Our cat is being neutered next week.
This evening I attempted to gently explain to five year old Darius what "neuter" means using words he already knows. I said, "Just like you, Freddy has a penis and balls. We'll take him to the doctor and he will perform a surgery that removes Freddy's balls. That way, he won't be able to make baby kitties if he meets a girl cat."
I was trying to tread carefully here, as he is not my child and it is not my place to have his first birds and bees talk with him.
"Why doesn't he want to make baby kitties?" he asked.
"Well, I don't know if he wants to or not, but we don't want him to. That's why we are taking him to the doctor," I answered.
He looked thoughtfully at Freddy's rear end. "His balls let him make baby kitties?"
"Yes," I explained. "Just like humans can make baby people, cats can make baby kitties."
His eyes widened. He reached down to his Batman costume pants, lifted up his own testicles, and said, "You mean there's tiny people in here?"
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
December 31, 2011
March 17, 2011
My porn skills are apparently being under-utilized.
More and more frequently, I am noticing folks coming across my blog via google searches for topics of a graphic sexual nature. Recently it was "how to lick my husband's penis" from an interested party in India. Quite regularly, it is "grandmother swallows" from all over the world.
What the hell?
I mean, sex is good. I have spent years teaching and conducting research on sex-related topics. I have even been known on one or two occasions to have sex (but only in the dark in the missionary position with someone I love). People can look up whatever they want, of course, but how are these things bringing them to my little narcissistic, self-indulgent corner of the web?
I feel certain I've never written about any of these topics. Perhaps I should start--maybe this is the shift in career directions for which I have been searching.
I feel certain Ivan will have other ideas about the merits of such an endeavor.
What the hell?
I mean, sex is good. I have spent years teaching and conducting research on sex-related topics. I have even been known on one or two occasions to have sex (but only in the dark in the missionary position with someone I love). People can look up whatever they want, of course, but how are these things bringing them to my little narcissistic, self-indulgent corner of the web?
I feel certain I've never written about any of these topics. Perhaps I should start--maybe this is the shift in career directions for which I have been searching.
I feel certain Ivan will have other ideas about the merits of such an endeavor.
February 16, 2011
Miss Crankypants
While bursting with the need for connection, I started looking around yesterday for online pregnancy support groups. I thought it would be nice to find some ladies who were possibly experiencing similar issues and we could, you know, TALK. A few sites were recommended and I checked them out. One that seemed to annoy me less than the others was www.i-am-pregnant.com.
Shit. These ladies are really irritating to me.
To begin with, there are a whole host of abbreviations to learn. Por ejemplo:
BFP = big fat positive
TTC = trying to conceive
BD = baby dance (intercourse)
EWCM = egg white cervical mucus (yuck!)
You get the idea.
Another thing that seemed strange was that a huge contingent of the i-am-pregnant site contributors are trying to conceive (oops! I mean "TTC"). Shouldn't this be a separate forum? I mean, these ladies definitely should have the support they need, but isn't it just torture to be surrounded by pregnant women comparing notes? Plus, I've seen new users announce a pregnancy happily only to be pounced upon with, "I'm so JEALOUS. In what position did you have sex?"
This is another big deal, apparently. There are whole discussion boards of women comparing *in depth* how they had sex and recommending their positions to others. One lady swears that you should be in the sleeper section of a tractor trailer cab with your feet braced against the ceiling.
In response to all this silliness, one woman said, "Uh, how about the PENIS IN VAGINA position?" I think she and I could probably be friends.
This morning I was immediately irritated when one happy user announced she and her husband had just found out they were joining "team pink." Barfy McUpchuck Pants.
Some of it is educational. I mean, I'm learning all sorts of gruesome things about nipples that turn white, mucus plugs (*shudder*), and something ominous called the "bloody show."
Mama. Hold me.
Shit. These ladies are really irritating to me.
To begin with, there are a whole host of abbreviations to learn. Por ejemplo:
BFP = big fat positive
TTC = trying to conceive
BD = baby dance (intercourse)
EWCM = egg white cervical mucus (yuck!)
You get the idea.
Another thing that seemed strange was that a huge contingent of the i-am-pregnant site contributors are trying to conceive (oops! I mean "TTC"). Shouldn't this be a separate forum? I mean, these ladies definitely should have the support they need, but isn't it just torture to be surrounded by pregnant women comparing notes? Plus, I've seen new users announce a pregnancy happily only to be pounced upon with, "I'm so JEALOUS. In what position did you have sex?"
This is another big deal, apparently. There are whole discussion boards of women comparing *in depth* how they had sex and recommending their positions to others. One lady swears that you should be in the sleeper section of a tractor trailer cab with your feet braced against the ceiling.
In response to all this silliness, one woman said, "Uh, how about the PENIS IN VAGINA position?" I think she and I could probably be friends.
This morning I was immediately irritated when one happy user announced she and her husband had just found out they were joining "team pink." Barfy McUpchuck Pants.
Some of it is educational. I mean, I'm learning all sorts of gruesome things about nipples that turn white, mucus plugs (*shudder*), and something ominous called the "bloody show."
Mama. Hold me.
June 21, 2010
Despite what at least one of you may be thinking...
...No, I am not pregnant. There's at least one essential activity that has to be taking place for that to occur and--not that it should be publicized here, but will that stop me? No. No it won't--I've not done that for, what? Years? Seems that way.
Lighten up!
Lighten up!
May 10, 2010
For the love of god!
Today I messed around briefly on MySpace. I changed my profile picture and updated my status, and immediately got a message from "Moses":
you look so sexy and hella beautiful, sorry but im very curious! do you give head or no?
you look so sexy and hella beautiful, sorry but im very curious! do you give head or no?
April 30, 2010
Naked
Oh the clever
things I should say to you
They got stuck somewhere
Stuck between me and you
Oh I'm nervous
I don't know what to do...
April 19, 2010
Cuidate (reimagined)
For years she’d listened to them--those who would have her believe that her way of loving was naïve and that her head was in the clouds. Those who warned that she would end up alone because of her unrealistic expectations. She listened and nodded quietly, but stubbornly refused to give up. She refused to come ‘round to more realistic ways of thinking. She often gave up, and regularly fell to utter despair, but she continued to carefully cultivate her dream.
Vindication comes in the strangest forms.
There was the night she sat blindfolded and tentatively touched him—learned the shapes, tastes, and textures with which she wanted to be so intimately familiar. She was a good girl. She didn’t even give it all away—didn’t let it all go. But she privately lived a thousand lives in the quiet moments of those few days.
She drank greedily from his well and filled up all of her spare reservoirs for the long days of drought that surely lay ahead. She languished at the source of the river, putting out of her mind the questions that could so quickly make her terror rise. She waited and gave and received and listened and spoke and loved and—God! Oh, God!—had never been so well-loved and probably never would again. In the quiet moments she found her voice: in those where he kissed her hands, brushed back her hair, or parted her legs. Those were everything that there had never been but that she’d always known existed.
How had people kept these things secrets? How had they never let on that it could be this way? All this time she had been taking care and biding her time when—really—she should have been running headlong into these moments. For it was these that made it all worthwhile; it was these that had begun to be impossible to imagine living without.
Vindication comes in the strangest forms.
There was the night she sat blindfolded and tentatively touched him—learned the shapes, tastes, and textures with which she wanted to be so intimately familiar. She was a good girl. She didn’t even give it all away—didn’t let it all go. But she privately lived a thousand lives in the quiet moments of those few days.
She drank greedily from his well and filled up all of her spare reservoirs for the long days of drought that surely lay ahead. She languished at the source of the river, putting out of her mind the questions that could so quickly make her terror rise. She waited and gave and received and listened and spoke and loved and—God! Oh, God!—had never been so well-loved and probably never would again. In the quiet moments she found her voice: in those where he kissed her hands, brushed back her hair, or parted her legs. Those were everything that there had never been but that she’d always known existed.
How had people kept these things secrets? How had they never let on that it could be this way? All this time she had been taking care and biding her time when—really—she should have been running headlong into these moments. For it was these that made it all worthwhile; it was these that had begun to be impossible to imagine living without.
March 16, 2010
On surprise, 2
Friday night I got home from drinks at El Rio with friends. While messing around on Facebook before falling asleep, I got an instant message from a former SFSU student I had a little over a year ago in class, M. At first we chatted about what we'd been up to since our class, and then he asked me out. I laughed and joked that I was 8 years older than him and why would he want to go out with an old lady? He got serious and said I didn't give myself enough credit. He said, "You can use me at your discretion."
My goodness.
My goodness.
March 14, 2010
Clit Notes
Alternative title to this blog: Why I want to dress like a lobster
"…was originally part of an evening called “Shrimp in a Basket.” The show began with me coming out as a sea captain with a cardboard parrot duct-taped to my shoulder. In a rich mixture of English accents, real and imagined, I welcomed the audience and assured them that if what they were about to see became unnecessarily avant-garde Walkmans would automatically drop from the ceiling; I reminded them that they should put on their own headset before assisting anyone else.
Then I scurried off…where I was hot-glued into a giant cardboard lobster outfit. This took about twenty minutes and was one of the quicker costume changes of the evening. I’d persuaded a friend to bring the accordion she’d bought that afternoon and entertain the audience with songs of the sea. By the end of the evening, after five or six sets of at least twenty minutes each, what she was playing was starting to sound pretty good, almost like music.
I reemerged with two women also in crustacean drag. We lip-synched to “It Ain’t the Meat, It’s the Motion,” although the audience couldn’t tell what we were doing because the lobster suits covered out mouths. The…stage was so tiny and the costumes, though exquisite, were so huge and fragile that we couldn’t do much more than just stand there while the taped played on a borrowed boom box. Because the tickets for “Shrimp in a Basket” were only $2.99, I think most of the audience felt it was enough for the three of us to just stand in front of them, being big and pink. Then we exited, and it was time for more songs of the sea."
Holly Hughes (“Clit Notes: A Sapphic Sampler”)
"…was originally part of an evening called “Shrimp in a Basket.” The show began with me coming out as a sea captain with a cardboard parrot duct-taped to my shoulder. In a rich mixture of English accents, real and imagined, I welcomed the audience and assured them that if what they were about to see became unnecessarily avant-garde Walkmans would automatically drop from the ceiling; I reminded them that they should put on their own headset before assisting anyone else.
Then I scurried off…where I was hot-glued into a giant cardboard lobster outfit. This took about twenty minutes and was one of the quicker costume changes of the evening. I’d persuaded a friend to bring the accordion she’d bought that afternoon and entertain the audience with songs of the sea. By the end of the evening, after five or six sets of at least twenty minutes each, what she was playing was starting to sound pretty good, almost like music.
I reemerged with two women also in crustacean drag. We lip-synched to “It Ain’t the Meat, It’s the Motion,” although the audience couldn’t tell what we were doing because the lobster suits covered out mouths. The…stage was so tiny and the costumes, though exquisite, were so huge and fragile that we couldn’t do much more than just stand there while the taped played on a borrowed boom box. Because the tickets for “Shrimp in a Basket” were only $2.99, I think most of the audience felt it was enough for the three of us to just stand in front of them, being big and pink. Then we exited, and it was time for more songs of the sea."
Holly Hughes (“Clit Notes: A Sapphic Sampler”)
March 8, 2010
March 4, 2010
I have NEWS.
Sperm donation is less expensive than I realized. Now I just have to decide at what age that becomes the plan.
I am making light, but it really was a relief to find out.
Does this get filed under sex? Or lack thereof?
I am making light, but it really was a relief to find out.
Does this get filed under sex? Or lack thereof?
September 23, 2009
Inspiration and the forms in which it comes
I have always needed a lot of attention.
I didn't get a lot of it from my parents, but my grandpas--whenever I visited--lavished me with it. I soaked it up like a thirsty plant. Time, affection, love: I couldn't get enough.
When I couldn't get my needs met from others, I found ways to make do and meet them myself. I would tuck myself in bed, wrap my arms around myself in a tight hug, shower my hand with kisses and pat them all over my face, and murmur night-time endearments to myself: "Good night, sweet girl. I love you so much. I love you more than anything in the world. You're my baby; you're my sweetheart. Good night."
These intense needs are cute and endearing in a little kid, but not so much in a grown woman--especially in a grown woman who doesn't always know how to ask for what she wants and needs.
As an adult I have found that this need has a profound effect on me. Attention and affection--or the lack thereof--have dramatic effects on my writing, inspiration, and creativity and the forms which they take. It profoundly affects my mood which is, at best, tenuous. It is also surprisingly easy to confuse sex with the attention that I crave. I have worked hard to be conscious of these distinctions and to learn to better distinguish when I need one or the other. Or both.
I still hoard attention when I can get it. I try to store it up and allow myself to savor the memories of it during dry spells however long or short they may be. Lately I luxuriate in it whenever I can, and I am starting to feel writing inspiration coming to me. It's still a bit elusive--like fireflies heading up, up, and just beyond my reach. But I keep jumping and swatting at the air, trying to bring them down to me.
I didn't get a lot of it from my parents, but my grandpas--whenever I visited--lavished me with it. I soaked it up like a thirsty plant. Time, affection, love: I couldn't get enough.
When I couldn't get my needs met from others, I found ways to make do and meet them myself. I would tuck myself in bed, wrap my arms around myself in a tight hug, shower my hand with kisses and pat them all over my face, and murmur night-time endearments to myself: "Good night, sweet girl. I love you so much. I love you more than anything in the world. You're my baby; you're my sweetheart. Good night."
These intense needs are cute and endearing in a little kid, but not so much in a grown woman--especially in a grown woman who doesn't always know how to ask for what she wants and needs.
As an adult I have found that this need has a profound effect on me. Attention and affection--or the lack thereof--have dramatic effects on my writing, inspiration, and creativity and the forms which they take. It profoundly affects my mood which is, at best, tenuous. It is also surprisingly easy to confuse sex with the attention that I crave. I have worked hard to be conscious of these distinctions and to learn to better distinguish when I need one or the other. Or both.
I still hoard attention when I can get it. I try to store it up and allow myself to savor the memories of it during dry spells however long or short they may be. Lately I luxuriate in it whenever I can, and I am starting to feel writing inspiration coming to me. It's still a bit elusive--like fireflies heading up, up, and just beyond my reach. But I keep jumping and swatting at the air, trying to bring them down to me.
July 26, 2009
The ethical slut
I'm having one of those days when I feel the inner conflict of pent-up, raging restlessness and complete fatigue. Part of me says LET'S GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE AND GO PICK STRAWBERRIES/TAKE A WALK/TAKE A DRIVE/BUY A BIKE PUMP and the rest of me is like ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING?! SHUT YER FACE AND TAKE A NAP! Mostly I need to clean my house. Mostly I want to have sex all day. YES I JUST WENT THERE.
N. recommends I borrow Bree's "The Ethical Slut" and then sleep with a lot of people.
According to my shrink, now that my moods are under control and no longer the primary drivers of every single thing that I do and think, I am free to listen to other urges and drives in my body. The confusion I feel is because I'm not used to how to navigate with these new needs running the show.
Yesterday I confided my mixed relationship and sexual urges to S. I really wanted to talk to a man about them. He listened patiently and then said simply, "You're turning into a dude." Then we proceeded to have the worst mixed drink in the world and to watch the worst movie in the world and still managed to laugh all evening.
N. recommends I borrow Bree's "The Ethical Slut" and then sleep with a lot of people.
According to my shrink, now that my moods are under control and no longer the primary drivers of every single thing that I do and think, I am free to listen to other urges and drives in my body. The confusion I feel is because I'm not used to how to navigate with these new needs running the show.
Yesterday I confided my mixed relationship and sexual urges to S. I really wanted to talk to a man about them. He listened patiently and then said simply, "You're turning into a dude." Then we proceeded to have the worst mixed drink in the world and to watch the worst movie in the world and still managed to laugh all evening.
July 25, 2009
It seems to be true...
...that all men (and women?) want a whore in the bedroom.
Note to self: practice more.
Note to self: practice more.
July 22, 2009
Once upon a time
They stood in the dark on their last night together, running their hands over each others' bodies in silence. "You must know I'm falling in love with you," she said softly, her voice cracking with emotion.
"That's a little impractical, don't you think?" he asked quietly.
She covered her face in her hands with hurt and embarrassment and curled into a protective ball.
"That's a little impractical, don't you think?" he asked quietly.
She covered her face in her hands with hurt and embarrassment and curled into a protective ball.
June 28, 2009
Some days, like today
I have so much pent-up sexual energy it feels like there is a constant porn film playing in the background of my head. Good God. Is this what it's like to be a man?
April 3, 2009
For Jennifer
I write stuff about all kinds of people in this here blog. I write about people who irritate me, make my day, help me, and make me think. I write about my mother. I write about evil stepfathers. I write about friends as well as past and future significant others. I write about loved ones who are leaving or whom have already left my life. I don’t think I write nearly enough about those who’ve made a long-lasting impact.
Jennifer is my sister. If you want to be technical about it, she’s my former stepsister, but I don’t think of her that way. She’s my sister.
My mom and her dad got married, and Jen and I first met when I was about 11 and she was about 8. We were nervous to meet. My mother filled my head with terrible things about her mother, and I imagine hers may have done the same. I expected her to be bratty and spoiled and snobby, but nothing could have been further from the truth. We hit it off immediately. Probably because we were both kind of odd girls—I like to think in a good way.
For the next several years Jen and I anxiously awaited each and every time she and her brother got to come and stay with my family, and when she arrived we were inseparable. We told each other all of our secrets and speculated about boobs and sex and periods. I taught her everything I knew which, in hindsight, wasn’t all that much. (Sorry, Jen.) We slept in the same bed and made up ridiculous songs and giggled about everything.
We spent our time in the most ridiculous and wonderful ways. We loved to lay on the floor of my bedroom and throw balled up socks and my ceiling fan and laugh uproariously as it batted them around the room. We ate ice cream cones in a bathtub full of hot water in our bathing suits. We made up songs about my family’s hamsters, Ralph and Julie (all three generations of Ralph and Julie). We jumped out of my bedroom window and snuck down to Maple Lake to go swimming. We made up homemade madlibs that were unfailing dirty for such inexperienced girls. She was around when I lost my virginity (terrible) and when I fell in love (wonderful). It is by no means a stretch to say that some of the happiest times in my young life were spent with Jennifer. She had unfettered access to my journal—an honor given to no one else before or since. She was the first REAL best friend I ever had.
We both hungered for fathers, and we both remember a night when we’d been drug to Interstate Speedway to watch races in which we had no interest. While standing in line to use the porta-potties, I bent forward to tie my shoe and got a whiff of the man standing in line in front of us. He smelled like clean laundry and soap. Nice. Strong. Safe. Like a dad. “Jen! Smell him! Smell his back!” I whispered urgently, nearly frantic for her to experience his smell before it was his turn to use the bathroom. Without thinking I was strange and without asking why, she immediately leaned forward and sniffed the back of his shirt with me. “Mmmm…he smells so good…” she whispered back. “Doesn’t he smell like a dad?” I asked. She heartily agreed, and for the next couple of moments we stood in line smelling this man. It was because she understood things like that that I loved her.
When our parents got divorced, Jen and I lost touch and it was very painful for us. We made a handful of phone calls and wrote a handful of emails to each other over the years, but otherwise had very little communication. One day in May of 2006, I was house-sitting in Berkeley when I got an email from her asking if she could come to San Francisco to visit. I was nearly beside myself and answered, “Yes, YES!” Two weeks later, she arrived.
I think we were both a little nervous. We didn’t really know to what extent the other had changed. We didn’t know if we’d still really like each other, let alone adore each other the way we once had. We spent the weekend holed up, talking and drinking and talking some more. One night at Trad’r Sam’s we got staggeringly drunk and laid in the middle of the sidewalk in front of my house, smoking cigarettes and laughing. It was like we’d always been. Except with alcohol and cigarettes.
I don’t get to see Jennifer anywhere near as often as I like to. She lives in DC now. She is beautiful and wonderful and intelligent and interesting and kind and accomplished and ridiculously funny. I am so proud she's my sister. I think of her more than she knows and love her dearly.
That’s really all I wanted to say.
Jennifer is my sister. If you want to be technical about it, she’s my former stepsister, but I don’t think of her that way. She’s my sister.
My mom and her dad got married, and Jen and I first met when I was about 11 and she was about 8. We were nervous to meet. My mother filled my head with terrible things about her mother, and I imagine hers may have done the same. I expected her to be bratty and spoiled and snobby, but nothing could have been further from the truth. We hit it off immediately. Probably because we were both kind of odd girls—I like to think in a good way.
For the next several years Jen and I anxiously awaited each and every time she and her brother got to come and stay with my family, and when she arrived we were inseparable. We told each other all of our secrets and speculated about boobs and sex and periods. I taught her everything I knew which, in hindsight, wasn’t all that much. (Sorry, Jen.) We slept in the same bed and made up ridiculous songs and giggled about everything.
We spent our time in the most ridiculous and wonderful ways. We loved to lay on the floor of my bedroom and throw balled up socks and my ceiling fan and laugh uproariously as it batted them around the room. We ate ice cream cones in a bathtub full of hot water in our bathing suits. We made up songs about my family’s hamsters, Ralph and Julie (all three generations of Ralph and Julie). We jumped out of my bedroom window and snuck down to Maple Lake to go swimming. We made up homemade madlibs that were unfailing dirty for such inexperienced girls. She was around when I lost my virginity (terrible) and when I fell in love (wonderful). It is by no means a stretch to say that some of the happiest times in my young life were spent with Jennifer. She had unfettered access to my journal—an honor given to no one else before or since. She was the first REAL best friend I ever had.
We both hungered for fathers, and we both remember a night when we’d been drug to Interstate Speedway to watch races in which we had no interest. While standing in line to use the porta-potties, I bent forward to tie my shoe and got a whiff of the man standing in line in front of us. He smelled like clean laundry and soap. Nice. Strong. Safe. Like a dad. “Jen! Smell him! Smell his back!” I whispered urgently, nearly frantic for her to experience his smell before it was his turn to use the bathroom. Without thinking I was strange and without asking why, she immediately leaned forward and sniffed the back of his shirt with me. “Mmmm…he smells so good…” she whispered back. “Doesn’t he smell like a dad?” I asked. She heartily agreed, and for the next couple of moments we stood in line smelling this man. It was because she understood things like that that I loved her.
When our parents got divorced, Jen and I lost touch and it was very painful for us. We made a handful of phone calls and wrote a handful of emails to each other over the years, but otherwise had very little communication. One day in May of 2006, I was house-sitting in Berkeley when I got an email from her asking if she could come to San Francisco to visit. I was nearly beside myself and answered, “Yes, YES!” Two weeks later, she arrived.
I think we were both a little nervous. We didn’t really know to what extent the other had changed. We didn’t know if we’d still really like each other, let alone adore each other the way we once had. We spent the weekend holed up, talking and drinking and talking some more. One night at Trad’r Sam’s we got staggeringly drunk and laid in the middle of the sidewalk in front of my house, smoking cigarettes and laughing. It was like we’d always been. Except with alcohol and cigarettes.
I don’t get to see Jennifer anywhere near as often as I like to. She lives in DC now. She is beautiful and wonderful and intelligent and interesting and kind and accomplished and ridiculously funny. I am so proud she's my sister. I think of her more than she knows and love her dearly.
That’s really all I wanted to say.
March 11, 2009
Dirty Barbies [*revised*]
[Note: This is the first thing I ever wrote a couple of years ago, and I've been meaning to add onto and revise it forever!]
Like many little girls, my evolving understanding of human anatomy, sexuality, and the complexities of relationships were reflected in my Barbies.
For quite some time, I didn’t have a Ken doll and my Barbies were all lesbians. If I wanted a male figure I was forced to create imaginary ones or else to play at a friend’s house so as to take advantage of her Ken-doll-possessing good fortune. I often ended up at my friend Katie’s.
There were pros and cons to playing at Katie’s house. On one hand, she had fancier Barbie accessories than I, such as the dream house and the pink corvette. She also owned a cute little pink nightie that was sure to get Barbie laid. Much to my initial dismay, however, Katie wanted her Barbies to do devious things.
“Let’s play like my Ken sleeps with another Barbie and you divorce him,” she would always suggest. At first I hated this.
“Can’t we just play like they love each other and take a vacation together?” I would counter. Katie dismissed that as boring and we usually ended up doing things her way. I found I got into it very quickly.
We’d dress up one Barbie all slutty-like: in a short skirt, tight sweater, and high heels. She would saunter casually up to Ken, place an ever-rigid, outstretched arm on his, and say, “Hey baby, wanna come over to my place? My parents aren’t home.” Ken, of course, was always game. He practically panted as he followed her eagerly back to the Dream House.
We only had a vague understanding of what Ken and Slutty were supposed to do together. We knew it was wonderfully bad and involved being naked with a lot of moaning. We also had very little concept of the seduction process. “Let’s pretend the air conditioner is broken and it’s really hot, so they can’t stand to wear their clothes,” I would suggest. So Ken and Slutty would lounge together naked on a little plastic couch with their legs sticking straight out in front of them.
“Can I lay on top of you?” Ken would ask hopefully.
“Sure!” Slutty agreed.
In our earliest dirty Barbie adventures that’s as far as we ever got. As our learning expanded and our bravery grew, Ken and Slutty experimented with different positions. There were little “clack-clack” noises as naked, plastic body parts eagerly rubbed together. Slutty’s legs usually ended up straight up in the air as she assertively instructed Ken as to how to please her. Irrespective of the scenario we enacted, Slutty always ended up pissed off and throwing Ken and his clothes out the door. “And stay out!” she would huff, angry and naked. Meanwhile, Wife Barbie would be stuck at home blowing wisps of frazzled hair out of her face. She was fed up with her life that consisted of three filthy, screaming kids, an old wood-paneled station wagon, a dog with chronic diarrhea, a burning dinner on the stove, and a husband who didn’t make her feel like a woman anymore.
One Christmas, I was thrilled to get my very own Ken doll. I was dismayed, however, that he wasn’t a “normal” one with a painted-on helmet of yellow hair. Instead, he had a sort of white man’s frizzy Afro of synthetic hair that framed his chiseled features like a puffy cloud. While I was now able to enact my own dirty Barbie scenarios, I was increasingly disappointed with naked Ken’s flesh-colored, painted on underwear over his vague hump for a penis. But I came up with a brilliant plan.
I cut off his hair close to his head and glued it onto his crotch. I sat back to admire my work. I realized that Ken’s new pubic hair only told part of the story of what was down there, but I was still immensely satisfied with the results. I pulled on his pants not really realizing how ridiculous he now looked with the hairy, bushy bulge that now made them too tight. Tendrils of hair curled up and over his elastic waistband: a tantalizing promise of what was to be found underneath.
I rushed into the kitchen to show my grandma what I had done, proud of my ingenuity. She was talking to my great-grandmother, and waved me away while silently mouthing the words “I’m on the phone.” I tapped my foot impatiently for a moment, and then decided I couldn’t wait any longer. No verbal explanation was really needed, and I was eager to get back to my bedroom to explore all the possibilities Ken’s new pubic hair offered to the ladies in his life. I thrust Ken in front of her face and flashed her by pulling down the front of his pants so that his fluffy, black, and still glue-damp pubes dramatically burst forth.
“Oh, my God!” she cried. “Mom, you won’t believe what this child has done!” I was dismayed to see that some stray tufts of damp hair fell into clumps on her lap. I quickly realized the magnitude of my error, and ran with Ken back into the bedroom to hide. Soon afterward his glorious hair disappeared and I was left with an awkward-looking Ken with a bad haircut and a scaly crotch.
I was undeterred by these setbacks, however, and quickly set about exploring other sexual avenues for my Barbies to explore. One of the most exciting things to happen in my young life was a trip to the movie theater to see Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, and soon afterward scenes from the entire Star Wars trilogy played out in my Barbie games—especially those involving punishment.
As soon as Ken had arrived on the scene that Christmas, he had tried to lay claim to all the Barbies as if they were his personal harem. But the Barbies had been sleeping together long before he arrived and weren’t eager to give that freedom up or to be told what to do. Despite his own frequent infidelity, Ken was furious when he caught Wife Barbie with her best friend. He immediately took her to court.
The arrival of the trial proved to be a big day. All the Barbies, Cabbage Patch Kids, and various stuffed animals gathered around the perimeter of my bed to view the spectacle. A large Ewok made an unsympathetic and physically imposing judge. Despite her tears and pleas for mercy, Wife Barbie was sentenced to being frozen in carbonite for two weeks and Ken was granted a divorce. The trial attendants left the proceedings with their heads down, feeling sad that pleasures of the flesh could lead to such terrible consequences. I was disappointed with the sentence, too, but solemnly set about implementing the judge’s orders.
I closed the door to my grandparents’ bathroom and rummaged around in the cabinets. I concocted a thick and aromatic mixture of shampoo, talcum powder, bubble bath, and toothpaste. Wife Barbie obediently allowed me to submerge her, and all that was left visible of her were the tips of her nose and chin and her little plastic hands pressed forward in her last desperate act before being “frozen.” The quickly-hardening conglomeration was placed under the basement steps. I dutifully marked the day fourteen days from then on the calendar when her sentence would be complete.
At the end of two weeks I chiseled the newly subdued Divorced Barbie out of the “carbonite” and she was free to resume her life. Crumbles of plaster remained in the corner of her eyes and in her joints from that point forward; they served as a constant reminder of what she had done. None of the other Barbies wanted to interact with her. They averted their eyes when she passed and shunned all her attempts at companionship and conversation. She lived out the remainder of her life in solitude and celibacy, and for a long time patriarchy ruled the once free and sexually liberated Barbies.
Like many little girls, my evolving understanding of human anatomy, sexuality, and the complexities of relationships were reflected in my Barbies.
For quite some time, I didn’t have a Ken doll and my Barbies were all lesbians. If I wanted a male figure I was forced to create imaginary ones or else to play at a friend’s house so as to take advantage of her Ken-doll-possessing good fortune. I often ended up at my friend Katie’s.
There were pros and cons to playing at Katie’s house. On one hand, she had fancier Barbie accessories than I, such as the dream house and the pink corvette. She also owned a cute little pink nightie that was sure to get Barbie laid. Much to my initial dismay, however, Katie wanted her Barbies to do devious things.
“Let’s play like my Ken sleeps with another Barbie and you divorce him,” she would always suggest. At first I hated this.
“Can’t we just play like they love each other and take a vacation together?” I would counter. Katie dismissed that as boring and we usually ended up doing things her way. I found I got into it very quickly.
We’d dress up one Barbie all slutty-like: in a short skirt, tight sweater, and high heels. She would saunter casually up to Ken, place an ever-rigid, outstretched arm on his, and say, “Hey baby, wanna come over to my place? My parents aren’t home.” Ken, of course, was always game. He practically panted as he followed her eagerly back to the Dream House.
We only had a vague understanding of what Ken and Slutty were supposed to do together. We knew it was wonderfully bad and involved being naked with a lot of moaning. We also had very little concept of the seduction process. “Let’s pretend the air conditioner is broken and it’s really hot, so they can’t stand to wear their clothes,” I would suggest. So Ken and Slutty would lounge together naked on a little plastic couch with their legs sticking straight out in front of them.
“Can I lay on top of you?” Ken would ask hopefully.
“Sure!” Slutty agreed.
In our earliest dirty Barbie adventures that’s as far as we ever got. As our learning expanded and our bravery grew, Ken and Slutty experimented with different positions. There were little “clack-clack” noises as naked, plastic body parts eagerly rubbed together. Slutty’s legs usually ended up straight up in the air as she assertively instructed Ken as to how to please her. Irrespective of the scenario we enacted, Slutty always ended up pissed off and throwing Ken and his clothes out the door. “And stay out!” she would huff, angry and naked. Meanwhile, Wife Barbie would be stuck at home blowing wisps of frazzled hair out of her face. She was fed up with her life that consisted of three filthy, screaming kids, an old wood-paneled station wagon, a dog with chronic diarrhea, a burning dinner on the stove, and a husband who didn’t make her feel like a woman anymore.
One Christmas, I was thrilled to get my very own Ken doll. I was dismayed, however, that he wasn’t a “normal” one with a painted-on helmet of yellow hair. Instead, he had a sort of white man’s frizzy Afro of synthetic hair that framed his chiseled features like a puffy cloud. While I was now able to enact my own dirty Barbie scenarios, I was increasingly disappointed with naked Ken’s flesh-colored, painted on underwear over his vague hump for a penis. But I came up with a brilliant plan.
I cut off his hair close to his head and glued it onto his crotch. I sat back to admire my work. I realized that Ken’s new pubic hair only told part of the story of what was down there, but I was still immensely satisfied with the results. I pulled on his pants not really realizing how ridiculous he now looked with the hairy, bushy bulge that now made them too tight. Tendrils of hair curled up and over his elastic waistband: a tantalizing promise of what was to be found underneath.
I rushed into the kitchen to show my grandma what I had done, proud of my ingenuity. She was talking to my great-grandmother, and waved me away while silently mouthing the words “I’m on the phone.” I tapped my foot impatiently for a moment, and then decided I couldn’t wait any longer. No verbal explanation was really needed, and I was eager to get back to my bedroom to explore all the possibilities Ken’s new pubic hair offered to the ladies in his life. I thrust Ken in front of her face and flashed her by pulling down the front of his pants so that his fluffy, black, and still glue-damp pubes dramatically burst forth.
“Oh, my God!” she cried. “Mom, you won’t believe what this child has done!” I was dismayed to see that some stray tufts of damp hair fell into clumps on her lap. I quickly realized the magnitude of my error, and ran with Ken back into the bedroom to hide. Soon afterward his glorious hair disappeared and I was left with an awkward-looking Ken with a bad haircut and a scaly crotch.
I was undeterred by these setbacks, however, and quickly set about exploring other sexual avenues for my Barbies to explore. One of the most exciting things to happen in my young life was a trip to the movie theater to see Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, and soon afterward scenes from the entire Star Wars trilogy played out in my Barbie games—especially those involving punishment.
As soon as Ken had arrived on the scene that Christmas, he had tried to lay claim to all the Barbies as if they were his personal harem. But the Barbies had been sleeping together long before he arrived and weren’t eager to give that freedom up or to be told what to do. Despite his own frequent infidelity, Ken was furious when he caught Wife Barbie with her best friend. He immediately took her to court.
The arrival of the trial proved to be a big day. All the Barbies, Cabbage Patch Kids, and various stuffed animals gathered around the perimeter of my bed to view the spectacle. A large Ewok made an unsympathetic and physically imposing judge. Despite her tears and pleas for mercy, Wife Barbie was sentenced to being frozen in carbonite for two weeks and Ken was granted a divorce. The trial attendants left the proceedings with their heads down, feeling sad that pleasures of the flesh could lead to such terrible consequences. I was disappointed with the sentence, too, but solemnly set about implementing the judge’s orders.
I closed the door to my grandparents’ bathroom and rummaged around in the cabinets. I concocted a thick and aromatic mixture of shampoo, talcum powder, bubble bath, and toothpaste. Wife Barbie obediently allowed me to submerge her, and all that was left visible of her were the tips of her nose and chin and her little plastic hands pressed forward in her last desperate act before being “frozen.” The quickly-hardening conglomeration was placed under the basement steps. I dutifully marked the day fourteen days from then on the calendar when her sentence would be complete.
At the end of two weeks I chiseled the newly subdued Divorced Barbie out of the “carbonite” and she was free to resume her life. Crumbles of plaster remained in the corner of her eyes and in her joints from that point forward; they served as a constant reminder of what she had done. None of the other Barbies wanted to interact with her. They averted their eyes when she passed and shunned all her attempts at companionship and conversation. She lived out the remainder of her life in solitude and celibacy, and for a long time patriarchy ruled the once free and sexually liberated Barbies.
February 20, 2009
Sex, dating, sex, love, sex. Sex.
You know, you spend so much time as a kid and an adolescent being curious about sex: sneaking peeks at pictures and movies associated with it, gathering sketchy information from others kids and their older siblings. You look forward to the day that you will finally know what it's all about.
I accidentally had an orgasm when I was nine during an innocuous situation, and I spent years trying to figure out how to make it happen again.
In junior high and high school, my friends and I speculated about it and eagerly shared experiences when one of us had done anything remotely related to it (i.e., "he kind of stuck his tongue in my mouth and moved it around").
There was the momentous night when I lost my virginity in October of 1992. It was momentous only because of its symbolism; it certainly didn't FEEL momentous physically. In fact, it kind of sucked. And I will always associate Paula Abdul's "Forever Your Girl" with awkward fumbling and pain.
Then there came sex with someone I loved with all of my being and it was changed forever.
It seems like once you get to the magical place called adulthood, you should finally be able to think about something else. This is not true. There are long dry spells, and ohmyfuckinggod they BLOW! (or not, as the case may be...)
If I just wanted to have sex with SOMEbody, that would be quite easy. Unfortunately, I don't work that way. I'm pretty jealous of those that do. I've tried, and I hated myself and the empty way it made me feel. I'm not saying I want to marry the guy tomorrow, I would just like to actually care about him.
There is the issue that I'm still learning about this whole dating business. It seems like after 40-50 of them, I should be getting better. I feel like astoundingly little progress has been made on my part. I hear lots of theories and advice: play hard to get, be honest and up front when you like someone, blah blah blah. I never paid much attention to those things, and I know myself well enough by well to know that being a way that is not me is definitely not going to work.
Meh.
Sex. Sex, sex, sex. *sigh*
I accidentally had an orgasm when I was nine during an innocuous situation, and I spent years trying to figure out how to make it happen again.
In junior high and high school, my friends and I speculated about it and eagerly shared experiences when one of us had done anything remotely related to it (i.e., "he kind of stuck his tongue in my mouth and moved it around").
There was the momentous night when I lost my virginity in October of 1992. It was momentous only because of its symbolism; it certainly didn't FEEL momentous physically. In fact, it kind of sucked. And I will always associate Paula Abdul's "Forever Your Girl" with awkward fumbling and pain.
Then there came sex with someone I loved with all of my being and it was changed forever.
It seems like once you get to the magical place called adulthood, you should finally be able to think about something else. This is not true. There are long dry spells, and ohmyfuckinggod they BLOW! (or not, as the case may be...)
If I just wanted to have sex with SOMEbody, that would be quite easy. Unfortunately, I don't work that way. I'm pretty jealous of those that do. I've tried, and I hated myself and the empty way it made me feel. I'm not saying I want to marry the guy tomorrow, I would just like to actually care about him.
There is the issue that I'm still learning about this whole dating business. It seems like after 40-50 of them, I should be getting better. I feel like astoundingly little progress has been made on my part. I hear lots of theories and advice: play hard to get, be honest and up front when you like someone, blah blah blah. I never paid much attention to those things, and I know myself well enough by well to know that being a way that is not me is definitely not going to work.
Meh.
Sex. Sex, sex, sex. *sigh*
September 1, 2008
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)