The Adult Entertainment Expo (AEE) is held every January in Las Vegas. It is an opportunity for adult film and novelty makers to get together and share their wares with various distributors and everyone who wants to sell it, from mom and pop porn shops to the major players like Babeland. There is one giant room devoted to film and digital media. All of the major porn studios are represented with blaring and moaning video screens, and some booths proudly display graphic video games and even interactive toys that work with media. A second room houses any and all manner of sex toys. Various vendors and distributors have got you covered from butt plugs to nipple clamps. While there are a few industry-only days, the joint really starts jumping when fans are admitted to gawk and collect autographs from scantily-clad porn stars (and anyone else they might suspect of being a pornstar; someone requested a photo with my ass last year).
This year was the third year that I attended AEE. I still remember the first year I went. I was so excited. Wide-eyed and dumbstruck I stared at countless graphic sexual images. I think I saw more at that show than I had seen my whole life up until that point. I left the show proudly wearing my I *heart* Vagina pin and glowing with a new sense of ownership about my sexuality. Truth be told, I may not have ever started this blog had I not discovered AEE.
Last year I went for the second time, and I actually got up the nerve to talk to people. Still wide-eyed, I earnestly asked atendees questions about how they got into the industry and what their mothers thought about it and whether banks would give them loans to fund their less-than-vanilla projects and products. Actually talking to people made the show even more fascinating. I left not only with a new perspective but an armload of exciting new products that I went home to "test" and "review."
This year I eagerly awaited my trip to Vegas and AEE. My friends, accustomed the glee and toys I had come to share upon my return from previous shows, were just as excited about my visit. Sadly, I left Las Vegas on Sunday after the show feeling a little deflated. Don't get me wrong, there are some fabulous people involved with AEE, and I fully enjoyed spending time with Team OhMiBod and sex educator, Jamye Waxman, among others, but when it comes to the show itself, I suppose novelties can only be novel for so long. When you've smirked with appreciation for Not the Bradys XXX, how exciting is This Ain't the Munsters XXX? It is basically the same thing repackaged. And how many variations of the famed Rabbit Habbit does the world need?
Let me clarify -- I am all about capitalism, and I am a huge fan of innovation. I just found myself bored with seeing the same products and movies repackaged and reworked. There were a few novel things, and I will take the time to share some reviews over the next few days, but overall, there was not much novel about the novelties and not much new about the new releases. While I certainly enjoyed catching up with old friends and making new ones, I left the show feeling like I'd lost my mojo. This feeling is best described by the image above: beautiful, half-naked women squeezed the life out of my formerly firm porn show erection. Ah well, I suppose there are worse ways to lose a boner.
Knocked-up. Preggers. Bun in the oven. The rabbit died. With child. In a family way. Yep, it's all true. I think "knocked-up" is my favorite, and I have been using it ever since I started telling people about my pregnancy a month or two ago.
I waited-out the first three months of my maternal state without telling anyone other than The Mister (who I had been trying to tell even before I got pregnant) and my sister (who I knew would notice my changed drinking habits and make a deal of it unless I gave her a heads up beforehand). It was brutal. There I was, excited to be a mom and share my news with anyone and everyone, and I chose to keep my mouth shut. Honestly, after hearing horror stories of women practically embarking on national ad campaigns to announce their pregnancies only to have to undo it after miscarrying within the first trimester, I am glad I did what I did. But those three months were kinda miserable.
On the one hand it was wonderfully fun to have a secret that just The Mister and me were in on, but I felt like I was lying to everyone else in my life. This was compounded by the fact that I had terrible symptoms that I could not explain without spilling my baby beans. My face broke out like Mount Vesuvius and my ass, not to be outdone by the bumpy beacon of my face decided (with the help of ice cream and candy corn) to stretch past the bounds of hot "baby got back" plumpness to "is she carrying a baby in her butt?" hugeness. I got downright fat. And not in a cute "Oh, look at me! I am a celebrity with chicken legs and a nice round baby bump" kinda way. All over fat from my pudgy acne strewn face to my body's own personal attempt at cankles. Needless to say, all of this left me feeling pretty un-sexy.
I spent a good part of the first trimester of my pregnancy as a recluse. I was embarrassed by my changing appearance, and I doubted I could keep from blurting out my news, if not out of sheer excitement, then in defense of my bumpy-faced, lumpy-assed self. I went to the gym and the supermarket, but found myself avoiding social time with my friends. I stayed home and slept a lot.
Now that I am just over four months into this whole procreation experiment, I am trying to find the sexy in pregnancy. I have friends who gush about how their libido went through the roof while they were "brimming with child." These same friends and others claim that they loved having big, round pregnant bodies. I decided I would be happier if I at least aimed for this instead of spending the whole nine months mourning the loss of my washboard abs. I've been reading all kinds of books about how a mother's mental state during pregnancy can impact her child for the rest of his or her life. I don't want my offspring to obsess about the size of her* ass or constantly be concerned about how others might view her; I've spent the last thirty or so years doing enough of that crap for both of us.
The four month mark has been a turning point for me. As I started to tell people about my pregnancy, my hormones decided to even out thus evening out the texture of my formerly bumpy face. I am still fat, but my boobs are pretty amazing (for me anyway). I have never had boobs to speak of, or a belly for that matter, and I am enjoying stroking both. Much to my satisfaction and delight, my "huge" boobs are busting out of my A cups. Just as I have dreamed of since grade school, my cups runneth over -- wishes really do come true! What a waste it would be to fail to enjoy my temporarily engorged breasts. I better make the most of this cleavage while it lasts; I can't imagine my offspring wanting to breastfeed well beyond puberty. And a belly? I must give myself credit for having had a fairly flat stomach for most of my adult life. It has always been one of my favorite body parts. I am at a point now where I can no longer suck it in. It still sticks out, even when I lie on my back. I better enjoy that, too, because come June it's hello sit-ups and goodbye bump.
Pregnancy, like most things, is temporary. I am inspired to relish every moment that I have left. Hello tight shirt and push-up bra. Hello bellybutton poking out from beneath that tight shirt. I am knocked-up, and I am going places.
*Yesterday's ultrasound showed that my womb is, in fact, inhabited by a healthy and active baby girl.
Blog: Ok, I guess. I feel like we haven’t talked in forever.
Me: I know. I am sorry. I hope you can forgive me.
Blog: Forgive you? You get to travel the country and celebrate your birthday and stuff, and I am not even invited. You didn’t even send me a postcard from New York.
Me: You’re right. I thought about you a lot in New York though. I kept wanting to write to you, but the timing just didn’t seem right. There was a street fair, you you know, and I went and saw an interesting show about sex called, Spring Awakening. I kept meaning to tell you about it, but ultimately, I realized that, with the exception of the incongruous musical numbers, it was pretty depressing. I knew you were feeling neglected already, and I didn’t want to depress you, too.
Blog: Ok. I guess I can appreciate that, but you should at least check in now and again. I worry sometimes. I live on the Internet, you know. There are all sorts of crazy stories on the internet. Sometimes my imagination gets the best of me.
Me: I hear you. I am sorry. Do you want me to tell you a little about where I was and what I was doing so you can feel better that I was safe?
Blog: Yeah. I guess so. You know, I don’t get out much.
Me: Sure. I understand. Well, The Mister and I had to go to his hometown for his baby sister’s wedding. She’s twenty-one.
Blog: Ouch! Isn’t that a bit young to get married?
Me: We thought so, but she was saving her virginity for her future husband, and she couldn’t wait any longer.
Blog: Holy crap! People still do that? See, that is the kind of zany stuff I read about on the Internet. It keeps me up at night, but I had convinced myself it was a myth. Like yetis.
Me: Sorry to burst your bubble. I know the real world can be scary.
Blog: You’re tellin’ me, Sister!
Me: Anyway, we knew we would be depressed if we just visited The Mister’s family, so we planned some non-Christian fun as well. We started off in New Hampshire where we visited our friends Brian and Suki, you know, the OhMiBod people.
Me: They are super cool, and we enjoyed visiting with them and picking apples in the picturesque New Hampshire fall. It was idyllic.
Blog: See? Why did you leave me out of this?
Me: You are right, I should have been in communication. I was just having so much fun.
Blog: That must be nice for you. Never mind that I was left alone to surf porn for hours. Days. Weeks.
Me: I hope you took notes. Maybe you can fill me in later. Anyway, after our visit with Brian and Suki, we drove up to The Mister’s family in upstate New York. Really, I can’t get over the whole fall colors thing. It’s not like I’d never seen them before. It’s just that they are new and beautiful every time. They make life so crispy and vivid. Sorry I only took mental images.
Blog: Yeah. See if I share any porn adventure pictures with you!
Me: Ok, ok, calm down. I will work on taking more pictures to share with you. I promise. The highlight of our Upstate New York visit was getting to meet The Mister’s friend from high school. They were reunited by the miracle that is Facebook a little while ago after not being in touch for over fourteen years. It was pretty cool to watch them catch up and to hear stories of my hubby’s youthful shenanigans.
The wedding itself was pretty uneventful. I guess I should be happy that I didn’t have to go to the rehearsal dinner and that I wasn’t asked to wear a peach bridesmaid dress, but I admit I was a little hurt. Weird, right?
Blog: Wait. Did you say peach bridesmaid dress? I thought they stopped making those circa 1989.
Me: Yeah. Me, too. To be fair, now it’s called “spice.”
Blog: You’re feeling bad that you didn’t get to wear one because…..????
Me: I know it’s silly. I have never been a bridesmaid, and we flew so far. Ok. Whatever. I will stop with the whiny girl antics now. I am over it. I just had to tell you about the spice. It was the spiciest part of the visit.
After the wedding, we drove down to NYC. I love that place. I lived there for six months about eleven years ago. It is amazing to me how much I remember and how familiar it is to me. I think it is one of my favorite places in this country.
Blog: Don’t rub it in. I am stuck here, remember? What do you want me to do, Wiki it?
Me: Hey, chill out! I am telling you about it so you can share the experience.
Blog: [deep breath]
Me: Thank you. I told you, we went to see Spring Awakening. It was alright. I always enjoy going to see a live show. The kids in it were really talented. I just wasn’t connected to it emotionally. It was depressing, but I was unmoved. Simulated stage sex, though. That’s always fun. To be honest, I think I was a simulated stage sex virgin. I can’t remember having seen that before. I gotta get out and see more performance art.
Blog: So far your experience in NYC is sounding like what I do all day by myself on the Internet.
Me: That’s simulated?
Blog: Errr, well. Sometimes. Depends on whether I mess with the parental controls.
Me: Anyway, we went to another show called Desir. It was much cooler than I expected. There were many talented aerial dancers, and it was a treat to see them work up close in a very intimate setting. There was also a cat, a high-wire-walking cat. It seemed kinda random, but I am not one to complain about felines, even when they don’t integrate with the rest of what’s going on.
Oh, we also went to the exhibit, Bodies. It is made up of real human bodies. The Mister and I were both fascinated by seeing all of the systems of the body. It was pretty darn amazing. I am happy to have a body.
Blog: There you go, rubbing it in again.
Me: Sorry. I forgot my audience. Oh, you know who else we saw? Jamye Waxman.
Blog: Jamye Waxman? She’s so cool! I link to her, you know.
Me: Yeah. I know. She was really inspiring. You’ll be happy to know that she encouraged me to write to you more often.
Blog: I knew that chick was smart.
Me: Super smart, and super nice. I am glad to know her. So I have been back for about a week now. I got wrapped up in celebrating my birthday.
Blog: Birthday? Do I get a birthday?
Me: You do, actually. In a few months. Sharing cake with you through the computer doesn't seem to work so well. We’ll have to find some other way to celebrate.
Blog: I’d like that.
Me: My birthday was wonderfully fun. I shopped and sewed and danced with some of my favorite people. I will try and share some pictures with you within the next week or so.
Blog: Finally, I am getting in on the action!
Me: My dear, Blog, I did miss you. I will try to keep you posted in the future.
Blog: Thanks. I appreciate it. I am glad we had this little chat.
Me: Me, too. I will talk to you soon. Thanks for listening.
Blog: That’s why I’m here. And don’t you forget it!
I had my inaugural visit to the Folsom Street Fair this last Sunday, and I had a gay o' time. While I was fully prepared to see the leather and chains that dominated many an outfit, I still found shocks and surprises around every corner. One of my favorite surprises was running into the folks responsible for Divine Interventions. They had lovingly set up a booth displaying all of their heavenly wares.
I first learned about Divine Interventions several years ago as a result of a Google bet with myself. It is a game I like to play, and it goes something like this, "Nasal Sex. Now that's a funny idea. As much as I feel like I am the first person to ever think of it, I bet Google could find it." Yeah. Google usually can find it, no matter how original and/or sick I think I am.
This particular bet took root in Florence, Italy. I was seated in front of Michelangelo's stunning David. I had already been through the shock of rounding the corner at Galleria dell 'Accademia to be confronted with his perfect, seventeen-foot-tall, nakedness. I had walked circles around him and admired him from all angles as tears of joy welled in my eyes (yes, he does have an amazing ass). I was seated in a hushed reverie staring up at this giant nude man and unable to untangle my admiration for his form from my admiration for his creator. I fantasized about what it would like to have an affair with an older man. Five hundred years didn't seem like such a big deal; it was the whole dead thing that was getting in my way.
These feelings of admiration and lust mingled with visions of the David salt and pepper shakers I had seen at all the little vendors' carts all throughout the streets of Florence, and then I made myself a Google bet. "David dildos. Now that's a funny idea. As much as I feel like I am the first person to ever think of it, I bet Google could find it."
After getting my fill of David (visually), my husband and I meandered back to our hotel. I couldn't contain myself, and I shared with him my new vision of David. I felt almost sacrilegious talking about the phallic shape of such a revered work of sculptural genius, but I didn't stop talking and giggling about it. Upon returning to the hotel, we immediately Googled "David Dildo." Nada. In fact, as I sit here now, three years later, I just checked again and was unable to find any sort of David that one might find "satisfying." Maybe I'll have to work on that one.
As we wandered through the rest of Florence and all through Rome, I was full of thoughts for new and never before seen dildos. One night over dinner, while contemplating the sacrilegious feelings I had about my sexual desire for David, I thought of something truly sacrilegious. What symbolizes religion in the way that David has come to represent art? What is a symbol for Christians of their purity and righteousness? Jesus Fucking Christ! A Jesus dildo! Reformed Catholics would line up for one of those, right?
After dinner we rushed back to the hotel. "Jesus Dildos. Now that's a funny idea. As much as I feel like I am the first person to ever think of it, I bet Google could find it." This time Google pulled through for me, and introduced me to Divine Interventions. This oh-we're-so-going-to-hell company not only makes Jesus dildos, but they are also the creators of the Baby Jesus Butt plug. Now, I don't know if I would have even thought of feeling god inside of me like that.
When I first found Divine Interventions, I explored their site thoroughly. These evil geniuses have made something to offend (or amuse -- depending on your fervor) everyone. If you are not feeling the love for Christ on the Cross, you can always opt for Buddha's Delight. Even the females are represented. I mean, who doesn't get all hot under the collar thinking of the Virgin Mary or a sleek, silicone sister? The Diving Nun, like all of their lovely toys, is handcrafted from 100% silicone. Jesus! These guys are practically dildo artisans!
When I visited these evil doers at Folsom, I learned that they've expanded their line. Not only did they have all of their fantastic religious icons on display, they have decided to divinely intervene in politics. Fuckin' Barack Obama!
Now we can get fucked by politics and religion without even having to leave the comfort of our homes. God bless Divine Interventions!
I have to admit that I have not been paying much attention to the upcoming election. The whole thing sickens me a bit, and I am turned off by the political melodrama, especially now that the economy appears to be tanking. Blech.
While I don't yet know if I will throw in my vote for presidential candidate A or B -- I am hard pressed to think it will matter very much either way -- I was recently reminded that my vote has the power to impact state politics more significantly.
In 2000, Proposition 22 was passed by 61% of voters. While California's constitution had been changed in 1977 to define marriage in California as a union between a man and a woman, Prop 22 went further and denied that same-sex marriages, performed legally in other jurisdictions, be held valid in California. Man. Woman. Period.
Maybe my view of the state is clouded by too many years living in San Francisco, but it is hard for me to believe that 61% of California's residents would agree that same-sex partners should be denied the rights of their legal commitment to one another. It seems clear that this proposition's passage was based largely on a certain demographic mobilizing and voting.
Over the last eight years, gay marriage has been embroiled in much political controversy. There have been lawsuits and appeals and legal and illegal marriages in San Francisco and elsewhere. Currently, because of an appeal to the State Supreme Court this year, gay marriage is legal in California. Proposition 8 aims to change the constitution to make it illegal again.
Proposition 8 will get me to the voting booth on November 4th. Here's my attempt at mobilizing a different group of voters than the ones that had their way in 2000. The economy may be scary. Gas prices may be too high, and home prices too low, but I am doubtful that any candidate chosen this November will change that. There is, however, a chance for us to make a difference locally. There's chance for us to minimize manipulation of our state's constitution. There's a chance for us to earn our reputation as "free-thinking," "liberty-minded" Californians. Why the hell should someone's sex organs determine whether he or she should be allowed to enter into a legal contract with another person? Why are some people so concerned with what other people do in their bedrooms and with whom they choose to build a family? Isn't it those same people who are running around crying about sex out of wedlock and unwed mothers? Wouldn't they rather children be raised inside a loving, two parent home? What's the big deal about "slot A or tab B"? I believe in equal rights, and I will vote accordingly.
When I was fourteen, I remember stuffing balloons down my dress to see what it would look like if it wasn't drooping in the boob region. I gazed longingly at the full-busted image of myself in the mirror . Despite the persistent miniature status of my boobage all through high school, I never went so far as to seriously stuff my bra (in public) with socks or Kleenex or something like that -- I was always deathly afraid of an errant tissue making itself known when I least expected it. I figured having a small bust, although mortifying at the time, was still less embarrassing than inadvertently dropping boob-stuffing for all the world to see.
In my early twenties, I continued to bemoan my resemblance to a flea-bitten wall. I am embarrassed to admit that I once went so far as to order stinky cream and "special pills" from the internet. Those women looked so happy... and so full of cleavage. Needless to say, this investment left me with nothing other than boobs that smelled like the vitamin aisle at a health food store. For months after I had given up on the witch doctor's brew, my bras continued to give me an odor of herbal laxatives. (I haven't ever actually smelled an herbal laxative, but I imagine if I did, it would smell like my boob-cream-encrusted bras).
I have been pussy-footing about admitting it, but once, at personal low, I even tried a torturous suction device to amplify my "assets." While I enjoyed the temporary ta-tas, the results were not lasting, and the process was more painful than the emotional trauma caused by a baggy bra.
So here I sit, miles away from being able to hold out hope that puberty might actually set in, and too afraid (and proud?) to go under the Pam Anderson and Jenna Jameson knife. I have finally realized that no matter what I do my boobs will always be bigger or smaller than someone else's. If I am constantly comparing, I will never be happy. With that in mind, I am currently on a quest to embrace my boobs as they are [block out mental chiding about what a small embrace that would be]. In that vein, I have found some things that help me feel at one with my cleavage, or lack there of.
My favorite boob-ego salve (that doesn't even smell like vitamins) is the song "The Boob Fairy" by Deirdre Flint. This clever singer/song-writer makes my small bosom swell with pride. By coming out of the closet with her own less-than-ample rack, Deirdre inspires me to do the same, and even encourages me to sing along with her torch song for the boobies that never really were.
Another thing that gets me feeling more boob-positive, is when I see other women, both media divas and my peers, embrace their natural not-quite-Dolly-Parton-ness. I was inspired recently when I learned that the beautiful Keira Knightley refused to let the movie marketing mavens digitally alter her chest to make it appear larger in publicity photos for the upcoming movie, The Duchess. Apparently, she'd been dissatisfied with her electronically inflated bosom in posters for a prior film.
I know hoards of women who, like me, are members of the itty-bitty-titty committee. Heck, my membership is a birthright; thanks to my mom, I was automatically enrolled. It can be entertaining to commiserate with petite peers, but they also inspire me. When I see them looking super hot despite the lack of ample perkiness spewing forth from beneath their collar bones, I feel all warm and tingly inside.
While I admit to being, at times, a small-breasted woman undercover (the cover being push-up, ultra padded, chicken fillet-ness), it has recently come to my attention that there are other ways to go about accessorizing my small chest that might be more enjoyable. Designers are finally getting hip to the fact that not everyone is equally endowed, and new designs reflect this. Lula Lu offers a wide variety of bras and undergarments that aren't so... wide. This cute shop, which happens to have its brick and mortar home practically right in my backyard, sells delightful and, dare I say, sexy lingerie geared specifically toward the multitude of women who have a handful or less [ignore that little voice in my head chanting: "Two! Two! Two boobs for the size of one!]. I checked out Lula Lu's website, and I was thrilled to see all sorts of fabulous stuff that looked really sexy on their petite models. I even learned what a bralette is.
Wow. I have to say that I am feeling better already. I am all boobed up and ready to go! Let's see, first load the car with a gaggle of my fair, flat-chested friends, then sing-along proudly to Deirdre Flint whilst on our way to a shopping spree at Lula Lu, followed by a screening of The Duchess! Go, boobs! it's your boobday! Now if only I could figure out what to do about my ass...
I wish I couldn't relate to this song. Oh, but alas, alack, how it sings to my heart. Amanda Palmer and Neil Gaiman should get their own brains and stay out of mine. Err, well, maybe not all the way out. I kinda enjoy the company. I am lonely without them. And when I get lonely, I start googling. And that's not good for anybody.
I recently learned the word "limerence" which, according to Wikipedia, means, "an involuntarycognitive and emotional state in which a person feels an intense romantic desire for another person. The concept is an attempt at a scientific study into the nature of romantic love." I relate to it as that fleeting crush feeling that struts through the beginning of most romantic and/or sexual relationships. It's those weeks or months when you eat, sleep and breath this one person. It was surely a case of limerence in junior high school that caused me to sit on a ant hill, full of butt-biting ants all through lunch recess just to talk to Ryan C. It was also quite clearly limerence that sparked my 3:00am phone call to my (then) future-husband's office after I had spent hours "Yahoo-ing" (yes, I am that old) him to find the coveted number and a picture of him.
While I have enjoyed this "crazy-in-love" feeling on multiple occasions over the years, I have to admit that, at times, it does feel a little too crazy. I was intrigued, but not surprised, to learn that, when studied, the brains of those in limerence resembled the brains of people who suffer from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD). According to Italian scientists, both have abnormally low levels of serotonin. Serotonin levels play a huge role in establishing mood. It is easy for me to imagine a correlation between my need to google an old high school flame, and my need to hold my breath while driving through a tunnel or my need to ride the bus all the way back to work when I was almost home just to check one more time that the lights are really off. Really.
When I talk about my obsessive-compulsive behaviors, I think I sound rather nutty. When Amanda Palmer sings Neil Gaimen's lyrics to "I Google You." She's so flippin' cool! I know! Maybe I should google her. I bet there is some fascinating information on Al Gore's Fantastical Interweb just waiting for me. Maybe I could find pictures of her when she was a little girl or lyrics to songs that haven't yet been sung publicly. How tall is she anyway? Could we share clothes? What does she use to draw in her eyebrows, and how does it stay on so well? What is "Coin-Operated Boy"really about anyway?
Oh, Amanda Palmer! Call me crazy, but I google YOU!!!
This morning, whilst climbing the stairs to nowhere at the gym, I was reading. I was reading The Six Pillars of Self-Esteemby Nathaniel Branden. Most of my reading happens aboard some exercise contraption surrounded by sweaty strangers and bad morning TV. Sometimes these distractions steal my focus. Not this morning. This morning, Branden said something, and I felt he was talking just to me. I delighted in the "ah-ha!" moment I had when I read Branden's description of "An intelligence that takes joy in its own function":
"The natural inclination of a child is to take pleasure in the use of mind no less than of body. The child's primary business is learning. It is also the primary entertainment. To retain that orientation into adulthood, so that consciousness is not a burden but a joy, is the mark of a successfully developed human being" (73).
I could almost see Nathaniel Branden's clear blue eyes peering out of the pages, looking directly at me as he said this. For the last few months, I have been noticing that when I want to access my feelings of joy, I turn to my childhood. I still relish an opportunity to play dress-up, and I delight in make-believe. These "childish" activities bring me great pleasure, and a weight is lifted from my soul.
As I explore who I am and what I want to be doing (yet again), I keep coming up with two answers. First, I love to play. I love to fall on the floor laughing, tears streaming down my flushed cheeks. I love games and pretending and funny voices and puns. I love dress-up and whispering and singing silly songs and wrestling. I laugh at fart jokes. Recently, I was complimented when an seven year-old friend of mine chided me for being a big kid. Damn straight.
The other thing I love is sex. I love connecting deeply with other people. I love learning new things about my body and how it works. I love anticipation and flirtation. I am mesmerised by the human form, and I admire those who embrace their sexuality fully.
For a while now I have been trying, and failing, to integrate these things. I imagined they were connected, but I couldn't really see how. I had hit a wall. This morning, Branden's words sent bricks flying everywhere. He made me want to take a closer look at what he was saying.
"The natural inclination of a child is to take pleasure in the use of mind no less than of body."
Call me childish, but just like it is my natural inclination to sing songs and play dress-up, it is my natural inclination to find pleasure through my body, including sexual pleasure. The joy that I find through my body is one more manifestation of my love of play. While I derive immense pleasure from the use of my mind and learning new things with it, it is matched (at the very least) by the pleasure I glean from the use of my body. We all are born without knowledge of the taboo associated with deriving pleasure from our bodies. Religion and society tell us sex is bad and masturbation is worse. Imagine if we could take into adulthood, without a lick of fear or shame or guilt, the unbridled joy that our bodies are capable of giving us.
"The child's primary business is learning."
When I think about it, it is really rather extraordinary how much children learn and absorb as they age. I never cease to be amazed by how much children pick up, both consciously and not, from the environment around them. What amazes me more though is the ridiculous notion that so many of us have that learning stops when school is over and/or adulthood is reached. The most youthful adults I know are the ones that are constantly learning new things, uncovering new ideas, trying some new activity. Being in a constant state of inquiry keeps us young.
"[Learning] is also the primary entertainment."
The other day we went to visit some friends and their three year-old son. The living room floor was covered with the packaging from an electronic keyboard (the piano kind, not the typing kind) that had been opened and set up only moments before our arrival. It was a pleasure to watch this child fully engross himself in the wonders of his new treasure. He was completely entertained by learning how it worked and exploring all of its features (most noticeably, the volume control -- ouch!). He was utterly enthralled.
One of the reasons I am enthralled by the topic of sex is that I find that there are, seemingly, limitless things to learn about it. Given the fact that our culture persists in being so secretive and quiet about it, I imagine there are many things yet uncovered. For example, it wasn't until 1981 that the term G-Spot was even coined. I am excited just by the prospect of all the secrets that still lay hidden. Learning about sex, both with my mind and my body, gives me great joy.
"To retain that orientation into adulthood, so that consciousness is not a burden but a joy, is the mark of a successfully developed human being."
As an adult, I have tried all kinds of things to block out my consciousness. I have kept having "just one more glass of wine" until I couldn't see straight. I have slept. I have watched with intrigue to see which one of the fabulous celebrity dancers would make it to the next level of the lavish, over-dramatized televised competition. I have successfully avoided looking at, or being conscious of, things that cause me pain. Self-anesthetization is frighteningly easy.
The more I embrace my childishness, the easier it becomes to remain conscious. In fact, when I am learning about things that fascinate me and doing things that I love, just like a child at nap time, I fight to maintain consciousness for as long as I possibly can. Thanks, Nathaniel Branden, for the much needed wake-up call.
References: Branden, Nathaniel. The Six Pillars of Self-Esteem. New York: Bantam Books, 1995. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/G-spot
Sometimes I fantasize about moving away from the San Francisco Bay Area, and then I learn that I am privileged enough to share this unusual city with fantastic people like The Vagina Lady. This fabulous female spends her time making elaborate vagina costumes. No, silly! Not costumes you put on your vagina (that's a different post), but big, pink, shiny fabric vaginas with a perfectly placed face hole where a clitoris would normally live. Not only does she create these fabulous outfits, she wears them around town and smiles and waves and hands out chocolate. Jeez, vaginas that give out chocolate? Maybe I should consider the whole lesbian thing more seriously.
When The Vagina Lady is not dressed as a big, beautiful vagina at events like Bay to Breakers and The Exotic Erotic Ball, she is making vagina art and composing comprehensive lists of vagina vocab. Thanks to her, I now have more words than I ever needed. I am having a hard time picking favorites between "mouth that cannot bite" and "cunnikin." And I thought "vajayjay" was novel. Thank you, Vagina Lady. I am glad to be your neighbor.
Right. So I have talked way more about my pubic hair on this blog than I ever imagined I would. Ever. Yet here I am again with my nether regions on my mind (not literally; I am not quite that flexible). Back in the day when Natasha Senior (my salon had the distinction of employing two Natashas) was my waxer-extraordinaire, there was talk of something dazzling and cutting edge. Some of the beauticians at this posh San Francisco salon were using cookie cutters and hair dye to dramatically transform bikini lines. Natasha Senior herself spoke of a beautiful blue dolphin she had recently emblazoned on a client's mons pubis. I remember thinking how outrageous it was at the time. Ridiculous even. I thought colorful, decorative pubic hair was soon to go the way of banana clips and zipper jeans.
Flash forward six years or so, and, much to my surprise, here I am staring at a box of do-it-yourself pubic hair dye. Betty Beauty comes in a wide variety of colors from natural (brown and black) to not so (blue and hot pink). Nancy Jarecki, the creator, got the idea when she saw colorists at a Roman salon slipping little brown bags to their clients as they left. She learned that the bags contained a small bit of the hair color that had been used on the clients' heads so they could take care of making "downstairs" match in the privacy of their own homes. Brilliant!
In addition to these fantastic colors, that come with a lightening creme and fat mascara-wand-looking applicator, Betty Beauty has also provided the stencils. For just $9.99, you can purchase a whole collection of fun shapes from hearts and lightening bolts to peace signs and dollar signs. I have always aspired to profess my political ideology with the hair on my vagina. Now I need only decide if my dollar sign will look better in Malibu Betty Blue or Fun Betty Pink. Decisions, decisions...
Recently, and unexpectedly, I found myself at Disneyland. My hubby had to go to Anaheim for work, and one of the perks was that he got free passes to the Magic Kingdom. While Pirates of the Caribbean and the Haunted Mansion thrilled me just as much as they did throughout my childhood (perhaps even more so now that they have added Johnny Depp to the slew of animatronic singing pirates), I have to admit the the rides were not my favorite part of the trip.
While I certainly appreciate the creativity behind some of the rides at Disneyland, I am generally sickened by the Disney culture. By this I mean adults who are trapped in their childhood obsession with a mouse and his cohorts. I had a colleague once who used her wedding registry to try and complete her set of Winnie the Pooh dishes. I am all for maintaining a connection with one's childhood and relishing in eternal youth, but there is something saccharin sweet about the Disney experience generally. It kinda makes me want to yack (and yes, that is even before I consume mass amounts of amusement park food). Maybe I am the sicko, but the frenzied Disney obsession makes me kind of sick.
It is because of this feeling of nausea and my disturbance that Mickey Mouse hats now come with optional earrings, that I derived (perhaps an obscene amount of) pleasure from lobotomizing Mickey, spilling his brains on the bathroom counter, and recording the evidence. I hope you are able to delight in the ghastly image as much as I do.
My S Factor class meets Fridays at 4:30. Yesterday, like most Fridays, I writhed around on the floor with nine other scantily-clad women for two hours. Loud music engulfed us, and warm, dim light surrounded us. After a three week summer hiatus, I had forgotten how much I value this weekly ritual of paying homage to my body and soul. This sexual, sensual revelry is a source of profound joy and satisfaction in my life.
I started taking class a little over a year and a half ago because I thought pole dancing would be a cool skill to have (it so is), and because I aspired to increase the ripped-ness of my biceps. I didn't realize that that was only one small part of a much bigger picture. In fact, I scoffed at the notion that pole dancing and stripteese could be anything more than a sexy workout. Over the course of the last eighteen months, I have learned far more than how to hang upside down and take off my shirt. I have gained far more than I could have ever imagined.
As I sat yesterday and watched my classmates bare their souls through their dances, I felt insanely lucky. How often is it that I get to bask in the presence of sexually confident and alert beings? How frequently do I get to experience completely honest and vulnerable communication, let alone communication of a physical, sensual variety? The answer is, once a week on Fridays at 4:30.
Surely, I have opportunities for open communication in other aspects of my life. In fact, I seek them out. But there is something uber-exciting about experiencing this communication in such a focused and charged setting (OK, I admit the lacy underwear help, too). In my day-to-day life I see women spending so much time tearing one another down -- tearing themselves down -- "Am I too fat?" "She's too fat." "I can't believe you're wearing that." "I could never wear that." "What a slut." "What a prude." My class provides a fantastically refreshing respite from this storm of negativity. It is full of supportive women -- women who cheer you up when you fall, and cheer you on when you soar, both in class and out.
Of course it takes a degree of confidence to strip out of one's clothes in front of others, and the results can be electrifying, but it is even more risky and exhilarating to expose one's soul, one's self. Each week in class we have the opportunity to do this. To be real.
I relish the high I feel having exposed myself, and I am honored that others trust me and the rest of our class with their bare souls. This nudity of the spirit is not limited to the classroom. We can't help but carry it away with us each week. Maybe it manifests in the courage to admit new love or the strength to give honest feedback to a friend. As layers of clothing come off in class and I fly around the pole, I am able to expose more of myself in life and test my wings. Damn! Nudity is hot!
(Image courtesy of Eric C. Carter at Dizzy Pixel.)
Sex is sometimes a dirty business, and while you can protect yourself from germs of the genital variety with condoms and dental damns, no one has made latex that appropriately protects one from the germs spread via US currency involved in monetary transactions, sexual and otherwise. Think about it, even nose-pickers pass the bucks. In fact, it is arguable that many people fondle dollars more often than they fondle their privates, or even whist fondling their privates. Just imagine all of that dirty money.
Prostitute, Angela Eversole, of Kentucky has the solution. Instead of accepting filthy cash from her johns, she, allegedly, accepted a $100 gas card in exchange for sex. Right on, sister! In addition to being far less absorbent than paper, plastic gift cards are also handled by fewer specimens of questionable cleanliness.
Unfortunately, Ms. Eversole and her gas daddy were picked up after a police stakeout at a local Day’s Inn where they were accused of having their gaseous tryst. Angela Eversole’s story and her mug shot have been gleefully spattered all over the headlines by media equally eager to condemn consensual sexual relationships and whine about rising gas prices. What a rare opportunity! I only hope Ms. Eversole will serve as an inspiration to others; safe sex is important. Choose plastic over paper when you have the option.
I love vibrators. I love the continual, rolling orgasms they produce. I love the pretty colors and bright packaging. I love the novelty of the industry and how new people and new products are constantly making it over for the better. I love the taboo, and I love the empowerment. I own vibrators, have given them as gifts and recommended my favorites to friends and strangers, but I am going to take a break.
I am going to take a break not out of some sort of masochistic withholding self-torture, but precisely because I want to experience more pleasure, more fully.
A few weeks ago, I took a class part of which focused on increasing sexual pleasure. I was told that the intense vibrations of vibrators could diminish clitoral sensitivity. Upon further research I learned that Steve and Vera Bodansky supported this theory in their book, Extended Massive Orgasm. While I wanted to scoff at this notion and continue my fun with Mr. Rabbit and other phthalate-free favorites, I was forced to concede that there might be some validity to this claim.
Back in the summer of ’06, my own personal summer of love, I, unwittingly, gathered evidence to prove this very point. My husband was traveling a good deal, and I decided, in his absence, to work on getting comfortable with my expanding sex toy collection.
As a child, I had masturbated regularly. I was very secretive about it. I even had code names and special locations and all sorts of stuff. I was an undercover masturbating super spy. As a young adult I swore off masturbation in favor of “hysteria” and serial monogamous encounters at not so regular intervals. Needless to say, I had been a little unfulfilled.
By 2006, three years into my marriage, I was still uncomfortable with masturbation generally and vibrators specifically, but I decided it was time to get over it. I went on a two-week long sexploration of myself. Wow. Such a highflying adventure was long overdue, and I reaped the benefits. I basked in the freedom of trying new things and exploring different motor speeds. I learned more about my genitalia that summer than I think I had since I first discovered it.
I giddily shared my electronic exploits with my traveling husband via all electronic media available: Skype, email, my (holy crap how much does it cost per minute?) phone. I think it was fun for both of us, and I eagerly anticipated his return so I could share my newfound obsession with him.
His homecoming was not as happy as I had imagined. After gleefully showing him some of what I had described to him in his absence, I was excited to have sex with a human again, specifically my husband.
While I had not embraced masturbation previously, I had been quite easily and readily satisfied by intercourse. I was looking forward to that satisfaction that I had had at the ready all my sexual life; it was painfully slow in coming (so to speak). Suddenly my body felt rather foreign. The easy wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am on which I had come to rely was out of my grasp. I am not saying I didn’t enjoy the ride, but suddenly the process of getting off, was much longer than it had ever been. I began to fear that the pink bunny had ruined me forever. Out damn pearl encrusted oscillating shaft, out!
It took a while, but ultimately I got my mojo back. Yeah, baby. At the time, I made a connection between the increase in my vibrating, plastic orgasms and the decrease in those more “manmade,” but, as sensation began to return to normal, I began to forget that I’d ever seen such a connection.
When I heard it proposed as a theory in my class, memories of 2006 came flooding back to me. Duh! Of course so much vibration can decrease sensitivity. Of course touching your body with a machine rather than actual flesh of some kind can diminish intimacy. I get it.
All of that said, there is no way in hell I am getting rid of my vibrators. The thing about vibrators is they are more that just merchandised orgasms. The fact that someone is making them – lots of someones are making them – means that someone – lots of someones – are frequently thinking about vaginas and how to make them happy. I am glad about that. I am glad that I am seeing “personal massagers” at Target and Walgreen’s. I am thrilled that Fred Segal is selling the OhMiBod.
The vibrator's rise in popularity represents an increased focus on sex as a positive, life-affirming activity. My love of vibrators is more than just physical pleasure; it is a political and social statement. I love sex, but I would choose my husband over a vibrator any day. I want to do everything in my power to make my sex life as fantastic as possible. This means I will practice as often as possible. I will take classes and read books and work on increasing the sensitivity of my clitoris. It also means that, every once in a while, when the mood strikes me, I might get a little buzzed.
It is not everyday that I get new birth control advice. It is rarer still when that advice comes from my mother. To my mother’s credit, she has always tried to maintain a dialogue with me about sex. When I was in sixth grade and walked into the kitchen wearing my brand new piña colada lip gloss my mom shocked the pants off of me by informing me that I looked like I’d just given someone a blow job. Moooooom!!! When I was fifteen, and she began to suspect that I had presented my virginity to my skateboarding boyfriend, she asked me if we ought to install mirrors on my ceiling. Again with the, “Mooooom!!!!”
While each “sex talk” my mom and I had left the adolescent me red-faced and mortified, I am thankful that my mother continued talking. My mom wanted me to have a different experience than she had had growing up. She explained how my grandmother’s knuckles grew white and her face stern when she attempted to pass along vague knowledge of the carnal to my mother. I can’t imagine what it might have been like to grow up in a home where I was deprived of information, even though I often felt my mother was giving me too much of it (“TMI, Mooooom!”).
Today I had a chat with my mother. We talked about the Bar Mitzvah of my first cousin once removed. We talked about movies and plane rides and my friends from high school. And then, when I wasn’t expecting it, my mom shared the birth control secret that is, if true, the dream of every man.
My mom explained to me that, in homeopathic medicine, ailments are treated by minute doses of substances that normally produce like ailments in a healthy person. For example, belladonna, which can cause dry throats and flushing (not to mention death), is prescribed by homeopaths, in a very dilute form, to treat those same symptoms (except for the death-thingy… I don’t think they have that one worked out yet). Using this theory, my mom went on to explain how a colleague of hers saw a connection between swallowing semen and decreased female fertility. This colleague (he was, of course male) suggested that the diluted seaman that made its way through a woman’s digestive system fought off the cute little spermies trying to fertilize her eggs. Ha!
Can you imagine? “Honey, I have the answer! Throw away your pills today! No shots either, at least not in the arm. I have a magical elixir, and all you have to do is swallow it, and you won’t get pregnant. Don’t worry, it’s natural. I brew it myself. I have been saving some up, just for you. We’ll save loads of money on condoms!”
As my mother and I giggled about the soundness of such advice and the male who might have thought it up, visions of piña colada lip gloss danced through my head. Over the years my mom has suggested many a remedy, each taken (and given) with a grain of salt. My husband has often balked at her suggestions. I think this is the first time ever that he might be sad that I don’t believe in homeopathy. I am not quite ready to swallow this one.
Feet firmly planted in a wide stance, knees slightly bowed she stood in front of the full-length mirror, naked for all the world to see – at least all the world currently inhabiting the women’s locker room. She was not naked in the transition from swimsuit to sweat pants or the one from towel to tank top, she was just plain ol’ naked. Her flesh was not hidden by the open door of a locker or a strategically placed duffle bag. She stood in the sink area away from the lockers and the other semi-clad women. She flossed her teeth as one roll of fat rested upon another around her middle and her breasts draped across that, her nipples like two cherries on her melting sundae best.
I caught a glimpse of her on my way to the toilet and thought about her the whole time I was peeing. I have not been consistent in my views on public nudity. On the one hand, I had to give her a silent, “Right on, Sister!” for displaying with pride her whole self. On the other hand, isn’t it polite to show a little more modesty and a little less mons pubis when removing clothes in front of others? By the time I made it to the sink, the first hand had won – hands down. As if to answer my question of modesty, the fat, naked, grandma – still in front of the mirror – took a swig of mouth wash and began to gargle. Her short dark hair stood at attention in all directions, much like the mane of lion who’d had a run-in with an electric fence. Like the queen of her pride, she began to arch her head back; I could almost hear her Listerine-scented roar: “Damn right I am naked. I own my body, and right now I own the whole damn locker room. Whatcha gonna do about it?” Grandma arched until the back of her skull was level with her ample bottom, gargling the whole way.
In my mind, she is still arching backwards. The image of the naked, lioness grandma is tattooed on my brain (it wouldn’t fit on my ankle). I have spent years practicing my awkward dance of trying to avoid nipple or pubic hair exposure while changing in front of others. I have balanced a bra here and shimmied a skirt there in order to keep from view no more than a square foot of my fleshy real estate. Why?
When I was a kid, I was naked all of the time; I showered in front of my mother and sister right through the sixth grade. Even in high school I had a group of friends with whom I’d roam the halls, and the woods, sans clothes. It wasn’t even a sexual thing (most of the time); we just enjoyed being naked. I still enjoy being naked. My husband sometimes has to give me a not-so-gentle reminder that we “live in a goddamn fishbowl!” so that I will put on a robe or turn off the lights.
The locker room has been a different story for me. Perhaps I fear the scrutiny of others; if I keep a towel around my waist they won’t be able to see exactly how many dimples reside on the flesh of my bottom. Further, I seek not to offend. I don’t want to make other people feel uncomfortable by subjecting them to a fuller view than they had anticipated. I want to be polite.
Wow! What a load of BS!! Who the hell cares how many dimples I have on my ass? Why should it matter if a nipple or two comes into contact with an eyeball or two? Who made these stupid rules, and why the hell have I been politely following them?
Grandma makes her own rules, and I thought of her today as I emerged from the public shower post work out. Instead of awkwardly squirming and wriggling to make myself invisible while I reached for my towel, I stood up straight and dried myself as I would in the privacy of my own home. I took my time getting dressed. I didn’t quite make it to flossing in the buff, but I didn’t hide either. As ridiculous as the image of a naked, gargling grandma may be, it is not nearly as ridiculous as the concept of a grown woman so afraid of revealing her own body that she foolishly dances with her towel to avoid, at all costs, the dreaded exposure of a nipple. Right on, Grandma! By the time I’m sixty, I hope to be gargling right along side you.
So a man walks into a sex toy shop, marches right up to a woman he’s never met, and offers her advice about her potential vibrator purchase. “You know what you should get? You should get this one. Look at what it does…” The man breaks the vibrator shopping etiquette of keeping one’s focus firmly on the products to be perused. He removes the blinders everyone dons upon entry into a sex shop (maybe he forgot to pick up his complimentary pair to begin with). The man looks the woman right in the eye and suggests what she might shove up her vagina. My stomach is in my throat, and I can feel my eyes bulging from my skull with the thought of his audacity. The woman, to my surprise, appreciates the advice. She thanks the man and looks more intently at the product he so enthusiastically suggested. The man, who is my husband, flashes me a winning grin, and I love him even more than I did when he entered the shop sans blinders, nostrils flaring. Sometimes bulls are good for china.
After the arrival of my little sister in mid-1980, likely in order to give my poor mom a much-needed break, I began going on regular trips to the mall with my Dad – the Sherman Oaks Galleria, no less. Like totally. We would stroll about, making sure to stop at the pet store and the ice cream shop, maybe the bookstore. Unbeknownst to my father, I would spend a good deal of the time soaking up the fashion sense of the cool teenagers who dwelled permanently in their mall habitat.
By the time I was five or six, I had absorbed enough that I would make these trips outfitted in a purple striped miniskirt and fringed, suede boots. My thin, brittle hair had gone through several stringy, stinky, perms by the time I was seven-and-a-half. I was born into the Valley, and, from a very young age, I felt an uncontrollable pull to epitomize this hotbed of cutting-edge fashion.
Before I hit double-digits, I was so obsessed with the movie Flashdance, that I would wait until my mom was distracted or on the phone so that my friends and I could sneak off and try to make it to the “forbidden” nude scenes before getting caught. My best friend and I would wrap our dancing feet in masking tape and reenact Jennifer Beals’s sweat-pumping dance montage right along with the grainy VHS tape. Sex and dance and legwarmers were forever, and inextricably, mixed in my young mind.
By the time I was ten and taking modern dance class, I made my mom alter my leotard to have high, French cut, wedgy-producing leg holes; I was sure this made it more stylish and sexy. I wasn’t even out of the sixth grade. (The sixth grade where Sarah and I pretended to be prostitutes to Todd and Ryan’s mock-pimps -- I am not sure I even really understood what a pimp was, but I knew it was fun to walk arm-in-arm with a boy.) The outfit I ultimately wore to my sixth grade graduation was based largely on an outfit I’d seen on a carefree model in a cigarette billboard. It involved a red crinoline and suspenders.
Once I was in junior high, I debated at least weekly with my mother about the appropriateness and length of my skirts. “No, Mom! It is a skirt, not a belt! Really!” I never went so far as to pack extra clothes for school in my white, Esprit bag, but I did roll up my skirt a waistband width or two before entering Mrs. Warnock’s homeroom most mornings.
As I began to get a whiff of ninth grade and a new decade around the corner, I buried my memories of fluorescent fishnet socks and white, rhinestone high-tops. My ponytails got lower, my bangs flatter, and my attitude decidedly more “artsy.” By the time I graduated high school, I think most people would have called me a hippy. I had ditched the neon and the miniskirts for Doc Marten’s and long, drab dresses. I chose black over hot pink and bragged about my recycling habits rather than my lip-gloss collection. The eighties were, most definitely, over
Last month, my friend Emily invited me to her birthday party. Her stylish Evite announced that the theme was, “Fairy Slut Bus.” Yes, Emily planned to make her party a moving experience by packing her scantily clad friends into a party bus and taking us to various clubs around town. Emily is pretty darn cool. I began to contemplate how to interpret the “Fairy Slut” mandate. By the night of the party I had it all figured out; the outfit seemed to put itself together.
Later, looking at pictures of the event, I realized that my inner Valley Girl had come out to dress me for the party. She had expertly paired my high heals with glitter legwarmers and used scissors to alter a watermelon pink top so it hung off one shoulder strategically revealing a teal, sequined bra strap. She made my hair huge with hot rollers, and, like totally, coated my eyes in bold purple and green shadow! In the absence of my mother to object to my inappropriate attire, I chose a fantastically short skort (I’ve developed a little modesty in my old age and thought a skirt might be too much). Thanks to Emily, I got to live the dream of my ten year-old-self. I realized that my inner slut, like totally, dwells in ‘8o’s, and she, is still, like fully, from The Valley. Sorry, Mom.
Yesterday, I scrubbed two toilets, completed three loads of laundry and stared at my reflection in two freshly glistening mirrors. I was a personal shopper (I am a person), a cook, and a film critic. I was not a writer. During fleeting moments in my head, I wrote on the imaginary paper of my brain. I weighed semi-colons and considered ellipses. I thought flowery language, and I contemplated action verbs, but I was not a writer. I cleaned out my closet and Dust-Busted under the bed. I was a personal chef and a personal planner (again, the person being me), but I was not a writer.
It is 8:06 on a Sunday night. For a mere paragraph I am a writer. Maybe I will sleep better tonight.
Waxing Philosophic, Part Three: Color Me Embarrassed
I am not someone who is easily embarrassed. I mean, please – I’ve been waxing on about my vagina for the last three days. That said, I have had some waxing experiences that have left me scrambling for my panties and my dignity.
I grew up in the infamous valley of Martha Coolidge’s 1983 film classic, Valley Girl. Like totally, fur sure. In my early twenties, after swearing off college for a few years to pursue my babysitting career, I decided, much to the relief of my parents, to finish my formal education, or at least get a BA in something. I was accepted to UC Riverside, about seventy miles east-ish of my totally rad digs in the Valley. I moved myself to Riverside, with roommates and everything, and drove back to LA nearly every weekend. On these weekend sojourns I would make money babysitting and spend it swing dancing. I would also schedule appointments to see my regular bikini waxer, Christina. She, like totally, worked in the mall. It was like awesomely convenient, and Christina knew her stuff.
One day in Riverside, I got an invitation from a classmate, a cute, male classmate to go to the beach on a Saturday. “Um, yes. Ok. Great! Yeah, I’d love to. Thanks.” After accepting the invitation, I realized that I would not make it to LA to see Christina before the beach trip. The horrors! I decided the best option would be to find some one locally to help me keep my swimsuit from revealing too much on a first date. I mean, all I wanted was a regular ol’ bikini wax. How hard could that be? Heh.
When I arrived at the salon, a strip mall getup that was buzzing in a gossipy Steele Magnolia’s kind of way, I was informed that the woman I had spoken to on the phone would not be able to see me. Instead, a girl about my age led me back to the small waxing room. She looked at me as a reluctant prostitute might look at a fat, ugly john – a fat, ugly john with a vomitously pungent odor. Her disdain was palpable. I should have left then.
After I stripped out of my jeans and tried to make myself comfortable in what felt like a dentist’s chair, Waxing Girl, whose name and face I have thankfully forgotten, timidly looked at my crotch. Her touch was even more timid than her look as she gingerly spread wax on a very small square of my skin. It soon became painfully (quite literally painfully) apparent that this woman had little or no experience waxing anything at all, let alone another woman’s pubic hair. Once the small patch of skin was covered in wax, that was not quite hot enough to spread comfortably, she reached for a small piece of paper. “What’s that?” I questioned.
“Oh, it’s a curling paper.”
“Curling paper?
“You know, you put it around the curler when you’re doing a perm. We find it works well for taking off the wax.”
Really? How does one find that? “Oops, I was perming your hair and one of the papers happened to fall on your wax-covered crotch, and eureka!” I mean, forget Archimedes and his stinkin’ bathtub; these ladies were on to something! Or not. Using her index figure, Waxing Girl pressed the thin curling paper into the nearly dry wax on the skin just above my femoral artery. She gently rubbed the area for a moment and then pulled the edge of the paper leaving my skin covered in wax and strips of torn paper. “Really, you find this works better?”
Waxing girl and I were locked in that small room for what seemed like hours (Christina would have had me in and out in 20 minutes). I think she even ducked out to ask for advice at one point. I thought about standing up and saying, “Just forget it,” as I figured out a way not to get wax on my jeans, but then what would I do to prepare for my beach date? I don’t know why shaving didn’t occur to me – it couldn’t have been any more painful and annoying – but it didn’t.
The conversations that punctuated our silences were brief and infrequent. “Um, could you give me something to use to try and get the wax off of my sleeve?”
“Oh, whoops.”
During these silences we heard the pick-a-little-talk-a-little ooze under the door from the main part of the salon. We also heard the excited utterances of children at play; someone had brought her children, presumably to increase the noise level in the already bustling salon. Generous. Normally, I would have welcomed an interruption to my misery, but the one that ultimately came was far from desirable. Suddenly, and without warning, the children became louder as the door to the waxing room swung open violently.
As if in a tableau, we all froze – me spread eagle on my back, Waxing Girl with her face in my crotch and her hand on my hip, and the thirteen year-old boy framed by the small doorway. I held my breath and looked at Waxing Girl. We were the dear and he was the headlights. “Riley! Close that door, and get your butt over here!” Slam! I never thought I would be happy to be alone with Waxing Girl. Now I wished to stay with her, with the door closed, at least until the permanently scarred boy and his negligent mother left.
I got my wish. When we finally emerged from the torture chamber, me with slightly less hair than I had when we began, the children were gone. I felt red from head to toe as I imagined that everyone in the salon had caught a glimpse of me sans pants. Waxing Girl delivered me to the salon owner to pay and started to walk back towards her lair. I began to pull out whatever amount of money it was that I had agreed to over the phone when the owner hollered to Waxing Girl, “What kind of wax did you do?”
Waxing Girl had that fawn-like stare again, so I butt in, “Just a regular bikini wax.” The owner must have heard me, but she pretended I didn’t exist and yelled to Waxing Girl, over the heads of the other customers, “How much hair was it.” She then turned to me for the first time, and explained that they had different prices depending on the quality and thickness of one’s pubic hair. Go ahead. Put that in your add. Waxing Girl’s eyes got even bigger as she tried to describe the quantity and quality of my hair. Didn’t everyone freakin’ see my hair when that Ritalin-lacking kid barged in on me? Ultimately we agreed on a price. I consider it hush money; I paid her to hush up her obstreperous analysis of my vaginal hair growth patterns.
I left feeling ashamed. How dare I ask someone to perform a service that they advertise? How dare I have more than two pubic hairs? How dare I get upset when my clothing gets wax on it? What kind of freak am I? I think I went home and tried to repair the damage as best I could with tweezers and olive oil. Sadly, I wore shorts to the beach. I, like totally, should have driven back to the Valley. Christina would have beat that little boy’s ass. Waxing Girl’s, too. No charge.
Waxing Philosophic, Part Two: A Hair Ahead of Her Time
I was about twenty-one before I let anyone, self included, get wax anywhere near my panty line. Back then, Brazilians were not something that were part of the cultural psyche, let alone my psyche. In fact, I had been told by one waxer, whom I had no reason to disbelieve, that getting wax on the actual lips of the vagina was dangerous and could cause skin removal.
At this point in my life, I had no regular waxer. I was shopping around for a keeper, my main criterion being low price. This was also before the Internet was really hopping with mom and pop businesses. I remember using the yellow pages and calling around to find the cheapest quote.
Ultimately, I found a woman who agreed to wax me cheaply and soon. I am always nervous when I meet a new waxer, and this time was no exception. As Rosa of Magic Hair Cut led me back to her small “room” separated from the rest of the salon with a faded curtain, my feet stuck to the dirty white linoleum, and my palms gathered sweat.
I noticed that instead of sheets of white muslin, to which I was accustomed, she had colorful sheets of cloth set-up next to the vat of wax. Ever the cost cutter, Rosa had torn up old bed sheets in lieu of paying for waxing strips. I suppose I ought to have thanked her for her frugality – clearly she was passing her savings on to her customers – but instead I pondered whether the sheets had been washed first.
Before I started getting Brazilians, I always made sure to wear the perfect undies to the salon. They had to be cute enough that I wouldn’t be embarrassed when the esthetician saw them, and not so cute that I would be forever grumpy if they got some wax on them. After stripping down to my plain black skivvies in the privacy of the curtained room, Rosa reentered ready to go.
She got right to work, and despite my concern about the cleanliness of the bed sheet strips, they seemed to work pretty well. Rosa was cheap and fast – my kind of woman. Before I knew it, she had finished removing the hair from what I called, at the time, my sideburns – the strips of hair on either side of my panty line that didn’t exactly make it into my swimsuit. She then began to pull my conservative underwear to one side. “What are you doing?” I managed to mumble.
“Oh honey, we get a little bit more. It look better. Trust me.”
“Is that safe? I don’t know if I want that.”
“Honey, ‘course it’s safe. You need it. Trust me.”
What can you say to that? Now, Rosa certainly didn’t do a full Brazilian by today’s standards, but she definitely pushed my boundaries, and my panty line to the limit. She never stopped telling me how much I would like it, and how much I should also get my brows done, too. “You need it, honey. It is too much… Too much hair.”
Growing up in a house with a fair-haired mom who didn’t even shave her light leg hair for most of my life, the thought of removing hair from my brows had not occurred to me. Rosa found my soft spot, though, and kept pushing. “You will look so much better… We just do a little bit… I can’t believe you no do before… You need so much.”
I left Magic Hair Cut with bare lips and thin brows. I thought I looked ridiculous, and was shocked when no one seemed to notice my new brow line. I mocked Rosa openly and explained how I was lucky to have any skin on my vagina after what she had done. It would be five years before I had my first intentional Brazilian wax, and ten before I paid anyone to wax my brows again. I never went back to Rosa.
As I sit here now, with my well-groomed brows and hairless vagina, I think back on Rosa with fondness. She Knew what I needed before I knew what I needed. She was fast and cheap and honest… I really did need it so much. Thanks, Rosa.
Waxing Philosophic, Part One: Close Encounters of the Waxing Kind
I have been paying people to wax my vajayjay since long before it was called a vajayjay. Over the course of my ten-plus years of paying women to spread hot waxy goo all over my nether regions and then rip it off, along with my stubborn dark hairs, I have had some pretty interesting, and disturbing, experiences. I found myself ruminating on these adventures recently when I received a seemingly innocuous email that was circulated around my office. I work with a bunch of women, so it was a no-brainer for one of my colleagues to send a notice out to everyone that her local salon was offering low-cost Brazilians in order to train some of their newer techs.
While the thought of hot wax applied to one’s vagina by anyone, let alone a novice, might be enough to make most women glisten with a cold sweat, my interest was peaked; I am a cheap skate, after all. Why pay full price when discounts are an option? After reading further, I learned that this was not an option I could take. The salon, a posh, trendy operation with locations in Union Square and Mill Valley, was one I had been to before, and one that was responsible for causing me some severe waxing trauma.
This was the very salon, the very upscale, expensive salon, that, last September, provided me with an esthetician who didn’t wear gloves and who dipped her wax-spreading stick into the community pool of warm wax multiple times before and after smoothing it over my delicate flower. No, this was not my own, personal, hundred-calorie pack of wax as some salons now provide. It was a big ol’ vat good for a myriad of wax jobs and a myriad of cooties and other infectious diseases. Gross with a capital “Gro.”
Looking back on this incident, I realize that I should have confronted the woman spreading communal wax on my most private of parts right then and there. I did ask her about the practice, and when she replied that the wax was hot enough to kill all manner of microscopic beasties, I wish I’d at least pulled one of those “bullshit” mumbling coughs into the crook of my arm.
After the pillaging of my crotch, on the BART ride home, I composed mental tirades and imaginary letters to the Better Business Bureau. But while I lay on my back, my sweat soaking through the thin table paper, feeling my flesh begin to stick to the vinyl underneath, I was silent. I lay there in that closet of a room in the upscale salon and listened to the waxing woman wax on in her staccato Russian accent about how having children was a burden I should avoid, and how politics would be the death of us all. I didn’t say a word as she dipped and spread and dipped and spread. I lay still and tried to hide the grimace that I felt welling-up from the core of my germ-a-phobic being. And then I paid her. I think I even gave her a tip. Later, I comforted myself by promising that I would never go back and expose my womanhood to such cruelty. I am not that kind of masochist.
A few days ago, when I saw the email singing the praises of this very salon, I thought about keeping quiet again. I decided instead to speak-up and protect my coworkers from suffering a similar fate. Wow! Maybe I do learn things.
I formulated a “reply all” email explaining my plight while trying not to be a biatch to the woman who had so kindly put forth the offer in the first place. Now, I send out a ton of emails at work. Most of them are about work. In fact, with the exception of the wax warning, nearly all of them are work related. Usually, it is like pulling teeth to get my colleagues to respond to my diatribes. Amazing shit happens when you mention your vagina.
Within minutes, my inbox was full of new mail on the subject. I ended up with everything from effusive thanks for protecting the vajayjays of the world from peril to recommendations for a good laser hair removal medspa. Even the sender of the initial email, the woman whose feelings I had been concerned I might hurt if I sent out a word of warning, thanked me for speaking up. She went on to tell me that her friend was actually a co-owner of the salon in question and that she was working to retrain the older employees who insisted on double-dipping and barehanded waxing.
Wow! Not only did my words have an impact on my co-workers, but the unhygienic, cootie-spreading practice may stop at the actual salon. Son of a gun! As I turned the pages of my memory through wax jobs I wish I didn’t remember, I realized that I am chalk-full of cautionary tales of waxings gone wrong – or at least gone interesting. In the spirit of protecting the vageens of the world, and also because they make me laugh, I thought I would share them here as well. So, here I go, waxing on…
So I whine and balk at the gross and ridiculous injustices in this country: it is illegal to buy a vibrator in Texas; porn actresses are legally forbidden to show their nipples at porn conventions in the United States. I am outraged and amazed and flabbergasted that such things could happen in this day and age. And then I hear the international news. Holy crap!
On January 13, 2008, four men in Cairo were convicted under Egyptian Article 9(c) of law 10/1961 of the “habitual practice of debauchery.” According to Amnesty International, this law exists to “penalize consensual homosexual conduct.”
These latest convictions are part of a larger Egyptian crackdown on men suspected of being HIV-positive. Over the course of the last five months, the Egyptian government has subjected some of its citizens to forced anal examinations to “prove” their homosexual behavior. Others were made to take HIV tests against their will and chained to hospital beds when their results came back positive. Some of the suspects (the men suspected of having the “wrong” kind of sex) were, according to their lawyers, beaten by police when they refused to sign statements the police had written for them. According to Amnesty International, a prosecutor told one of the men who had tested positive, “People like you should be burnt alive. You do not deserve to live.”
Is it still wrong that I can’t buy a Pearl Rabbit in Texas? Hell yes! That said, my relative sexual freedom, when juxtaposed with the gross injustices that human beings suffer in other parts of the world, makes my complaints seem like trifle. I am disgusted that what someone does in the privacy of his or her own home with a consenting partner (or two, or seventeen) can result in abuse by the government and time in jail. Although the men appealed, on February 2, 2008, the January 13, ruling was upheld. Four men who may have put their penises in a spot or two not approved by the government, are faced with year-long prison sentences. As if the sexual discrimination, forced HIV testing, and anal probes weren’t enough! Talk about the government being a pain the ass!
Remember that episode of South Park when the kids realized that every storyline they wanted to explore had already been done by The Simpsons? Yeah... I am relating. I am so blown away by all of the talented women sharing their stories online, that sometimes I think, "Why the heck am I doing this?" I can't possibly have anything new to offer. Besides, The Simpsons probably did it better in the first place. That darned Lisa -- always thinkin' of everything!
After I bathe myself in a bit of frustration, I step back and try to be thankful for what is. How cool is it that I get to read what so many talented, interesting, experienced women have to say? How lucky am I that I live in a world where such words are starting to proliferate and become more accepted? It's pretty darned cool, and I'm pretty darned lucky.
So why am I continuing to write? Why not just read the clever musings of others? Because I am a selfish bitch. I want to write more. I want to learn more. I want to explore more ideas. I want to do this for me. Maybe someone else has talked about it before. Maybe my point has already been made more eloquently, but it's still my point. I still thought it and felt it and needed to splurt it all out in words, even if Lisa said it first somewhere else.
So while I am getting my bearings I say thank you to all of you badass women who are already speaking your minds at full throttle. You inspire and excite me and make me want to be better. Thanks.
Today, without blushing, I pole danced in front of my father. In the pole-dancing studio where I take classes, some women don’t even tell their husbands what happens in class… or even that they are taking class in the first place. I told my gynecologist, my former colleagues from the grammar school where I taught fourth grade, and my neighbors. I couldn’t keep my big, fat, pole-dancing mouth shut.
When my mom wanted to learn a few moves, I confidently pointed her in the right direction, and helped her take her first spins around the pole. I bought my sister a class. Today, as I was spinning around the pole demonstrating my cool moves for my mother and sister, my father walked in. While I hadn’t intended to dance in front of him, I decided to be okay with it. Perhaps a few years ago, or even a few months ago, this wouldn’t have been my reaction. I haven’t always felt this comfortable with my sexuality, and I still have growing to do.
I remember being in the seventh grade and having my first “boyfriend” and thinking that I could never get married, because then I would have to admit to my parents that I liked boys and, worse yet, that I liked touching them and being touched by them; the horrors! Why would anyone ever admit such a thing to her parents? I certainly knew I never would. What has changed?
When I was a teenager and had sex for the first time, I was torn between wanting desperately to tell my mother and wanting to take that secret with me to the grave. My mother, a woman of the sixties, guessed my news, and timidly asked me if we ought to install mirrors on my ceiling. My reaction is best summed-up by my dueling thoughts: “Ma-aaa-aaah-aam! How could you say such a thing?” and “Oh, by the way, yes, what a great idea!”
I am married now. Every night I sleep in the same bed with my husband. When my parents came to visit us this past weekend, they knew full well that I went to bed each night with my husband. I didn’t feel the need to hide my affection for him. I have, I suppose, grown into my sexuality as I have aged. While I couldn’t even imagine admitting that Jason Katchum was my boyfriend when I was twelve, I, now freely, disclose my status as a married woman, and, before that, as a single woman who liked men. I think, and hope, that most women have achieved this level of comfort with their sexuality. Some, however, have not. I have a friend who, perhaps stuck in seventh grade, felt embarrassed while she was pregnant because she knew it meant that everyone knew what she had done to get into that “shameful” state. She was forty and married at the time.
Why do so many of us continue to be embarrassed about our sexuality?
Sex is part of life. More specifically, sex is the reason (most likely) that we are all alive. It would never cross my mind to be ashamed of breathing. And yet, I have struggled with feeling shame because I like sex. Eleanor Roosevelt said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” Well, isn’t that applicable to shame as well?
When I was about seven, I was invited to dinner a neighbor kid’s house. After dinner, Mrs. Potter served ice cream which, as I did on the rare occasions I was served ice cream at home, I happily mashed into a delicious ice cream stew (I didn’t have the patience for full-blown soup). After my ice cream was transformed into liquid-y chocolate goo, I picked-up my bowl and drank it.
Although I was oblivious to it at the time, the Potters were horrified. All four of the Potter children and the Potter mom and dad looked right at me, rubbed their right index fingers over their left and chided, in sing-songy unison, “Shame, shame, shame!” Well, I, quite literally, knew no shame. While I had learned manners at home, drinking out of bowls was not something I’d been taught to avoid. I mean, please! My mom served miso soup with tofu which, our Japanese exchange students taught us, is customarily sipped straight from the bowl. I still remember looking around at all the Potter children and the Potter mom and dad and thinking, “This is great! I have all of their attention. I must be doing something pretty special for all of them to be looking at me. Shucks! Lemme do that again.” Like many who attempt to use shame to illicit “proper behavior,” none of the Potters wanted to come right out and say what I was doing wrong, and their “subtlety” was lost on me. Man, was that a good night: sugar and an attentive audience. A girl could scarcely ask for more.
Looking back on this incident, I realize that people who try to shame other people are often trapped by their own embarrassment or shame. If we choose not to feel shame for our actions, specifically those not shame-worthy, such as breathing and enjoying orgasms and the like, those trying to administer the shame will be hard-pressed to do so, and likely will lack the courage to come right out and say what they are really thinking. Why give them the power? Why let them control our actions and our desires? Instead, why not look them right in the eye and dance on a pole, or smooch our lovers, or drink our ice cream?
Shame is a choice, and it would be a shame to feel it when it is undeserved.
