truism: Men are men, women are women. Men can not, by definition, be women, and vice verse. If you think you’re a “woman trapped in a mans body”, you’re an idiot. An idiot who is too scared of the world to face it like a man.
What is a man? A man is a dominate force that faces reality head on. A man protects what matters to him no matter the cost.
What is a woman? A woman is a submissive force. They bring tranquility and balance. If a man is a storm, a woman is a calm breeze. A woman is to be protected by her man (whether husband, boyfriend, father, etc) and in exchange must (yes, must) respect and obey him. It’s a symbiotic relationship.
Right now, that relationship is completely out of whack. You know what happens when you have 2 people trying to drive the same car? People. Die.
So, over the next however the hell long it takes, I’m going to teach men how to garner their woman’s respect and obedience.
What I’m not here for: To be a hatemonger. I do not, I repeat, do not, hate women. In fact, I love them. And, it is as much for their benefit as for men that I’m doing this. They deserve to be respected, cared for and protected. But, they have to know their place. A ship can not have 2 captains.
Feminism is a scourge, a failed experiment that has benefited no one. It’s hurt women immeasurably, and it’s time for everyone, man and woman, to rise up against it.
i am so tired but i thought I would try a hand at this blog thing since it’s been a while since my first intro blog.
A Golfing couple was watching a GOLF game on TV but kept switching channels to a dirty movie featuring a lusty couple having sex.
).
