Sex, Sex, Sex

"I've always felt that a happy sex life kills a person's sense of humor about himself remarkably quickly."

- Stephen McCauley

I've been thinking lately of resurrecting my trashy novel. It is November, after all - National Novel Writing Month.

And so, of course, I've been thinking about writing sex.

Elizabeth Benedict, in her book, The Joy of Writing Sex, outlines five principles to follow when writing a sex scene:

1. Sex is not an ATM withdrawal
2. Hire a decorator
3. Your characters don't have to speak to each other, but don't forget that they can
4. You need not be explicit, but you must be specific
5. Surprise me

It occurs to me that these principles apply equally well to having sex. Not that I remember sex, but I think there's a certain fungibility there. And since I'm supposed to have sex next month, I've been reading this how-to-write-sex book and thinking about how it applies to having it.

Benedict divides her book into chapters which deal with different kinds of sex:

• losing your virginity sex
  
• wedding night sex
  
• married sex
  
• adulterous sex
  
• recreational sex
• illicit sex
• solo sex

But what's on my mind now is recreational sex - particularly in light of the mandate I've been given to have sex in December. On one hand, I get it. The physical closeness, the endorphin release, having a sandwich afterwards, no emotional demands to counter. It's all good. But I get all of that (minus the first) after a good session on my yoga mat. And I don't have to wash my sheets afterwards.

There's also the pizza argument. Even cold, bad pizza is still pizza. But given my rocky relationship with carbs, I can masterfully avoid pizza, unless it's REALLY GOOD pizza that I really really want at that moment.

But this is my thought... it's what might be inconvenient or deemed "unnecessary" with sex that makes it interesting. And that's exactly what is, for the most part, lost with recreational sex.

Anais Nin said it best:

Without feelings, inventions, moods, [there are] no surprises in bed. Sex must be mixed with tears, laughter, words, promises, scenes, jealousy, envy, all the spices of fear, foreign travel, new faces, novels, stories, dreams, fantasies, music, dancing, opium, wine.

But now that I've just typed that, it seems like an awfully tall order. And, oddly enough, makes me think of going down to Ray's to get a slice, with everything on it.

Use It Or Lose It

I have received scoldings lately from a number of different friends.

The message has been consistent, however: "Have sex."

Funny how that message has evolved over time. A year ago, I was under strict orders NOT to have sex without prior Board approval. Apparently, it was a decision I was not allowed to make on my own.

Now my friends, in the deathless words of a Nike advert, are yelling at me to "just do it."

I think it's because I've been talking about cats too much.

But in my defense, I've been BUSY. I schedule time to pee once a day, for chrisssake's.

IC and I took a quick break from our work day (during which I pee'd) and she followed me around before finally standing outside the bathroom door, earnestly telling me that it is "ok to be a ho-bag."

*sigh*

So, to take the pressure off, I have informed everyone that I will break the fast in December. (November is just entirely too busy). MM's comment: "December?!? What about TUESDAY?"

I even set a date. December 7th. It's on my calendar. With whom, you ask? No clue. I feel like one of those women who plan their weddings to the nth degree while leaving the name and face of the groom as a "TBD."

IC then engaged in her favorite activity - she made a list. I heard her muttering under her breath as she wrote in a name and then immediately crossed it out: "No. He's just not worth your vagina."

And it's for that last quote that I had to write this post. Of course now I'm wondering what kind of google traffic I'm going to get on my blog. I suspect people who stumble upon my blog while looking for porn will be sorely disappointed.

Requiem For Online Dating

Great loves too must be endured.

-Coco Chanel

My subscriptions to Match.com and eHarmony.com have expired and I have jumped through the many hoops necessary to ensure that they will not be automatically renewed.

JDate.com is for one month and one month only.

And then I will stop. By the end of August, not only will I have achieved born-again virginity, but I will also be an expert on the tragedy and comedy of online dating.

And then?

Not sure. I feel as though I am about to graduate from some as yet unknown school with a useless degree.

Perhaps I will create and print and display some sort of diploma on my wall.

Predators And Prey

I loved this comment (on my post titled More On Dating (see next post below)) from Robespierre so much, I thought it merited highlighting:

Robespierre said...

Does this not beg the larger "Sex in the City" question: Can straight guys and girls be friends (when they are not physically repulsed by each other)? How many straight guys are you friends with? And by friends I mean friends like you are with your coterie of "BFF!" GFs? From my vantage if you put me in a magical world where I were no longer married [the last part of that sentence was written with my best Homer Simpson "beer" voice], I would be in full-blown leopard stalking baby Thompson's gazelle mode in about 15 seconds. Yes, yes, I know how hard it is to be single in the twilight of our youth where we are no longer so needy and don't want to put up with anything. But I think normal straight guys are for the most part not going to fit into your paradigm.

I do want to stress that I am by no means advocating against romance in any way. If you like a girl, then the courting process will take however long the courting process takes. But in the end you will ambush her and she find herself being dragged up into a tree away from other predators.

First off, it's Sex AND The City (all caps mine). But Robespierre, given that he is a straight man, gets huge bonus points for that very relevant and appropriate reference. Although some points are deducted for his married status since I have no doubt (actually, absolute certainty because he's already told me this) that he watched every single episode of every single season with his lovely wife sitting by his side. But those points would be added back on if he initiated that viewing marathon.

Second, leopard-stalking-baby gazelle mode? *LAUGHING* Would have loved to see that!

Third, with the prevalence of cougars and so forth, it's now harder to determine who is the predator and who is the prey. I myself am VERY uncomfortable in the role of prey. Actually, it just pisses me off. I prefer to be the one doing the stalking.

But those initial observations aside, I think friendship is indeed possible between straight men and women who find each other at least somewhat attractive. Of course, I am the first to say that my CLOSEST friends are women and gay men because of the simplicity and purity of those relationships ("pure" defined as unclouded by sexual attraction). That said, friendships peppered with the additional frisson of flirting and heightened aesthetic appreciation and even sexual awareness might sometimes be more precarious propositions, and might require more effort to avoid slippage, and might not be as CLOSE, but are, inherently, no less solid or real. I remember once being told by a straight male friend: "I would drive you crazy, and you would drive me to drink, so it's good that we're just friends."

But I digress.

The primary issue here is expectation and goal orientation. When people meet as colleagues, as friends of friends, or as classmates, etc., sexual attraction and romance might erupt at any time, much like cold sores. But romance is not the goal of the initial dynamic. And hence, there are more opportunities and time to collect the data points necessary for BOTH parties to be on the same page. Nakedness is not expected shortly after the third class together, or third business meeting, or third group happy hour or dinner. And given the meeting I just had this morning, all I can say is, "thank goodness for that."

As for a long courting process, that's absolutely fine, as long as there is no undue or obvious pressure. After all, it's a time honored practice to sneak in under the radar as a "friend" for positioning purposes. Many a battle has been won by steady attrition.

And especially given the boo-on-dating-and-relationships stance that I have been hearing from so many of my single female friends, a slow, low-key, non threatening siege might be the only effective strategy to breaching the castle walls.

As for being ambushed and dragged up a tree away from other predators? That's acceptable as long as it is according to our timing, with our permission, by a predator of our choosing (after consulting all close friends and comprehensive stalking on our parts), and our hair and nails don't get mussed.

But of course, this is only applicable "advice" for those predators who just HAVE to pursue the gazelle that happens to be bristling with "No Trespassing" signs and sharp pointy weapons. Otherwise, there's far easier prey out there.

Now this cougar-in-gazelle's-clothing is going to take some tylenol for her multi-metaphor induced headache.

More On Dating

There is an epidemic infecting a number of my single female friends: aversion to intimacy (physical and/or emotional).

We all have our reasons, whether those reasons are coherently articulated or not.

On one hand, I think the vast majority of "single" people out there, should they be asked the abstract question of whether they want to be in a satisfying romantic relationship, would answer: "of course."

But the next question is: what are they willing to do to achieve that?

There are other issues involved which complicate the matter: are they in a place where they can or even want to carve out the time and attention for a relationship or even look for one? Despite any stated man-fast, is it just that they haven't met the "right" person? (This second question is what has motivated my own recent dating experiments - the possibility of meeting a person who could, in a blink of an eye, cause me to rethink my own state of readiness or desire to take on the high-maintenance prospect of a man in my life). Does the usual process of achieving that goal - dating - just seem repellent and/or ineffective?

I just had a conversation with a friend of mine that was striking in its similarity to conversations I've had with numerous others, including myself: that the thought of dating, and the usual "meet someone, go out on 3 to 5 dates, have sex with them, suddenly find yourself in a relationship or in the turmoil/annoyance of unaligned levels of interest" is REPELLENT.

In recent conversations about online dating and much of dating in general, SK described it perfectly - "goal-oriented dating."

With most endeavors, having a clearly identified goal is necessary, or at the very least, helpful in achieving that goal.

But with dating, at least for those "suffering" from this particular epidemic, can being "goal-oriented" hinder rather than help?

Have I met my share of freaks? Yes. Have I also met perfectly nice guys whom I rejected after a date or two or three because in that allotted time I never had the slightest desire see them naked, but for whom I could have developed the tingles had we had the time to get to know each other as people? Possibly. Am I aware that my lack of readiness for or interest in a relationship might be preventing me from recognizing a perfectly good candidate when he's sitting across the table from me? Yes.

I have posted before about the necessity of collecting a myriad of data points about a person in order to determine attraction - data points you can't always learn after one date or two or three. And while sometimes chemistry can hit you over the head upon first laying eyes on someone, sometimes it develops slowly with lots of time and repeated exposure.

But with "goal-oriented dating," comes a slew of expectations and in most cases, a ludicrously short time line. Very rarely do men or women want to be "friends" with a dating prospect when the paradigm has already been set up as "goal-oriented." And that works both ways within this paradigm - many of us don't want to be resigned into the friend category, and many of us don't want to try to be friends with someone who is clearly interested in more.

This brings me to the heart of what I have been thinking for myself and hearing from numerous women: we want to be friends first, with no expectations, no "goal" in mind. And in this expectation and goal free environment, to be able to simply enjoy someone's company, get to know them, and naturally, almost subconsciously, collect all those necessary data points about who they are, and play the rest by ear.

Maybe what I've been hearing recently is backlash against a dynamic inherent in online dating or any kind of dating that involves a stranger or near stranger to you. Or maybe it is due to the epidemic of emotional distance and exaggerated caution and aversion to intimacy that seems to be sweeping through many of my single friends.

One thing is clear though. The question that used to clearly signal the kiss of death when it comes to the possibility of romance, might now signal something else entirely: "Can we be friends?"

Post Date Initial Wrap Up

I am home, greatly relieved to be so, and looking at pictures of JF to get rid of the "ick".

Why, you ask?

Well... I do not want to be unkind.

So I will limit my comments to the following:

1. If you want to talk about how much you work out, you should LOOK like you work out.

2. It's generally better to use your indoor voice when indoors.

3. I should have gotten WASTED before going out.

I'm going to stop there.

And oh - per my experiment, I was decidedly non charming. But ovulation trumped my completely bored demeanor.

I did, however, stay long enough to finish the bottle of champagne he ordered. Hey, a girl's gotta drink.

Pre-Date Advice

IC: "You shouldn't drink before your date. Remember that one incident."

Me: *LAUGHING*

IC: "You know I'm being serious, right?"

Me: *MORE LAUGHING*

I'm Ovulating

A few weeks ago, I posted a link to the Time Magazine article Why We Love which summarized a number of studies which use biology and chemistry to shed light on love and sex and relationships.

One particularly interesting study focused on men's reactions to women who are ovulating. The study monitored strippers' menstrual cycles and the tips they earned during specific stages of said cycle.

While men generally are not able to explicitly identify the women who are menstruating versus those who are ovulating versus those who are at neither stage, SOMEHOW, they are able to "tell" and that affected how much they tipped the various strippers in this study.

Menstruating strippers were tipped the least. Ovulating strippers were tipped the most. Those strippers neither menstruating nor ovulating received tips in the middle of the two extremes. So the study hypothesized that somehow, men are able to sense ovulation and are "nicer" to those women who are fertile at that moment.

I had an "Ah Ha!" moment reading this. Perhaps every time I have attracted a stalker, I was ovulating at the time? I consulted a calendar and determined that when I met Creepy Skincare Product Guy who called and emailed me mercilessly for weeks afterwards, I was ovulating. When I met Yellow Fever Guy who told me that I inspired him to write a song, I was ovulating.

Well, I am ovulating RIGHT NOW. And I have a "date" tonight.

So tonight will be a truncated experiment of sorts. If all goes according these studies, I will acquire a new stalker by about 10PM.

But there is one possible causal relationship which the ovulation study did NOT discuss: Is it possible that women (unintentionally) behave differently during that point of their cycle? Were the ovulating strippers more... strippery?

Could it be that I (unconsciously driven by a biological imperative to breed) am more charming when ovulating? That I do a better job of feigning interest in the incredibly boring things that men usually say when I am ovulating?

To remove that potentially confusing element from tonight's experiment, I will be surly and disinterested while on my date. Just surly old me, in all my ovulating glory.

Will report the initial results tomorrow morning.

Standards

EA and MG and I have been swapping emails over the last couple weeks, discussing our usual topic - men.

The exchange started with a description - "he looks good on paper." That led to a multitude of emails detailing the traits we consider "non-negotiable."

I'm still happily on my man fast, but this is an intellectual exercise which never grows old.

My list:

A guy who:

1. has the dark, brooding good looks of Clive Owen
2. the talent and quirkiness of Johnny Depp
3. can correctly spell and punctuate his sentences
4. can hum or play Bach

EA's list of non-negotiables was much more reasonable. But nonetheless, we decided that the only men who actually possess all the desired traits are gay - which violates the only TRULY non-negotiable trait: heterosexuality.

So it's really a matter of prioritizing and compromising - because at some point, you have to accept that one's expectations might be unrealistically high.

That said, I had a conversation the other day with a guy that I have no interest in romantically or sexually, but it was a good conversation - he was smart, thoughtful, capable of engaging in a lively conversation on a wide variety of topics and showed insight into how others think, and demonstrated interest in my opinions. This isn't such a remarkable thing, well, at least it SHOULDN'T be so remarkable, but given that such conversations with straight men have proven to be quite rare, I found it a shockingly new experience and thought him more attractive for it. Is this an example of expectations being too low?

A friend of mine wanted to uncover the specific reasons behind my man fast:

Friend: "Is it that you are just too picky?"
Me: "Well, think of some of the guys I have been with. Clearly, I'm not picky at all."
Friend: "You've got a point there."

The man fast is in place because I can't really spare the energy right now to take a man seriously.

However, despite the fast, I still keep my hand in the dating scene because there is something that would trump the reasoning behind the fast, something that would even trump any and all of the "non-negotiables": the tingles.

And the tingles happen inexplicably, unpredictably - and might not be necessarily inspired by washboard abs or broad shoulders, although, of course, those attributes don't hurt.

I have great respect for the tingles. And I have rarely ignored that siren call. Even with my self-imposed man fast, I would break that fast in a blink of an eye, if I heard the call strongly enough.

But in the meantime, I flirt with boys, usually those far younger than I am, whom I do not have to take seriously. It's just play, with all the control in my hands, no demands for more than I want to give, no compromise necessary on my part.

I find it rather amusing that I started this post by discussing standards and expectations vis-a-vis men, and I have ended it by realizing that I have not only somehow become a man, I've become the asshole version of one.

Deliberate Flaws

CL and I did our usual wine bar thing last night - but this time we tried out one of FT's new places in the lower east side, Solex (1st avenue, between 6th and 7th).

My review of the joint: LOVELY and GORGEOUS and might even be a reason for me to trek to that part of town more frequently. I especially liked the gorgeous stools which were, admittedly, a bit high. But that made it an adventure to jump off and hop back on. It took several tries for me to do so gracefully, and to stop merely TUMBLING off the stool because the ground was farther away than I thought.

FT graciously left his brand spanking new Soho bar to join us at Solex. He told us that he's been getting "hate" mail because of the stools! But he believes strongly that every place should have a slight flaw built in, because perfection is sterile.

And that reminded me of a quote (as most things do, apparently) that only things made by God are perfect. There is a class of gifted old Italian furniture makers - artisans in the true sense of the word - who deliberately add a single flaw to everything they create, in order to avoid hubris and to show appropriate respect.

On another note, CL reminded me that our first sex-ed class was in FIFTH grade, not third. And that Mr. D not only made us all say "penis" and "vagina," but also spent one class with a maxipad stuck to his shirt. Not sure about the rational for that.

I find it intensely amusing that CL and I are now friends. CL was one of the "cool" boys in school while I was a freak and refused to talk to anyone who wasn't studying classical music. I don't believe we exchanged a single word when we were growing up. But I do remember one time in fifth grade when I kicked CL hard in the shins (I have no recollection of WHY) and CL replied by punching me in the gut. He adamantly denies this however.

Yet More On Writing Sex

I've started yet another blog. But this new one is devoted to retelling all the best first kiss stories that I've been collecting for the last many years.

After enough cocktails, people are always very willing to root through their pasts, pull out a story, and share.

A couple years ago, I was in NYC for a month long stay - I needed to get out of Beijing. I had met WC at a bar near her office and we had lunch and multiple cocktails. At the time, we were both going through some serious man hell so we were alternating between hysterical laughter and equally hysterical tears. She stumbled back to her office for a conference call and I stayed behind to wait for her return.

Three off-duty fireman were sitting at the bar so I joined them. Many more cocktails later, we were all fast friends. They had seen us crying and once they realized that it was because of men, they got very upset and "heroic".

"Where do the assholes live? You tell us right now, and if we ever get a call from their apartments, we won't f*cking answer it! Let the f*ckers BURN!"

I was so touched that I teared up a little, but assured them it wasn't necessary.

By the time WC returned, I was sitting with three VERY DRUNK off-duty firemen who were all unabashedly weeping as they recounted to me their stories of their best first kisses.

Unfortunately, I don't exactly remember their stories, and my notes are completely illegible. But I DO remember that their stories were astonishingly sweet. The focus was on romance, not sex. Granted I haven't collected many stories from men, so statistically I can't draw any valid conclusions, but EVERY SINGLE story I've ever heard from a man about his best first kiss was romantic. With the women, the stories were significantly more varied. And many were highly sexual. So I'm trying to get it all down - not just notes scribbled into notebooks over the years, but all in a single place.

And while I remember the individual voices of the story tellers, and I'm trying to be faithful to that, it's proving to be difficult.

A big part of it is my own block when it comes to certain vocabulary.

The sex-ed program in my school was very... innovative. It started in third grade. The first day of sex-ed, our teacher went around the room and made each of us say two words: "penis" and "vagina."

Half the room giggled helplessly. The other half sobbed. I was in the latter category.

Lord, did I weep! But I finally squeaked out, in my most miserable voice, "penisvagina."

The class was successful however. As an adult, I have no problems saying or writing those words. Penis! Vagina! Even in all caps: PENIS! VAGINA!

Of course, now I wish our teacher had included additional useful vocabulary such as: "cock, "pussy", and "cunt." If he had, perhaps I would have finished my trashy novel long ago.

Rats, now I'm blushing and feeling the urge to apply anti bacterial gel.

Scary Sex Toys

SK and I went to the Erotic Love Letter Workshop tonight. I was so worried that I would be late, that completely inadvertently, I was fifteen minutes early.

That was a bad thing.

The workshop took place at a sex shop in the lower east side. I showed up and the door was locked. I was convinced I was late so I did the natural thing - I banged on the glass door mercilessly until someone came to unlock the door and let me in.

"Am I late?" I inquired breathlessly.

"No, you are early, but that's ok," I was informed. "Look around the store until the workshop starts," the salesperson suggested.

I claimed seats for myself and SK and wandered around the store. Since I am very methodical, I started at the beginning, and perused the bookshelves closest to the front door. Books do not frighten me. Even book with titles such as: Dick: A User's Guide and Nice Girls Don't... and Butt and The Beauty of Fetish and even The Definitive Guide to Anal Sex for Women.

Next I went to the display of hand blown (I'm not even trying to be funny here) glass dildos which were VERY expensive.

But as I went deeper into the store, I grew more uncomfortable.

I picked up a rubber ducky and was surprised at the weight of it. I squeezed it in the wrong way and it started to vibrate. I squealed and dropped it and then looked around furtively to see if anyone noticed. I wandered further and saw the usual assortment of dildos and vibrators and so forth. These were immediately recognizable as such and didn't startle me. After all, I've watched Sex and the City; I know of the "rabbit." After all, I own 15 "Hello Kitties."

But then I came upon a display of... well... flaccid penises. I was a bit confused. What does one DO with something like that? I had it in my mind that they were made of hard plastic. I knew it was a bad idea, but I reached out and poked one with a single finger. It wasn't made of hard plastic. It was.... LIFELIKE. That disturbed me immensely. I got terribly confused and poked it again, rather expecting it to grow and harden. It didn't. I got more confused and wished I had anti-bacterial gel. I was so confused that I backed away and ran over to the other side of the store where I found myself standing before a display of whips. To make a long story short, some whips don't hurt. Others do. I now have a new sensitivity regarding the crop I use when I am on horseback.

Bottom line, I was incredibly relieved when SK finally showed up and I could make her poke the flaccid silicon penises as well before taking our seats.

We were told that the workshop was about to start and that this was a good time to "set our phones on vibrate and put them in our pants." I chose to turn my phone off entirely.

I had hoped the exercise of going to this workshop would help me get over the block I have about writing sex scenes. It failed. "Cock" this and "suck" that and "rank cunt" this just doesn't seem sexy to me. Am I alone here? Is that actually SEXY?!? If anything, I walked away from this workshop thinking not only will I never WRITE about sex, I will never HAVE sex again.

But, being the dutiful student that I am, I completed the workshop assignment and wrote an "erotic" love letter. It's not good. It's the exact OPPOSITE of sexy. All the frighteningly enormous dildos and flaccid silicon penises and painful whips just chased the "erotic" right out of me. But here it is, because I promised myself that no matter how humiliating, I would post my literary efforts on my blog:

I was in a strange and foreign place this morning - the grocery store. I heard this is where one goes to find food which isn't delivered to your door or served at your table.

I stood alone in the frozen foods aisle, and suddenly I felt your hand on the small of my back. You were nowhere near me, yet clear as day, I felt the heat and pressure of your hand on my skin through my clothes. You touched me there the first time we met. You didn't touch me with intent then - that would come later. That first touch was just a casual gesture on your part, although it affected me quite differently.

I cook four times year - the end of every quarter, that's it. But there I was this morning at Whole Foods, only a month into Q2, consulting the grocery list I had emailed to my blackberry. Why? For the express purpose of making dinner for you. It was difficult enough to concentrate on navigating the complexities of cilantro versus basil, or the question of whether sea bass counts as a firm white fish, but then I felt your hands on me. Your hands on the small of my back, my face, my breasts, my thighs, between my legs. Your hands EVERYWHERE.

Standing alone, contemplating the frozen vegetables (I know, I was taking liberties with the recipe), I was flushed and shaking. I didn't care how fresh was the bread, or how juicy the peaches, how tender the meat. Nothing feels as good, smells as good, tastes as good as you do.

I'm home now and you are on your way to me. The fabulous restaurant around the corner that you love so much is delivering their sea bass special. I considered pretending that I had prepared it myself, but nothing in me is capable of lying to you.

Your hands... I still feel your hands on me.

HURRY.

I think I have to draw an inescapable conclusion: I am simply incapable of writing anything erotic. *sigh*

Make Up Sex

There are countless Facebook third party applications offering all sorts of quizzes so people can determine important things such as: "What Sex and the City character are you?" and "Who were you in a past life?" and "What kind of lover are you?" and "What kama sutra position are you?"

There should be one for "What kind of fighter are you?"

I once dated a guy who fought dirty. He didn't pull his punches, and he hit below the belt.

No matter how minor and trivial the disagreement, he took that as license to cross all manner of lines that should NEVER be crossed and let fly personal insults with breathtaking ugliness.

I likened him to Tinker Bell in Peter Pan. As James M. Barrie said, Tink isn't a BAD fairy. She is just so tiny she can only hold one emotion at a time. Either she's very good or she's very bad.

When this guy was anything less than completely happy, he was MEAN. He couldn't hold two contradictory emotions at the same time. He couldn't be angry about a particular thing while remembering that he cares for the person who made him angry. He lacked the sense of object permanence that human beings learn as infants - the realization that things still exist even when not in their immediate line of sight. So when he was angry he was completely hateful and there wasn't room for the awareness that he didn't actually want the relationship to end, and that perhaps in an hour, or a day, or a week, he might regret his words and actions and wish that he could take it all back. But he was hardly Tinker Bell-sized, so what might be acceptable for her, isn't for him.

He tried to excuse himself by saying that he just doesn't like to fight, and that the solution was simply not to ever fight.

I don't have the words to express how STUPID that is.

Fighting is part of the human condition. We fight with everybody - our colleagues, our family, our closest friends, our lovers, even ourselves. The only thing that matters then, is HOW we fight.

A good friend was just dumped by her boyfriend. It came as a complete surprise to her. Yes, they had had a fight the day before, but it wasn't anything that fell outside the acceptable and normal boundaries of a healthy, loving relationship.

Apparently, her newly minted ex doesn't like to fight. Who does? But again, it's HOW people fight that can make all the difference. Is it possible to discuss even the thorniest issues while still exercising kindness, care and simple decency? Without simply ending the relationship? Of course it is. And then there's the make up sex which is always fun and almost an excuse to pick a fight in the first place. This should be common knowledge. But apparently, it isn't.

My friend's ex is looking for the kind of relationship in which disagreements never happen. I suggest finding a woman of the blow-up variety. But the sex (make up or otherwise) won't be nearly as fun.

My two cents.

Random Cobweb Clearing

I think my vowels might be loose. When I say that I am on a "man fast," it is often heard as "man fest."

Depending on the audience, that misunderstanding is either greeted with "go girl!" or with a raised eyebrow.

And then I am always quick to correct that misunderstanding... "No no no, a man faaaaaast." Which is then either greeted with disappointment or with the second eyebrow joining the first.

But why? What's wrong with a little random cobweb clearing? (phrase coined by BY last night).

The dictionary widget on my mac dashboard tells me that clearing away cobwebs means: "to enliven or refresh oneself." A little freshening up is almost always a good idea.

But sometimes it's important to recalibrate without the altering impact of sex. Because when it's good and worth having, sex changes everything.

And besides, as Cher said in Clueless: "You see how picky I am with my shoes... and they only go on my feet."

Writing Desire

Well, that didn't last long. I had one good, non-craving day, but today, The Craving is back. I would happily betray everything and everyone important to me in return for a grilled cheese sandwich. What makes it worse is that this is usually boozy brunch day.

In fact, it is so bad, I got on the phone and signed up for a 5 hour yoga workshop for this afternoon - it was the longest one I could find online. I have to get myself far away from anything I can eat or drink. Unfortunately, it is the kind of yoga that involves a lot of chanting. Despite being a certified yoga instructor, I am about as spiritual as my Amex card, so the chanting/spiritual elements of yoga usually just piss me off. But I suspect I am just so damn weakened right now, I will EAT IT UP.

And while we're on the topic of eating, it has been brought to my attention that I have been writing about sex. Or, rather, that I have been writing about food in a highly sexual way.

Maybe this is the trick - to write sex scenes while hungry, and not with a man in mind, but instead, a perfectly grilled panini with thinly sliced prosciutto, fresh arugula, melted mozzarella, the slightest touch of olive tapenade, and finished off with a lovely drizzle of truffle oil.

Excuse me, just slid off my seat.

Will Work For Food

Dreamt of those juicy little dumplings that squirt when you bite into them. You know, the kind where that salty goodness explodes in your mouth and runs down your chin and you lick your lips and fingers and wish your tongue were several inches longer.

Good god, I will have sex with the first person who walks through my door bearing a tin of low-sodium spam.

In Dreams

Lord, the dreams I am dreaming.

Anais Nin, in Delta of Venus, wrote of a young woman in a sexual relationship with her adopted father (I know, Anais was VERY naughty). The young woman one day tells her soon-to-be lover, "Your hands, all night I dreamt of your hands."

My dreams are nothing like that.

I am dreaming of FOOD. Endless amounts of it. Fragrant and luscious and firm and sweet and salty and tangy and messy and neat and secret and public and overflowing.

More On Writing Sex

"Release your inner slut," advises the description of the upcoming "Talk Dirty to Me" Co-Ed Sex Ed Class & Social Mixer. And it continues: "From moans and groans, to long sentences detailing what you want now, good dirty talk is about being authentic." Takes place January 26th - birthday party idea?

I am beside myself with joy. I am hopeful this will revive my seriously flaccid trashy novel. Trashy novels NEED sex scenes, and perhaps with my upcoming schedule of events lined up for January, I'll finally be able to put pen to paper and let loose a torrent of steaminess.

January 17th: In The Flesh Erotic Reading Series

January 22nd: Best Sex Writing 2008 Book Party/Reading

January 27th: Erotic Love Letter Workshop

SK is convinced she might just die of embarrassment, but I assured her that death by embarrassment would be far more likely during our pole-dancing classes.

I've spent the past year repeatedly killing off my trashy novel's main characters in the most gruesome ways possible. Maybe now I'll have them talk dirty to each other and get down to business. I'm so excited I'm shimmying in my seat.

I don't need to remember sex, I can find inspiration from the filthy minds of others. I love it. Plus, these are events during which I need consume nothing (my detox fast, in mind).

So while I can barely contain myself, I will approach this seriously, notebook in hand. Because after all, as Samantha Jones said, "Honey, they don't call it a job for nothing!"

I am curious to learn what else will seem like a good idea to me this month when I am teetering about in a state of deprivation-derived delirium.

You Make Me Wanna Wait

When was the last time you laughed so hard you peed a couple drops? A couple months ago, WC and I saw Altar Boyz, and loved it. About a Christian rock boy band, Altar Boyz tells the story of 5 "boyz" who share a goal - to save souls through their music - and they track their progress on the Soul Sensor DX-12, manufactured by Sony.

WC snagged front row seats, close enough to be splattered by sweat and saliva, and I really hope nothing else.

Matthew, the leader of the boy band, sings this one lovely, romantic ballad. And for that particular performance, he knelt down right at the edge of the stage and held out his hand to... ME. Of course, I put my hand in his and furiously batted my eyelashes.

He sang:

When I met you girl
When I hold your body next to mine
It feels so good
And feels so right
And it also makes my Levi’s feel real tight

All my friends they think I’ve lost my mind
And they tell me I’m a fool
But I’m doing what I learned in Sunday school...

Girl, you make me wanna wait

Later, though, they brought up some ugly chick to sit on stage for the last part of the song while I fumed inwardly with a fury that could destroy worlds.

But then I got over it, and after the show, WC and I bought little tees that proclaim across the bosom: "You make me wanna wait."

I think I'll wear it when I decide to start having sex again. That should send a nice mixed message.

But anyway, I was doing yoga yesterday afternoon, and I was wearing that tee. My father looked at it and asked me, "Wait for what?"

"I don't remember," I replied. Which was truthful enough.

Choices

Ever since MomVee mentioned Love Actually in a recent post, I've been obsessed. I searched on iTunes to no avail. Netflix's video download service is for PCs only. (Actually renting the DVD seems entirely too complicated). But I've done it; I have figured out this new fangled thing called: "torrent." Called SK to tell her about it. She told me that next I should check out something called "e-mail."

After a few false starts and an unacceptably long download time, I am watching Love Actually, and enjoying myself immensely, despite Hugh Grant, despite no one dying violently.

So as I'm watching, I'm playing the game AM told me she plays in boring meetings. She looks around the room and chooses the man with whom she would be most likely to have sex.

I'm having trouble with that in this movie. Obviously, from a sheer "he's so hot and hardbodied he can't possibly be hetero" perspective, Laura Linney's love interest wins. And yet Colin Firth? Alan Rickman? I've been in love with Alan Rickman since Die Hard. I even watched Truly Madly Deeply because of him (and realized halfway through that the movie is gorgeous, and even has dead people in it!)

But if I had to choose just one...

And if the rules state the CHARACTER in the movie, not the ACTOR...

Colin Firth.

If the actor, then Alan Rickman.

Interestingly, my mother just voted for Laura Linney's hot, hardbodied, improbably hetero love interest.


That was fun. In real life it's a toss up between creepy-skin-care-product-stalker guy and sociopathic-alcoholic-stalker guy.

Golly, the imaginary world is SO much more appealing.