For the Beauty Queens – Part 2

Once, when I was about 23-years old, I slept wrong, squishing my face into an awkward position for several hours, and when I awoke I had a deep crease going up my forehead, sharply accenting one of my furrow lines.  To my bewildered young mind, this appeared as a giant wrinkle, and everything I’d proclaimed about my standards of beauty flew out the window.  I genuinely thought that this was how wrinkles surfaced, suddenly and overnight, and I was convinced it was only a matter of time before my porcelain skin would be a roadmap of stress-lines and failed plans.  Yes, I equate age with failure – but more on that later.

On this particular morning, at this particular stage in my life, prior to seeing the misidentified wrinkle, I was anti age-defying anything.  The thought of liposuction or a face-lift was as horrific to me then as Toddlers and Tiaras is to me now.  I was so tired of the  media and what it had done to our images of beauty, I was completely against nipping or tucking, pulling, sucking or peeling anything.

Oh, how times change, which mine did in the blink of a groggy eye.  As soon as I saw that wrinkle, my mind instantly plotted exactly how I was going to get the money to pay for the Botox, and somehow I’d figured out how to do it before anyone laid eyes on me that morning.  Desperate times, people. . .

As luck would have it, the stupid crease wore itself out, and my lovely 23-year-old skin plumped back up until I was the glowing image of youthful beauty I’d been when I went to sleep the night before.  I can talk about myself like this because now, even just 10 years later, I realize how youthful 23 really is, and the lesson is one I’ve not easily forgotten.

I used to make fun of my mother for the arsenal of day creams, night creams, undereye creams, neck and throat creams, eyelid, hand, body, wrinkle creams, vitamin D, E, and A oil – every kind of cream, lotion and oil a single mom could afford.  To my untrained eye, the woman always looked the exact same.  The truth is, none of those creams probably did her a $40 ounce of good, but now I understand it was the appearance of an effort. My mother wasn’t rich, and if she could have afforded Botox, or even knew that it existed, I may have been raised by Tammy Faye Baker.  But in an age of Jafra and Avon, Royal Jelly and the Home Shopping Network, this was what she had to work with, and as I reach the age my mother was when the creams started to take over the bathroom, I realize I am just like her – but willing to push even harder to maintain my vanity.

Why?  Because every day closer to my grave is a day closer to an unanswered dream.  It is physically impossible for me to do everything I want in this lifetime, and every day is another wasted adventure.  Yes, there are wonderful, fulfilling things along the way, but we aren’t getting any younger, and well, that’s the point.  Beautiful people do exciting things.  When I imagine traveling the world, it’s not the grandmother version of myself in my mind’s eye.  If I’m being honest, the closer I get to old, the farther I get from opportunity.  Before you know it, I will be the leopard-print-clad, Lita Ford wannabe inviting herself to parties and trying to explain how cool she was, “back in the day.”

No, I will not go quietly.  Nowadays, it makes total sense to buy myself a boob job for my birthday.  Botox no longer seems criminal, but a luxury.  I’m still very conscious that the media has us all screwed up, and sure, I can rationalize that beauty comes from within.  If a friend of mine were saying these same things to me, I’d tell her she was crazy and more beautiful than she would ever be with Botox or surgery, and that it’s a rite of passage to grow from a young woman into a fully realized, well-rounded goddess.  While all of that is still true, I’m also beginning to see that 33 turns quickly into 40, then 50, and I know without a doubt that I’ll be looking back on my youthful 33-year-old face someday, longing for the day I looked this lovely.  For that woman, I’m willing to look past the flaws I see now, but you bet your sweet, sagging ass, when the time comes to do something about it, this spring chicken will be the first in line.

 

 

 

 

To read part one, click Here.

Where’s my lighter?

I am experiencing the worst case of writer’s block ever experienced by anyone, ever.  Ok, I know that’s not possible, but I think it’s been a year since I’ve written anything worth reading.  I know, I know, I had a year’s worth of “cancer blogging” to show for it, but I feel like that was from the heart, not the mind, which is the difference between acing a sociology final and a math final.  With emotive writing, you just open up your veins and pour it out onto the paper, but with the other kind of writing, you use an entirely different part of your brain – the engaging, rational, critical thinking part.  I’m missing a lot of the critical thinking stuff.

Conveniently, we’re coming up on New Years.  I suppose I could use this time to set a resolution of writing daily, or even weekly, but I’d rather not do that.  You don’t need to be bothered by my wasted words, empty thoughts written for writing’s sake; I can do that in my own time.  And do resolutions even work?  As the WordPress wall tells me, there are countless blogs about how to succeed at your resolutions this year, but something about their titles – “5 ways to blah blah blah,” tells me they are just trying to bring more traffic to their site – something I could appreciate a year ago, but has now lost its appeal.

Simply, I miss being a regular blogger with an actual group of people who read my stuff and engage with one another about important topics, and who tripped my synapses into firing and my blood to flowing, and already I can feel the old fire seeping in, a bizarre blend of emotive and cognitive, which perhaps is exactly what I’ve been looking for.

I’m not poly anymore.  This is a big deal to me, as someone who has been in an open relationship of one type or another for over 7 years, not to mention it being the topic of limitless possibilities for my blog.  Part of me feels like I covered so very much in the couple of years I blogged about it; another part feels like I barely scratched the surface.  Regardless, that part of my life is over, and it’s time for me to finally solidify it by doing the only cathartic thing I know – blog about it.

I think polyamory is a very valid choice to make, either in a relationship or solo; I found many positive things about it, including honesty I never thought possible, trust on a very intimate level, and the spice of adding new and varying sexual dynamics to my relationships.  These are all fulfilling things, and they made it worth it in the long run.  However, quite simply, I think I’ve grown out of it.  This is not to say, in any way, that polyamory is an immature lifestyle – quite the contrary – but I feel like in my seven years of being open, a lot of the pursuit was shallow and misguided.  Yes, I had very meaningful relationships, and even fell in love, but I was always holding a little part of myself back from my partner(s).  I could rationalize things logically, but the bottom line for me is I’m tired of rationalizing.  I can play devil’s advocate and drive it home that monogamy won’t protect me from the things I struggled with in my poly relationships, but I already feel less worn out, and that’s kind of a big deal.

So that’s my blurb about polyamory.  Kind of strange that I can encapsulate 7 years in one brief paragraph, but it’s how I do things.  Once I’ve made up my mind, it’s history.  The bigger question now is, how do I get back to blogging, and what on earth do I talk about?  Toward the end of my blogging “career,” for lack of a better word (why do we say that?  There’s always a better word), I spent some time focusing on “isms” – things that pissed me off regarding racism, gender biases, or the sexually prudish.  I will never stop getting riled up by the sexually prudish, but I’m kind of tired about talking about the non-PC nature of our society.  It’s just the way it is, and you just can’t please everyone all the time.  There is always a fanatic group, a disgruntled radical, or a troll that will find something to bitch about.  And no matter which side of the fence you’re on, they will always be waiting in the wings.  I wish there was a special button on my computer that would not only demolish anyone too far off the spectrum of left or right, but simultaneously ban them from commenting, and trigger a giant middle finger to appear on any webpage the click after leaving their comment.

But how many people wish they could do that to me?  Overall, judging people is pointless, because at one point or another most of us could find ourselves in their shoes, or similar.

So what’s my point?  Over the next few weeks, I’ll be making changes to my blog, trying to push it more in the direction I want it to go, after having spent the past year growing, changing, evolving and learning.  Rather than curtailing my angst, I feel I’ve cultivated it, rounded out the rough edges, and perhaps gained a new sense of maturity since the blogging of yesteryear, and I’m ready to start tackling some interesting new topics surrounding religion, science, and of course, America’s favorite topic, sex.

Here’s to the new year, and a new platform for thought-provoking discourse.

Poem published in the Lavendar Review

I’m on a roll this month.  The lesbians like me, too!

The Lavendar Review ran one of my favorite poems in their June issue.  I wrote this about a woman I’ve never met, but had an internet crush on for several years.  Some things are better left unrealized, I believe, as she will always be this dark angel in my memory (as well as above; world, meet ”Nin.”) 

This poem has been floating around with me for quite a while.  I often refer back to it when I need to remember what “gut writing” is all about.  Sometimes I get so caught up in the writing part of writing, I lose focus; I forget that if I let go and just let the images roll over me, I will be written, and that produces some of my favorite pieces.

Read it here.

Slut Walk – Join me!

 

Published in the June 2011 issue of Exotic Magazine:

 

Slut: a pejorative term for a person (usually female) who is more sexually promiscuous than is socially acceptable.

Sometimes when I’m reading definitions, I feel like I’m in the middle of one of those “find the differences” puzzles in the newspaper.  There are so many hidden clues.  In the above definition, there are at least two:  “Socially acceptable,” and “female.”  I’m not arguing the validity of this definition; it’s a sad truth that this is how promiscuous women are viewed by the general population, a.k.a. the “society” which “accepts” the level of promiscuity a female is allowed.  It is also true that men are still held to a different standard than women, and we still shun and demean women for the same behaviors (real or imagined) that we applaud their male counterparts for.  And while this makes me angry, what makes it dangerous is when the people who are responsible for the safety of women feel this way. 

On January 24th, 2011, a police officer from the Toronto Police Department stated: “Women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimized.”   

Read it again.  Sit with it a minute.  Look for the clues.  We have a tendency to downplay words, to shift blame, to absolve people based on context, to look for any excuse for him not to have meant it in that way; partly because he’s male, partly because he’s a cop.  But if we remove the pardons and translate it in a pragmatic light, what this cop said is, “Men rape women because of how they dress.”  This is a problem, for several reasons. 

The people of Toronto thought so too, and decided to do something about it; with that, Slut Walk was born.  As is usually the case, the cop’s comment was merely a spark, but it ignited an inferno.  Slut Walk is a movement intended to increase dialogue on victim-blaming, slut-shaming, and misogynist and oppressive ideas that need to be challenged – and they’ve taken it to the streets.  On April 3, 2011, approximately 3,500 people, dressed in their sluttiest attire, marched right to the front door of the Toronto Police Department where they took a stand, demanded an audience, and spoke out loud and clear that they were tired of the lip service and empty apologies.  

Their website states, “We are a movement demanding that our voices be heard. We are here to call foul on our Police Force and demand change. We want Toronto Police Services to take serious steps to regain our trust. We want to feel that we will be respected and protected should we ever need them, but more importantly be certain that those charged with our safety have a true understanding of what it is to be a survivor of sexual assault — slut or otherwise.”

It’s necessary to stop placing the blame on the victim and taking all responsibility off the attacker.  Dressing provocatively has nothing to do with sexual promiscuity, but more importantly, sexual promiscuity has everything to do with permission.  I am a self-proclaimed slut.  The word has lost all negative connotations for me, because I don’t hold the same values as the society that places a limit on the level of pleasure I am allowed to have.  To me, the word is representative of freedom, of ultimate control over my body and my choices.  If I choose to sleep with 100 men, it in no way affects the likelihood of me sleeping with the next 100 men I meet, rapists included.  I don’t care if I rollerskate down the street naked with a big target on my asshole; If I don’t say yes, the answer is NO.   Victims need to know that they are never to blame, without exception.     

His statement also discredits men (for purposes of this article, “rapist” is going to be male; I’m fully aware that women rape as well).  A rapist is a sick individual.  He is by no means representative of all men, and the cop saying that men rape women based on how they dress doesn’t give recognition to the mental or emotional state of rapists.  Rape isn’t just a case of men gone wild.  Men should be equally as offended by the cop’s statement as women are, as it implies that men have no control over their own bodies, that they are so weak-minded and out of control that they are incapable of managing their urges when presented with the basic function of a hard-on.

It’s especially unfortunate that it was a cop who said this.  Police officers are supposed to be looked to for protection and help in times of crisis.  As it stands, 60% of sexual assaults go unreported to the police (http://www.rainn.org/statistics), and with misogynistic cops taking such liberties with words it’s no surprise.  Assholes like this say damaging things all the time, but he is a representative of a collective; he is in a position of power.  While we know the entire Toronto police force doesn’t echo this one man’s opinion, the fact that he’s still employed there places them in the “Against us” category.    

Since Slut Walk’s original march, their message has spread like wildfire, with almost a hundred Slut Walks being implemented worldwide, including Portland on June 11^th and Seattle on June 19^th.  Whether you’re a bonafide slut, a slut supporter, or just play one on TV – male, female, or otherwise; family, friends, clergy members – if you want to support the re-appropriation of the word slut to those who should define it, come to this event.  Besides the awesomeness of dressing as slutty as possible in public, I’m excited to take part in something meaningful, something that needs to be said.  

Plus, you might see me roller-skating around with a giant bulls-eye on my asshole, and who wants to miss that?

For more info or to find out more about your city’s walk, visit http://www.slutwalktoronto.com/

On Freedom

Published in Teflon Sisters Issue #2:

When talking about freedom, we often refer to it in a political context; i.e. Freedom of choice; Freedom of religion; Freedom of speech.  While these things are thunderously important and worth fighting for, sometimes we overlook one of the most essential rights of all:  The freedom to have ownership over ourselves in our relationships.

Last month I attended a lecture by astrophysicist Neil DeGrasse Tyson.  As part of his speech, he produced a slide, showing where humans fall in the timeline of the universe.  Not surprisingly (though contrary to our egos), it showed that we are practically microscopic in the grand scheme of things, reminding us that we are blips on the screen, that this is our one shot at life; we are dying as we speak.

It seems impossible that we could take this for granted.  It seems unheard of that we would spend the split second of time we are alive and breathing living for someone else, yet so many people do just that.  People spend an abhorrent amount of time apologizing for their existence, and it’s usually to their significant other.   Sometimes it’s for simple things, such as looking at the opposite sex.  Sometimes it goes deeper; they allow themselves to be controlled by their partner instead of insisting their partner take control of themselves.

It’s that guy at the party who is miserable because his wife controls his every move.  He’s sneaking drinks and asking his friends to lie to her about it.  It’s the girl who is so terrified of her boyfriend cheating that she constantly checks up on him.  She knows where he is at every minute of every day.  It’s the bullshit lines we feed our lovers about our relationships with others.  She claims “He’s just a friend.”  He swears up and down, “I don’t think she’s attractive.”  I actually heard someone say, “My husband hates strip clubs.”  I bet he doesn’t watch porn either.  Too many people aren’t “allowed” to have friends of the opposite sex.  Think about that – 7 billion people in the world that may never meet because their boyfriend or girlfriend “wouldn’t like it.”  How much of your life are you willing to sacrifice to another to feed their insecurities?  How much of someone else’s will you demand?

Sometimes people are just as guilty of lying to themselves.  They convince themselves this is what love looks like; they confuse jealousy with love, and control with trust.  People justify things; they believe that changing fundamental parts of their significant other comes with the territory.  Somehow people have become conditioned to accept this idea of mine – My car, my job, my boyfriend, and therefore see their partner as a direct representation of themselves.  The concept of ownership runs rampant.  “Don’t wear those shoes, don’t have those friends, don’t style your hair that way, don’t dance like that, because it will make ME look bad.”  It’s no wonder people are hesitant to label their relationships - they know once they do they’ll be in a constant battle with that person for the rights to their own personality.

Things like this are hard to unlearn.  The simplest thing that people tend to forget is that our significant others are completely self sustaining, all inclusive human beings, with or without our input.  They existed before they met us and they will exist after, and we should cherish the time they have chosen to exist with us, which includes cherishing them for who they are . . .not who we want them to be.

Freedom, to me, means having the right to be self-governing, and accepting other people’s right to do the same.   The fact is we’re all already free; some of us just need to cut the cord, already.  As Voltaire so eloquently stated, “Man is free at the moment he wishes to be.”

So what are you waiting for?

Book Review Published in The Rumpus: Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

The Rumpus ran another of my reviews, this time for The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.  I was honestly more excited to see the words, “More from this Author. . . ” at the bottom of the page.  It’s a tiny reminder of how important it is to me to get that book written.  Someday, “someday” will become today. 

Click here to read it.

Book Review Published in The Rumpus – Wuthering Heights

 

Below is a review of Wuthering Heights I wrote for The Rumpus .  You should check out their site, it’s full of witty catch phrases like, “Write like a motherfucker.”

Click here to read it.

Power of the Pussy

Published in the May 2011 issue of Exotic Magazine.

Power of the Pussy

I was standing at the bus stop contemplating the theme of this month’s issue, “Power of the Pussy,” struggling with what I wanted to say. We all know being a woman comes with a significant level of power, but I was having a hard time pinpointing exactly what that meant. I had vague images of businessmen forking over thousands of dollars, thoughts about crimes of passion, tales of obsession and desperate love stories, but that wasn’t good enough. I needed something concrete and firmly rooted in today’s society.

As I contemplated, the powers that be must’ve taken pity on me, as the answer I was seeking came waltzing down the street at that very moment. I saw her coming from three blocks away, a sashay of pink and black, like a nymphet suddenly sprouting from a crack in the city sidewalk. It was early morning in the middle of the financial district downtown, and amidst the business-casual her short skirt stood out like a flashing beacon of magenta light. Frankly, her skirt was too short, her legs too perfectly tanned and sculpted, and her heels too high; she seemed out of place traipsing down the street in broad daylight. I would have considered this her “morning after” outfit, but this girl was not doing the walk of shame; she was sauntering with such confidence that suddenly the true power of the pussy became glaringly obvious.

This woman owned the street. As she walked, chaos ensued around her. Men’s heads swiveled so fast I expected whiplash, cars slowed, and I almost walked into a street sign trying to catch the tail end of her as she rounded the corner. We’ve all seen it; the impending car crashes, the careening necks, the stupefied looks on men’s faces when confronted with a beautiful woman. The power of the pussy is a strong force; it opens doors, both literally and figuratively, receives special treatment, gets to the front of the line, inspires poetry and even wages wars (Helen of Troy, anyone?)

The reality is the power of the pussy is evident in everything we do. Old traditions, gender roles and social trends aside, there is something instinctual and primal about being in the presence of a beautiful woman, especially one that owns her sexuality. When I saw that girl my eyes were instantly drawn to her skirt, to those legs, to my imagination of what she’d look like naked, and I knew I would have been putty in her hands. She had figured it out. Somewhere along the line she had confronted her pussy head-on and decided to harness that power, instantly transforming from your common mortal woman into the goddess lurking within.

Many women are naïve to it. We blindly walk through the opened doors; we accept free dinners and gifts and overly polite treatment by countless men, without question. We take it for granted that we have the upper hand, not out of callousness, but because we’re so used to having things handed to us we don’t even recognize it anymore. From birth, we’ve been taught to flirt, to play hard to get, to use sex as a tool and sometimes as a weapon. Even as a semi-feminist, when a man opens a door for me, I smile demurely as a form of thanks. It’s in our genes.

We’re also conditioned to sell our bodies in varying degrees of prostitution. It’s part of the subconscious game we play. “Let’s see how much we can get out of this guy before we put out.” It starts with him buying all the drinks, then it might progress to dinner, and it better not be Subway. Men are expected to cater to a woman he is pursuing financially until the woman reciprocates physically. That said, why do so many people judge professional prostitutes for being smart enough to capitalize on what we already do under the guise of femininity?

Undoubtedly, many of you will say, “I’m not like that!” but it’s important to remember the bell curve. You may be perfectly content eating Subway and paying for your own drinks and even your date’s, but spend 5 minutes in any club on a Friday night and you’ll see that you are in the minority. Not all men are created equal, either. Not everyone goes gaga over the same woman, because beauty is subjective, but everyone has someone who fits their tastes, and they will go to the ends of the earth for her. Even if you are a callous shut-in who thinks women are the devil, there is always “that one,” and she’s most likely the one who started your downward spiral to begin with.

It’s true that this is a man’s world, largely in part to counteract the power women come naturally equipped with. It is in our nature to try to “control the unknown.” Men feel threatened by women, so they demoralize them, and label them as sluts or as having “daddy issues.” It’s where the phrase, “Not the kind of girl you’d bring home to mom” came from. A woman who has mastered the art of seduction and has been wise enough to use it for her own gain is rarely respected or valued, unless it’s in the bedroom.

It’s a silent agreement we’ve all made. Women will take off their clothes for you and you will like it; you will pay for it in one way or another, then we’ll all shame one another for it. The media calls it a scandal when a politician or a celebrity takes part in it. Men are called perverts and women are unclean, though nine times out of ten the people denouncing them are the businessmen forking over thousands of dollars.

All of this is brought on by the power of the pussy. Whenever someone asks a woman, “If you could have one super power, what would it be?” her response should be, “I’ve already got it.” The fact is, behind those perfect curves there exists a real woman. Just as some fit the stereotype of “my Daddy didn’t love me,” there are just as many who really are paying their way through law school, and I, for one, applaud them. The strippers, the prostitutes, and the pink tart who commanded the attention of 2nd Ave deserve to be respected as any other successful businesswoman. Most of them work harder than any of us do, anyway.

Submitting to Fetishes.

My article posted in the April 2011 issue of Exotic Magazine. 

Submitting to Fetishes

“The last girl I was with wanted me to choke her,” he said.  I looked at him for a hint of either disgust or arousal, and when I found both, I realized this was a test.  He was asking for my approval.  I blushed and told him my jaw had been dislocated by a boyfriend once.  He smiled and whispered, “Hot,” and we both knew we had a satisfying sexual chemistry to look forward to.  When people’s fetishes are compatible, it’s a wonderful find; the perfect connection, where, for example, the Dom can dominate a willing and eager sub, or two biters can happily tear each other to shreds.

 
But what happens when someone’s kink isn’t up the same alley, or even in the same city as their potential lover’s?  There was a reason this guy didn’t offer the info up right away.  He needed my approval or rejection before he would fess up to actually being the instigator of the choking.  Why?  Because people are very judgmental, by nature, especially when it comes to sex and deviancy.
 
There’s a huge amount of hypocrisy when it comes to fetishes and kink.  Take Furries, for example (people who like to dress up as animals before mating).  A lot of individuals think that is “too weird” . . . yet those same individuals dress up as babies on Friday nights and breastfeed off their Daddies before being tucked in to bed.  People who like to have their balls squished by stilettos may realize their fetish is a little fucked, but it’s nowhere near as bad as people who play with poop.  The people who play with poop join scat parties and judge the blood sports going on in the next room, and everyone, fetishists nationwide, band together to hate on the animal fuckers. 
 
There are lines to be crossed, varying degrees of acceptability.  If asked, a lot of people will say, “I’m pretty much into everything except poop, or anything to do with animals or children.”  Ok.  Let’s take a quick breather and remember that bestiality and kiddie porn aren’t fetishes, they’re crimes, and since sodomy was still illegal in 14 states up until 2003, I’m sure there are laws that prohibit scat play as well. 

  
It’s important to note that the only reason these activities are illegal is because of our current society’s tastes, or distastes.  I am in no way condoning child porn or animal fucking, but it does call into question the desires behind the actions.  If a man desires his horse, but doesn’t act on it, ever, he is still considered a disgusting human being, and he could never, ever admit his equestrian passions in polite company.  Why is that?  Too many people say, “It’s unnatural,” but how is it any worse than people who like to be tortured before they fuck?  There are chain retail stores tailored to meet the needs of numerous fetishes, as long as they’re within the boundaries of “socially acceptable.”
 
There are entire communities, websites, blogs, meet ups, and buttloads (so many word choices here) of porn sites, tailored to the most depraved kinks you can think of.  It’s not like the people who stray too far past the line are only made up of a handful of freaks who ruin it for the rest of us - the truth is, the more objectionable it is, the more intriguing it can be.  We’ve become desensitized to porn, to images of sex, to immorality.  Unless clowns are fucking donkeys in a nunnery, it’s going to be “run of the mill” porn.  Like everything else, we need bigger, better, more.  Don’t believe me?  I have four words for you:  2 Girls, 1 Cup. 
 
The definition of a fetish is, “sexual attraction to objects, body parts, or situations not conventionally viewed as being sexual in nature.”  First, we need to remember that conventional is ”established by general consent or accepted usage,” and we all know that what the general population does behind closed doors is vastly different from the images they portray to the public.  Talk to the Catholics if you don’t agree.  More importantly, however, is the reality that fetishes are compulsions.  They are not things we choose in childhood (though that’s where a lot of them develop).  It’s not like people wake up one day and make the conscious decision to have a particular fetish.  “Hey mom, when I grow up, I’m gonna let men who are twice my age shove unusually large objects into my ass!” 
 
Just as we don’t choose who we love, we don’t choose what turns us on.  I often ask myself, what if someone I love came to me and confessed an attraction to something I considered repulsive.  I’m not talking about S&M or something that’s accepted openly even in some circles.  What if your partner, your best friend, your daughter, someone you really truly love admitted that they masturbate to horse porn?  Once you realized they weren’t joking, what would you do?  Would you ever be able to look at them the same?  If you love someone, aren’t you supposed to love all of them, especially things they have no control over?
 
Ok, maybe that’s taking it a little far.  What about judgments we make on the desires of complete strangers?  How many of us laugh at people we deem “chubby chasers?”  Why are Cougars acceptable but Sugar Daddies are dirty pervs?  Why do men check out hot women, only to freak out when they find out she’s a he?  Why are women who wear sock garters so hot, but men who wear panties under their jeans sick?
 
Fetishes are no different than culinary tastes.  It’s a proclivity we’re born with.  Some people like tomatoes.  Some like being pissed on.  Whether or not I like my salad tossed or my “salad tossed” is up to me, and no one should judge me for it.  If nothing else, we should all be free to express our sexual desires to those we are considering having sex with, and it shouldn’t be an agonizing game of dropping hints and second guessing.  Unless, of course, you’re into that kind of thing.

Once a year

Trying out a new style of writing. . . You kind of have to imagine me reading it outloud. . . it’s a mix of non-fiction and imagination. . .

But isn’t everything?

Getting your yearly STD screening is an exercise in mental warfare and a test of your ability to remain calm under pressure.  For me, it’s always an awkward experience, not because I have to divulge my sexual activities to a stranger, but because of the myriad ways they fuck with you psychologically.

It’s starts with the phone call to make the appointment.  I have a day job.  The doctor’s hours are the same as mine, so I find myself crouched in the corner of my desk whispering, “Yes, an STD screening. . .”  She can’t hear me.  “S. . T. . D. . .” I say a little louder, hypersensitive to the prying ears of my coworkers.  I can feel my face, burning hot, and while I realize part of being a sexually responsible adult includes these routine checkups, I don’t even want my coworkers to know I’m alive, much less sexual.

Then they ask if I want a male or female doctor.  To me, it doesn’t matter, but I always say female, because if the doctor is male the clinics require that a female nurse be present in the room, and that’s just embarrassing for everyone.  I always feel like I’m silently accusing him of wanting to molest me, just by being present. 

Once I get to the clinic, they hand me the 20-page form to fill out, both sides please.  In the last 12 months, have you had sex with someone of the opposite sex, same sex, or both?  Hmmm.  Yes.  As I try to recall my year, I can’t help but replay some of the scenes in my mind.  I sign the form, text the young man I met at that-one-bar that-one-night, and silently thank Group Health for being so sex positive.   

Once I finally get into the exam room, they give me a little cup to pee in, and send me into the glory hole bathroom.  This is where they have a little stainless steel door that you’re supposed to put your pee into.  As soon as I close the door I hear it open on the other side of the yellow tile wall, and I’m tempted for a moment to wrench it back open to catch them in the act.  “We all pee,” I’m thinking, though I recognize the prudish tendencies of our country.  We can be sexual, we can be fully functioning human beings, but we can.not.talk about it. 

When I get back in the room, I undress from the waist down, wondering why it’s always freezing in a place where people routinely get naked.  Is it normal to see the veins in your legs?  And I’m trying to get that little gown on as fast as I can, in case someone walks in.  I put the stiff paper cloth over my lap and try to wrap it around my ass, because it never fails that someone does walk in, and the passers-by can see inside.  I sit, trying to see my breath in the cold, and wait.   

This is how I sit for the next twenty minutes.

This is where they fuck with you. 

There is a mirror placed directly to my right, and as I look at myself in this ridiculous pink gown, under this horribly bright and unflattering light, all I can think is how much hotter I am than this.  It’s debasing really;  they strip you of your dignity, leave you naked on a table, waiting to see how big of a whore you are, then they force you to look yourself in the eye.  I avoid my reflection and turn to the left.

There, they’ve placed a poster that says, “One in three people has HPV.”  Thanks for the vote of confidence.  I start analyzing the poster, since I have nothing else to look at but the whore to my right or the torture devices they’re going to use to prove it.  

There are six people in the picture and they are the perfect collection – two blacks, two whites, two hispanics.  I can’t help but wonder what the advertising team discussed when creating this poster.  They had to be very careful.  If there were too many black people, someone could say they are implying black people are irresponsible.  If they included too many white people, they could be accused of only caring about white people’s health.

I imagine the advertising guru saying to his team, “I want you to go out and find six people, two from every race, and place them in an ark. . . ” No wait, wrong story.  “I want you to go out and find six, unassuming, non threatening, completely average-looking people.”  Then I think of the casting call, and what it would feel like to be the model for the, “totally average, devoid of uniqueness, bland, every-day-Joe” slot, and I try to imagine them showing excitement at nailing that role.

By the time the doctor comes in, I’m anxious.  I’ve just spent twenty minutes weighing my odds of having HPV, wondering what secret lab they’ve sent my pee to, and questioning everything in my life up until that point.  I’ve gone from “sexually responsible adult” to “conspiracy theorist,” but I’m not really paranoid. . . I’m onto them.  I know they planned this, because the second I lay down on the table, my eyes are immediately directed to what? 

The picture on the ceiling.  Every women’s health clinic has one.  It’s usually a tranquil scene, like a flowing brook or a field of daisies, something to calm you after all the mind games. . .an alibi, really.  Sometimes it’s just one word, like, “Serenity,” or, “Harmony,” or it’s one of those thoughtless one-liners you can buy at Fred Meyer, like, “Don’t follow your dreams; chase them,” or, “Love is blind; friendship closes its eyes.” 

Anticipating this, ready to be calmed, I took a deep breath and laid my head back on the starchy, flat brick in the shape of a pillow.  I opened my eyes to see what my fortune would be:  It’s a picture of a blossoming flower, which bears a striking resemblance to the female anatomy, and the caption reads, “Live like you’re dying.”

The next thing I know, I’m sliding down, all the way to the edge, and soon she’s doing that awkward poking thing that doesn’t hurt but isn’t comfortable, kind of like tapping on your soul with a ping hammer, and I’m thinking of all the women who this might be scary for, and then I’m thinking about closet-lesbianism, and whether or not some women feel the need to go to confession after the “two finger exam.”

As soon as she’s done, I’m still laying there, lube sticking to the paper sheet, when she asks me how I want to be notified of the results.  Why do they ask that?  We both know how it’s done.  It’s the coup de grace of STD screening, the pinnacle of the cruel and unusual punishment, and the exact wording is crucial.  If they call you to “schedule an appointment to discuss the results,” you’re fucked.  I smirk at her and say, “a phone call is fine.” 

I leave the clinic, one more year down, one more donation to god-knows-what expiremental group with a successful business on the black market selling my urine, my cells, my soul, my dignity.  The fact that my appointment just took longer than any of the sex that landed me there makes me briefly contemplate abstinence, but then that-one-guy from that-one-night texts back, and I smile, charge my copay and think to myself, “Live like you’re dying.”