"To fuck" is "to have sexual intercourse with"

I don’t know about you, but one of the most satisfying words in the world to me is the word fuck.

Say it. Fuck. FUCK. F-U-C-K. Fŭk. FUH-kuh.

It starts off strong and aggressive and angry-sounding, yet it ends with a soft, cute, little kuh sound. It’s sort of endearing. Sort of like March entering like a lion and leaving a lamb, but I digress.

I love that fuck can have a very specific meaning, when used as a verb. When you say that “we fucked all night”, it’s very different from the romantic-sounding “we made love all night” or the preteen-sounding “we did IT all night” or the goofy Bridget Jones-esque “we shagged all night” or especially the “we had sex all night”, which sounds so clinical that it evokes images of hospital-bed sex.

Let’s face it, there’s nothing quite like the word fuck to get your point across. To me, fucking implies passion and strong emotions and spontaneity and … great sex. From my own experience, when you tell your partner how much you want to fuck him or her, there’s very little else that you can say that will incite such a strong sexual response. Whether you’re on the giving or the receiving end of an “I wanna fuck you so bad”, there’s a pretty good chance that such usage of the word fuck will awaken the animal in you. (Pardon the cheesiness of that statement.)

I’m not a fan of using fuck in non-sexual situations. For example, you’ll never catch me saying “fuck George Bush!”. I’m no fan of his, but why would I make a statement implying my willingness to “fuck him” if I really don’t want to fuck him? Likewise, it’s very rare that you’ll hear me say “fuck this [insert inanimate object here]!”

My reasoning behind this might be a little irrational, and will probably make me sound like a huge dorky loser who worries too much. But I’ll confess anyway: Somehow, I’m afraid of saying fuck too often in non-sexual and day-to-day situations, for fear that using that word so freely would somehow diminish its power as a sexual aphrodisiac.

If I say I want to fuck Stephen Harper and Big Tobacco and corporations and Montreal’s metro system and my imminent term paper and the patriarchy and the system and the police … well, that’s a lot of metaphorical fucking of a lot of rather unpleasant things.

And what would happen when the lights are low, and all parties involved are horny, and then I tell someone that I want to fuck him or her, and I sincerely mean it? What if I’ve associated so closely the pleasure of fucking with such unpleasant entities like George Bush, that I’ll no longer be able to enjoy the same strong passionate effects of that word on myself?

So what do I say instead then, when I wish to sincerely express my hatred for something or someone? Screw works well enough for me. It carries the same meaning as fuck, but without the same effects of lust and passion.

Am I irrational? Overly cautious? Worrying too much? Most likely. But as my mom said when I was a kid, “It’s better to be safe than sorry.”

– Yun

PS: Upon rereading and counting, I see this post used the word fuck (and its variations) 25 times. Huh. You think that’s a little excessive?

Old Dog, New Trick

I’m back in the game. After last week’s post about how I have nothing to write about, I return triumphantly with a strong card: a 60 year old sex change. That’s right.

I was working last night (and by working I mean staring dumbly at the ticket machine in a dead bar) when an old friend from high school whom I haven’t seen since last Thanksgiving showed up with my girlfriend. In the midst of our hurried catching up she mentioned that, given that I was writing about all things sex related, she had a story for me. Apparently, her grandpa knows some other old guy who, after 60 years of walking around with a penis, decided that he was tired of all things to do with shrinkage, chafing, spontaneous erections and whatnot; he got himself a lovely pair of blouse bunnies with a new name to boot.

This is nothing if it’s not odd. Why would someone go through the surgery, the hormone therapy, the legal process and the whole ordeal of getting a sex change so late in life? I mean, it’s not like he has much more to go – at best he’s got 25-30 years, and when you’re 60, it’s not that much. Plus, it’s not like he’s at the pinnacle of his sexual life and can pursue countless of previously unaccessible romances. Granted, I know nothing about this guy – my friend half yelled the story from across the hot table under the din of the blower struggling to keep the bar warm. My knowledge is minimal at best. Still, it’s under these conditions that my awesome powers of snap judgments thrive.

Let’s start with the obvious: he realized he would be happier as a girl than a guy. That is way too simple of an explanation when someone is 18, let alone 60. Why now? Conceivably, he’s been with lots of women, several long-term relationships, maybe even was married. And just now he realized he wants to be a girl? I can’t really think of any other reasons why a relatively old guy would want a sex change, though, I can’t think of a reason as to why this would be the only factor. Sure, I guess he could have been thinking about it for decades and just now there’s the technology, or just now he has the money or the courage. But still, from what I gather, there haven’t really been any other symptoms – I doubt he spent lots of time doing all he could to portray a woman.

I guess it’s really not that big of a deal – I’m all for people doing what they want when they want. This just seems somewhat capricious to me. If he’s lived this long, why not play the entire game and hope that overtime sees him better off? This is why modern medicine is such a bitch – it gives in to people’s whims at the drop of a hat. We’ve got medicine under our thumbs, and in this case, there’s a girl who just changed her ways. Sex is definitely not gender – people can feel a variety of ways with a variety of equipment. But, to me, this is a case of giving people too much rope. Today’s accelerated culture gives us what we want when we want it. This old guy either spent the last 40 years thinking about this or the last 40 minutes. Personally, I hope it’s the latter.

Some like it hot (and sweaty).

What do really intense workouts, almost unbearably hot saunas, and amazingly passionate sex have in common? The sweatier the better. There is nothing like the feeling of cold sweat dripping down your stomach and feeling it mix with someone else’s as you both get hotter and hotter. Thanks to an experiment conducted by researchers at UC Berkeley, there is now an explanation for our appreciation of sweaty sex. Androstadienone, a derivative of testosterone found in male sweat, saliva, and semen was found to elevate women’s mood, sexual arousal, blood pressure, and heart rate upon inhalation. Women who smelled this musky scented chemical reportedly experienced all of the above reactions as well as increased cortisol levels. So far, this is the only component of male sweat that has been tested and the reverse experiment has not been done, nor has research been conducted in relation to homosexual couples of either gender, but researchers are confident that there may be more to the sweat – satisfaction correlation.
So, it might mean doing more laundry and a higher hydro bill but for a change of pace, try turning the thermostat in your room up as high as it can go and experience a little more of what your partner has to offer!
Check out the article here: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/17045070/

Yet another excuse…

Some holidays are limited
To a particular nation or state;
But here’s one that’s followed
By all who masturbate.

– Tricia

If your agenda is anything like mine, the next few months are filled with boring, stressful events underlined twice in red – midterms, job interviews, papers and so on and so forth. So here’s a little something that might brighten up your calendar: May is Masturbation Month (alliteration and self-loving – does it get any better than this?).

How to celebrate? Research a few new techniques (check out The Big Book of Masturbation) and spend May 7 with Palmela. Those of you searching for a more adventurous way to contribute to charity can participate in a Masturbate-a-thon – to date, worldwide Masturbate-a-thons have raised $25,000 for charities like Stella in Montreal and Maggie’s in Toronto. The British version is a <!– D([“mb”,”Wank-a-thon, the best means of finding out "if the only things allowed to be stiff in Britain are upper lips"). \n

Not related, but kind of funny – The New York Times declares Paul Bunyan a \nModern-Day Sex Symbol.

\n”,0] ); D([“ce”]); //–>Wank-a-thon (apparently the best means of finding out “if the only things allowed to be stiff in Britain are upper lips”).

In past years, the Canadian co-operatively run sex shop Come As You Are/Venez tels quels has sponsored events around Canada, but I couldn’t find any new information on their site. I’ve e-mailed them and will be sure to post any details. In the meantime, stock up on a good lubricant and don’t forget to pencil it in…

Chinese Mothers: Sex and Morals

I’m supposed to be a good chinese girl. I”m supposed to do my homework, get good grades, find a reliable job and a good reliable husband whose emotionally (and financially) stable. Oh and btw, no pre-marital sex. but that goes without saying, cause being a good Chinese girl, I don’t think about sex. Period.

Well, little does mummy know about all my extracurriculars. Shag Shop, this blog/magazine, and my future goals to become a sexual health educator and sex therapist.

“So tell me about your life. We haven’t talked in awhile.”

“Well, I’m volunteering at a health promotion store.”

“What kind of health promotion?”

“Ummm, toothbrushes, and general er hygiene, student stuff…..”

“Oh I see. What else are you doing?”

“I’m writing for a magazine. Its just starting up.”

“What kind of magazine?”

“Er um, a magazine for school.”

“Oh okay-” and then she quickly switches the subject.

How the hell do you balance, wanting to share with your mom all about your life, yet not being able to tell her, MOST of it, because it has to do with sex? How do you tell your mom that her tenants wouldn’t keep irresponsibly having babies if they knew how important contraceptive protection is? I know its traditional values. But I’m talking about reality, that and the possibility of NOT being afraid of talking about or displaying sex. I mean, its everywhere, yet we censor and fight with millions of dollars to endorse ‘abstinence programs’ to preserve the sanctity and purity of our modern day amercian youths! (and unwanted pregnacies and STIs are just myths) These abstinence programs dramatically distort scientific facts, ie. stating condoms only work 31% of the time. (its actually closer to around 80%). Not saying my mom endorses these programs, she wouldn’t say it out right, but she certainly wouldn’t talk about it. But then again I think, well, her life was so incredibly different from mine. I can’t blame my mom for that, just like I can’t blame her for a lot of other cultural gaps between us. Her sex-ed, growing up in communist China, was limited and restricted, to say the least; huddled around a book called “Sex Knowledge” that some of the kids read. She said that the ones who refused to read it, were secretly, the most sick- and she pointed to her belly for some reason. I still don’t know why.

Yet, all utterances of “sex education” go completely ignored. So tell me, all the anthropologists and cultural brokers out there, is it better that I never tell her about this then? To keep my relationship with her running smoothly? But is it really smooth if I don’t tell her what Im doing with my life? And the worse possibility, would she just reject it? or perhaps, reject me.

So how do I be a good chinese girl who likes to fuck? And this is where my identity crisis begins. Chicken or the egg? Both please.

Kama Sutra – An Indian History

The art of Kama Sutra has become a popular reference for partners to add excitement and adventure into their sex lives. But little do many of us realize the ancient-dated history behind Kama Sutra.

Kama, meaning pleasure or sensual desire, comes from the name of the Indian God embodying the sexual nature of man. And Sutra means short books or aphorisms.

The first Kama Sutra book, ‘Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana’ was written by the Indian sage of Vatsyayana not as a lover’s guide for the public, but rather for one wealthy city man.

The contents of the book were assembled around the third century BCE, based on nearly three thousand years of writings on various sexual topics. These include not only lovemaking, but also kissing techniques, dating practices, treatment of your marriage partner and recipes for aphrodisiacs.

The original version was written in Sanskrit, translated into English for the first time in 1883.

Today the Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana is not only the oldest and best-known Indian sex manual, but also the most famous of all books published on the ancient art of desire and lovemaking.

The explorative and sensual nature of our ancestors is captured in this old text. With its insight into the ancient sexual mysteries of the far east this early Hindu love-manual has powerfully fascinated generations of people and inspired many versions of Kama Sutra.

See original article at: http://www.thatsweird.net/history1.shtml

On aging gracefully

I am currently in desperate need of continuous internet service and such and this is why I have been incognito as of late. However I did get the opportunity to catch the following advertisement for Dove on late night television last night. Click Here to see it. I thought it was great! Beautiful and classy and demonstrating that no matter what our age might be beauty remains despite (or perhaps because of) age spots, wrinkles, and a little tummy fat. Although, out of curiosity… why is it that all the advertisements for beauty and such never have Arabs in them… makes me wonder if advertisers are afraid of backlash or even if we aren’t considered as a separate entity in this realm of humanity. hmmm… food for thought.
– Jehan

Ramblings from a bitter lesbian

I also find myself in this situation: I haven’t had any contact more than a couple kisses with any girl in the past, pfff, let’s say, 3 weeks. I feel like I shouldn’t even be writing about sex if I ain’t doin’ it!

I’m getting to that bitter state that annoys every person that IS having sex: “damn you for having someone to FUCK when I don’t!” It’s true, I’m bitter. Too bitter for my own good. I know I’m rambling here and you have my permission to skip this post.

I broke up with “the girlfriend” in November and since then, apart from a few booty calls with her, I went out with another chikidee three times. That obviously didn’t work out because I’m now writing about this. I just want to add that it’s way too hard for me to be able to find ANYone in this city. As mentionned in a previous post, there are plenty(perhaps TOO many) hot girls in MTL. The thing is, they are mostly straight or bi(but let’s face it, they’ll end up with guys). OH, they might be gay but who the hell knows. As I’ve been told countless times before, I look as straight as the next girl so no girls ever hit on me (OH, except butch lesbians: just my luck). Nope.. I always get hit on by guys. And when I kick myself in the ass to actually go out in the Village, I get hit on by… the only straight guy in the place! When I tell them that I am gay they jump back and practically ask me for “gay ID”.

Therefore, for me to actually find (and keep) a lesbian, I would need to either go to all those “gay activities” organized by universities i don’t go to, go to clubs where everyone thinks I’m straight, meet someone on the net who will perhaps turn out to be a psycho OR make myself look way more “gay” which will not happen.

What would guys say to this(in my experience)? GO BACK TO DUDES!

And to that I say “do you even KNOW how hot it is to be with a girl?”

So thank you for listening. I swear my next post will be more… bearable!

At Last There’s Nothing Left To Say

Ah, my creative well has finally run dry. For the first time since I started posting in this blog, I have no idea what to write about. And it’s really not my fault. Sex is a dead horse. But, I still like talking about it, reading about it, thinking about it… if sex is a dead horse, I don’t want to be a live horse. Regardless, my thoughts on equines and their lives has nothing to do with this blog, at least not until I can figure a way to slide them into the conversation like a guy trying to slide in through the back door “by accident.” Anyways, back to the topic du jour: I really have nothing to write about. I wrestle with this particular demon every week as I rack my brain during the week to come up with something barely comprehensible to post, and so far, I think it’s worked pretty well. I suppose I could just post a link or a picture, but I like to think. I like mental challenges. I’m awful at Sudoku. And so, here I am, trying to exorcise this bitch of a writer’s block.

I’ve already written about sex as the most universal experience. The most universal taboo is incest, which is also about sex. Sex is interesting to read about because everyone has their own experience which is instantaneously related to by millions. Having a “unique” experience in the sack is like buying your punk t-shirts at the Gap… it just doesn’t happen, and if it does, everyone has one. Writing about sex is ridiculously easy and the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write about, and that includes splitting hairs between popular and mass culture in Dracula. It’s easy because just about anything passes for a conversation on sex and sexuality – just look at this post for a prime example. It’s hard because, well, look at this post. I’m trying to come up with something original. But, original is hard to come by in this line of work. Or perhaps I’m a mediocre writer, which is a strong possibility. What is original? It seems to me that coming up with something original between the sheets is like trying up to think of a fantasy with absolutely no basis in reality. Every dirty word can be said has been said, every position humped into the ground, every fantasy realized. Sex has probably been postmodern since about two weeks after Adam and Eve found out how to insert slot A into tab B (and C and D). All that’s left for us 21st centurians is to re-piece the puzzle in different ways – not necessarily original, but different enough so that it stands on its own.

And so, I leave you with a comical ad. Incidentally, diamonds are not forever, that’s a scam. I wonder if that’s a real blowjob or they just used shadows to eliminate depth.

Queefing: The beginning of a love story

My vagina makes noises.

It makes noises during sex. It sounds sort of airy: A hiccup escaping, a bubble popping. Luckily, this phenomenon that my vagina exhibits isn’t rare. In fact, it’s common enough to warrant a name: Queefing. Conjugate it: I queef, you queef, we queefed, they are queefing …

I discovered what queefs were when I was in high school, fooling around with my then-boyfriend. When it happened, we both paused and sort of stared bemusedly at my vagina. He pronounced with much hilarity, “Your pussy totally just farted!” Needless to say, it was a little hard for me to resume our activities with the same eagerness.

Luckily, this embarassing incident didn’t scar me and turn me off sex permanently. It did, however, instill me with a certain sense of wariness before having sex with a new partner. Will I queef? Will it be loud? Will it – oh god! – occur while my partner’s face is right by my crotch, so that he or she receives the force full-blast?

I was just speaking with another girl who queefs not during sex, but up to 24 hours afterwards. I haven’t yet decided if I should feel envious of her. Is it better to queef in your partner’s face in bed, or to do it while quietly standing in line at the bank or while in Downward Dog pose at yoga class the morning after?

All that being said, despite the suckiness of queefing at inopportune times (like there’s even a right time anyway!), I’m starting (or trying to) get used to it. It’s something that most women have to deal with, so I might as well try to laugh it off.

I’m trying to be grateful: If I’m queefing, well, at least it means that I’m having sex. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, right? I’m trying to be pragmatic: The body makes all sorts of weird noises. Stomachs gurgle, jaws crick, throats gulp. Why is it that any sound that goes on below-the-belt automatically gets demonized? I’m trying to be optimistic: Hey, at least queefs don’t smell!

I’m really trying to embrace the queef. I guess I’ve already taken the first step, which is admitting that I queef. Maybe next, I should search for a t-shirt that says QUEEFING IS CUTE, in an effort to give it some positive publicity?

– Yun

PS: By the way, if you’re like me and you do happen to queef during sex, you can try to take preventative action. Before having sex, try pressing down on the area right below your stomach and above your pubic bone. It might expel some air lurking inside your pussy.

Art of the Nude

Every year, first-year students flock to the McGill poster sale and pick up the same tired images (that photo of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, say, or the Periodic Table of Mixology) to decorate their peeling, spartan walls. I think the money would be better spent on these handmade, affordable and very sexy works of art available on Etsy (all prices in U.S. dollars):

Original nude female painting in watercolor, for $30 by Clive Lennard

In the Woods, a photograph for $33 by Vanessa Ruiz

Vintage Nude no. 7, for $5 by Elizabeth

Lust, a limited edition linocut for $15, by Frau Matilda

Art Squared Nude with Lace, for $6.50 by Kimtedrow

Rachel

Photo by Ben Lee

And who said Valentine’s Gifts had to be Boring? (or from Hallmark )

I was sending off my care package to my partner, and part of it was going to be red and silver kisses and a pair of panties. Then the picture you know see before your eyes- occured to me (sorry, thats taken with a webcam, I don’t have a camera, the color is pretty off, its supposed to be red edges with sheer pink cloth and red polka dots.) If you’re into mixing food, clothes, and sex, (and gifts), which I totally am, this is a sexy present to give, with a personal and naughty touch. Instead of the regular heart shaped metallic box full of chocolates that your partner will probably won’t like, try this.

Panties/Boxers/whatever you like to wear on your tuche!
A lot of saftey pins
Individualized Candy/Chocolates

Get a sexy or fun pair of panties (or boxers) that you are nice looking, but perhaps uncomfortable to wear or you don’t wear that often, and pin up the thigh holes with coloured (I used gold, it matched nicely with the pink and red) saftey pins. Then fill the panty/boxer pouch with whatever candy your parnter or whoever you’re giving it to likes, (I used red and silver kisses cause I already bought them, but you can use virtually anything thats got individual wrapping). Then simply pin up the last largest opening of the panties with the rest of the saftey pins, making sure your spacing between the pins is small enough so the candy doesnt’ fall out. You don’t have to do this, but I did it to make candy pillaging easy, I took one saftey pin that was larger than the rest and put it in the center of the panty edge, so that the person could undo just that part, which creates a nice little opening for the candy to come out.

Sorry, but this doesn’t work with thongs. Thongs suck anyway. I feel like self-induced wedgies are just unnecessary.

Happy Pantieging!

Sexy People in Music

And no, I don’t mean anyone in the Pussycat Dolls. That’s not music – that’s a couple of prostitutes wearing what can only be described as “used-to-be-clothing” dancing around in a manner that would suggest they hang out on St Catherine way too much. Sexy people in music is more about people whose sexuality is totally enhanced by music. An excellent example of this is Miss Petra the violinist in the Foo Fighters’s latest DVD, Skin and Bones. Not only is the DVD totally fucking awesome (Best of You, Everlong, Razor, Next Year…the list goes on and on), but it also blew my mind the first time I watched it. See, amidst all these ex-grunge-era-turned-full-out-rockers sits a completely unremarkable woman. When you see her before the concert, she doesn’t look particularly good nor bad – she just looks. But, a couple of songs into the concert and I couldn’t help but notice that I kept focusing all my attention on her, rather than the ridiculous antics of Dave Grohl on stage. She was just sitting there so demurely shredding her violin to pieces as she kept up effortlessly with Grohl and Co. And she was hot. Not just good looking, not just interesting, she was blowing my mind. Now, perhaps I’m weird, perhaps I’ve turned into a George-like character and can no longer differentiate between sex and food (or in my case, music), but I think that there’s something else at play here rather than raging hormones. The music totally transformed this previously aforementioned totally bland woman into quite the object of my desire. It could be because she was wearing red in a sea of black and blue. It could also be because she was wearing a foxy dress. And those are all at play here, but the biggest reason, I think, is because she was completely surrounded and involved in music that I loved, so, I just displaced my love for music into my momentary love for her.

I was reading Klosterman IV for the umpteenth time the other day, when I got to the article where he talks about Lez Zeppelin, the all-female Led Zeppelin tribute band. The lead singer, whose name escapes me now, keenly pointed out the psychology behind her band…it was something along the lines of how Jimmy Paige and Robert Plant were always good looking men, and now that they were being played by women, men in the audience could un-repress their sexual feelings for them. This makes total sense to me. A similar thing happens in glam metal – you’ve got men dressed up as women on stage prancing about in hypersexualized moves, tight pants, and heavy make up while threatening to pummel your skull in with their bass lines. There has to be some variety of homoerotic undercurrent at shows like this.

Anyways, back to Miss Petra. After conferring with my girlfriend, she confirms this feeling, but with a guy: apparently John Mayer is ridiculously hot on stage (who knew?), but off stage, he’s just another Joe Dude. So, this phenomenon works both ways, for both sexes. I’m not sure about gay men or women, though…do they get turned on by Jimmy Paige or Bret Michaels? How bout other artists? I’d like to hear from our audience – is there anyone you think is totally smoking on stage, because of their music, not their tiny bra and huge breasts, yet completely boring off stage?

Sexually Dsyfunctional, or Sexually Defunct?

So as I was sitting in my Intro to Abnormal Psychology class, eagerly listening to my professor give his lecture on sexual dysfunctions. Yay! Okay, honestly its a nice change from dry empirical biochemistry and bullshit. Mental disorders are all categorized and filely neatly away in the latest version of the Diagnostic Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, fondly referred to as DSM IV-R, a book whose new diagnoses and disease creations (and eliminations) have further widened the gates to neurochemical phenonmenon and linked arms with the pharmceutical industry, basically: EVERYONE TAKE DRUGS.
The sexual disorders are a recent addition to the book, making its debut in DSM III in 1980. Just to give you an idea of the way they describe these disorders and justify their diagnoses, heres the full definition for Female Orgasmic Disorder:

“Persistent or recurrent delay in, or absence of, orgasm following a normal sexual excitement phase. Women exhibit wide variability in the type or intensity of stimulation that triggers orgasm. The diagnosis of Female Orgasmic Disorder should be based on the clincian’s judgement that the woman’s capacity is less than would be reasonable for her age, sexual experience, and the adequacy of sexual stimulation she receives.” (DSM IV 302.73)

Right. So the description acknowledges that women can experience orgasm in a multitude of ways, hurray! -Oh but wait, someone else actually gets to decide whether her orgasm is good enough? Last time I checked, I, the woman experiencing the orgasm, knows whether my orgasm is good enough- thank you. Ultimately, this psychiatric bible is determining what a normal orgasm should be like for women, and (big surprise) men too. Except I find the male one even more infuriating. Not only does the description ignore the reality of variability in experiencing a male orgasm, but it also assumes that all males’ should be able to get off “following a normal sexual excitement phase during sexual activity” (DSM IV 302.74). Seriously, I’ve known guys who can only get off (in the ‘normal way’) if they have their nipples sucked or during simultaneous anal stimulation- and I doubt thats the normality that psychiatrists are referring to.

To say the least, I’m not impressed.

Now, just to make this clear, I am not in any way trivializing people who feel they have sexual problems (hah, don’t we all). What I’m critiquing is the wholehearted weight put on the clinician’s judgement, rather than self-report from the person themselves; as well as the preassumptions that orgasms are necessarily acheived by these simple standardized plug and chug formulas.
On another note, I am highly suspicious of a controversial issue that arises with the creation of new disorders, namely how many people think they have these disorders as a result of heavy mongering by one track minded pharmceuticals, whose fat vats of profit have been the financial backbone of much research and studies. And of course, these are the same studies that claim existence of disorders like Sexual Dysfunctions, and then go on to publish in the latest DSM. Just some food for thought.

And the cherry to top off this pile of shit, we’re paying pharmacies so much for drugs that don’t really work. Take Viagra for example. More than 50% of men who are prescribed Viagra never re-new their prescriptions. Why? When you’re feeling nice and horny, your brain stimulates the release of a chemical called Cyclic guanosine monophosphate (cyclic GMP), which causes muscles in the spongy erectile tissue of your penis to relax- and the arteries to expand (Pihl 8). What Viagra does is block the enzyme that takes up cyclic GMP, which in turn changes the arterial flow going to and from your penis; blood is not taken up and the erection remains. So Viagra doesn’t actually change your sexual desire, it only maintains your erection: you have to get an erection first in order to maintain one. Looks like we’re back to base 1. Damnit.

Model Behavior.

Montreal.
Home to more than three and a half million people of all different shapes, sizes, races, religions, and sexual orientations – half of whom, theoretically, are male. In a city as diverse as this, with 70% of the population between the ages of 18 and 64 and a (rarely enforced) drinking age of 18, how is it possible that it is so hard to find a guy worth falling for?
I think the answer is pretty simple, there are just too many pretty girls in Montreal. Everyone talks about it, even people who have never been to Montreal know about it. For whatever reason, the women here are gorgeous. It’s not possible that they were all born naturally beautiful, and it’s definitely not the clean air that does it for them; but it’s something about the way they carry themselves, they way they walk, talk, dress, and laugh. It’s not easy to look stylish when it’s -30 outside but if there is one city in the world where it can be done, it’s here. Trying to compete with women like this is almost as futile as trying to find deeper meaning in reruns of the Simpson’s. Try as I might, I will never be mistaken for a Québécoise; nor will I ever look good while walking to class in the middle of winter, or make stilettos seem like appropriate breakfast attire – and this is probably a good thing.
Sitting in the lockerroom at the gym the other day I overheard a group of attractive women – both Québécoise and Francophone, lamenting the lack of cute guys in the city and complaining about how hard it was to find a boyfriend. I’m not sure whether I should be comforted by the fact that they too have trouble meeting guys or even more disconcerted about the prospects for the rest of us. Either way, all I know is that if it is this hard for me to meet guys I can’t imagine what it must be like for a guy to meet another guy – I mean, at least my selection pool is bigger.
Although it doesn’t provide you with a wealth of cute and available men, this city certainly can keep you entertained. The prospect of meeting that one guy is just tangible enough to keep you entralled, and perhaps this is Montreal’s real charm.

The second kind of woman

This is a picture of my best friend Kiki with some special ladies in Phuket, Thailand. It cracks me up for several reasons: one, I find it hard to tell my friend apart from the others; two, I love the wordplay on every American child’s favourite store; and three, I have no idea what Kiki is doing on a stage in Patong with a group of kathoeys.

Kathoeys are an integral part of the party scene in Phuket, Bangkok and Pattaya. On nights out, my male friends in high school always complained about kathoeys crowding them and grabbing at their crotch (a common pickpocketing tactic), but the sao praphet song fascinated me. I’ll never forget my disappointment when, stuck toiling at the local newspaper for my school’s work experience programme, I found out that a friend had been able to stand in on a sex-change operation at the hospital.

The kathoeys in Patong dress up in over-the-top ball gowns or skimpy bikinis, feather headpieces, several pounds of makeup, clear plastic platforms and more sequins than Liberace and Cher combined. Most of the time, they just looked bored – dancing apathetically on a platform, posing for pictures, talking to this or that sleazy sex tourist. What’s really interesting about kathoeys – especially for Westerners coming from supposedly more liberal and “advanced” societies – isn’t their sex appeal, but the degree to which they are accepted in Thailand. This isn’t to say that kathoeys don’t face discrimination (even after genital reassignment surgery, they can’t change their legal sex), but they are generally regarded as an unexceptional part of society. While many work in the sex industry, there have been kathoey kickboxers (check out the exceptionally hot Nong Thoom), beauty queens and volleyball players.

So, in the spirit of McGill’s recent V-Day festivities, I’d like to applaud Thailand’s famous ladyboys for being brave enough to take a highly visible stand in society, and good-natured enough to pose with my friend and other obviously inebriated foreigners.

Valentine’s Day, the honest way

Sexy cards like this are available courtesy of V-Day, on sale for $3 in the Shatner Building. All proceeds go towards grassroots charities working to end gender-based violence.

How About You Stick With What You Know?

I present to you the perfect example of how not to further the productive discourse on sex: men talking for both genders.

Cory Silverburg from About.com attempts to inform me about “Ten Ways to Screw Up Your Sex Life.” Lists in general tend to bother me. They’re trendy and usually present me with nothing inventive. Still, I’m always willing to give them a try as they are popular in publications for a reason: we always get sucked into reading them. So, ten ways to screw up my sex life, eh? $50 says I can name at least 8 of the suggestions. Pay up as I got ’em. Take care of your body? Let your own experience be your guide? Be aware of the risks? Be open to experimentation? Oh, Cory! Where would I be without you?

So here are the two that really burn me. Cory enlightens us on two ideas that are “sure fire ways to not get what you want sexually, and to screw up your sex life something awful.” They are: “grow up, and get serious” and “act like sex is something special.” Now, Mr. Silverman, I know that most men are able to compartmentalize sex. Sex to the majority of men is like a nice steak; really good going down but after it’s done, they’re already thinking about dessert. Women are a different breed. Now ladies, don’t think I’m setting back the “cause” here by applying some form of a double standard. Men and women are different in many ways. Your objections will only cause me to yawn. I have met very few women who are able to have casual sex. Even the ones who make this claim I immediately doubt. Women have an overriding tendency to associate something more to the act of sex. Is it in our natures? Was it nurtured? I don’t really care, but the truth of my experience is it is what it is. When a woman gives over her body, she gives over a hell of a lot more than just an opportunity for “a rollicking good time.” Women are culturally forced to live up to different standards in regards to their reputations. Do I detest the idea that when men sleep around they are called studs and when women sleep around they are called sluts? You bet, but culture hasn’t changed as much as I’m sure many of us would like from those prudish Victorian days.

Maybe one day the majority of women will have the luxury to say “sex isn’t really anything special” and I will believe them with all my heart. Until then, gentleman, speak for yourselves.

On Vanity

Vanity is a strange thing, it walks the line between confidence and arrogance and more often than not it tends to find itself veering towards the latter. I think vanity in and of itself is a hard thing to define…Nietzche wrote that “vanity is the fear of appearing original: it is thus a lack of pride, but not necessarily a lack of originality” and I tend to disagree. I think that true vanity is a mixture of extreme confidence and tempered arrogance. We all have to be a little arrogant because the society in which we live (and I’m referring to North America here) is not one in which the meek are rewarded. In this sense vanity could be defined as a tool, used to defend ourselves against those who would have us, in a sense, diminished.
I am for the most part a confident person, I like who I am and I like how I look. I will also freely acknowledge that I wouldn’t kick myself out of bed even if I covered it with crumbs due to my penchant for crumpets… does this make me vain? I think not, I think it simply demonstrates my confidence in myself… or so I intend to believe. As my friend M told me today, she enjoys looking at herself naked, is there anything so wrong in that?

Of course, where vanity matters the most is in the bedroom. If your partner is self-centered then he or she is less likely to try and help you enjoy yourself. I mean, if I was truly vain I would dispense entirely with men and self-pleasure instead. Luckily for mankind I have not quite reached this point yet.

That’s EXACTLY what my horny self was thinkin’

Valentine’s Day Massacre

So, next week is Valentine’s Day. Inevitably, thousands of blogs and columns will be filled with pieces either celebrating a romantic holiday or decrying a materialistic, arbitrary, hypocritical day. It’s becoming harder and harder to write on topics like Valentine’s Day or even the topic of this blog, sex. Sex is, to no one’s surprise, probably one of the most universal experiences in humanity. Coupled to the fact that it is infinitely interesting to read about, the two most talked about subjects in modern discourse must indeed be sex and death.

So, with all this historical pressure on me, what I am to write about Valentine’s Day? Should I be popularly counterculture and decide that Valentine’s Day is a rosy day created by capitalism to fuel our desire to prove our intangible worth through materialistic means, ie. candies, chocolates, bears, lingerie, etc? Or should I take a traditional route and try to convince everyone to embrace this holiday for what it is, namely, an excuse to spend time with one’s partner in a day historically created just for loved ones? Either way is infinitely unsatisfying and vacuous. Espousing either point of view just seems to be a pointless exercise in the literary equivalent of masturbation. Yet, how to stand on both sides? Or, better yet, neither side?

I still have no idea what I’m going to do for Valentine’s Day. My girlfriend seems to just want to keep it simple and go to a movie and then have a fancy dinner. That’s a little boring. I just want to hang out, essentially ignoring the holiday. That’s a lot clichéd. Perhaps I’ll take her out to dinner for the hell of it, given that we haven’t really been on a date in forever. That would be nice. But then there’s the question of the gift…what to get her? Candy? No, I’ll eat it before I get to her house. A bear? Why? I’d sooner get her a puma…but where am I going to find a stuffed puma? Flowers? No way, they’ll die in the cold on my way over, or they’ll die within a week at her place. A card? Nope, I’m not going to allow other people to tell someone how I feel about them. I think this is where the crux of the holiday lies – either people aren’t creative enough to tell their boyfriend/girlfriend how they feel, so they use this holiday as a thinly-veiled excuse to let someone else profess their love, or people are too indignant that other people can so aptly describe their “most personal feelings,” and, moreover, that these feelings are perfectly transposable to any other person in the world.

This is where the genius for Valentine’s Day really lies – in the assumption that humans are empty vessels originally, clean slates, yet they’ve all been impressed with the same stamp by culture. Thus, your unique feeling is not really unique at all, but a carefully calculated response to whatever text is available, already encoded into the message, already taken care of. Hallmark doesn’t care that you found “the love of your life”; instead, they know that their unabashedly cute card will still fit the bill, whether it’s your soulmate or someone you’ll dump in a week, just to not seem like too much of a bastard for doing it during Valentine’s Day.

Seemingly, there is no solution to Valentine’s Day – every nuance has been taken care of, every angle has been covered. Even the most zealous of rebels or the most zealous of pundits, take your pick, there’s no difference, will still feel different on Valentine’s Day. No one will wake up the 22nd of March and say “You know what, I totally missed Valentine’s Day this year – totally flew right over my head.” Valentine’s Day is not just another day, in this year’s case, not just another Wednesday – we’ve deemed it long ago that this day halfway through February would be different. So, next week, be different.

This will be great when my parents visit…

Selling safe sex

Much has been made of McGill’s Shagalicious Shop – it’s been lauded for promoting safe sex by Canada.com, The Globe and Mail, Macleans and The Mirror, among others – but what I really love about the Shag Shop is the clever packaging:

Eat out and enjoy!

It follows the same kind of logic as the Rabbit; make a sex product cute and fun, and it’ll sell itself. Box up twelve condoms (for a mere $2.99) in a mini Chinese take-out container and suddenly durex isn’t something you shamefacedly pick up at the pharmacy; it’s approchable and even trendy. At a time when the Quebec government is cutting out sex education in high schools (in spite of rising STD infections among Canadian youths), it’s more important than ever to sell safe sex. The Shag Shop, with its candy condom bins and lubricant samplers (flavours include strawberry cheesecake and melon), is a sexy necessity.

For ladies seeking alternative menstrual solutions, the shop also carries the Diva Cup. The Shag Shop is located at Student Health Services Clinic (Brown Building), 3511 Peel St. (at Dr. Penfield).

It’s a Good Thing They Made That Clear…

The Greeks had Nothing Against Naked Athletics…

I’ve always stared with envy at small-breasted women. Dress doesn’t work with a bra? No worries! They’re still perky and cute as hell. Industrial-strength sports bra? No need! Amsterdam seems to be testing those who can endure unsupported jiggling for all sexes with the introduction of ‘Naked Sunday’ at Fitworld gym.

The gym’s owner, Patrick de Man, was inspired by two of his customers who are ardent nudists as well as other gyms that offer ‘pole-dancing’ as an activity.

Nudist exercisers are required to place towels on weight machines and use disposable seat covers for riding bicycles. de Man assured all that the machines will be disinfected afterward as is the usual procedure.

“We recently conducted a large survey among our members, and most prefer to exercise with their clothes on,” he said. “The most popular activities (for nudists) are things you do outdoors, like walking on the beach, or swimming in a lake, or maybe gardening.”

I’m self-conscious enough at the gym as is, so having everything exposed to God and Country might not be my cup of tea. For those who enjoy the sight of flesh, sweat, and straining, the inaugural ‘Naked Sunday’ is set for March 4th.

Link.

Ann Summers: Vibrator Heaven

Kissing.
Clothes off.
Lights out.
Missionary.
Orgasm for one- or two if you’re lucky.

Sex can easily become such a formulaic process that we don’t think twice about it. It becomes routine, predictable and boring, making sex seem obligatory rather than what we want it to be: exciting, fun, and orgasmic! Finding time for elaborate role playing fantasies is difficult, and dealing with the messiness of chocolate syrup and whipped cream after a long day, can seem unappealing and maybe too sticky for some. But there are lots of ways of putting some spice into your sex life.

I’ve recently had the pleasure of receiving two lovely vibrators that have done wonders for me, and I have two people to thank: my boyfriend, and Ann Summers, a racy sex shop that has franchises all over the United Kingdom. (Seriously, vibrators have reached a new dimension.) Their most popular (and highly rated) sex toy is the Rampant Rabbit Vibrator Series. Their basic design is a silicone covered dildo with a smaller rabbit head attached to its bottom side, whose famous ears are where the vibrator gets it name.

Depending on what you like, there are several different off shoots of this basic design. The Rampant Rabbit Thruster is the most popular one, making its debut on “Sex in the City,” and breaking sales records for Ann Summers the day after the episode aired: 1 million of them sold! Its design fits its name. Covered in bright sparkly blue silicone, the vibrator contains metal beads that move up and down at six different speeds, creating a wonderfully fluid and sensual thrusting motion. Meanwhile, the rabbit’s ears are tickling away at your clitoris, buzzing in four different styles. The first one is like an appetizer, its gentle steady vibration arouses and prepares you for more. The second one, vibrates in a musical like rhythm, with two short gentle vibrations and ending with a long accentuated vibration. I found this style to be particularly delightful medium between the really light and strong vibrations, one that you can linger on and pleasure yourself for ages, right on the edge of orgasm. The third style has quick detached (almost like the rabbit is hopping!) strong vibrations, and the fourth style is a steady, powerful vibration that satisfies that craving for a strong and fast stimulation seconds before orgasming. Great invention. Complaints? The first line of these that came out had a few faulty mechanics, rendering the thrusting motion dysfunctional. But apparently, they’ve fixed that now. Go figure.

If however, you are feeling more adventurous, the Rampant Rabbit Thriller is a one of a kind experience. “6 ½ inch shaft covered in 93 soft arousing nodules, 5 inch girth, with 5 speed metal ball shaft rotation.” says Ann Summers. The thing looks closer to a battle mace. I thought at first, “no fucking way is that going anywhere near me, let alone inside me!” But appearances can be deceiving. You just need to relax, breathe deeply and use generous portions of water or silicone based lube. The “arousing nodules” (just get the battle mace image out of your head for a minute) feels a bit strange at first, but once you get a few inches inside, it feels remarkably wonderful- and subtly different from the thrusting motion many of us are used to. This Rampant Rabbit swirls around, giving a deep, sensual massage, while its 5 speeds of clitoral stimulation add additional pleasure.

So if you’re looking for spice, these vibrators are like cayenne pepper. And by that, I mean hot and tingly, not er- spicy vaginas (or butts ^_^).

Check’em out here:
http://www.annsummersuncut.com/main.asp?gid=6&cat=1&scat=1
enjoy!
Evelyn

Starbucks meets Victoria’s Secret: Not your average cup of coffee.

Starbucks has never really appealed to me, but I’m told that in the region around Seattle (the powerhouse coffee chain’s birthplace and a city known for its high levels of coffee consumption) customers not only bastardize the Italian language to indicate cup size but use a special “Starbucks-lingo” to order their drinks. For example, if someone asks for a wet latte with legs what they mean is a latte high on milk, low on foam, to-go. However, due to the new crop of “sexpresso” coffee shops springing up in the same area, ordering a mug of java might never be the same again – but rest assured that it will still come with legs….and a large cup size.

Sexpresso kiosques are a new twist on the drive-thru window, with scantily clad baristas winking mischievously at clients as they hand out morning cups o’ joe. The girls who work the counters are often seen sporting tanks and hot pants (à la Hooters), lingerie, bikinis, or fetish outfits depending on the day’s theme (a popular choice is the schoolgirl look).

It’s certainly not a new idea to use sex to sell, particularly in the food and service industry. Bosomy waitresses, servers, and barmaids have repeatedly profited from their, uh, assets, and let us not forget the tradition – and now stereotype – of the attractive flight attendant. Having flirtatious sexpots brew coffee pots is just adding flavour to the fierce caffeine-competition in and around Seattle, with an added perk for the men. However, these sexpresso chains may be onto something new that could give Starbucks a run for their money: coffee and sex appeal partnered together as the ultimate (full-body) wake-up in the early morning.

check out the seattle times and some of the coffee shops natte latte, cowgirls expresso

On Being a Shy Girl and Dressing Up

Being an innately shy person naturally I wasn’t going to blog about this particular event. BUT this magazine is all about pushing yours and my sexual borders and so I shall tackle a rather embarrassing topic for myself. I am a cute person, with a pretty face and great legs… I wear short skirts and tight trousers to demonstrate this to the best of my ability. Because of this “confidence” (or vanity, call it what you like) I am not used to people, teasingly or otherwise, requesting that I hide my best assets under a heavy layer of clothing. So, when the guy with whom I would currently very much like to sleep with suggested I wear something akin to a pair of men’s trousers when I go to bed with him I was bemused. And then I questioned why he would like me to dress like a man, and then I called my best friends… all 10 of them.

Hence it was during one of these many phone calls that ate away at both my Friday and Saturday study hours that I made the following self-discovery; I am not as open-minded about role-play as I thought I was. I don’t know if this stems from the fact that my own sexual fantasies involve locations and not dress-up or if I’m just exceedingly uncomfortable with this aspect of sex. Mayhap it was the actual costume itself that threw me off. I understand schoolgirl outfits (again, I love my legs) and I understand naughty nurses, maids etc. so why was it that I simply could not grasp the fascination with baggy trousers with nothing worn under them.

I’m not even capable of fathoming this interest… perhaps it’s this rough and tumble like outfit that really gets him going. Perhaps it is the idea of a girl seeming sort of unkempt and untamed on the outside and obliging and ingratiating on the inside. I don’t really know, honestly… although I do think I’m nearing the truth here.

What I realised halfway through conversation with best-friend number 6 was that it wasn’t even the costume itself that through me, it was this idea that I was just going to show up in a uniform when I wished to sleep with him. Listen, buddy, the first time I sleep with you is not going to involve me in a pair of men’s dungarees. The first time I sleep with you is going to be MAGICAL (okay, maybe not so much) but it will be for the most part unplanned. I hate the presumptuousness that would be me showing up in a predetermined outfit when I felt the need to have sex with him. I’m not being paid and so I’m not wearing a bloody uniform!

And so, finally when I had reached this firm conclusion somewhere between conversations with best-friends number 6 and number 9 best-friend number 10 made this insightful comment; “The first time you have sex with someone is best done without planning and without assumptions on either side. Also, Jehan-sweety just be happy he didn’t ask you to wear a diaper and baby costume.”

She’s right, atleast when it comes to what I desire, a little bit of impulsiveness goes a long way. Indeed I am also quite grateful that he didn’t request the baby outfit, it’s all a bit too Freudian for me. I am not saying I won’t dress up for him, I will… I enjoy it. I’m just going to wait a bit before I tackle androgynous clothing in the bedroom… everything needs to be worked up to. Or maybe I just need to redefine what I think “sexy” is.