Tired, aching limbs
Scratch marks down the chest and back
Multiple bite marks on the shoulders and neck
Stinging scalp, particularly at the roots of the hair
Fatigued tongue muscles
Tenderness in the genital area
Missing clothing or jewelry items or footwear
A deep-seated feeling of peace and that all is well with the world
or The Last Socially-Acceptable Evil
Mothers are racists.
Becoming a mother automatically turns perfectly fair, tolerant citizens into racists.
Having a child that was once a part of you seems to have the instant side effect of making you a complete bigot toward all other races besides your own bloodline. From that moment on, any creature that is not direct flesh and blood to you is seen as inferior and inconsequential.
Great mothers are usually terrible human beings, and terrible mothers are great human beings.
Think of it this way: if you would be willing to torture and kill every other man, woman, and child on this planet in order to save your child, that would make you an exceptionally great mother. Really think about that.
And while, if you really stretched the truth, you might be able to say that about anyone who loves anyone else, mothers are specifically famous for this creepy kind of self-centered, blood-centric love. Most other formerly socially-acceptable reasons for evildoing (religion, money, tribe, etc.) have been firmly discredited by modern society. Which is why I think a little bit of awareness needs to be raised about motherhood, the last bastion of socially-acceptable evil.
Fathers don’t seem to turn into instant racists, or at least much less so. While there are notable exceptions, most fathers are essentially bad fathers (which of course makes them much better human beings).
My mom freaks me out in lapses. Luckily she’s usually a better human being. I don’t think good-mother or good-human-being is something that a person is always firmly on either one side or the other. It’s just that potential within you, that anti-everyone-else Sophie’s choice that you’re always tempted to make or have the proclivity toward.
Is love coupled with rational thought… not really love at all? Because blind love, the other side of that coin, has consequences that, if taken to their extreme rational conclusions, are terrifying.
or The Woman’s ED
If occasional erectile dysfunction may affect 1 in 4 (young) men and even more older men, then occasional penetrational dysfunction almost definitely affects 99% of women.
Penetrational dysfunction is when the vagina is not sufficiently lubricated to accommodate intercourse. Name sound unfamiliar? That’s because not being aroused enough is a very real yet usually very solvable sexual dysfunction in women, similar to erectile dysfunction in men, that until now has never been given a proper name.
Both erectile and penetrational dysfunctions are mental. There is usually no physical obstruction to the man or the woman being aroused, it’s just that something in their mind is blocking the way.
It is generally seen as the man’s responsibility to overcome penetrational dysfunction or, in other words, to get the woman ready. Why do men insist on moving too fast? Why don’t men foreplay right or enough? Men are encouraged by every sex expert you’ve ever heard to broaden their skill set to prepare woman for intercourse. If a woman is not aroused enough during the sexual encounter, the man is generally and historically blamed.
Yet women are not blamed for erectile dysfunction. They are not encouraged to broaden their skill set to treat it. If a man is not aroused enough during the sexual encounter, no one ever looks at the woman. It is never seen as the woman’s responsibility to overcome erectile dysfunction or, in other words, to get the man ready.
Well, with one exception: prostitutes. Sex workers are very accustomed to treating men with erectile dysfunction. Some say it’s their bread and butter. When a man can’t get it up in his home life, he generally and historically seeks out a sex worker. This professional gives him the necessary time, attention, and sexuality, and many times the problem simply melts away.
So why is it the man’s responsibility to avoid PD but not the woman’s responsibility to avoid ED? Why are only men not women ever encouraged to broaden their skill set to treat a mental blockage to sexual arousal in the opposite gender?
I think these problems are looked at the wrong way. ED and PD are no one gender’s fault, but they are one gender’s responsibility: the responsibility of the gender they afflict.
Maybe you can’t get it up or get it in because you’re stressed. Maybe your arousal phase takes longer because you have daddy issues or problems getting your mind off other things and into sex mode. Maybe you’re very sensitive to the little things around you, or maybe you’re not sensitive enough.
Whatever the case, stop blaming the other gender. The only person who has full control over your sexuality is you, and, man or woman, it’s your responsibility to do or demand whatever it takes to make it work for you.
No one is to blame for these sad, sad problems. True, men and women who suffer from ED or PD need special attention, but the responsibility is on him and her alone to seek out that special attention and get it and insist on it, whether it be extra foreplay, sex therapy, or a psychiatrist.
Or maybe just a lot of extra reassurance.
Or maybe cuddling.
Or maybe a sex worker, or maybe role playing or oral activities or more porn or less porn. Or maybe more kissing or tenderness or scratching or biting or more control or less control.
Very few men or women are professional sex gods, and none are mind readers. If you suffer from ED or PD, relax. There is a solution for you, and it lies inside you.
PS: Just like ED has a wide range of spectrums from occasional partial erection losses to full-fledged chronic disorders, PD also has a very broad definition including everything from temporary lapses to comprehensive female sexual arousal disorders.
or That Moment When You’re Driving around Naked and Your Heart Jumps into Your Throat Because You Didn’t See the Police Car behind You
She always wanted to drive.
Leaving aside the fact that she’d never driven automatic, much less manual, and that it was the dead of night and unfamiliar road, Victory had definitely had more to drink than was probably wise. Even for an experienced driver.
I hurtled down the pockmarked highway, chasing down the beams of my own headlights, and said to her sideways, “Okay, but only if you’re naked.”
She didn’t say anything, but before I could put the playful punctuation at the end of the sentence, her dress was over her head and tossed in the backseat. She was wearing nothing underneath.
I grabbed for the stick shift as she clambered impulsively on top of me, her skin pressed against my jacket. The steering wheel remained mine as she stretched out the painted tips of her toes to reach the pedals. She was small but I stretched slightly as well to see over the frizz of her lemon-scented hair.
She put her hands on top of mine in a steering wheel sandwich, and we played hide and go seek with the road as quickly as I dared. There was a car behind us, yellow brights shining too closely into my rear window, and I wished that it would pass.
The yellow changed to red and blue, and spelled out T-R-O-U-B-L-E in my rearview in bursts of flashing colored light.
Singing to me the shrill, plaintive cry of a whale in heat.
I tried to buy time, slowly signalling right and drifting to the shoulder. As quickly as it had been pulled off, her dress was now back on, and she was seated daintily in place, chaste hands folded primly in her lap. As the cops signaled us to get out of the car and come over to chat with them, I noticed the tag on her dress was on the outside.
One cop grilled me by his car and the other her by mine. We were just two kids driving home after a small weekend celebration. Yes, license and registration were all in order. No, I had not had too much to drink.
He had been following us ever since the bridge a few “kilometers” back, he subtly jabbed with a knowing twinkle in his eyes. “She’s very beautiful,” and I knew he had the upper hand.
Fortunately, he wanted to fix things in an anticlimactic manner to the tune of a few pesos. The other one extorted a similar amount from her, and we were back on our fully-dressed way.
Well, fully-dressed for a few more miles anyway. And I kept one eye on the mirrors.
or Variety Vs Familiarity
Some nights I need variety.
Some nights I need to say, “Look over there, let’s fuck on that thing!” Some nights I need to find out how new things feel, try out new kitchen counters and living room couches. Some nights I need to swing from new chandeliers.
Some nights I need to explore. I need danger and adventure. Some nights I need public places. Some nights I need days.
And some nights I just need the tender comfort of familiar intimacy.
And fun as it is to sometimes just go all out crazy with the Kama Sutra and the road head and the beach sex and the whipped cream and the handcuffs, some nights you just need your own sex.
Some nights you just need to look into each other’s eyes and make each other cum deliberately. Some nights I need to say, “This is the way we have our sex. This is our thing,” and just do that. Just as amazing as trying all those new things is also having a pattern with someone that you know works for you. A sexual tradition that you can go back to that you know will result in top notch sex for both of you.
We drink, we disrobe, we start here, we move there. She likes when I do that for this long and I like when she ends with this.
Some nights I need surprises and parties, and some nights I just need you with no surprises.
Some nights I need to go to the movies and experience an adrenaline-sucking superhero extravaganza in 4D. And some nights I just need to curl up on the couch with a hot chocolate and watch a procedural on TV.
Booming movie sex has its time and place where it starts in the unknown and gets big and ends bigger. But sometimes sex is like a TV show where you pretty much know what you’re getting into. The characters are familiar, you know it’s going to hit certain plot points, and the ending leaves you wanting to come back for more.
There’s no shame in sometimes trying new things.
And there’s no shame in sometimes just having your own sex.