Godammit, I’m Mad!

Last night, my husband expressed his disappreciation of the acting on True Blood. I agree that the acting is terrible. But I suggested to him that it might be worthwhile to see Anna Paquin and Stephen Moyer having sex, given their hotness.

My husband claimed to have no interest at all in a sex tape with Bill and Sookie. Upon reflection, I wondered if I wanted to see any celebrities having sex. If you’ve seen the Pam and Tommy opus, you know exactly what I mean, right? It’s just tragic and disgusting.

Are there any celebrities whose sex tapes would appeal to you? Angie and Brad, maybe? Or is it all just awful?

While searching for dreadlock remover (imagine a little sad-face thingy here) I came across this wonderful product for use Down There.

“Rid yourself of the unwanted grays and give hair down there a beautiful boost of color that’s destined to brighten up more than your smile.”

Now my only problem is deciding between Black Cherry or Midnight Blaque. I’m leaning toward the latter because of the spelling. The hair on my head, or Up There I should say, is really dark brown, not technically Blaque. I don’t want to give anyone a fright.

The Down There business is topical because I had coffee with my sister today and complained about the word “rump.” I read in The Cut that Kate Moss shows off “her rump” in a new video. I was so upset by this usage that I nearly fired off a letter to the editor. Why “rump” for godsake? Can’t they say “ass” or even “butt” or in the worst case scenario maybe “backside?”

Then we moved on to the word “tush” which also annoys me. When I discovered that there’s actually a song called Tush, I nearly had a stroke. Now there’s a magazine called Tush. It’s a word to use with a two year old, like pee pee, but then it should be dropped asap.

Anytime I hear the term Down There, I think it bespeaks a revulsion for sex and body parts. The GiGi color product manages to add an Australian slant by calling this crap “Color Down Under.” Here’s an idea! Next time you hear someone use the term Down There, scream: “Where, Australia?”

First of all, she is fat, let’s just admit it. I saw her on TV with David Letterman, recalling how hurt she was when the tabloids called her “fat”.  Then she talked about her ex-boyfriends, and her new reality show.

Have you ever seen someone on TV who is so stupid that you want to cover your eyes? This is the true horror of Jessica Simpson. She brays loudly and inappropriately after making awkward jokes, all the time being fat. I had to turn away out of common decency.

Now I find that she’s involved with Billy Corgan, who wrote a song for her new show. I know how much everyone hates Billy Corgan but I love him!  Loved him, I guess. Why does he want Jessica Simpson?! Is it because she’s “sexual napalm?” Isn’t napalm a bad thing? And what if he wants a coherent conversation after the napalm?

I’m just depressed about the whole thing. And don’t tell me she’s not fat. She’s not fat like her awful sister didn’t have a nose job.

It goes with everything, and it’s only $24 at Urban Outfitters.

When my friend R suddenly proclaimed herself skeptical about the G Spot during Christmas Eve dinner, I told her she was preaching to the choir. According to R, that idiot “Dr. Oz” was on TV trying to teach people how to locate the G Spot by using the roof of the mouth as a model of the female Area.  (Sorry, can’t use the V word.)

So here’s my analysis of the G Spot situation, and R backs me up on this.

The G Spot is a male fabulation, designed to put women back in their place after the superiority of female sexuality became common knowledge. In other words, since women have a better capacity for orgasm, lets find a way to make them feel inadequate again.

Ladies, are you feeling me here? Why do we need a mysterious “Spot” that almost no one has located, when the C Spot is RIGHT THERE and works great?! I love reading about how some women feel an urge to pee when you press their G Spot, while other women experience a special “V—-al Orgasm.”  Since that theory makes the whole deal seem kind of dubious, newer studies suggest that only SOME women have a G Spot. In that case, let me say that I personally have an H Spot, as well as Spots I through LMNOP, but I’m not going to tell you where they are, since you probably don’t have them.

When I googled G Spot, I came across an piece at Ask Men dot com, about the Male G Spot! I was thrilled! R and I had postulated the existence of an M Spot for men….a nebulous place somewhere between the balls that had to be pressed from a certain angle to be triggered.  How gratifying to imagine men probing desperately for a Spot that isn’t there!

I was disappointed, not to mention saddened and completely grossed out, to learn from Ask Men that the Male G Spot is up their butt. THAT’S RIGHT, you heard me. Up their butt. Ask Men suggests that guys get comfortable and relaxed before attempting to locate…..oh god, I can’t go on. It’s just too tragic. Who are these dummies they write for at Ask Men? It should be called Ask Idiots. Or maybe just “Duh.com.”

While I personally can accept some things on faith, other things (like the moon landing) I’m not too sure about. The moon landing, I’d say there’s a fifty per cent chance it happened. Immaculate Conception, zero per cent. Loch Ness Monster, YES, that one I feel good about. But the G Spot is nonsense and I’m not buying it.

Opinions, anyone?

Oh god, I was minding my own business (relatively) on facebook, where I have recently reconnected with an old friend. There on his profile page I was accosted by an idiotic comment from a creep I once had sex with!  Ugh, WTF!

Would you like to hear the story?

Okay. I was single and between marriages and apparently desperate for companionship. This creep was the friend of my friend (I think) and he bore a vague resemblance to someone I had once adored.

In my head, I named John Blodgett “The Facsimile.” He was nine years younger than me and never tired of mentioning the age difference. I was around 33 but thanks to him I felt like Old Mother Hubbard.

He was studying English literature somewhere and was a terrible writer. He took himself more seriously than anyone I’ve ever met, before or since. He hated his mother. He liked Faulkner, never a good sign.

We finally slept together and it was disastrous. He did not know shit from Shinola. I was mortified. I didn’t relish the teacher role; it was bad enough being the older woman. Each time, it got worse instead of better. I wondered if he was deliberately trying to withhold pleasure and frustrate my needs.

One night, we were driving home from somewhere and he started drinking at the wheel. I was alarmed but he just laughed and drove faster. That night, he told me that things weren’t working for him. I listened in disbelief. How could such a loser want to dump me?

No matter how many times I reviewed it, I couldn’t understand what had happened between us. I felt cheated and wanted my money back. I wrote him a letter, calling him a Facsimile and giving him an honest evaluation of his writing. I suggested that he get a map of the female anatomy, and advised him to procure both a psychiatrist and a nose-job.

He wrote back, saying he planned to use my letter in his English class. I replied with the promise of a lawsuit. At some point, he attempted to ‘make friends.’ I either ignored him to told him to fuck off.

Ah, life is funny, isn’t it? I haven’t thought of him in years and years. Here is what he wrote on my old friend’s facebook page:

I’m really interested in hearing more about your (former) restaurant and your entreprenueurial career in general. You are one of the few people– maybe the only one I know– who’s managed to carve out a prosperous nontraditional work life. I’m getting burnt out on teaching in the inner city and it’s only going to get worse. Just a couple of days ago a respected teacher friend of mine was accused (quite brazenly & unfairly) in the New York media of inappropriate touching with his students and– poof!– a distinguished 25+ year career in teaching is down the toilet. I think I need to start thinking of alternatives to being at the mercy of crack babies with ghetto attitude. I admire what you’ve done and envy your cabin.

Hahaha!  What a fucking cunt™!

Have you ever decided to find something that you can’t find? When this condition becomes extreme, I think it’s a disorder, but I forgot what it’s called. If you look in the same drawer three times in a row, it may then be OCD, but I’m going to call it “desperate.”

I spent nearly an hour looking for something that should have been where it used to be, but now it’s gone. I may have hidden it so cleverly that I’ll never find it. Someone will eventually find it when I’m dead. I hope they’ll find a way to  send a message to me just to solve the mystery.

While I was looking, I did come across my copy of Lady Athlete, a tawdry old bodybuilding magazine in which I appeared as one half of “Sisters in Iron.”  My sister and I lifted weights together at the old Gold’s Gym, where we were a constant annoyance to everyone except the owner, who named us Morticia and Vampira.

We agreed to be in the magazine on condition that all photos were taken in the gym. We were stupid but not stupid enough to pose in bikinis for perverts. When the magazine came out, we each got a free copy. I remember laughing until we cried at the demented text, which was full of lies and described us approaching the weights like “animals stalking their prey.”  They also described us as moving together “like a well-oiled machine,” which was funny because we argued continuously.

So I found the magazine and wondered if it still existed.  A Google search took me straight here to ebay, where some guy happens to have one copy of my issue! If only he’d show the back cover, where I’m gripping a dumbbell with a look of perfect serenity on my face.

Anyone wishing to blackmail me can buy this magazine for only $21.25!

Still feeling annoyed and unfulfilled, I tried to find comfort in sanctimonious rage over at Dan Savage’s blog. I knew he’d be furious about something. While there, I read a letter that took me here, to AVEN, the Asexuality Visibility and Education Network.

As it turns out, there’s a whole new world of human rights we haven’t even worried about! Asexual people don’t want to be marginalized, godammit! Just because they don’t want sex, they are just as god made them and deserve whatever it is they want.

I know you’re all feeling the same as me: More sex for the rest of us! Who would knock it?! Listening to the Dresden Dolls while I type this, I think I would like to have sex with both of them, as a gesture of support for AVEN.

You just have to ask, What the hell is wrong with these guys?

Both Michael Hutchence and David Carradine would have no trouble getting laid. Or even, getting laid in some unconventional way. So why risk death just to get off?

Apparently, this is a largely male endeavor. But don’t anyone pipe up that the reason for that is the more persistent male sex drive. Women have Needs, too. But women don’t seem to need the specter of death to add that Certain Something to sex.

Woman aren’t as likely to enjoy playing Russian Roulette, either. What is it about men that craves a brush with death? I assume it gives a rush of adrenaline, like when you nearly get hit by a car. But why do they require this boost to the experience of orgasm?

A gay friend explained that it’s all down hill for men after 16. Their sensations are duller with time, he insisted. Bummer, if that’s true! Is it, though?

I asked my husband. I wondered if the auto-erotic asphyxiation appeal was like eating blowfish. If it’s cooked the right way, it’s delicious; if not, it’s poisonous and you’re dead. I don’t know about anyone else, but I have no interest whatsoever in trying blow-fish.

The husband explained that he has always been touched by how the appetite for sex is so universal – no matter who you are, or how old, you’ll walk over burning coal to get some.

But I still wanted an answer. He thought it was pretty normal for some people to keep trying to improve their experience. Like some people are happy with a scoop of their favorite ice cream, but others think, This might be nicer with something added.

I asked him, But what if when you come, it’s already 10 on a scale of 1 to 10. Why would you be worried about trying for 11? In fact, I noted, speaking for myself, if it were any more intense, I’d pass out.

“Exactly!” he replied, happy to have effectively conveyed the point of auto-erotic asphyxiation.

Over at 2blowhards, people have been strenuously debating whether porn is an art form akin to rock and roll, and whether we now accept porn as part of the internet experience.

Obviously, the first question is nonsensical. But the other question bothers me. Just now, I followed some fashion links to some new photos of Lindsay Lohan, topless. My first thought upon looking at her face was: This girl is spent. Literally. She’s been used up and she has nothing left to offer but her nude body for the purpose of porn.

The poor girl has been through everything, at such a young age! She looks like she’s at the brink of starvation, but since she still has tits, she’ll flaunt them. I find it very depressing.

Is it pornography to watch a young celebrity flame out and burn? Is Girls Gone Wild pornography? Are kids really posting nude photos of themselves on their mySpace pages? Is porn ever healthy? Is there anything we haven’t seen yet, or shouldn’t see?

When I first learned to use a computer, the girl I worked with immediately set out to show me some notorious video of a woman having sex with a donkey. I hoped she wouldn’t find it. She did show me a photo of an old lady using a dead fish for something….it wasn’t good, although it was somewhat shocking.

Another office, more searches for porn. My (female) boss and I laughed hysterically at photos of women with two cocks in their mouths. We went to massive cocks dot com and laughed some more.

That is really the totality of my experience with online porn. Is there something wrong with me?

I don’t think I’m prudish. I just don’t want to get depressed. Now I hear there’s a very popular website where people upload pictures of their own faces during orgasm. I don’t get why it’s popular! Why would I want to see what some stranger looks like when they come?

I’m wondering if the world is made up of exhibitionists and voyeurs. And of course a third group, where I fit in. I’m wondering if my problem is that I can’t look at porn without thinking about the motives involved. After I laughed at the girl with two cocks in her mouth, I thought about her mother.

Someone once showed me a website where you could look at women covered in shit. I was very upset and wanted to cry for weeks afterward. I know this is not an example of whatever’s considered mainstream or arty porn, but the whole new world of porn at our fingertips is distressing to me. Even more than distressing, it’s sad.

People who enjoy porn should at least have the decency to shut up about it. Insisting that it’s interesting on any other level is just a denial of its primary purpose. Waxing all intellectual about porn is just absurd, like Camille Paglia pontificating about Madonna.

I hope that young people will still be allowed some innocence about sexuality, so they can discover it with a real live person. Mystery and taboos are there to preserve the holy aspect of sex, and by holy I don’t mean to exclude any practices between two human beings of any gender. Speaking  as an atheist, I still think of sex as a religious experience.

Here’s what Leonard Cohen thinks.

Give me back my broken night
my mirrored room, my secret life
it’s lonely here,
there’s no one left to torture
Give me absolute control
over every living soul
And lie beside me, baby,
that’s an order!

When they said REPENT REPENT …

Comments or arguments, anyone out there?

Needless to say, I was thrilled to hear that Levi “the Impregnator” Johnston’s mom was busted for drugs in Wasilla. Sherry Johnston has been charged with six felony counts of misconduct involving Oxycontin, a drug commonly known as ‘hillbilly heroin.”

My first reaction was to think, Ha ha, let’s hear anyone try to disassociate Levi from his mom, as if he had no idea that his mom was a dope dealer. Please! One can only assume that Levi loves Oxycontin as much at Track Palin does.

There is obviously nothing to do in Wasilla but do drugs, and have sex. Oh, I forgot guns and church. So basically if you don’t want to pray or shoot anything, you’re stuck with sex and drugs. Who can blame Levi or his mom or Track and Bristol? I’m sure that every other house in Wasilla is a crack den or meth lab, and god bless ‘em.

But now upon learning that Mrs. Palin has “no comment” and “nothing to do with the arrest,” I have to think that she’s behind the whole thing. Maybe, just maybe, Levi thought he could get out of marrying Bristol, now that Mrs. P is only a dumb governor and not the V.P. And maybe Mrs. P decided to let him know what happens to those who don’t cooperate with her agenda.

I can almost hear Mrs. P. barking at Todd, “You call the State Troopers and tell them to arrest that little bastard’s mom, right now! I’ll be god damned if I have to raise one more of Bristol’s babies!”

The poor Johnston family! You don’t fuck with Mrs. P, that’s for sure. And also too, if Bristol doesn’t give birth today on her due date, maybe she can wait until Christmas day and claim Immaculate Conception!  Let us pray.