What does 30 feel like? I’m not sure. I guess I don’t know what other 30 year olds feel like. I know good and well that I’ve been alive and doing things and thinking for 30 years. I don’t feel “established” or settled down in any way in that thinking or in my mind. It’s always changing depending on new information and circumstances.
Some people already know what they think and how they think.
Me, not yet.
It’s like the difference between science and religion. Science is 100% sure about very few things, and its theories are always adapting with new discoveries.
Religion knows everything.
Some people think like religions.
I think there are two sides to humanity these days: tolerance and intolerance. Intolerance is the side that mocks things it thinks are “weird,” that believes strongly in (and against) things, that discriminates (even slightly) against things different from it, and that ends up killing students and being tyrannical.
And tolerance is the side that just says, That’s cool.
Every time I sit down to write, I struggle with whether to just keep it fluffy and sticky sweet or to go off on some crusade. I’m no crusader, but there are things that bug me about men and about women and about the way they stick it to each other.
Today’s crusade is against feminist violence toward men. Feminist violence against men is a particularly ironic kind of violence due to a few easy-to-grasp concepts.
First, let’s keep a few things clear from the beginning. Rape is evil. I don’t rape. Men are always raping women, and women rarely rape men. “Rape is not an act of sex; it’s an act of violence.”
Easy-to-Grasp Concept #1
Overlooking the debate about the semantics of that last claim, do you know what else is not an act of sex but an act of violence? Punching and slapping men. Why is it socially acceptable for a woman to pummel or slap a man in an attempt to humiliate or shame him?
Physical violence perpetrated by (mostly strong, feminist but sometimes gentle, reactive) women against men is far too widespread, and worse, far too socially acceptable. Examples of women going for that slap-in-the-face as a powerful punctuation mark to a (in their opinion) distasteful conversation with a man are far too common and far too glorified in all forms of media, memes, and real life.
Dear feminist hypocrites (not all feminists, just the hypocritical ones among you), slapping a man is not an act of feminism; it’s an act of violence.
Easy-to-Grasp Concept #2
Did you slap him in retaliation for something he said? Was he asking for it because of the offensive words that came out of his mouth? That leads us to the second easy-to-grasp concept.
Nothing a man could ever say, no matter how offensive it is, could ever be considered ‘asking for it’ in regards to physical violence against him. Yes, we the genders have differences in the way we express ourselves, physically, fashionably, verbally, and those differences can sometimes be inciting to the opposite gender. But the answer to those differences is never violence in any form by any gender.
Did he make an insensitive comment about your culture, your gender, your crusade, or you as a person? Still not asking for it.
The Threat Of
And a woman threatening violence against a man should be just as culturally enraging as the reverse. Her telling him, “One day you’re gonna get punched/slapped in the face for something you said,” is a hypocritical, rapey cliche that condones and glorifies… violence! By contributing to the inter-gender violence culture, I would posit that these kinds of comments make you partially responsible for the inter-gender violence problem.
Men shouldn’t be taught to watch their words, women should be taught not to smack men in the face.
Not all men are monsters, and not all women are victims, but all violence is monstrous. Your freedom of expression is just as important as ours and both need to be religously protected. It is the violent criminals, both men and women, that need to be taught to swallow their urges, not the peaceful, expressive victims.
I’m a pacifist. I don’t believe in, encourage, or perpetrate violence in any form against any gender. If we could all just stop threatening and perpetrating all forms of violence against other human beings, that would be great. #anticlimacticending
or The Dark Side of Sex
The last thing I see is the lamplight glinting yellow off her bronze body as the blindfold falls over my eyes.
I find her in the darkness. My fingertips whisper to me the softness of skin but they can’t tell me where they’ve landed. Lost in a jungle of skin on a foreign planet of skin. The only thing to do is to explore.
It’s a neck. Her neck. My fingers trace her jaw line up to her ear and then along her cheekbone where they tell me that her blindfold is also firmly in place. Eyes have been extinguished for the night.
Her hands on both sides of my head are pulling me to her. Her tongue searches for mine in the dark planet and my lips welcome it inside, speaking to me of its red strawberry wetness. Until now, I’d never known that the underbelly of her tongue was a riverbed of four distinct seams and that the corners of her lips tasted like rain. When you can’t memorize sights, you are more prone to memorizing tastes. And textures.
Her back turns to me and every ridge in the tips of my fingers embrace its smoothness and the elegant curve of her spine – curving into me, not away. An electric hum of gratification from her lips, like a teardrop of sound in an ocean of silence, invades the heightened awareness of my ears as I descend into her.
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed monster is king.
The entire length of my body feasts on the entire length of hers. My neck is Frenching her neck, my shoulders plant a fluttery Eskimo kiss on her shoulders, my chest tastes her back, and our hips are locked in a sloppy embrace. When the sense of sight is taken away from a species and a language that relies principally on it, mixed metaphors may result.
The threads of the sheets and the sinews of her skin begin to blur together as the velvet violence of our bodies sets the room on fire. I am clutching one or the other in my fists as pleasure creeps over me like chocolate over a cherry. Sparkles of purple and gold waltz through the black behind my eyelids.
The tide of war changes and her armies rush forward in a relentless assault on mine. Her sugary battlecries drip over my ears, and she invades me again and again. Or I invade her. Or she invades me to invade her. Over and over, black and dark like a soft, pounding warmth around me, immersing me unrelentingly in the punishment of pleasure.
I think I might have scratched her harder than I meant to.
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.