Jun 302011
 

To me the fact that is it 2011 — half-way through it, to boot — suggests that perhaps we should be a little more, shall we say, evolved about how we describe our plasticized fake penises; to wit: this beige cock is just not “natural”:

Because if it is “natural”, what does that make a light-brown cock? Or a coffee-colored cock? Or one with a yellowish, or olive tone?

And. And! Who in the everlovingHoneyBadgeringfuck wrote this copy:

  • It is a biological fact that the human penis when fully anchored to the human crotch imposes certain limitations upon a woman’s sexual pleasure that the silicone dildo does not. A real penis can’t be radically flipped upside down without necessitating a trip to the hospital for the man whose body it is or was attached to.
  • There is also the matter of hardness: the male penis isn’t always hard when a woman wants it hard, nor for as long as she might desire. And finally, a penis is not like a car that you can trade in every couple of year.
  • Even if her spouse’s penis might not be the best size and shape to fit her psyche or anatomy, a married woman is pretty well glued to it till death or divorce does them part. Fortunately a woman need not ditch the man she loves just because she prefers a fuller fitting penis. She can purchase a dildo instead. (Read the rest in context here.)

This makes me sad. It makes my skin crawl. It makes me want to gather up all of my dildos and throw them away, and I love sextoys. I fucking adore sextoys. Can you imagine what reading that pusfilled lexicographical pimplesqueeze would do to someone who is nervous about buying one?

–What were you searching for on Amazon that brought up this bit of flotsam, UrbanGypsy?

Jun 292011
 

Twenty-eight days of summer have passed us by. Fifty-one days before school starts again are left.

Somehow, on most of these days I have managed to wrangle three children through their various difficulties, heartbreaks, activities, injuries and super-cool-fun-times while still cranking out a reasonable amount of work.

Today? Today is not one of those days.

At some point in the distant future when these children are grown1 and I’m enjoying the soothing ocean breezes on the lanai with three other feisty ladies who share my pastel peach-and-blue hued house2  I will look back on this time with the utmost amazement that I managed to do all that I am doing without a) completely losing my mind and b) abandoning all pretense of personal hygiene.

I’m doing this — and even I don’t know how. I guess I should give myself credit for keeping most of my balls in the air instead of beating myself up for not doing more.

Right?

  1. If I am fortunate enough to live so long []
  2. So what if my fantasy resembles an uberpopular late 80s television sit com. So. What. []
 

In the past several1 months I have been without a regular partner. Perhaps you’ve noticed? Has it been obvious?

There were a few really lovely meetings with a friend at the bitter end of 2010 and the start of 2011 but those could hardly have been counted as regular and since then — since bleedin’ February — I’ve not gotten naked with anyone other than my own bad self. So long has it been that I fear my vagina may have given up hope and retracted the red carpet, and were I to examine matters closely down there I would find a surface smooth and unblemished as a Barbie doll’s.

I am not, to be clear, upset that my most recent companions weren’t able to make regular and ongoing appearances in my bedroom. These things happen. I don’t demand a lifelong contract before unhooking my bra, and the pleasure I got (and, I hope, gave) to those men was well worth it. Well worth it indeed.2

Nevertheless I’m getting restless, and the longer things go without success the louder the self-doubt murmurs. Am I so far over the hill as to be attractive to no one? Doesn’t anyone have use for a chick who’s got her shit together3 and a great big brain to boot? Do killer blowjob technique and a propensity for anal sex have no value anymore?

The danger is not, of course, that my vulva will fall off but is instead that I might eventually lose enough mojo that it would seem more logical to stay home and guard my heart instead of exposing it to any more weirdness, mayhem or pain. To stave off that horrifying eventuality I think it’s time to drop some of the almost unattainably high standards which have built up of late. Perhaps I shall take a slightly less rigorous stance in matters of grammar and spelling. I might agree to text with new love interests. I could think of considering members of the Christian crowd.

But never, ever a pro-lifer. I’ll gladly go Barbie-like before that.

  1. Cof cof seven eight []
  2. Would that I could be so philosophical about every not entirely successful relationship, sexual or not. Maybe some day I will be. Maybe some day. []
  3. mostly []
Jun 272011
 

Casa de aag is located, believe it or not, directly across the street from a church1 whose denomination espouses views which are extreme not only in comparison to your humble narrator’s heresy but also when measured against your average brand of Christianity. Nevertheless, I had enough residual religion to summon up the courage to attend a service some decade or so ago. Toddler in tow I received the warmest of greetings by clergy and congregant gathered at the door; in the pew hymns washed me in such nostalgia for the God I knew as a teenager than I resolved to come back week after week. This decision held all the way through the first moments of the sermon, which the pastor dedicated to admonishing those who flaunt God’s rules for the separation of man and woman — specifically the injunction that to be in worship and female one must always and only wear a skirt.

Pants-clad and mortified I slunk away and never went back.

Two years ago and after much impassioned begging I allowed my eldest to attend VBS2 with a couple of her friends. She came home unscathed, so far as I could tell, and bearing each night a different variety of sugary treats, the theory perhaps being that hellfire becomes more palatable when served with jellybeans. Upon witnessing this astounding circumstance the little ones extrapolated that going to church was all about candy and thus was born in my preschoolers an abiding hunger for religion.

It’s hard to avoid questions of a theological nature when each and every minivan jaunt takes us past the compound. “Why are all those cars over there,” they’d ask on a Monday.

It’s a school, I’d say.

“Our school?” they’d ask. Their school is adjacent.

No, I’d say. There’s a religious school in the church.

“Why can’t we go to religious school?” they’d say, and depending on their age and the level of patience at that moment I possessed I would explain why that was probably not a good idea.

The rain finally gave up in time for us to hit the pool on Sunday. “What time does it open?” asked my eldest.

Eleven, I said. We should be there when it opens.

“While everyone else is at church, right?”

That’s it, darlin’, I said. And when the time came off we went. Right past the church.

“What are all those cars for?” asked the middle child.

They’re having church, I said.

“Why don’t we go to that church?” said the boy.

Because we don’t believe what they believe, I said.

“Like what,” asked the eldest.

Just for starters, they don’t believe gay people should be able to get married. We’d been talking a lot about this recently.

“Anyone who loves each other should be able to get married,” she said, with surprising vehemence.

They just don’t believe that, I said. She requested more examples. They believe that every pregnancy should go to term, I said.

“Even if the woman didn’t want to be pregnant?” I nodded. “Even if it was by force?”

Even if it was by force, I said. They’d say that she should either raise the baby or place it for adoption.

“That is not right.” Again with the vehemence. “What else?”

They think that the man should be the head of the household, I said. Women aren’t allowed to lead worship. They’re basically seen as less than men.

Saying that they prayed to His Noodly Appendages could not have provoked a stronger reaction. “Why would they think that!” she burst out. “I want to be married to a man who treats me like an equal!”

I hope you find that, I said.

“But why would the women put up with it,” she wondered. “Why would they even belong to a religion that treats them so poorly?”

People tend to believe the way they’re raised, I said. These are lessons they’ve gotten since infancy. They think if they don’t follow the rules they’ll go to hell, and that’s a pretty powerful motivator.

And then we were at the pool. I hastily added, But we still respect their beliefs, even if we don’t agree.

“Right Mom,” she said, then off she went to the slides.

Hours later it came up again. “I just don’t understand why people would believe that,” she said.

“Note to self. Religion: freaky.”

“That’s from…”

I interrupted. Yes, yes it is.

“It sure is,” she said.

  1. Possibly this is what has protected my house from lightning strikes lo these many years? []
  2. vacation Bible school []
Jun 252011
 

 

I’ll admit it: Nearly six years ago when I started writing this site I was utterly ignorant of the issues surrounding sex work, and if I thought of sex workers at all it was with more than a little condescension and a picture lodged firmly in my head of a young woman standing on a big-city corner. At night. In a miniskirt.

If you find yourself with similar misconceptions, take a few moments to check out this organization begun recently by FurryGirl:

Want to learn more? Read up on sex work activism history, find out how you can get involved, or pick up some swag now.

 

Act One: Receive very kind email on pervy site. Check out attached profile. Appreciate the many similarities. Respond, stressing that even though this is ostensibly a site about hooking up, what’s desired is a longer-term serious partnership. Email back and forth until finally the conversation moves to…

Act Two: …IM, which flows nicely over all the expected pathways. Speak on the phone, during which time no one loses their head. Make plans and then…

Act Three: …meet for coffee. Continue conversing, turning up many commonalities including levels of education achieved and political stances. Continue speaking over the next week during which time it is disclosed that both parties desire to meet again very soon.

Act Four: Learn that there’s an upcoming party which he but not you can attend. At his request, arrange for an established member of the group to meet him outside and introduce him around. Text up to and during party. Find out after party that he was dismayed to find “nothing in common” with the other attendees. Chalk it up to bad chemistry and nerves until…

Act Five: …the following morning, when he announces that he’s looking for “more of an intellectual connection” than can be found with anyone on the pervy site. Marvel that the message contains a misspelling, a split infinitive and a subject which does not agree with its verb.

/headtilt

 

I really appreciate this:

When Shubin was a 17-year-old high school student, his stepmother became pregnant with twins. Doctors advised her not to engage in sex throughout the high-risk pregnancy—so Shubin’s father, Steve, nosed around for an alternative form of release. When Steve couldn’t locate a realistic stand-in vagina on the market, he began drawing plans to craft his own. The Shubins “would sit around the table and talk about how we thought it should look,” Shubin remembers. “We were a pretty open family.”

What I don’t appreciate is how mind-numbingly heteronormative the rest of the article is:

Some users even upload videos of themselves giving their Fleshlights a workout. But an in-person pow-wow on the virtues of the Fleshlight is a bridge too far. “[S]ounds gay as hell,” one member wrote on the prospect of trading Fleshlight techniques with other enthusiasts at a “nudist resort.” Even Shubin can’t foresee such an event in a new masturbation-positive world. “An all-heterosexual male gathering around sex toys?” Shubin considers. “Probably not ever going to happen.”

It’s really disappointing that somewhere, anywhere in there they couldn’t mention the fact that the company makes more than just faux-ladybits. It’s not all about the vaginas, folks! I mean really, who could resist building his (or her) own personalized jack-off device that looks like a boy-bottom?1

Wonder if Mr. Shubin didn’t mention the gay-friendly aspects of his business, or if Good wasn’t comfortable posting it.

–Read the rest of the article here, or build have a crack at making your own here.

  1. Answer: Not me. []

Koi

Jun 212011
 

At some point in the not-too-distant past he would have flung the handful into the water with a shriek and immediately demanded more but the passage of time has put the most subtle whammy on my son to the point that flinging never crossed his mind.

It was an unplanned side-trip that took us past the pond. A decade and a half ago when last I was there I’m fairly certain there were no fish; however, it’s possible that the still-hazy glow of couplehood unimpeded by children put my focus on anything but the water. The mall surrounding the pond — that I remember very well. Hoping with life, every store stuffed with merchandise and people spilling out into the concourse loud and happy and weighed down with purchases, centercourt music blaring, a dozen restaurants offering olfactory inducements to dine and the neverending patter from the young men putting on the fudge demonstration. Fifteen years ago it was stimulation overload and last week I couldn’t imagine dragging three overtired children into such chaos.

I let myself be talked into it, but swinging wide the doors showed a completely different scene. Just one shop in ten stood open, and as we were almost the only ones there I had no fear of my children disappearing into the melee. Their voices echoed, at least until we ran across the fudge shop where the employees seemed unreasonably eager to put on their show even for so small a crowd.

Finally we broke free, their disappointment over the lack of a sale1 pushing us onward. When we stepped back outside it was far past the little ones’ bedtimes but their joy at having caught sight of a flash of orange meant that I couldn’t make them go home yet. Swiftly was found a machine dispensing tasty fish noms; my purse raided for quarters and divided out amongst four babbling children including my son, who even a few months ago would have been dispossessed of the treats before the others had delivered a single one.

Maybe I should have expected it. A few weeks ago I caught him arranging his grapes in order of increasing size around the edge of his plate. This night he bellied up his sturdy little body to the curb and laid out a line of food. Each pellet picked delicately up, each baited over the edge, down close enough that a passing security guard delivered a warning against nibbling fishmouths. He retreated, tossing in the feed from just high enough that none could reach, but soon caution gave way to the tantalization of putting food into individual gawping mouths. He yeeped and giggled each time they got too close and so slowly did he dole out the treats that the other children yawned and begged to go before he was fully done.

Usually it takes such effort to love the boy. This night was not one of those times.

  1. Peanuts, it is always about the peanuts. []
Jun 202011
 

In the almost-seven years I’ve known her I’ve been forced to scale back expectations of my children’s mother’s emotional capabilities. At first I — and everyone else, I think — took her to be only slightly less mature than what was suggested by her chronological age. But the years have not delivered additional advancement and events, if anything, have shown our original assessments to be almost tragically overstated.

This has not happened overnight, nor in one fell swoop. Each year, each baby, each interaction has demonstrated that what we all hoped for is just not there. It sounds cruel to admit but it does no one any favors to pretend. And yet it’s hard to remember her limitations and never more so than now, when after months spent making plans to raise her latest (and last) baby it’s become impossible to ignore how far away she is from being able to meet that goal.

I’ve seen it in the past two months in a hundred different things. She’ll IM me from the only working computer she has access to, which is in the house of the woman who currently has custody of her child. Are you visiting with baby? I’ll ask, and she’ll tell me that the child is fine, is being bathed by her grandmother. Aren’t these visits set up specifically for you to interact with the child I’ll want to ask but won’t, because I know the answer from the grandmother: N. is there in body but in spirit not so much; she’ll hold the child for five minutes until she cries, at which point frustration sets in and the infant is surrendered to more competent arms.

Half the time she arrives late and leaves early. Sometimes she’s too ill or sleepy to provide care. “Just bring her over to me,” grandmother told me she requested a few week back. “I’m too tired to get up but she can lay here in bed with me while I sleep,” and I am thankful, so very, very thankful, that grandmother is wise and strong-willed enough to answer that request, in no uncertain terms, no.

This is not what I pictured. I foresaw that grandmother, hands already full with four other small children, would allow N. unlimited access to her house and new baby. I imagined she’d have N. hopping between laundry dishes diapers bottles all day long and would fudge her hours to the state so that her little helper would not be lost. I thought — and it shames me to admit it — that quite possibly the baby would spend all her time with her mother and would be trotted over to grandmother’s house only for visits from the state.

None of this has happened. Grandmother is taking this very seriously, very seriously indeed — and it shows. The child, along with her four paternal half-siblings, her grandparents, her birthmother, her maternal half-sister and her family, the two maternal half-siblings I’m raising and the rest of my family,1 all convened here recently for food and conversation. The new child glows with good heath and care. She’s got the charming forearm fat-roll and mushy chin that speak to sufficient nutrition. She smelled reassuringly of formula and diapers. Her head bobbled about, mouth trailing drool around a stuffed-in fist as she followed the antics of her siblings. When I faced her to me she cooed back to my nonsense conversation, breaking into goofy toothless grins at the more scintillating bits. And when that got old (and after a few words of instruction about how she best liked to be held), her nodding off was as swift and drama-free as anyone familiar with the ways of newborns could hope.

She is, in short, reassuringly well cared for. I can tuck away the hotline number and turn my worry — not that it does any good — toward her mother. Would that there were a hotline number for her.

The question is how much further can our expectations fall? And at what point will our hope be only that she can continue to stay alive?

*Falling knife

  1. In case you are counting, this adds up to ten children and seven adults, and that is a whole lotta pulled pork. []

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