When I’m Sixty-Four

I have ambivalent feelings about turning old. Like 60 years old. Part of me has no doubt that I won’t even make it – dumb luck can only carry you so far. However, what if I do? Then I can look forward to going senile – not that it’ll be a long trip. I look forward to that. I’ll be able to say and do anything with total impunity! The only downside is that I may not realize what power I have. It’s like being a baby: you don’t realize what you have until you’re too old to use it to you full advantage. Except, instead of tiny and cute, I’ll be medium-sized and wrinkled. If I make it.

Hopefully, by the time I’m sixty-four (the new forty, really), matter transporter thingies will be commonplace. Why such a vested interest in this technology, you ask? Well, a couple of weeks ago, this article popped up in my Gmail links bar. If this technology hits the mass market, whenever I please I’ll be able to nip over to Germany for a little midday romp in the hay, 50% off that is.

It’s all good and dandy for an old fart like myself – I’m sure as hell not getting any (in this scenario, I am not married). I get to take full advantage of Germany’s aging population, and thus growing niche market, and get to diddle some 20 year old. That would be awesome. Old guys always date young, pretty girls. In this case, however, I won’t have to worry about poison in my drinks. Heart attack from physical exertion notwithstanding, this seems to be a sweet deal all around. It assuages all the politically correct (read, intellectually mundane) people who believe everyone should have everything. The old guys are getting some. The owner of the brothel just tapped into an penetrated market. The only people who lose, really, are the 20 year old hookers. But, who cares about them? They’re marginalized, young women whose lives are dictated by the great dick-tator: their pimp.

I can’t even imagine what these girls must think when an old lump of flesh hobbles into the brothel. First of all, people who frequent brothels aren’t the most upstanding bunch of individuals the planet has to offer. Second, these people are old. Third, if they didn’t go to the brothel before the discount, you know that they’re taking advantage of cheap sex, which somehow sullies even the most noble of the intentions. I’ll bet that the discounted brothel is like the discounted airlines: no frills. No foreplay, no talking, no lights, and definitely no happy pills.

Apparently the website promotes this new tactic by proclaiming that “life begins at 66.” I wouldn’t ride these old guys too hard – we don’t want Germany’s infant mortality rate to skyrocket.

"You look so exotic": When sex and ethnicity collide

So a couple of weeks ago, I found myself nearly sleeping with a guy. We clicked. I wanted to do it. He wanted to do it. But in the end, we didn’t. What had gone wrong …?

He told me I was hot and sensual and sexy. That was kinda nice. It’s always nice to get compliments, right? But then he pretty much ruined it by saying four fatal words that extinguished any chance of anything happening between us: “You look so exotic.”

His words made me think of sex tourism, an industry pretty much fueled by the promise of “exotic” people to sleep with, and supported by an underlying mindset of colonialism, racism, sexism, and classism. His comment on my “exoticism” made me feel cheapened and objectified, not to mention angry and completely turned off.

However, things aren’t that simple. This incident made me really reflect upon my Chinese heritage, something that I don’t do often or in much detail. As the first person in my family to grow up and spend my formative years in Canada, I’ve often had identity issues.

When I was a kid, I tried to renounce my Chinese background. My eight-year old self cringed when I saw what my grandmother had packed in my lunch box, and I’d look longingly at Sam Joyce’s Lunchables snack kit instead. I went through a phase where I wanted my mom to call me “Amy” instead of “Yun”, my birth name. I stiffened when the kids in my mostly-Caucasian elementary school spoke Chinese-sounding gibberish (“Ching chong shee shaw”) and would ask me what they just said.

I gravitated towards other Asian kids like me, kids who grew up in Canada and were also trying to navigate the path between fitting in yet accepting their ethnic and cultural backgrounds. However, despite our mutual experiences, we never quite discussed our Asian heritage, possibly because we were ashamed of it. We, the first and second-generational Asians, even shunned the “new” Asians. These were kids who had come to Canada more recently, and thus were “more Asian” than us, whatever that meant. Looking back, I feel ashamed by that, though I can sort of see the reasoning behind it too. We were just trying to compensate for our differentness by distancing ourselves and refusing to acknowledge it at all.

I thought long and hard about this stuff while I was walking home, still slightly horny, though no longer for that guy. Yeah, I took issue with his words because I found them to embody ideas and mindsets that I found intolerant and colonial. But at the same time, I wondered: What if I was so bothered by his comment more because I was once again feeling that shame of being Chinese? How much of my anger was fueled by my disgust towards the beliefs that lay beneath his statement, and how much of my anger came from that underlying fear and shame of my childhood, of being associated with my heritage?

And to take it even further, the type of life that I lead right now – one that involves casual sex with and attraction towards people of all genders – isn’t exactly one that garners approval among traditional Chinese families. It’s just not something that “good Chinese girls” do. But why do I do it? Is it subconsciously just another way for me to distance myself from my heritage?

Until that incident, I’d believed that I was no longer ashamed or embarrassed to be Chinese. Sure, I knew I hadn’t yet developed to the point where I could fully take pride in my Chinese background the way I’d like to, but I’d previously thought that I was on the road to doing so. That comment from the guy really threw me off, because it led to me questioning just how far I had developed after all. But I guess self-evaluation isn’t a bad thing; it’s just a damn hard thing to do.

– Yun (not “Amy”)

PS: By the way, for those who are interested, next Thursday is Blog Against Sexual Violence Day. To participate, all you gotta do is write about anything having to do with gender-based violence, be they experiences you’ve heard of, links to further resources, or your own thoughts. Even small gestures count, yeah?

Pills and patches and sex, oh my!

Viagra Pill-ohs, a sculpture by artist Trek Thunder Kelly

We’ve talked about pharmaceuticals before, and here we go again: the Earth Times reports that over twenty female sex performance drugs will be released in the U.K. this week (!). One drug, developed by Procter & Gamble-owned Intrinsa, is in the form of a patch and releases testosterone through the skin into the bloodstream. Club bunnies searching for a new sexual high, take note: Instrinsa’s tasteful salmon-pink website and graphics of gracefully aging women scream, Not for recreational use! (although the ET article cites sexperts who claim it could become a “lifestyle drug”). Instead, it has been developed for women undergoing premature menopause or hysterectomies. Trials with 500 women found that using the patch led to a 74% increase in “satisfying sex”. How do scientists even define such a thing – attainment of orgasm? Overall enjoyment? I love that older women are getting some attention in the bedroom, but is it the right kind?

From the womb to the tomb: Female sexuality as a weapon

The vagina dentata, or toothed vagina, is a myth that exists in some cultures. The belief is this: behind a pussy’s lips lie rows of razor-sharp teeth, ready to chomp down on whatever comes their way. Vagina dentata can be seen as a metaphor for men’s (and society’s) fear of female sexuality. Women are sexual predators, temptresses, and seductresses. Men should steer clear of their wickedness and women should be branded with a warning label: Danger! Sex may result in your death or castration. Whether the myth is part of an ancient Chinese folk story or an Aboriginal tribal legend, the concept of the vagina dentata is also present in our society (albeit in many altered forms).

The anti-rape condom, or Rapex, is a new product which has a design guaranteed to perpetuate the vagina dentata myth. After hearing a rape victim state, “If only I had teeth down there,” Sonette Ehler, the inventor of the product, was inspired to create the condom-shaped device lined with sharp hooks. Any man who tries to rape a woman and inserts his peeper into a Rapex will be unpleasantly surprised and momentarily incapacitated. While it currently awaiting patent approval before it can hit the shelves, there is already objection to the device on the basis that women could seduce their ex-boyfriends or other assholes while wearing Rapex in order to get back at them. Pricks beware.

Femdefence (or the “stabby tampon” as I fondly call it) is similar to Rapex, except instead of a condom with hooks, it’s a tampon with a sharp pin attached to the end. However, this product is imaginary, and was only designed to help spread awareness about sexual violence against women.

Beyond product design, the vagina dentata can also be found in representations of female sexuality in pop culture. Possible spoilers for uh, GoldenEye, Dracula, and Hard Candy.

Consistently ranked amongst the top 5 best Bond Girls, Famke Janssen’s over-the-top performance as Xenia Onatopp in GoldenEye demonstrates that female sexuality is dark, dangerous, and deadly. Onatopp is hands-down the most original Bond babe with her legs up. Like a true black widow, Onatopp kills her victims during sex by squeezing them to death with her thighs. Not only a psychotic killer, she is supposedly the first girl in the whole Bond franchise to orgasm.

above: see Onatopp in action, courtesy of youtube

Lucy Westenra, the virgin-turned-vampire in Stoker’s Dracula, demonstrates the phenomenon of vagina dentata. While this time around our femme fatale’s fangs are in another place, Lucy’s sexuality is still deadly. As a vampire, Lucy is evil and impure. She’s also quite the seductress and described as being more beautiful than she was when alive. Lucy proves to be a danger for society and her actions beg for Van Helsing and his friends to plunge their stakes into her and nail her…in her coffin.

Not quite a femme fatale, Haley Stark in the 2005 film Hard Candy is nevertheless an example of how female sexuality can result in male castration or death. Haley is a teenager who, after meeting an older man over the internet, decides to go home with him. As the plot unfolds, it becomes evident that Haley suspects the man to be a pedophile and had planned their meeting in order to wreak havoc upon his life (and his manhood). The poster of Hard Candy is proof of the vagina dentata phenomenon as it shows Haley standing in a bear trap as bait. The pedophile is attracted to young girls (who he sees as helpless) and only later finds out that Haley is using sex to reel him in.

Let’s Spend the Night Together

I would sleep with Slash, Mick Jagger or Steven Tyler in a heartbeat. In that order. Slash is just plain cool; perhaps I could receive some of his coolness like an STD, but the good kind. Jagger and Tyler transcend any gendered normative behavior – I have a sneaking suspicion not only would it not be weird, it would be awesome as well. Curiously though, I would not sleep with any of the Beatles, definitely no one of the punk inclination, or Kurt Cobain. The Beatles lack any depravity (Lennon’s obsession with Yoko Ono notwithstanding), punk people, to quote Mr. Vicious, “don’t even like sex” and I couldn’t be paid to touch Cobain, even with a disease-ridden diplodocus at the end of a ten-foot pole. These categories are not all-inclusive. Chances are though, my not-that-there’s-anything-wrong-with-that list would not grow quickly.

Sleeping with someone as a plainly visceral reaction to puberty still requires a significant amount of brain power, regardless of the troglodyte behind the humping. So many factors get inputed into an as of yet unknown Sex Equation. If the number pops out positive, get your humping cap on; if it comes out negative, bring out the standard fake phone number with six digits; if it comes out neither (ie. zero), the convincing factor will be amount of alcohol consumed. Scientists say gravity is the most unifying force in the universe – they obviously have yet to discover fermentation.

It doesn’t really matter how sexually advanced someone is, the people they diddle serves one purpose alone, pleasure notwithstanding: it defines them. Like anyone who’s ever talked about the Beatles and the Stones in the same sentence, when comparing the two, it all boils down not to what their respective cultural and musical impacts are, but who you align yourself with. The Beatles make love (though perhaps somewhat obsessively and mostly subvertly as the 60s wore on) and the Rolling Stones fuck (if that Pierre Trudeau story is at all true). The same goes with sleeping partners – I’d do Slash in an instance because, let’s face it, I’m trying my hardest to replicate some of his cooler aspects – my hair is getting there, length-wise, and his top hat is stunningly difficult to find. Likewise, Mick Jagger and Steven Tyler are my sort of cultural role models – they can do no wrong. Punk, as much as I love it, is not something I would want to devote myself to; as for Cobain, why would I want to define myself like the man that obliterated rock with 4 minutes of distorted, angst-ridden, self-depreciating bullshit? Not even I am that heartless.

The thing about cliches is that somewhere, sometime, they were true. So, for example, when a girl stumbles from guy to guy during her first year of university and “she’s lost” or “she’s trying to find herself in her newfound freedom,” there’s a modicum of truth in that. The more people you sleep with, the harder you are trying to define yourself concretely in a manner that, not only will it yield a personal sort of satisfaction, and not only will it look good from the outside, but it will also lead to many more partners and situations where any self-definition is obviously superfluous. And that’s really the point of life – to know thyself so well, you no longer need to know thyself.

On Post Coital Cuddling

One of my best friends is a girl who will kick her one-night-stand out of her bed as soon as the fun is completed. As she has many times re-iterated to me the frustrations that come with having to physically repel someone who wants to hold you after you’ve just has sex with them and whisper sweet nothings in your ear. Poor darling, she just wants to sleep after sex and this stranger won’t stop hugging her. I’m similar in a sense, I don’t enjoy having sex with strangers and I will beat a person down if they touch me and I don’t know them (ye have been warned).

Yet when it comes to sex I’m really just a kitten. Treat me well and listen to me, and I will do anything to make you happy. And after sex? kiss me a couple of times, stroke my hair and then go to sleep! I don’t want to hold your hand and talk about my feelings. Not unless I’m in a particularily euphoric mood, and we actually have something worthwhile to say.

On that note here is a particularily crude flash video for you all to enjoy;
Bang Bang Bang
– Jehan

Spotlight on sex slavery

Clicking on the links will take you to a full-length news article.

• While current Prime Minister Abe continues to deny that the Japanese military forced women to work as comfort women in wartime brothels, Japan’s ex-Prime Minister says Japan was responsible for wartime sex slaves. Read three women’s accounts of their brutal treatment at the hands of the Japanese here.

• Sex slavery isn’t in the past, and it isn’t limited to Third World countries: it’s a problem in Vancouver, where sex slaves are trafficked from Asia to work in “massage parlours”. First Nations women are also frequently victims of sex abuse – and it isn’t reported in the mainstream media.

• It’s also a growing problem in Britain, where young women from impoverished countries (especially Lithuania) are imported and forced to work in brothels. It’s estimated that 4,000 women are forced to work in Britain’s sex trade at any given time – and if they manage to escape, they are often deported back to their home countries, where they face the same cycle of violence. The Telegraph reports that women can be bought for as little as £1,400. Read one Nigerian woman’s account here.

• What’s being done? Britain has set up a task force to combat human trafficking, and has signed the European Convention on Human Trafficking. The Protection Project works to “to influence policy and practice in the war against trafficking”. The V-Day movement discusses sex slavery here. PBS features the world of sex trafficking here.

" I’ll have what she’s having."

On promiscuity … and Sudoku

Trying a new Sudoku puzzle is like sleeping with a new partner. Every person is a puzzle, and every puzzle is different. For me, the fun part, the challenge, is the exploration of a new puzzle. I love trying to figure out what makes each and every person sexually tick. And even if I don’t figure out the puzzle completely, that’s okay. I don’t feel “robbed” and I’ve learned to not take it personally; I gave it my best shot and above all, I had a great and fun learning experience. Besides, there’s nothing that absolutely guarantees that I can’t try the puzzle again a week later.

I love learning, and therefore by extension, I love sleeping with different people. I’ve often wondered where I got this casual attitude about sex from. It certainly wasn’t something that was instilled in me when I was young.

I grew up in a rather average suburban family. I was raised mostly by my mother alone. She wasn’t a stereotypical Chinese mom, but still, sex, having sex, and talking about it was quite taboo in my family, until very recently. I went to a typical high school. Maybe it was a little more artsy and liberal than most, but it certainly wasn’t the Gomorrah of Fred Phelps’ nightmares either.

The first time I had sex was exciting and funny and awkward and cute and fun … but it was not serious. I wasn’t in love with or even loved the guy. We had sex because it just felt right at the time: We enjoyed each other’s company, had chemistry, and were eager to explore each other more.

I don’t quite know when, why, or how my outlook on sex changed. I just know that one day, I realized that I no longer saw it as a purely emotional act between two people sharing a deep connection. The somewhat Disney-fied idea of sex – that sex was only for someone you thought was The One – no longer appealed to me. Instead, I saw sex as simply being great as a source of sheer, mindless, fun. Casual (safe) sex was not something to be frowned upon; in fact, it made perfect and logical sense!

Such is the mindset I generally bring with me to any new sexual encounter: If we’re attracted to each other, if we click, if it doesn’t hurt anyone, then why not do it? If it goes over well, then why not do it again two days or two weeks later? If it didn’t work, well, that’s okay too. We can let it go and stay friends only, or even stay as strangers.

Does all this make me promiscuous? Probably. I’m still young and discovering myself, but I feel no shame in admitting that I may very well be sexually promiscuous. According to Dictionary.com’s primary definition, I am merely “having sexual relations with a number of partners on a casual basis”. That’s not such a bad thing, if everyone’s getting off and no one’s getting hurt, right?

There are some people who see promiscuity as a completely negative characteristic. No doubt, my actions would be looked down upon. But after a lot of contemplation, I’ve come to realize that I really don’t care.

It’s their prerogative to believe what they want, but I know myself. I know that being sexual is not synonymous with being depraved, perverted, stupid, lonely, or lazy. More importantly, I know that I am not depraved, perverted, stupid, lonely, or lazy. And the people I care about, the people who know me, are aware of that as well.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a new Sudoku puzzle I’d like to try tackling.

– Yun

meow?

I find this HIGHlarious! Since I bought my friend a cute pack of gum at MultiMags with this quote on it, instead of using one of my most hated words, I say “I just killed some kittens”. Fine, it’s disturbing but then you think about the fact that it’s not actually TRUE!

On pleasuring one’s self

Ok So I can say the word “vagina” all freaking day long but “masturbation? Can’t do it. It’s like “menstruation” and “moist”: I just HATE those words.

Getting back to the point, I know people that almost never (or never, but that must be a lie!) pleasure themselves. I don’t get it. I mean, you are alone, you are horny, do it! Even if you are NOT alone but can do it ‘under the radar”… DO IT!

How many people here masturbate 5 times a week? How about five times a day?

What’s the weirdest place you’ve ever done it (with yourself…) ? Ok, I’ll tell you mine and then you tell me yours! I was on the bus to D.C. (a 13 hour bus ride), bored and horny, with no one sitting beside me. Put my long jacket over myself and voila! And then I was relaxed enough to sleep for a couple hours. I would have loved a cigarette though… hum…

On Thin Walls and Avoiding Poisoning

You might think your sex life is great. Things might be just fine in the sack, all sexy breathing and pounding bedsprings, but did you ever think about anyone outside of the sack—namely, those roommates of yours? Have some consideration, you animal! Those hot, sweaty sessions under the covers affect them too, so here are some steps you can take to avoid being poisoned by disgruntled roommates:

Take preventative measures. When you’re looking for an apartment, avoid those that have adjacent bedrooms, no matter how great the rest of the apartment is. Test walls, close the doors and yell, but make sure you know what you’re getting into.

Shut up. You might enjoy the theatrics, but it’s doubtful that someone trying to eat dinner will feel the same way. Save the heavy moans for when they’re out.

Turn up the music. This one is debateable. On the plus side, it will probably help to cover up the aforementioned moans – but there’s a chance it won’t, and then your roommates will just hate you more for ruining a good song (“Let it be” met this fate in a friend’s apartment last year).

Keep out of the communal areas. Sure, it’s hot and spontaneous to test out the couch or the kitchen table, but refrain. People have to use the furniture when you’re done.

Lock the door. Good roommates knock, but there’s no point in leaving it up to chance.

If all else fails, make it up to them. Baking cakes and cookies seems to be a good way of appeasing my roommates, and nothing says, “I’m sorry I kept you awake with incessant thumping all night long! Yeah!” like breakfast in bed—with earplugs on the side, of course.

thermometer rising

people are showing just a bit more skin around our fair city these days. things are heating up. with our new ahead-of-time schedule in place, spring is taking root. finally. so let’s participate. it’s time to start breathing in some of that out door fresh city air. mmm.
recently, i had the pleasure of chatting with one of those quintessentially-montreal cabbies that are seemingly bred here and only here. our conversation, although it was mainly mr cabbie talking and me listening, bordered on creepy. i won’t hold it against him though, we’re all entitled to make observations. and what’s more, we all know the girls of montreal are, by some twist of genetic good fortune, some of the hottest per capita around the country. and the men, for the most part, are not half-bad either. and this particular cabbie was insistent. he let me know just how much he loved the women in this city. i could practically sense his impending boner and, as my luck goes with cab drivers around this city, i couldn’t help but wonder, why me? again. but those are tales for another time. i’ll just say he likes it when the clothes start to come off in the spring time too. one slow layer at a time. first the gloves come off, then scarves are shed to reveal faces that are more than just eyes again, and bare legs with skirts become the new norm. needless to say it’s his favourite time of year.
and now i’ll agree. the cabbie was right. spring is skin. so let’s all enjoy, do our part and give the man something to pick up his day as he tours the streets. surely it will pickup someone else’s day as well. this is a call to all of those hot ladies and men alike to get out and start moving. let’s breath some more love into this air. and if love’s not in the cards, i’ll settle for some good old-fashioned lust. let’s go.

On Sex Without a Relationship

I have never ever ever had sex outside a commited relationship. I don’t mean a commited relationship in which we’re going to get married but one in which I have not heard the words “will you be my girlfriend” pronounced. Hence, now that I find myself in such a relationship-less sexual relationship I don’t really know what to do with myself. In fact, I don’t even know if I am capable of separating my emotions from the act of having sex, and if I cannot do that that what right have I to be in this sexual entaglement to begin with?
I would love to know if men feel the same, do men get this emotional attachment, or is this purely a female problem?
– Jehan

Music Memoirs of A Shag once upon a time ….

I was listening to “Stormy Weather,” and got all nostalgic, thinking about past relationships, and the music I associate with moments frozen in time: image => people, props and positions. Indelibly printed into my mind, those songs send me over the sentimental edge every time I hear them. Its amazing, how only within the auditory presence of these songs do those particular mixtures incite my weak spots; those intoxicating potions made of feelings, smells and touches…

Its cheesy, yeah I admit: be prepared to eat a whole jar of cheewhiz. But fuck that, I’m the one shagging/making love/fucking, and the only other person subject to my fixation on playing music, is well, fucking me, so they (usually) don’t complain.

I chuckle a bit to “Ghettomusic” (Outkast), get a bit teary to “Dinner Bells” (Wolf Parade), and am overwhelmed by the power of past loves and longings- and shagging. (And I say shagging because I’ve picked up that silly term from my silly British boyfriend). By far the best shag I’ve had to music was to Antonios Carlos Jobim: Brazilian bassanova, yes, the musical antithesis to appropriate fucking music. No, I made love to his music, maybe that’s why it was so incredible, in that special “only you my love!” kind of way, where you’re gone in the moment, and the world blacks out.

When you listen to Ghettomusic by Outkast while doing a 69, its like Aphrodite and Ares having sex, and by that I am not likening myself to the goddess of beauty, I am pointing out the personification of war and sex fucking, hate and love fucking: opposites attract. Boy, that was um, interesting sex.

“There’ll be no more dinner bells, left for you to ring.” – Wolf Parade. Sad. People come and go, and sometimes we never see them again, and you think wow I could pass that person (whose touched me down there) and not say a word. But things lighten up. And with the passing of time, new music and new people are born.

Quoi? Dating?

Dating. I say “fuck dating” and as my best friend said to me a couple days ago: “Dating is way too overrated, who even dates anymore?”

Well, I tried this dating thing people speak of and turns out, it ain’t my cup of tea. I got shafted after three “dates” and lots-o-sex. Thank the Lord Jesus up above(i like to be dramatic sometimes…) we had sex because if not for that, these three “dates” would have given me NOTHING (bitter much?).

After the girl called me and told me that she wasn’t ready for a relationship and the whole shabang, I started thinking: perhaps I was too used to being in a relationship that I just didn’t know how to date? Then, I started thinking about my “mistakes”.

First mistake: I talked too much about my ex. I’m very well aware that the subject of the ex is a big nono usually but she’s a very good friend so I couldn’t NOT talk about her. Also, as the girl was going to attend a party of mine, she was actually going to meet the ex. I don’t think that helped.

Second mistake: Introducing her to almost three quarters of my friends present at my party. I believe that was a bit too quick. Again, I didn’t really clue in.

Third mistake: Now, this mistake wasn’t mine. While chatting during my party, my good friend declares that when “Marie comes to Toronto next time, you should come too!”. Alright, even I knew that was wrong!

Fourth mistake: Calling her the day after our first date and emailing her to tell her how much fun (fun=good sex) I had with her. Apparently I came on too strong. I say “pffff” to that.

So basically I suck at dating. I just want to meet someone that I get along with and chill and not necessarily have to go have drinks and go out and ask questions about each other… We can do that step by step…. while watching tv, smoking a joint or playing Nintendo.(Okay I didn’t list “playing Nintendo” as a mistake because she really did like that idea, hehehe) It’s so comfortable to be in a relationship and dating is the opposite I find. I never actually dated my ex; it just happened!

There goes another rant from Marie. If anyone has anything to say that I should know about the world of dating(especially lesbian…or bi), go right ahead. Stay tuned for more ramblings because I’m full of them.

Thank you, Bill and Monica!

Okay, so maybe it’s old news, a little bit, but I just can’t not share it. A friend of mine sent me a link to this news article: Apparently, some theatre in the US was forced to change its marquee from The Vagina Monologues to The Hoohaa Monologues, because some parents found it “offensive”.

Okay, skipping over the sheer idiocy (and the irony) of the name change, because that’s just too easy to make fun of, I’ll ask instead: What is it about vaginas that so often gets people’s goats?

Strangely enough, I think this situation actually can find its parallel in Harry Potter: You know how everyone’s afraid to say Voldemort’s name, because he’s such an all-powerful wizard? And how they have to replace his name with You-Know-Who instead because they’re so scared of him? I think that’s what’s going on with vaginas.

People are scared to death of vaginas, because vaginas are representative of sex, an act that traditionally is seen as dirty and forbidden and terrible. Thus, they must resort to veejayjays or down theres or hoohaa instead. Vaginas are the Voldemorts of this world. (They even start with the same letter! ‘Nuff said?)

Furthermore, why is it that the word anal, as in anal-retentive, is used relatively often and without fear? There doesn’t seem to be a stigma attached to anal the way there is with vagina, even though an anus strikes me as a body part that’s a hell of a lot dirtier than a vagina can ever be. So really, it’s totally the sexual aspect of vaginas that gets people scared.

You know, it’s stuff like this that makes me wish for another huge Bill Clinton/Monica Lewinsky sex scandal. In the ensuing media explosion, we were constantly bombarded with stories of sex and sex and even more sex. Over the space of a couple of months, we heard all the gory details about Bill and Monica’s sex lives: their sexual intercourse, their “I did not have sexual relations with that woman“, their oral sex, and if you were lucky enough to hear it, their “kinky” use of a cigar as a sex toy.

It’s not that I bear any ill will towards Bill Clinton or any other hapless politician following his pecker. In fact, I don’t believe that what goes on in a person’s bedroom (or on the expensive mahogany desk in the Oval Office) should be exhibited for public judgment and scrutiny. No, but just pause for a minute, and imagine what would happen if George Bush was caught bangin’ his intern while in office …

… The world would undergo a temporary sexual renaissance of sorts: For a glorious few months or so, their sexploits would be splashed across newspaper headlines and blaring from primetime newscasts. For those wonderful few months, sex would be completely demystified and stripped bare. For those liberating few months, there would be no stigma placed on sex, and people would actually be unafraid to talk about it in public.

And maybe, hopefully, it would be during those few months that The Hoohaa Monologues could regain its rightful name again.

– Yun

Descartes, porn style

I fuck, therefore I am. We all know people like this. Their entire sense of being is totally wrapped up in their ability to get laid eight days a week. And this applies to girls as much as it does to guys, what’s more, stereotypical representations notwithstanding, I’d say that girls, while not as vocal about it, are far guiltier than guys. Let’s face it, it is much easier for a girl to go up to a guy for a good lay out of the blue than the reverse is possible. As a tangent, I was at a power metal concert on Friday night at a small ex-strip club on Parc, and the opening act had a female lead singer. This made me think of other metal bands with female leads, like Girlschool, and it made me wonder what the groupie situation is like backstage. See, male metal leads apparently have a plethora of women waiting to place themselves in compromising situations while their boyfriends wait patiently. But the power here lies with the women – they come up to the metal star, they are much better looking, and save for what actually gets done, groupie sex is totally feminist. But, when the lead is female, I’m not sure exactly how this works. People who go to underground metal shows, myself included, aren’t usually the best looking fuckers on the face of the planet – metal is dirty, raw, and heavy, and you won’t see the latest fashion in the pit. Regardless, at this point we have ugly men approaching powerful women at the head of a metal band seeing if they’ll score. I really do wonder what it’s like backstage.

ANYWAYS, getting back to my original point. The power of girls to define themselves in terms of their latest conquest is incredible. The new woman, present since the sixties, lives in the city alone, gabs with her girlfriends freely on sex and by and large treats men almost as if they were disposable, which, I’m sure many guys don’t mind too much as long as they are throwing it in fairly often. These people fuck to be. The most interesting point about this statement is that it stands to contrast with the original, ostensibly more intellectual, statement. The comedy lies in the dichotomy between fucking and thinking and popular lore tells us that those who fuck to be cannot think to be.

So, what does it mean to fuck to be? What exactly does a sense of self wrapped in latex create? It could mean that these people are unhappy and vapid, looking to fill their vacuous life with senseless pleasure. But that is way to simple an explanation. Descartes thinks, therefore he is, and because he is, through philosophical meanderings, proves that God exists. And this is what people who fuck to be do as well. Maybe God doesn’t exist, but god definitely does. And that shift key makes all the difference.

If one fucks to be, one is firmly rooted in the sensible, pleasurable world. Though there are emotional and intellectual levels to sex, it is primarily an activity to feel. And fucking is nothing more than the path to the best orgasm possible, and while there are religions and traditions that espouse the greatness of the orgasm as the medium to communicate with whomever, I’m much more interested in the post-coital coma that follows as a result. Lying there, naked, sweaty, blank. Even if it’s just for a couple of seconds, you don’t feel anything. After that may come the pleasure, the guilt, the anger, the instinct to flee, but for a couple of seconds, the feeling is blank. It is a feeling of nothingness. And this nothingness is not a nothingness of negation, but a nothingness of otherness. During the small coma it’s not that you feel nothing, but it’s that you don’t feel something. This not-something is the not-something of death, which is nothing of life. And so sex is a birth that leads to the blank post-coital coma, which is a death. And in this death, there is a boundless freedom, for it is not-life, not-bound. What is death? It’s not life, that’s all we know. And since we know life and we can put limits on life, we have no limits on death. In that state of blank nothingness we are limitless, we are everything, we are god, and so we are ourselves.

Greener sex

Image from Ecobabes calendar

My roommates and I try hard to be green. We use public transport, recycle, compost, reuse plastic bags, put plastic sheeting on our windows, and buy organic and fair trade food…but sex hasn’t really entered the environmental equation. Until now! I came across this great article called How to Green Your Sex Life at Treehugger.com – it offers advice on everything from sex toys (try to use toys made from glass, metal, silicone, hard plastics, or elastomers and watch out for the disclaimer “for novelty purposes only”) to vegan condoms. The website also has a lot of cool advice on everything from buying green furniture to using green cleaning products.

Also worth checking out is this article about Eco-porn.

When You Want To Know Who Has An STI

This past week, one of McGill’s student newspapers, The Daily, ran a story about CheckTonight. CheckTonight is an online “informational tool” that enables people to send in their health information (specifically their STI tests) and see the results from other members on the website. The site was created to help people look up potential lovers in order to ensure that they don’t have the clap, the syph, or whatever other names the cool kids are calling VDs these days. The benefit of the website is two-fold: users can practice safe sex and yet avoid that “unpleasant talk” – and mood-killer –about having an STI. Hmm, a website with a purpose to facilitate guilt-free hook-ups…I won’t be surprised when this is incorporated into Facebook profiles.

CheckTonight is not the only online network which revolves around STIs, but unlike CheckTonight (which denies membership to those who tested positive for an STI), these sites are created for people who already have one. Online dating sites for people with STDs (such as stdmatch.net and the herpes-themed MPWH.com) are more than just a way to look up hotties with um, something in common, but are also outlets for sharing frustration, embarrassment, and the sense of feeling like a social leper. The sites also simplify the otherwise complicated issues that surround dating with a disease. By registering on stdmatch.net there’s no need to worry about the opportune time to enlighten your partner of your condition, or how they will react to the news. There’s also no need to worry about infecting your partner (seeing as they already have the STI), making it easy to tell them that you burn for them (both literally and metaphorically)…now that’s truly guilt-free dating.

To the Sleep Deprived

“Thump! Thump!- Thuuuumpp, thump thump, thump, thumpthumkp!! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!”

And those are the incessant sounds that bellow at me from my bedroom ceiling, right before I’m sleeping, – EVERY SINGLE FREAKING NIGHT. So it leads me to wonder, loud bass from some house beat, or relentlessly long humping? Or jumping jacks???

I’ve thought multiple times to go straight upstairs and declare that their ruckus is of an intolerable volume and frequency, and must cease. But every time I think to do this, I flash back to when I first met them: two Muslim girls living together, seemingly quiet, about their own business, private people. And honestly, the loud bass house beat hypothesis is really not persuasive; it doesn’t sound anything like music. It sounds like fucking. But then I think, they’d never have such rudely loud sex. People like that don’t ‘bang.” And then I admonish myself for making the same presumptions on others, that I hate when others presume those ‘nice quiet prude little girl” traits about me.

Alas, I must find a way to tell them, in a non-intrusive, friendly neighbor who just wants to get to sleep so she’s not cranky in the morning. I was thinking a note instead,

“Dear neighbor,
Plz crank down the fucking volume.

Thnx, sleep deprived 2nd floor .”

Okay not exactly like that. But one of these days I’ll puck up the courage to tell them something along those lines.