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Friday, September 29, 2006
Give It to Me Dirty: The Abs Edition
You people are geniuses. Every single last one of you.
The comments on yesterday's post were all worthy of a Pulitzer Prize. My shrink gets paid a lot of money to say stuff that brilliant.
Here are some highlights, but do yourself a favor and read every single one of them.
…I kissed and licked my way down her adorable body to her delta of venus…
Dude, who says “delta of Venus?” That is some serious shit right there.
…A quote from Madeleine L'Engle: “Why does anybody tell a story? It does indeed have something to do with faith, faith that the universe has meaning, that our little human lives are not irrelevant, that what we choose or say or do matters, matters cosmically.”
And another, from Norman MacEwan: “Happiness is not so much in having as sharing. We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give?”
Again, proof that only brilliant literary geniuses read this blog.
You people also seem to be a little extreme with your surgical options. From “Alms for the Poor:”
At 12:52 AM, whos driven the boat said…
2 million unwanted pregnancies. Holy crap, that is sad. I think you could take all those women and force them to be sterilized. Or maybe just seal the hole between their legs shut. That might sound bad, but come on if you don't want the kids, swallow the load, No one is going to complain.
At 9:54 AM, haircutter said…
Maybe “they” could castrate a few of the perpetrators while they are sealing the holes shut. This would be fair and just.”
At 10:40 AM, Anonymous said…
And, I hate to say it, but most unwanted pregnancies—or unexpected pregnancies or teen pregnancies or all of those pregnancies that happen to young, generally single women—more often than not result in single women raising the kids with the dad a nonexistent factor. Plenty of dads do take responsibility, like firefigher dad, but many more disappear without trace of a dollar to help the kids they created. Both sexes may have made a mistake, but the women, more often than not, are raising the progeny.
For every hole sewn shut, 2 balls must come off.
And let's not forget, this week a single firefighter e-mailed in pictures of his lick-a-licious abs to the City Paper, all in response to your comments on “Low on the List.” Now that is true brilliance.
Me and My Crafty Condoms
My condoms have actually been used.
It brings joy to my heart. There's nothing lonelier than an un-used condom. In addition, there's no need to waste a good marketing tool on something so ridiculous as just marketing. Rip that thing open and shake what your mama gave you.
The “About Last Night” condoms are usable and abusable and they even come with the cute little “About Last Night” logo printed on the package. It's really precious. They even come in a variety of colors. Not sizes, though. I'm told one size fits all, but maybe I'm just naïve.
My condoms and I will be making an appearance at Crafty Bastards from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m.* this Sunday, October 1, at the Marie Reed Learning Center at 18th & Wyoming. Show up and I'll give you one myself. It's up to you what you're going to do with it.
*Disclaimer: I have to slip out for about two hours. I'm getting my eyes lasered tomorrow, and they want to do a little follow-up on Sunday to make sure I don't bleed out. As a result, I will also be appearing sans eye make-up, hence, when you see me, you'll be like, “Why does Mela look so goddamn tired?” And I'll be like, “I'm not tired, bitches, I just have 20/20 vision for the first time since I was nine, and I gots to be good to the little peeps or I'll fuck it all up, and nobody wants that.”
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Top That, Bitches
Top this, bitches.
We're in the middle of it, candles lit and empty condom wrappers on the floor. No one has finished yet—not him, not me, not the neighbors if they were listening through the walls. That's when he stood up, walked into the bathroom, took the condom off, came back and said, “I've really been struggling with this sex thing. I just can't have a sexual relationship with you.”
Please choose from the list of reactions below:
- Umm…what? I don't get it.
- Am I on Candid Camera?
- ARE YOU FUCKING SHITTING ME?
- OK.
Being completely baffled, I chose option four.
“OK.”
What else is a girl supposed to say? Because who does that? Who stands up right in the middle of it all, pre-climax, and says, “I can't have a sexual relationship with you,” while you are still completely naked and flat on your back, which is where you landed when he picked you up and threw you there 15 minutes earlier?
“OK? That's it?”
Forgive me if I can't think of something more elaborate to say.
“Yeah. That's fine.”
“It's not you, you're fantastic,” he said. “This is about me.”
Yes, that's clear. Let's play a game. It's called “Guess Whose Problem This ISN'T?” You go first. Then let's play another game. It's called “Creative Ways to Send a Girl to the Loony Bin.” You go first. Oh wait, you already did.
“I'm going to take a shower,” he said. “Do you want to come with me?”
Ummm…what? I thought you already had your turn. No fair going twice in a row.
“No.”
“No? Why not?”
Is he shitting me right now? Does he really not understand why I don't want to take a shower with him? Am I missing something? How did he get three turns in a row at the Loony Bin game?
Hello?
Bueller? Bueller? Bueller?
Realizing that if he didn't understand why I didn't want to take a shower with him that he was really beyond help, I didn't try to explain. Doing so probably would have caused me permanent neurological damage, and then he would have won the Loony Bin game, so I just gave in and we showered. A platonic shower, but still, that's not something I normally do with people who just broke up with me in the middle of sex. Oh wait, that's right, no one's ever done that before. This was a first.
“So, is this your way of telling me you're not attracted to me?” I asked. As I was still completely baffled from his shock-and-awe approach to dumping me, the only thing I could really attribute this to was my belly. It had to be my non-flat belly.
“Well, there are two kinds of attraction, the supermodel-on-the-cover-of- the-magazine-attraction and the heart-and-mind-attraction,” he started.
Oh. No. Fourth. Loony. Bin. Turn. Must. Block. Out. Brain. Scramble. Attempt. Must. Remain. Strong.
“Are you sure this isn't about my belly?” I asked.
“You're just dying for this to be about that so you can confirm all the crap you believe about your body, aren't you?”
Why, yes, yes I am. Because at least that shit makes sense to me. I'm dying for some comfort right now, and the pattern of old self-esteem problems is sounding better and better.
Because who does that? Who stands up right in the middle of it all, pre-climax, and says, “I can't have a sexual relationship with you,” while you are still completely naked and flat on your back, which is where you landed when he picked you up and threw you there 15 minutes earlier?
Who the goddamn does that?
Of all the freaky things that have ever happened to me, this is at the top of the list. When I bust out this story at parties, a hush will come over the crowd, and everyone will look at me and say, “Wow. That's unbelievable.” And then I will look at everyone and say, “Top that, bitches.”
Because you can't. It can't be done.
Top that, bitches.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Alms for the Poor
The Bush Administration has blocked funding to UNFPA (The United Nations Population Fund) for the fifth year in a row, based on allegations that UNFPA programs support the Chinese government in forced sterilizations and coercive abortions. The action will withhold $34 million from UNFPA.
Forced sterilizations and coercive abortions. It's an ugly business.
Keep reading.
Research teams have investigated the allegations; among them one sent by the State Department, and one sent by a pro-life organization, the Population Research Institute, in 2001. Different teams, as we can guess, came up with different conclusions.
The conflicting results aren't the issue. Keep reading.
When the administration withheld the funds in 2002, it said the money would be redirected to the U.S. Agency for International Development's bilateral family-planning programs. "Yet in January 2003 the State Department announced its intention to use these funds for non-family planning programs in Afghanistan and Pakistan. In the following three years, the Administration has not released one dollar of the $93 million appropriated by Congress for UNFPA's work worldwide."
In 2005, members of the Senate attempted to get creative. A bill was introduced that said if UNFPA was given funding, the money would be kept in a separate account and could not go to China or be spent on abortion. In addition, an amendment was introduced that would have further restricted the funds to - "safe child birth and emergency obstetric care;
- obstetric fistula treatment and care;
- contraceptive supplies for preventing pregnancies and sexually transmitted diseases, including AIDS;
- restoration of maternal health care in locations hit by natural disasters;
- elimination of female genital mutilation; and
- access by unaccompanied women and other vulnerable individuals to vital services."
This would have satisfied the administration's concerns about U.S. monies being used for forced abortions and coercive sterilizations, and still allowed UNFPA to receive U.S. funding for other programs. However, the amendment was dropped and the funding was withheld.
There are consequences to withholding the money.
Focusing only on UNFPA's maternal programs, it is estimated that "with $34 million a year the agency can prevent 2 million unwanted pregnancies, nearly 800,000 induced abortions, 4,700 maternal deaths, 60,000 cases of serious maternal illness, and more than 77,000 infant and child deaths"
It is also estimated that "Worldwide, pregnancy-related conditions and STIs account for one-third of the global burden of disease among women of reproductive age (15-44) and one-fifth among the total population. Among women aged 15-44, 13% of the global disease burden is attributable to maternal conditions such as hemorrhage, infection or unsafe abortion, and 14% to HIV/AIDS." f you need an economic reason to release the funding, there it is. If the human toll isn't enough, then consider that disease is expensive.
Frozen and misused money with a human toll. It's an ugly business.
Daddy's Girl
From the comments section:
“…Seems like everyone considers a good dad as being hot, desireable, etc etc etc. Being a single father of two I have heard this from many people, until I ask them out that is. Then the overwhelming response is ‘Oh I think it is great that you are such a good dad, but I don't date people that have kids.’ Where are the women that actually think that single dad's are dateable that is what I want to know.”
My take: “Good dads are definitely sexy, but they are a bigger commitment than a child-less guy. If you get involved with a man with children, you definitely need to be prepared for a different, more intense, more definitive type of commitment. No hemming and hawing. And the future of the relationship is different as well- this isn't a fun thing, or something you can leave easily if it doesn't work out. Basically, you just need to be really sure of your shit, and not flaky about the relationship, because dads come as a package with kids- you don't want to mess with a kid. So while a single dad might not get as many dates, the substance of his relationships may be a little more solid.”
Another take: “Firemen, single fathers, cops, military men, social activist, artist, athletes, flight attendants etc., etc., they all exist as single flash images of our most primal lusts and/or most childlike purities. But it says nothing about our habits once those images suddenly become animated and alive and actually have the same qualities as the person sitting next to you- they have insecurities, talents, responsibilities, and other complexities that do not allow that superficial image to capture.
Truth is, single dad, you would be best entering a relationship with a single mom, not a single woman without child. Atleast she knows exactly where you are coming from.”
Your take?
Monday, September 25, 2006
Low on the List
Apparently, I'm not the girl of your dreams. I only rank as number seven, behind flight attendant and bartender.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Phenomenally Sexxy*
An Ode to Maxim's List of TV's Top Ten Least Appealing Ladies, which included: - Tina Fey, first female head writer for Saturday Night Live
- Jerri Blank, a fictional character played by actress, screenwriter, and comiedienne Amy Sedaris
- Pam Grier, actress, The L Word
- Ugly Betty, a fictional character played by actress America Ferrera
- Christiane Amanpour, International Correspondent, CNN
- Nancy Grace, CNN Legal Analyst
“You're so delicious but I'm tasty…
You may be fine, but I'm sexy
You may be cute, but I'm sexy
You may be pretty, but I'm sexy, but I'm sexy
You drink whiskey but I drink wine
You wear the watch but I keep the time
You're so delicious but I'm tasty
You may be fine, but I'm sexy
You may be fine, but I'm sexy
You may be cute, but I'm sexy
You may be pretty, but I'm sexy, but I'm sexy
You like to walk but I like to fly
You're diggin’ and feelin’ on my heavy vibe
You're so delicious but I'm tasty
You may be fine, but I'm sexy
You may be fine, but I'm sexy
You may be cute, but I'm sexy
You may be pretty, but I'm sexy, but I'm sexy”
“…Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say
It's in the click of my heels
The bend of my hair
The palm of my hand
The need for my care.
‘Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.“**
*Lyrics from “Sexxy” by Oktbrwrld
** Excerpt from “Phenomenal Woman” by Maya Angelou
Thursday, September 21, 2006
On Your Wedding Day: Unwish
On your wedding day, this is what I don't wish for you:
We're standing in line at Thomas Sweet. The middle-aged man in front of us is wearing suspenders.
My dad wore suspenders.
He asks for a sample of chocolate-malt-flavored ice cream. He turns to his wife. “Do you want to try some?”
She expels one of those I'm-so-irritated-because-you-are-so-stupid sighs. “I told you to get whatever you want, just get whatever you want.” She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. She expels another one of those sighs. I can't tell if it's for her benefit, or for the benefit of everyone else within a 10-foot radius.
The Man in Suspenders turns around and orders his ice cream. He's clearly used to this, because he doesn't appear to even notice it happened.
I look at her. She's still shaking her head. I think that's for my benefit; she can see me looking at her. It's like she's communicating to me, Can you believe this man? What an idiot.
I want to slap her.
You, madame, are blessed that he's still here on this earth, and that his two feet still carry him from point A to B, and that he's still around to ask you if you want to try his ice cream, I want to say to her. You, madame, should thank Jesus that this man agreed to be loyal to you for the rest of your life, and that he stuck to the bargain.
Let's be sure to leave room for the option that this guy could be a raging asshole, or that he didn't stick to the bargain. It's a possibility, so maybe she's justified.
But all he did was offer her a taste of his ice cream. That's it. He just wanted to offer her some ice cream.
On your wedding day, I wish that you never, never ridicule each other, ever. I wish that when the other offers you ice cream, you say, “thank you,” and take a bite from the spoon in your spouse's hand, and look up at him/her and smile, and say “thank you,” and give each other an ice-cream kiss.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Things That Are Unsexy
10. The dark hairs on my chin—all girls get it so stop convulsing
9. Talking about your ex
8. Ass crack poking out of jeans, male or female, will be so glad when low-rise jeans are not so low
7. Misogyny/Sexism
6. Me on Sunday mornings when I haven't washed my hair since Jesus knows when
5. That cliché, critical, cynical Gen X/Y attitude that requires zero original thought, yet is repeatedly mistaken for intelligence
4. The ghetto-rapper persona, you know what I'm sayin', yo?
3. Feet that are begging for a pedicure, like mine
2. Worn-out underwear
1. When you're doing it, and the man stands up in the middle of it all and says, “I can't have a sexual relationship with you.” There is nothing sexy about that.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Incubating a Penis
“There is a penis growing inside of me,” she said.
Pause.
Another pause.
Mega-pause.
“Dude.” That's the best I could do with that type of information.
“Isn't that weird?” she asked.
“Dude. That shit is really weird.”
She's just been to her ultrasound appointment. She's almost five months now, so they can see the little penis growing between the baby's legs, and its little testicles. Fortunately, the child basically turned and sat on the camera, so they got a good shot. She sent me the pictures. I'm pretty sure I can see the little testicles, but I wouldn't stake any money at that claim. I don't know what the hell is going on in those pictures.
“Dude, you're growing a man right now,” I said.
Another pause.
“I know.”
This is not to say that we are not all thrilled at the idea of having a little boy amongst us. We are all certainly thrilled. However, when you break it down and realize that you're incubating a penis, it's a little weird.
May we also say it's recognition of the ultimate power—you boys have been the ruling party for millennia, but the bottom line is, we incubated you and brought you forth. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, bitches.
Considering that, we're not really sure how you boys have managed to keep us down all these years. I'm pretty sure that once you all started making noise about being the superior sex, etc. etc. etc., we were like, “What the shit? It's just a phase—let them have their fun, it will pass.” That was our mistake. We didn't realize how serious you were. Now we are staring at each other wondering what exactly the shit happened.
In my younger years, I was absolutely sure I would go into toxic shock if I ever became pregnant with a boy. “There is no way,” I used to say, “that my body could incubate a man.” I haven't tested that theory, but I imagine that it will happen, if only so God can have a good laugh, because that's just how God rolls.
Monday, September 18, 2006
A Man's Perspective on Yogurt
All a girl is trying to do is eat some fruit with a little yogurt on it, because she's at a dinner party and that's the dessert—fruit with a little yogurt on it. Why do they gotta be like that?
“Do not come near me with the big bowl of spooge,” said the Navy boy.
It only takes one. Just one boy to make a spooge joke about a big bowl of yogurt, and then it all goes to shit.
“Dude, I worked really hard getting all of this together. It took me at least two tries,” said the chef.
So this is how it's going to be, is it? A night full of boys and spooge jokes. That's really fine with me, I've never been one to shy away from spooge jokes, it's just that I don't have an arsenal of my own spooge jokes ready for launching, as girls don't really sit around and make spooge jokes.
“Yeah, you know what your mom calls that bowl of spooge? Chin juice.”
Oh, how quickly it all degenerates into mom jokes. The girls are in the minority at this dinner party, so there's really nothing we can do. Even if we band together and make jokes about small penises, we are significantly outnumbered. Plus, they've the military on their side. There's no way we can outdo a sailor.
“Bring some of that over here to Melanie; she wants a great big helping.”
The sailor again. I've dissolved into a mass of giggles. I hate that. I hate being that girl who has dissolved into a bunch of giggles. Fortunately, I am not alone. The hostess can barely hold herself up. I'm pretty sure she's going to pee her pants in about .02 seconds if this continues.
“That's right, make sure she gets a whole bunch of that.”
This is my chance to say something incredibly witty, to prove I can hold my own with the boys, and yet, I really can't. I just can't perform under pressure like that. Fortunately, I made a quick recovery by sticking my hand in the yogurt and wiping it on the Navy boy's face.
“Oh, now look at the mess you made, it's all over the table,” I said. Phew. Giggly girl recovers, proves she can be a dirty, nasty boy when need be. I even succeeded in chasing the sailor into the other room. That's a sure sign of success—when you can frighten a sailor away from the dinner table with a spooge joke. I think that means I win the spooge game.
I looked across the table. The third girl, because there are only three of us and six of them, has her face in her hands and is shaking her head. Later in the kitchen, she said, “These boys are always like this when they get together. And the Hostess just encourages them.”
I'm glad I'm not that girl. If I had to choose between being the Giggly Girl and the Girl Who Shakes Her Head And Says “These Boys Are Always Like This When They Get Together", I'd be the Giggly Girl. Sometimes, you have to get a good laugh out of spooge jokes. Because they're funny.
Sometimes it's fun to play with boys and giggle at their jokes. Boys play like boys no matter how old they are, and sometimes they are a breath of fresh air.
I'm trying my best not to think about my poor grandmother, who thinks I am the sweetest thing since peach cobbler, and how she thinks we all sit around and drink tea and sing songs at dinner parties.
“Dude, did you really get all that out in two tries?” I asked. “If so, what are you doing later tonight?”
I am a dirty, dirty girl, and I will be punished for this in hell. All a girl is trying to do is eat some fruit with a little yogurt on top, and she ends up scaring a sailor and shaming her grandmother. Why does it gotta be like that?
Friday, September 15, 2006
Unsexy
Some days a girl just does not feel sexy. Not even a little bit. Sometimes a girl overeats, or has a bad day, or a fat day, and sometimes a girl has gas. It happens. Girl-gas smells like roses though, so it's not a big deal.
Sometimes a girl sits down and thinks, Jesus mother, I'm 30, and what have I accomplished? How can I measure what happened over the last year, the last two years, the last five? What are the indicators a girl should use to say this was a good year? How does a girl reconcile where she thought she would be at age 30 with where she ended up?
These thoughts do not make a girl feel sexy.
It's complicated sometimes, being a girl in the world. You think, What am I doing wrong? Did I miss that one golden opportunity? Did I turn left when I should have turned right and now I'm stuck for the rest of my life? These thoughts do not make you feel like doing a lap dance on anyone.
Those are the times when you start to think the animals may really have the better deal. They may be looking at us from the trees we haven't cut down, the savannah we haven't poached, and the zoos we love to build saying, “Look at these poor bastards. They can't get off the hamster wheel long enough to enjoy eating, sleeping, playing, and loving. Then they probably say something like, hey look out for that bullet/tranquilizer gun/bulldozer.”
If it really is our logic skills that separate us from the animals, it seems that an absence of logic skills may not be such a loss. We seem to do a lot of illogical things with them, anyway. We seem to drive ourselves crazy with them too. That's the unsexy part.
A girl doesn't feel sexy when she thinks about these things, even on a Friday in Manhattan. Friday is a good day to be in Manhattan. Even when it is pouring rain, Friday is a good day to be in Manhattan. If I had on my four-inch peep-toe heels instead of my clogs, maybe I would feel sexy. Or maybe I would still feel unsexy, wearing my four-inch peep-toe heels in Manhattan on a Friday, watching people going through the revolving glass door and wondering how we explain to the dogs and the cats what exactly it is that we do all day.
Lysistrata Lives
Sex is a powerful currency. You can buy it, sell it, barter it, trade it; we've built entire industries off of it. It's used as a weapon of war and a marketing tool. Women, for the most part, are the product, and men, the distributors. Men figured out early on that women hold a lot of sexual power—not to be left in the dust, they in turn figured out a way to seize it, control it, and sell it. It's a cruel twist, really.
Which is why it's so nice when the tables are turned every now and again. Boys, you know I love you, but every now and again you take a little flak on this blog for being members of an international hegemonic fraternity.
"Columbian Gangsters Face Sex Ban: Wives and girlfriends of gang members in one of Colombia's most violent cities have called a sex ban in a bid to get their men to give up the gun."
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
My View
Every single woman I know is knocked up. I don't know how it happened. I mean I do, but I don't. I don't get how they all got knocked up at the same time. I don't know if they had some kind of party and didn't invite me or something, but I can't imagine that happened. If it did, it wasn't any fun, and that's how everybody ended up preggers.
Amelia was like a year pregnant when she finally gave birth on Sunday. The child was 8 pounds. That's because he was in there for practically a year. Really he was only two weeks late, but from what I understand, that's two weeks too many.
She had a hard time keeping her spirits up during the last month. Her boobs, which were already ginormous, had become even more ginormous, and then the child decided to stay put for a while.
“What's his deal? Why doesn't he want to be born?” I asked. Because maybe the child was scared. Maybe he overheard all of our telephone conversations and decided he didn't want anything to do with us. Because we're crazy. But everybody's crazy, so I can't really see how he could hold that against us.
“He probably thinks it's warm in there and he never gets hungry, so he's fine where he is,” she said.
“Tell him he'll never get laid in there.” That seemed like sufficient motivation.
“Well, hopefully that won't happen for another 15 or 16 years,” she said.
“Then tell him that, because you definitely don't want to be pregnant then.”
We both agreed that did sound good. Apparently it worked, because the child was born not long after.
To amuse herself in the few months, she would strip naked, look down and take a picture of herself and then send it to me, entitled “My View.” She sent me two rounds, so I could see the progression. I told her I was more interested in the dog's view, at which point she had her husband take a picture looking up at her from the floor.
That was a nice series of photos. They pop up every now and again on my computer—the screen saver just cycles through all my photos, and that particular set is always sure to catch people's attention. You have to be careful when you're having a party and using the computer to play music. People start to ask questions, and they don't always get it.
“You guys,” I said. “You guys, was your baby born on September 11?” This is a big deal—Amelia and her husband are huge conspiracy theorists. If they get a flat tire, it's because Bush popped it with a remote control from the White House as a part of an elaborate plan to take over the world. The irony of the child being born on September 11 would have just been too delicious.
“You guys, he was born on September 11, wasn't he?”
“No, because God loves the Jews, so he made the child be born on September 10,” she said.
Amelia's a card-carrying Jew. That means that if she doesn't get a flat tire, or her child is born on September 10 instead of the 11, it's because God loves the Jews. I can't say that it's not, so I don't argue. I also can't prove that Bono's not Jesus, so I don't argue with that either. I mean, I've never seen him not turn water into wine, so who's to say?
Another childhood friend is currently on bed rest as she enters week one of being overdue. That just does not sound like a good time. The third installment of my pregnant friends is only four-and-a-half months along, so she still attends lap-dancing classes with me. We'll see how she's doing when she's a year overdue, like all the other ladies. I threw a baby shower on Saturday for the fourth installment. She's due in two weeks. Supposedly.
I dreamt last night that I was pregnant. I looked it up on the Internet; it said that dreaming you are pregnant means that something new is forming in your life, and everything on the Internet is true, so you know you can trust that interpretation.
In the dream, I looked the father in the face and said, “But how can we abort? I'm 30 years old. I should be able to support a child. I'm not 15. I've got two degrees. I should be able to do this.”
Fortunately, I had the good sense to wake up before we could get any further into that conversation. It seems safer to consider the Internet meaning, and ponder on what new things are starting in my life, while looking at “My View” pictures of Amelia.
Discounted Lap-Dancing Classes
In college, we came close to asking my brother about good blowjob techniques. We started out asking her sister, who did her best to explain, but she married young, so was speaking from limited experience. She told us to practice on a pickle. Oddly enough, we weren't confident we had received the best information, so she suggested we ask my brother. We almost did—until a sick, creeping feeling overtook me and brought me close to vomiting. Because asking your brother for blowjob advice is motherfucking wrong.
Fortunately, there are classes on this type of thing. Moxie in the City offers classes on fellatio, lap dancing (see link below), the Kama Sutra, and for all you men out there who think you know what female ejaculation is, there are classes for you, too.
The best part is, after reading Lap-Dancing 101, Moxie herself offered a discount to About Last Night readers (see comments section). She's making good on her offer: About Last Night readers can get $10 off their next class by entering promo code ALN10 when they sign up online. I myself am getting nothing in return for posting this, and cannot accept the offer, which means that you all need to take advantage of it and report back. Don't leave me hanging on your own ass-jiggling lesson, kama-sutra lesson, etc.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Of Course His Daughters Are Virgins
How I'd love to shoot down every word coming out of his mouth, before he even forms the words. How I'd love to post a microscopic sniper inside one of his fillings to stop every thought, every ugly syllable before his tongue has a chance to move. I've already passed judgment on everything he's said and he hasn't even opened his mouth.
He said, “…where women are prisoners in their homes…” and he meant Iraq and other Muslim countries. I suppose he's right, to a degree. It is, however, still quite rich coming from a man who wants to legislate half the human race back into the 19th century. He's a clever man, really, he does it slyly; we don't even notice it. He says that certain types of birth control conflict with his religious beliefs, so he will make them illegal. Because he's the president and we're not. He says that family planning conflicts with his religous beliefs, so he'll restrict all funding that may point in that direction, regardless of what it means to the rest of the world, or for this part of the world. I wonder if he thinks his own daughters are virgins. I wonder if he hopes they don't know anything about birth control other than abstinence—I wonder if he really sent them off into the world armed with nothing else. Somehow I doubt it. I wonder why he doesn't go running back into the home, to be a housekeeper and caregiver if he values those things so much. I wonder why he saves those things just for women, as though our vaginas give us special reign over that domain, without a choice in the matter. I wonder why he thinks his penis allows him to relegate us to that domain, without a choice in the matter. I wonder why he thinks that legislating his morality—because he's decided it's right, and he's decided we're not capable of any decisions on our own—is any different than sentencing us to a prison.
It's just rich.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Last Ass Jiggling
Reporting to you live from Fucking Drenched Headquarters, where I currently feel like I've been beat up after the dunk-tank experience, here it is: the Lap-Dancing 101 report. Before we get started, let's just clarify that those were not my drawers you saw each time I hit the water. It was my swimsuit. I mean, come on now.
Like I said before, just give me your lap, and I'll change your life. I've studied with the master.
Girlfriend was the master. She rolled in with her patent-leather, four-inch-platform heels and her booty and tried to teach us how to roll it, shake it, jiggle it, and for the advanced learners, how to give someone a black eye with it. She was extraordinary.
“All right ladies, we're going to do a warm-up just to get your heart rates up, nothing serious, we just want to get moving,” she said. “Nothing serious” included the “Dorothy.” The Dorothy is not so easy as you think. That's where you make your butt and your thighs wiggle like you're clicking your heels together, only you're not clicking your heels. You're just jiggling. She looked great—she could even control the speed of the jiggle. The rest of us looked like we were having a hemorrhoid attack.
“Now the first thing you want to get down is your walk. It's slow and sensual. Everything we do is slow and sensual.”
I knew I had this one down. Especially because we were all wearing heels. Except for my pregnant friend—her feet had grown out of her heels. Which is saying a lot considering she wore a 10 ½ to begin with. She was sexily strutting around in her socks. But me—I had the heels on—I knew I could rock the casbah in heels.
Until I tripped two steps into it.
Apparently, I do not rock the casbah.
This was quite a blow to me. I've always been known for my ability to do a mean walk and a mean-ass sexy dance, also known as the orgasm shuffle. I've climbed atop many a bar in my day and busted out the orgasm shuffle, only to be rewarded with free drinks. It's what happens when you're blessed with an ass like mine and you start shaking it—when there's that much ass coming at ‘ya that fast, you either run or you buy it a drink. It's the fight-or-flight response.
“All right ladies, now we're going to work on our floor sequence.”
Floor? Why did it never occur to me we would be getting on the floor? The floor is new territory. The orgasm shuffle never included the floor. Mostly because when you're dancing on a bar, there is no floor. Also, I would have no idea what to do on the floor. Inevitably, I'd end up rolling around with a sexy look on my face, thinking I was a goddamn genius or something.
She had us on all fours jiggling our booties. We were doing our best-each and every one of us were shaking with all our might, and each and every one of us was looking over our shoulders, staring intently at our jiggling asses, trying to figure out if we were doing it right. We all looked very concerned, and with good reason. If you had seen it, you would have been concerned too.
“All right, now we're going to move into the striptease portion of the class. I'm going to show you how to take your shirt off, and the map of the buttons.”
So apparently there is an agreed-upon button-order one goes through when taking your shirt off. Apparently, all the stripteasers got together and decided it would be so.
“Now once you unbutton the first bottom button, you want to lift your shirt up a little bit, show him the bottom part of your breast to tease him a little.”
Poor pregnant friend. We were all trying to give these sexy looks to the mirror, and there she stood, just looking perplexed. But since the class, she's the only one who's been practicing. She's gonna roll it out for her husband, baby belly and all. The rest of us have not been honing our skills. We're just going to wing it, and probably look like we are having a seizure that emanates from our booties.
There's a certain man who may get to witness my ass-seizure. He seemed excited about the class. When I told him about some similar classes, he didn't miss a beat. “I'll pay for it,” he said.
That's what a girl wants to hear. Booty appreciation, especially when you're investing in it, learning such things as the Dorothy and the on-the-floor booty jiggle. When you invest in an asset, that's the type of return you're looking for. A little appreciation, perhaps even an offer to buy stock in said asset. At least a good lay. When you bust out such moves, you always run a small risk that it will lead to a good laugh instead of a good lay.
These are the things you need to consider. Give me your lap; I'll change your life. You'll either want to tear me to shreds or recommend me for Last Comic Standing.
IT HURTS
From the comments section of Friday's post.
At 10:46 AM, Anonymous said...
i'm not sure if anybody out there reads old posts, but here's a question for the masses if youre reading this .…
i just broke up with a guy last night. actually, he was doing the old “well, i'd like to leave DC in a couple of years and i wouldnt want to get hot & heavy with someone now only to have to break up then…etc etc.” so with that kind of lead-in, i stepped in and said we should then wrap things up now and break up. he didnt put up a fight or try to convince me otherwise—so i knew he was just trying to let me down easy.…
okay: here's my question. i feel like hell and dont know how to not feel like hell. we met last summer online, dated some on/off for a couple months, broke up, got back in contact this past june. so we werent together all that very long, all things considered, but we had some fun & very sweet times together. SO IT HURTS. and i hate that.…
any words of wisdom out there.…?
Oh girl. Sometimes when I say “Oh girl,” it's sarcastic, other times it's in my best down-home southern accent, and other times, it's accompanied by hair-stroking and handholding. This is one of those times.
There's no way to make it stop hurting. That's the bad news, although it's not entirely bad (said the girl who's not in your shoes—don't slap me, I'm going somewhere with this.) Humans are complex creatures—we're loaded with a junk drawer full of emotions that can pop up at anytime. Here in this hemisphere, we revel in happiness and joy, as we should, and we do everything we can to avoid feeling sad or depressed. We've got loads of meds for it, and when we feel sadness, our first reaction is, How do I fix this? We don't create a space to experience sadness or hurt, to feel them both to their fullest extents. There's nothing wrong with feeling hurt; you don't need to justify it with how long you were or weren't together, or whether or not he's worth feeling sad. Women love to tell each other that he's not worth hurting over. That's not the point. If we chose who we fell for, we'd all fall for doctors or independently wealthy poets. But we don't, and you feel hurt, and that's that. It sucks. But feel it to its fullest extent, figure out its texture and its color. Just sit with it. When it's ready, it will go away. It will surprise you—you'll realize one day that you don't feel sad anymore, and you won't be able to pinpoint when it stopped. But give yourself the space and the permission to feel hurt—you don't have to try and fix it.
That being said, for what it's worth, this guy does sound like a selfish a-hole. At least at this point in his life. It's a shame he wasn't ready for you.
But he wasn't, so for now, you're allowed to just feel hurt for awhile, ‘til you don't anymore.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Knock Me Out
Lap-dancing 101 debrief is scheduled for a later time. Just let it be known that all I need is a lap, and I'll change your life.
For everyone who's ever wanted to throw anything at me, warm up your pitching arm. I'll be in the City Paper dunk tank starting at 3 p.m. this Sunday at Adams Morgan Day (18th St.) Hit me with your best shot.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Lap-Dancing 101
Tonight, I will be partaking in a lap-dancing 101 class. That is not a joke. I am quite serious. I even paid the fee.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Panty Lines
Panty lines are not hot. Everyone knows that. It's why we convince ourselves that G-strings are comfortable, to the point that we actually claim we prefer them. Plus, G-string panty lines are hot. Regular panty lines are not hot. That is a basic rule of the universe.
However, this weekend I was told that is not the case. I was told that men think all panty lines are hot, including normal panty lines. I was told that men want to see our panty lines, and do not discriminate between normal and G-string panty lines. This goes against everything I was ever taught. It makes me question my lingerie collection, and everything I ever considered to self-evident about men and their preferences regarding lingerie.
Can someone please help me out here? Is this a universal truth, that men love all panty lines, including normal panty lines? Can someone please set me straight? My belief system is crumbling.
Friday, September 01, 2006
On Your Wedding Day
On your wedding day, this is my wish for you:
Six years ago, while I was waiting out a layover in the Paris airport, I saw an old couple waiting for the same flight. They were taking turns reading aloud to each other from a book. Chapter by chapter. She rested her head on his shoulder.
That's my wish for you. That when you are old and waiting in airports, you read aloud to each other, and you rest your head on his shoulder.
On your wedding, that is my wish for you.
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