seems i've always got something on the tip of my tongue.    ©

Friday, June 30, 2006


Hey, peoples. To those who've offered their support to me over the past stressful month, thank you. You know who you are. (As do I.)

Am I completely satisfied with things yet? No. The dust hasn't settled. Things may still change. (Hopefully continuing towards betterness; I'm optimistic. The jury's out, as the saying goes.)

Therefore, things are still a little chaotic for me. The dust will settle slowly over the next two weeks, I expect, and as it does, my writing will get more regular. This weekend's a long weekend in both the US and Canada, and while people may read, there are never comments on long weekends, and face it... we blog for comments. If we wanted to talk to ourselves, we'd hang out in front of the bathroom mirror, y'know? So, as always, my long weekend will be light on postings. I'll save the good shit for the work week. Meanwhile, I'm gonna do some idea brainstorming.

If you have anything you'd like to see me tackle, then tell me, and I'll mull that bad boy over.

Have a wicked weekend. Me, I'm having some sleep, some World Cup, and a dose of Superman. Yahoo.

Thursday, June 29, 2006

Enter Soapbox


Here's my thoughts on it. I'm an environmentalist. I don't hug trees. I hate bugs. I don't know the words to Kumbaya (okay, I do, but fuck it). But it's my world, and I see what's happening to it, and I wish it'd change. You have the power. This movie will move you. See it. It's really, really well made and highly watchable and very procative conversation-wise. See it. Did I mention you should see it?

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

Stopped the Bleeding!

Employment looms, it would seem. Less than three weeks is what it's taken.

Thank fucking god.

I'm quittin' this searchin' gig, Bertha, and headin' out for a ride!

I still have a couple crazy days ahead of me, but I hope to get back onto a regular writing path in the near future, and with no longer needing to fear eviction and ugly shit like that, my creativity should begin to swell. Stay tuned, my loyal minions. The Steff is BACK, baby.

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

Every Day I Think About Money

I've been thinking a lot about money lately, for obvious reasons. My theme song is the Stereophonics' live track, "Every Day I Think About Money." A couple days back I was elated when I was able to pay for 95% of my groceries with the coin I extracted from my piggy bank. (And, yes, it really is a piggy bank. It's an upscale pottery pig, a high-falutin' pig, but it's a clay porker-broker indeed.)

These days, any self-worth I have comes from me. I can't pad things with purchases. I can't buy a little somethin' somethin' to make myself feel better. Others keep trying to spend money on me, and every time they do, a little more of my pride whittles away, despite the fact that I know they're just trying to enjoy some time with me and see me satisfied. And, yes, as Marcellus Wallace would say, that's pride fuckin' wit' me.

I've always been a proud person. I learned it from my mother. She was broke in the three years before her death, and we didn't have a lot of money in my teens, either, but through it all, my mother never looked destitute, and she sure as shit never acted it. I try to live up to that. Sure, I falter at times, but such is life.

It's easy, though, when you have money to spend yourself to a supposedly better state of mind. It's easier still to try and spend your way out of guilt towards a loved one when you're not being the lover/parent/spouse/friend you think you ought to be. I think we've all done this in the past. It's too easy to not have done it.

We like to confuse the issue and pretend it's generosity we're providing, but it's really not that. It's absolution.

Back in the day, the Catholic Church filled its coffers by selling salvation. For a lofty price, you could contact a bishop and acquire yourself a church-sanctioned piece of salvation; as if giving God money could cause him to avert his judgmental gaze from you.

Nothing's changed. We're still the same. We "give at the office" so we can justify all our transgressions elsewhere. We buy our lovers gifts because we don't have the time or energy to be with them, or worse, because we've lied to them or betrayed them. Well, it ain't workin'. It's the financial equivalent of trying to pull off a Band-aid slowly. What the fuck you thinkin', Willis?

Money may make the world go round, but it also keeps the shrinks at bay long enough to delude ourselves that things aren't really what we know they are.

The good thing about being broke like this is that I'm forced to go inside myself more and see what it is I value about me, to try and remember the simple things in life that bring me pleasure. Lying on a sofa on a dark, warm summer night with some music playing and just the streetlight slipping in through cracks in the curtains. Finding a nice bunch of economical ingredients and creating something new and wonderful in the kitchen while still making budget. Taking the long ride home on the scooter while dangling my sandal-clad feet off the side to get a breeze through the toes. Singing to myself and switching up familiar melodies with new phrasing and note combinations. Reading a good book in the bath.

And few of those cost any money, and whatever does cost money is something I'd be spending anyhow, so I just spend it wiser, is all.

I've been trying to avoid going into stores for the past few months, because this money-being-tight thing isn't a recent development -- it's just more intense now than it's ever been. But stores are made to make us want all the things we don't have. That's their nature. What's worse is there's a science behind marketing that most people are ignorant of.

Next time you're in a supermarket, look at how it's laid out. The meats on one side, the veggies on the other, and to get to either, you must pass all the processed and packaged shit that comes with higher markups. The lighting's dimmer over the processed aisles, too, by some 30%, so you have to focus more to see what you're looking for, and in so doing, you're more likely to purchase something you don't need. The brightest lighting, though, is over the checkout counters so you're hyper alert and pay the right money, plus you move and act quicker so they save time on every transaction.

I'm on hyper-vigilant stand-by mode every time I enter stores these days. I'm conscious of my knowledge of marketing and subliminal sales tricks so I can try with all my heart to not spend a dime more than necessary. And I'm also conscious in reminding myself that it's how I live my life, not what I fill it with, that brings me joy. It's hard. It's really hard. I'd love to get new headphones. My toaster oven has a Mensa-issued turn-on switch that requires a secret handshake and multiple acts of finagling just to get the fucker to toast. I've lost so much weight that all my clothes hang on me, and my pride's taking a hit (fuck you, Marcellus; it is what it is).

But in the recent months I've acquired something money could never bring me before: Resourcefulness. Self-knowledge. Strength of self. A kind of inner peace I didn't know existed.

Yeah, I still hate the 28-year-olds driving cars worth 30 times what my scooter's worth, but I also know the looks of envy I get from them when I pull up at a stopsign in shorts and a t-shirt on a sweltering day, tapping my feet and singing to myself under my helmet. I glance over and a grin spreads on their faces as they nod, wondering why they've bought into the myth of the fancy car and the big monthly payments.

We each find happiness in different ways, but I'll tell you one thing: It ain't on your Visa bill, baby, nor is it in the cracks of your couch.

Sunday, June 25, 2006

Putting My Foot Down On You, Dr. Scholl

I'm interviewing at an ad agency or two tomorrow. No, I won't be doing any of the ad copy work or anything, more of a save-the-sanity support office worker, since I excel at that. But advertising is something I've always been very, very interested in.

Remember the movie Crazy People, from years back? Daryll Hannah and Dudley Moore? "Jaguar: For men who like handjobs from beautiful women." Or, "Volvo: They're boxy, but they're safe."

It was a comedy about truth in advertising that emerges when an ad-copy writer has a breakdown and is sent to an insane asylum. He decides to stop lying to the public and tells the truth. He enlists the help of his fellow nuthausers and they reinvent advertising. (My favourite was the Sony one, where the shortness of Japanese assembly-line folks meant better quality control as they were hovered closer to the microchip boards than the tall, gangly American counterparts who were so tall they couldn't see the fine melds and such. Heh.)

Every year, I go and I see the film of The World's Best Commercials for that year. I love good advertising.

But I fucking hate bad ads.

Case in point: Dr. Scholl's for Her. There's this new open-toe gel shoe pad made for stilettos and the like, by Dr. Scholl's. For some fucking reason, there's this chick in a skin-tight micro tube dress, wearing strapless stilettos (that magically stay on) as her legs dangle off one side of a bareback horse, and she lies back over the hump of this horse, prostrated.

Because I do that in my stilettos every fucking day. And other things I do in my stiletto, apparently, include walking my dog on a reinforcing dike in the ocean, playing tennis, and more.

Who the fuck is this ad for? Who's the guy smoking crack who seems to think THIS is what's gonna sell these shoe pads to a woman?

How about having a real situation? Oh, I don't know... maybe an intelligent woman with spring in her step as she delivers a brilliant closing statement in a law court case? Maybe you have a group of men, all sweating and nervous, desperately awaiting a job interview in a crowded, awkward office, as this sexy chick who holds all their fates in her hands strides towards them, with a I-Own-Your-Ass, And-You-Know-You-Want-Mine look on her face?

I'm surprised they didn't just get to the point and have some chick in clear pumps spinning her way down a pole, since apparently we're all just whores who use our bodies for advancement in life.

How about we move the fuck away from more of this objectifying, lame-ass look at chicks today, and into the realm where women really are becoming powerbrokers? Remember, sexy and smart don't have to be oil and water.

They're only oil and water because the media doesn't want us to forget that it's our asses that count, not the grey matter in our heads.

I, for one, will never, ever buy another Dr. Scholl's product. This ad pisses me off THAT much. I'm sick and tired of seeing women whose bodies you can bounce quarters of, with brains the size of the quarter, as being the ideal that I'm supposed to somehow strive for.

My ass is copious. As is my intellect. How about selling to me, you assholes?

(If you're looking for an update on my employment woes, I've been keeping that shit over on the other blog. It's been one hell of a week for me, emotionally, and keeping it together's one of the hardest challenges I've ever faced. I'm scared as hell, but I'm proud as hell of how I've been dealing. I'll be glad when it's over. I hope that's soon. I've earned the reprieve. If I know anything, I know that.)

Thursday, June 22, 2006

From Poutine to Self-Love, Baby!

I should not be writing.

Another probably painfully tiring day awaits me tomorrow, before what is liable to be a mockery of a weekend, on which I believe I need to work Sunday, but the verdict is not yet in. (No, not real work. Taking a bunch of kids to a space museum. Yeah, who’s your sex goddess NOW, huh?)

I should not be writing, but I am.

You see, I took a terribly sinful break earlier today on what has been a gruelling couple headtrip days, and I acquiesced to the evil that lurks within: I submitted to my craving for poutine. If you’ve never had poutine, then you’re probably not Canadian. A pity for you, you poor fuckers. You’ll hear about it, and you’ll think, “Ew, ick!” but really, that’s just your ignorance talking, or perhaps it’s the silly little granola-loving freak you nurture deep within. Either way, it’s all about the fat. Mm, fat!

Poutine’s french fries smothered in cheese curd and gravy. In other words, it’s potatoes that died tremendously worthwhile deaths. And I salute them! So do my lovehandles. But I do digress.

There, there was a paper lying about. I shouldn’t be so brash as to call the Province a newspaper, because it’s hardly a good newspaper at all. It’s a tabloid. It’s the McDonald’s of news for people who are news-tritiously challenged. Or chronologically challenged, and I was the latter. Oh, and apparently the former. How convenient.

Dammit, again with the digressions! Lemme get to my fucking point, shall I? They had a story today about seven Vancouver chicks (you go, girls) who’ve opted to get married to themselves.


They’ve all got the gowns and they’re doing a public ceremony down on Vancouver’s Jericho Beach, and when it comes to the “Do you take this...” part of the ceremony, I think it’s going to be changed to, “Do you take yourself, to have and to hold, to love and to cherish, until your dying days?” or something like that.

I wanted to fucking stand and cheer then and there.

It ain’t some feminazi gig or anything, boys, so don’t get your panties in a bunch. It’s about saying, “Hey, I don’t need no man for happiness. I can provide that to myself.” None of us really needs anyone... it’s just nice to have them.

Like Margaret Atwood once said, a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle. I happen to believe that goes both ways, but too many women are too fucking obsessed with getting a ring on the finger and being validated by having some studmuffin by her side. It’s a sad state of things, and I would have thought we’d be farther along by now, but here we are: same shit, different story.

I made a brief comment about the “How to Get the Guy” show the other night, a show that still pisses me off on premise, even though the things it’s saying are sort of on the money. Yes, good ways to get a guy. Just bad ways to keep them.

If you’re not yourself when you snag a guy, it’s gonna be pretty fucking hard to keep yourself in that hyper-perfect state. And when you’re not that woman anymore, is he still going to be interested? Or are you just the dating equivalent of spam – building up an average product into something extraordinary, only to have it fall flat? Only you can know.

These chicks, they have the right idea. They might be being weird about it and taking it a bit far, but hey. Whatever gets you through the night, baby. You want to embrace yourself, love yourself, and make a commitment to yourself, then I say more power to you.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking this week, wondering what all my stress and frustration about this job search is coming off as for the masses. I mean, you all look to me for whatever the hell it is you want to find here on these pages – mantras about your body type, tips on hand jobs, produndity on being single, scathing commentary on whatever the hell the flavour of my day is... Honestly, I have NO idea what you’re here for, but I’m thrilled you tumble onto my doorstep, and I thank you for it.

But here I am, in all my flawed glory: Stuck in a financial conundrum that I know will end, but I’m terrified won’t end on schedule, my fears and my horrors hanging out for all to see, and the fact that I’m brutally, completely human. I’m as fucked up as anyone, man. I don’t have it all together, and I probably never will. Do any of us? No, probably not. We just play the roles well.

It’s that old, “I’m not a doctor; I just play one on TV” schtick. I ain’t no guru, baby, I just play one on the ‘net. I hurt, I get vulnerable, and, baby, I get scaredy-scared some days.

In the face of all that, I found myself there on Commercial Drive, strolling around in the mid-afternoon sun, a few minutes to kill, when my cellphone rang. Yes, yet another job interview call. (I’ve sent resumes around for just under two weeks, and by Monday’s end I’ll have had eight interviews, all for “real” jobs, so let that tell you what it will.) The funny thing was, this was an agency, and I responded to an ad of theirs earlier this week. I got The Big Rejection Letter. And there she was, calling me now, about an ad I responded to earlier today, knowing full well they’d already rejected me once this week.

She goes, “Your name sounds familiar!”

“It should, I applied earlier this week and got The Big Rejection Letter. But I’m stubborn, and it sounds like a great job for me.”

“Well, it’s a new posting, and I’m glad you’re persistent! I’d like to have a chat with you and see if you’re a good fit for our client!”

I got off the phone (the appointment’s at 9:00am, for an advertising co., one of two interviews tomorrow) and felt SO FUCKING SMUG.

The thing is, keeping your head together and being strong and loving yourself in the face of adversity’s the hardest thing in the world to do. When you’re single, it’s even harder. And that’s why I love hearing about women like this, the ones who say, “You know what? Fuck convention. This is about me.”

Oscar Wilde said my all-time fave quote that I keep citing here and should finally just put in my fucking sidebar, that loving yourself is the beginning of a lifelong romance. It’s times like these when I need to consciously try to love myself. It doesn’t come with ease. It’s work. Every damned day right now, it’s work. Every employer I talk to, every resume I send, my first thing I tell myself is, “I fucking ROCK. I can DO this.”

I don’t really believe it... but I play a guru on the ‘net, you know, so it’s convincing. ;)

(I do not take responsibility for errors in here. I ain’t fucking editing. You’re lucky I’m writing. Tee hee!)

The Further Adventures of Craig's List

Judging by the, uh, "list" this "vendor" makes available of his rather "extensive" Playboy collection he has available for sale, one might surmise that in the years 1964-1966, 1971-1973, 1976, and 1979, he was getting shagged senseless.

Now, I know there are those who "collect" Playboy and such, but is that really something you want to be buying used?

That's up there with the time that Bill Clinton got assessed by the IRS because he was claiming used underwear donated to charity were a $5 tax write-off. "But they're silk!"

You really don't wanna be discovering the hard way that the best pages were pages 85-86 in the January 1977 edition, simply because the pages are permanently stuck together with a strong and enduring, um, natural "adhesive," right?

No, best to be the original owner, methinks. But, you know, have at 'em. He's taking offers.

Relationship Tip Number One... should never abandon shit at a lover's place for too long.

It goes south... and your shit goes with it.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006

Spam of the Day:

"After taking Penis Enlargement Patch, you will be able to use your dick as a scarf."

Yeah, 'cos, like, size is everything. Right.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Nibblies: Bits and Bits and Bits

First off, no, I won't be "outing" the guy who played the creepy-McCreep trick of emailing my sex blog address and then doing a follow-up email to my "real world, looking for a job" email address.

Call me crazy, but what's the point? Some anonymous email address gets outted? Oh, whoopty-doo, that'll hurt him. Just makes me look like a putz, more like. He hasn't gotten an email back from me, so I'm sure he's clued in that I'm not swooning madly at his feeble attempts to impress me. I doubt I'll hear back from him again.

Second, yet another job interview looms. Fingers crossed, please.

Third, so there's this new show and I've seen all of 60 seconds of it, but I have some taped and will be weighing in with an opinion. It's ABC's How To Get The Guy. Great, just what we need. Yet another show that teaches women how to pander to the men around them in the hopes that maybe, JUST MAYBE one of them will see her for the star she truly is, and then they'll just let'er shine, baby.

For fuck's sake, let's just once have guys feeling like the desperate morons that need to pander to us, okay? Let's stop having this whole "oh, woe is me!" and "be a bettah babe" mentality that chicks seem to suffer from, all right? There's NOTHING wrong with you. Love's a bitch and it's better that it fails more than it succeeds, because then you GET it when you GOT it. Get it?

Men are great when they KNOW what they want. The rest of the time, they're loveable fucking pains in the asses, and doing all you can to up your charm quotient and flirt like the dickens is probably gonna do sweet fuck all to knock some sense in his head, which is the part that really needs to transpire.

But since the media knows there's only limited appeal to a reality show that has a bunch of Manhattan women lined up in the street with those giant plastic sledgehammers as they wait for the opportunity up and bell-ring the dude of their dreams with said sledgehammer, we just keep getting the same old crap spoon-fed to us in a new manner. How to snag a man. How to get laid, get happy, get a minivan, and get the fuck on. How to ignore the fact that it's really the rest of your life leaving you feeling like you've got a gaping hole in your soul as you chase down a guy who's ultimately probably gonna be a bad fix who'll last you less than any classic seven-year itch.

God forbid we ever stop trying to solve our giant emptinesses with people around us, or that we stop blaming our failings on the people we're in relationships with, because then what in the hell would the Hollywood types ever do with all those television scheduling hours that need to be filled with, gasp, content?

Besides, new evidence shows that the notion of "sexual chemistry" tends to be something schemed up by men within the first five minutes of meeting a woman, whether it's there or not. How in the HELL is watching 15 episodes of an over-simplified "If you do THIS, you'll GET him" man-hookin' methodology gonna do sweet fuck all for you if men are even MORE simple than we'd ever nightmared anyhow?

Sure, there are tricks you need to know. How to grin, how to use body language to your advantage, how to talk, how to kiss. I'm just thinking it goes two ways. I'm hoping the media figures that the fuck out soon. There're far too many clueless men out there. Let's start empowering THEM for a change and see what that does to shake up the mix, all right?

(Besides, I have this theory that women overcompensate in the "hunt" for the man for the fact that they often don't know what the hell to do with him to keep him one they got him. Sexual issues, et al, are probably areas that need to be explored more than the realm of how to get him onto a first date. That's the easy part. Geez.)

Monday, June 19, 2006

Where's Steff?

Hey, kids. I'm still looking for work. Honestly, it's just beating the creativity right out of me. Like a fucking dog in an alley, my friends. I don't feel like writing. Today was a two-interview day, which is great, 'cos it's interviews, but I didn't receive any other responses, so I feel like there's an insta-wall in front of me. I don't really have the time to "wait it out." Either I get a job and keep a place to live, or the fit hits the shan and I run like the wind.

I should be getting greater responses, but there's a pretty crazy job market and who knows what's going on. Either way, I'm frustrated, I have nothing of value to say, and there's not a lot of point in updating unless something good happens. It comes and goes, the goodness. This morning's interview was good, but the second wasn't that great. It went well, but they kept me waiting thirty minutes for the interview to begin, and I'm not sure I want to work for a company with so little respect for my time already. Unfortunately, I have no choice. I'll take the first job that comes.

I didn't get the job from the other day. They decided to look elsewhere. I decided that was fine by me after I saw them repost the ad before they decided to tell me I wasn't up for it any longer. Again, it's a question of basic etiquette and doing the right thing. It's a pity I seem to be more an anomaly than a common standard when it comes to perception of what the right thing is.

I should tell you about a strange thing that occurred, though. Were one to Google my full name, it wouldn't take long for this weblog to appear in connection with it. I am a Scribe Called Steff. Shit, it's on my resume, the "Scribe" moniker. Whatever. I'm not ashamed of what I write here. I toe the line between smut and sexy with aplomb, I believe, so, y'know, "whatever."


I do NOT publicize a certain email address in conjunction with this blog. There's an address that is explicitly tied to my resumes, and nothing else. A few friends have it, and some publishers, and that'd be that.

The other day, I got a pretty overtly sexual email (and I have ideas about who sent it) and the person emailed me at my "job" address. This leads me to surmise only one thing, that a potential "employer" has specific designs on what writing about sex means about me as a person. Whoever he is, he has another thing coming.

I have to say, it pisses me off, the judgments that are made on the basis of who we are behind closed doors. I've written about it before, and I'll write about it again, but this recent occurrence has really irked me a bit. The fact that this person sent the email to the board's email, and THEN my "employer" email as if to say, "Hey, look, I know who you are," is what creeps me out.

Whatever. Suffice to say that looking for work isn't as fun as I wish it could be. It's essentially a prolonged exercise in vulnerability and submissiveness -- both qualities I try to endure in very sparing quantities. I want a job. I want this over.

And when it is, I'll be a better writer. For now: Hi, I'm Stressed-out Steff and I'll be your tourguide through the jungles of the jobless, where the prey pray for fortune and speedy resolution. Sigh.

Sunday, June 18, 2006


Well, I did the Sex with Emily thing, and frankly, I'm disappointed. I'm much more entertaining than that.

I've mentioned before that I wear hearing aids, and there's been this phase for the last three months where I thought I was losing my hearing. Nope! The hearing aids had the oddest, weirdest gradual demise I've ever encountered, and I've worn aids my whole damned life. Had no idea it was them, despite them having been looked at by skilled professionals in the past quarter year, too!

Anyhow, long story short: they're in for repairs, and I've got these replacement aids. Imagine someone came in and reconfigured the sound on your stereo, TV, and everything else in your life, and everything was sounding, well, odd. Sort of like you couldn't quite get all the water out of your ears after swimming, more or less. That's where I'm at right now. Probably not the best time to be a guest on the radio.

Emily talks fast, that's without a doubt. Speedy, maybe not fast. I was having a hard time adjusting, but just when I got her cadence down, I went off "hold" and live on the air, and presto: Volume dropped by 30%. All of a sudden, my nerves hit, and I was having a hard time making out what she was saying. I fumbled and fudged my way through. Hearing, when you wear aids, ain't organic, it's an effort. It's different from what you're probably accustomed to.

Fumbled and fudged; exactly the right words. Right off the bat, I fucked up the first story I was going to tell, and felt like it was downhill after that. It sucks when you feel out of your element. Performance anxiety -- who knew I could suffer from it? Wow. (I'm one of those people who never minded public speaking, and always counted on speeches in school as an easy "A". What a dork, huh?)

Whatever. My debut. Not so illustrious. But that's how it goes. Soon, I'll be podcasting, and I will be in complete control, and I assure you, that'll be wildly different. Cocky, huh? Nah. I just know my boundaries, that's all.

Why, back in high school drama, when we had to do monologues, you know what I did? A scene from Silkwood. Meryl Streep. (She so rocks.) Yeah, baby. Bring on the drama. I secretly love putting on a show. I have high expectations of myself, and I'm disappointed with the quickie chat I had on SwE tonight, specifically my role in it, but I'm glad it was a short and sweet conversation so as to stop the bleeding swiftly. Aaaaaand CUT.

The podcast looms. This week I'll be receiving the microphone and other goodies. Just you wait, baby. Now you see what's happening here? Huh? Do you? Now I feel like I gots somethin' to prove. This is good. Pressure. I respond well. Goodie. Lemons, meet lemonade.

Saturday, June 17, 2006

Green Thumb... Happy Cock?

Leave it to GayBoy to send me the stupidest video of the month. But, hey, it made me snicker, and snickering is good for a grumpy Steff, so I thought I'd share this with you, too. Who needs sex toys when they have a penis plant, huh?

Note: I did say the stupidest video of the month, okay, so don't come back here telling me it's real, real stupid, or I'll have to flog you.

(It's 3+ minutes long, and you'll need Windows Media Player.)

Friday, June 16, 2006

Testing, Testing... Can You Hear Me Now?

I should be on Sex with Emily if our test-run works out in the evening on Saturday. If so, then I'll be listenable in the second hour of the show, around midnight PST. I'll post listening details by evening on Saturday, so tune in here, there'll be a hyperlink, and you can plug in and hear me live on the 'Net (or on Free FM in San Fran). Some of you may have tried tapping into the listen-now link before and had it fail if you were Mac users. I know the right place to send you this time, have no fear.

Like I sez, the test needs to fly, and we'll be airborne. Stay tuned, boys and girls. I'm on the verge, babay.

The topic this weekend is the dreaded topic of Exes, on which I have some strong opinions, I guess. There's a surprise. Me? Opinions? Noooo.

How Out is Out?

My best friend is Gay. If there was a three-dollar bill, he’d be on it, he’s that queer.

Okay, well, maybe he’s a little less queer than that. He can fix a bike, rewire a phone, install a sink, and other useful things like that. Then again, he’s on an eBay buying tear and recently nearly fainted with glee when he “won” a signed photo of Julie Andrews seated on a grassy meadow with the Von Trapp girls all gathered around her.

The man’s a proud gay man and has been politically active and really lives with his lifestyle on his sleeve, and that I greatly admire. He’s never come out to his parents, though, and this bothers me. His parents would have to be blind, dumb, and mute to not have ever clued in to the fact that he’s gay, but it’s never been discussed.

I just don’t understand. He knows I feel this way. I’m concerned, because I love my friend and I know how much his parents mean to him, but I also know what it’s like to lose a parent suddenly. Of all the things I’m saddened by regarding the death of my mother, the least of them are regrets. There’s nothing I never told her, there’s no thing I wish I’d been more honest about. When she died, she knew me for who I was, in every way, from my use of drugs to my lack of motivation. She loved me anyhow and told me she was greatly proud of me the day before she died. I hold onto that. I was loved, I was appreciated.

I realize a lot of parents freak out when their kid comes out. I know it’s a huge, huge ordeal and can be a very traumatic event in the life of any gay person, but I think that the disappointment and regret of never having come out is more of a burden to carry through life than the idea of living an honest and open life is.

Gay rights have always been something that has been a bit of a passion for me. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I have never gone down on a woman. I think it’s highly unlikely I ever will. Nothing about it titillates me. Seldom has a woman ever, ever aroused me. It’s just not my thing.

It doesn’t mean I can’t understand the hardships faced by a person who’s stuck being attracted to “the wrong sex.”

When I was in elementary school, there was a boy I’ll call Nicky. He was pretty flaming, from the get-go. He was the one that introduced us all to Dead or Alive’s “Spin Me Around.” He dressed up as Boy George for Halloween – in grade 7. In high school, he was obviously somewhat feminine, but he had an incredible personality and just radiated good times. The high school, though, was Catholic. And it was all about football. The jocks ran the school, and everyone was under their rein of tyranny. Gay wasn’t trendy then, and Nicky was obviously the only kid in school who fit that bill.

This was in about 1988.

Nicky was remarkably intelligent and great at expressing himself. He had this ever so light British twang, having been born in the UK but moved here when he was one. His voice was distinct. Out of everyone from high school, he’s the person I most wish I could get in touch with. He used to call me Ditch Girl after having thrown me in a ditch in Grade 3. We made up, but the nickname lasted for a decade.

He wore his politics on his sleeve, despite the mockery and humiliation he faced daily through the school kids. He got more political with age, and ultimately was selected as a guest on a popular sex/romance-related radio show that soon went national. He was 16, and was speaking on behalf of gay teens in British Columbia.

The appearance didn’t stay secret, despite his last name not being used. Monday morning, the news made its way around school. The football jocks took issue with having a Famous Faggot in their midst. Nicky was pinned against lockers and a beating was about to ensue.

“Go ahead. Beat the shit out of me. Want AIDS? I’m a fag, right? You’ve come to the right place, you fucking bigot! You can punch me and hurt me, but I’ll kill you with AIDS,” he exclaimed.

Nothing like using someone’s ignorance as a weapon, I thought then and still think now. Nicky was left alone. The less-ignorant kids in school admired the shit out of him, and though his remaining school days weren’t all sunshine and roses, they were made more tolerable by the considerable balls he exhibited that day in the hall.

His family knew, his friends knew, and those of us who understood the struggles he endured to become that person – that out and honest individual that filled us with admiration – probably became better people as a result of just having him in our lives.

A couple years back, a gay man was beaten to death here in Vancouver. It shook my friend to his core. I know he’s experienced times when he’d be taking out the trash to the back alley behind the gay bar he once worked in, when fuckheads would wheel up in their redneck cars and hurl pennies at him and call him a fucking faggot. He hasn’t let it silence him; he still lives as a proud gay man – he just hasn’t discussed it with his folks.

We’re kidding ourselves if we think everything’s fine and good just ‘cos some notable queers have made it onto the television in recent years. It’s a laugh if you think it’s all well and good for a gay person to be obviously gay in the workplace. Not too long ago, one of my original readers had a posting on his blog in which he started a controversy because he was all proud his coworkers and employer said he was a nice quiet fag who wasn’t too obviously gay. He thought this meant he was professional. I thought it meant he was conforming to fit into the nice little hetero peg that most of society still thinks we all need to fit into.

The Guy tells me occasionally about this coworker he really likes, this flamboyant and fun gay guy at his office. It doesn’t bother the Guy at all that he’s gay. Why should it? Being gay isn’t something anyone anywhere should have to hide – in work, in families – ever.

Until people begin telling their parents, telling their coworkers, and really start having the courage to live out loud, homophobia’s going to persist in our society. And that’s wrong.

Until we finally start seeing evidence that, yes, it truly is one in 10 that is gay in this society of ours, we will continue seeing senseless deaths like this young British man who was murdered by a couple fucking bigoted bastards who deserve the life sentences they’ve just received.

When friends and family members come out, you owe it to them to get over yourself and understand the struggle they’re facing, and provide them the support they damned well deserve. More than a third of teenage suicide attempts come as a result of them feeling so alone because of their sexual identity crises. Isn’t it time we change the statistics?

Thursday, June 15, 2006

No Smut For You!

I feel like the Church Lady or something. Could it be... SATAN?

Job interviews, tutoring, trying to be a normal human being, yada, yada. No writing tonight, my friends.

Just thought I'd check in. Saturday, I have the WHOLE DAMNED DAY to myself! Score! Which means all y'all get a little somethin' of me, too.

Today is not your day, and tomorrow isn't looking good either, as that cliched sign always says in fish'n'tackle shops and such. Not that I've ever gone to a fish'n'tackle shop. Could you imagine? Me in hip-waders with a fly-line? Here, fishie, fishie, fishie... I got a little somethin' fer ya to nibble on, big boy.

Yeah. That's gonna happen. Right. Check back Friday. Meanwhile, go entertain yourself.

ADDENDUM / AN HOUR LATER: I keep getting these messages from people who are trying to be my buddy on My(fuckingwasteof) I have it pretty clear and to the point that:

a) I have a boyfriend, not looking for come-ons (yet get them incessantly... "do you write poetry?" NO, I write about SEX. How do ya like me NOW?) I ignore them. They're too stupid, it seems, to follow the fucking URL to here. Someone sign'em up for remedial math, all right?

Which brings us to b), that I'm on there solely to whore my blog. I'm shameless, and proud of it.

I'm sorry, I don't get the whole "why, let's rendesvouz in cyberspace and then become BESTFRIENDSEVER! bullshit, all right? If you see me on there and want to be buddies? STOP YOURSELF. DO NOT HIT SEND. Send me a fucking email through here. Don't waste my time. Email rocks. MySpace annoys the shit out of me. If I go to one more page that auto-cues some lame-ass fucking song from the '80s (Flock of Seagulls, anyone?), I'm going to flog myself to death with a Go-Gos 8-track, all right? Death by Belinda Carlisle! It ain't some empty threat. I will do it, and THEN who ya gonna read, HUH? End rant. Bath time. I'll soak my angst away. Okay, that's an empty threat. I love my angst. ;)

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for Sugasm #36!

Sex, I remember sex. Life has been insane. Sex has been absent. I don't care. I haven't really been in the mood anyhow, and suspect that with all the distractions on my plate, I may not be for a bit. Still job hunting. I apparently got a job today, but I think I'll pass. It's too dubious. It's a teaching job where, if I can't work at the last second... say I come down with the bubonic plague or something, I have to pay THEM for missing the class. Yeah. Right. I might want to get fucked (in theory; in practice, who has the energy?), but I had other notions in mind, thank you. So, no, let's fuck YOU instead, bubba.

So, yeah, of course I "got" the job. On the flipside, getting calls back from some people now, and there're more good jobs cropping up. I shall overcome!

Come on, people, sing it with me: "I will survive..."

What is it, lately? Everywhere I fucking turn, I hear Gloria Gaynor. Is the universe willing me to be out of a relationship or something? It's creepy! No more Gaynor! Ack! She's in the background of every show I've flipped past of late. I even encountered the tragic scenario of seeing Morgan Fairchild butchering it in her rendition for the VH1 show, "But Can They Sing?" Uh, in a word? No. No, they certainly cannot. I won't allow it. Not for one moment more. Unlike, say, the conglomerate airing the show or the fucking MORONS who are watching it (yeah, you know who you are!), I have some standards, thanks.

Ixnay on the ingingsay by as-beenshay, eh? Fucking D-list, trying to claw their way back into a lucrative career. There you have it, finally: Quantifiable proof that when you enter into the Big Celebrity Genetic Warping Toolie as you pass through the hills of Hollywood, it has a new feature that sucks your soul out with a straw (and inserts tapioca bubbles).

"Vacuous, yet tasty! The new celebrity flavour is you, with tapioca!"

Anyhow, without ado, maybe these people are fucking like monkeys on a hot jungle night. Some of us are looking for jobs and wondering when the mystical rent-paying creatures are going to materialize and save our asses. Happy vicarious living, my friends. Meanwhile, you think I'd crumble, you think I'd lay down and die? Oh, no, not I --I will survive!

(And unlike Morgan Fairchild, I gotz ze ghetto bootay, baby. Fuck the D-list, baby.)

Sugasm, aka, the best of the sex blogs'n'the bloggahs who blogs'em.

Get Asia Argento’s Panties (
For The Girls Launches Erotic Fiction Competition (
Win the Cheese (
Black Ball 14 giugno 2006 (

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Time of the Month (
To Caitlin’s Tits, and Well Beyond (
A Fantasy Story, by Me (
Thigh Highs, No Panties and Red Wine (
Look Through Any Window - Part Five (
I Want… (
The Best Sex I Ever Had (
Fiction: Compromise (
Temptation (
Nightdreaming (
Coming Upside Down (
Waking Sleeping Beauty (
Naughty Night with Stiletto Girl and K (
Assignation (
Watch Him (by Super Secret Guest Author) (
Last Night’s Fun (
Bubbly in a New Vessel (

G’Day Mate check out the I Shot Myself Video (
Earth Goddess HNT (
Carli Banks in a Bikini (
The Return of Cumisha Jones (
HNT #2 (
Shaving and Silliness - Video Blog Entry (
Eve Lawrence (
Corinna of FEMJOY - 3 Galleries (
Nadia on Abby Winters (
Teen Lesbians Bathe on Sapphic Erotica (

Thoughts on Sex
Sex is a Figment of My Imagination (
Rainbow Pride (
The Word of the Day is “Glissade” (
Quotes - Bad Girls (
Meat and Veg (
Wrong Place, Wrong Time (
Prostitutes and Porn Stars (
Taking a Moment for Masturbation (
How Women Masturbate (
Why Do We Go Back To The Women We Know Are _______? (

Sex Work
Warning: Not for the Squeamish… My Worst Sex Worker Moment to Date (
Fine Dining (
Making of “Lessons in Latin” (
Phone Sex and Small Talk (
Stocking Fetish Phone Sex (

Sex Advice and Sexy Reviews
How to Throw a Killer Bachelor Party (
Art of Fingering (
Natural Contours - Liberte (

BDSM and Fetish
Whip Me, Beat Me, Slap Me – Just Don’t Judge Me (
Anticipation (The Denouemet) (
Silent Night (
I’m a Horny Little Slut (
Cucumber Fucker (
New Anklets (photos) (
In His Arms (
Foot Fetish Boyz (
Mistress Xena in Purple Boots (Video) (
Gaining Trust Through a BDSM Blog or BDSM Journal (
Lost in the Moment (
Marxist Spanking (

Opposing Forces: The Laws of Attraction (?!)

An immensely wise philospher-singer once sang:

We come together
Cuz opposites attract
And you know--it ain't fiction
Just a natural fact
We come together
Cuz opposites attract

Whatever happened to that Paula Abdul, anyhow? Where is she now? Those one-hit wonders, you know, like flashes in the pan.

The Guy sent these photos the other night after I pointed out what had to be, and what I said then, the most unseemly gay male couple I’ve ever seen. Now, keep in mind, I live in Vancouver, or as I think of it, San Francisco North. I’ve lived here all my life and see trannies, queens, and the whole shebang as often as they come.

Picture a Pillsbury Dough-kinda boy: nice protruding round belly, about 5'11, goatee, 26, kinda cute in that “If I weighed 65 lbs less, I could be a surfer! Hand me a Twinkie?” kinda way. And his boyfriend: About 5'5, absolutely skinny, 18-if-a-day, wide-eyed with do-it-to-me-now! lust, gazing up longingly. Chunky Two-Time had LoverBOY leaned up against a rather dubious chain-link fence, and it was pretty fucking obvious who was offering a little topping for the evening, if you know what I’m saying.

The Guy shuddered. And rightfully so. It just looked fucking weird, man. I’ve seen the whole Blue Oyster Cult-Village People leather crowd, the big fucking hairy bears, the demure little Asians and their Rice Queens, and the whole shebang, all right? This looked weird. I’m tellin’ ya.

But not as weird as this.

I went out with a guy once who made an argument that, when it comes to love, a couples’ longevity depended categorically on the balancing of the attractiveness scales. There had to be a relativity between their appearances, or it’d be doomed due to the rearing of the ugly insecurity head.

Maybe. Maybe so. Maybe not. I don’t have my Relationships Physics & Probability degree just yet. Probably a hold-up at the post office. Please, Mr. Postman, look and see if you got a letter in your bag for me. I been waiting such a long time since I ordered that degree of mine.

I think there could be some truth to it. Look at the couple in the photo, then. As I said, the Guy fired it off to me to illustrate that the Gay Odd Couple was a fitting reminder of this forwarded email he’d received that’s making the rounds as “Redneck Wedding of the Year.”

(I didn’t realize they had a rewards ceremony now. What, every-fucking-body’s got trophies now? Who’s next, huh? Bowlers?)

I confess, I feel badly putting the photo up. I’m sure they’re sweet people. Scary, but sweet. In between shooting beer cans off the fence, Jeff Foxworthy reruns, and playing D&D, they probably serve up a hell of an apple cobbler, you know?

I just don’t get the whole opposites-attracting thing, myself. I’ve always been attracted to guys who carry a few extra pounds, just like me. (Not rotund, just excessively huggable.) They should be bookish, and into film and food and life, not clubs, and smart enough to make me frustrated that I shoulda known that first.

Most couples I know are pretty on-page physically. Not too many of them would stand out in a crowd, and probably most seem natural together. The beautiful people get together, the people with perfect hair curl up together, the punks mesh’n’mosh, the granolas sing Kumbaya in harmony, the plastics meld... it’s all so consistent. Do they last? I don’t know, but they look right at the mall.

Nah, I don’t get opposites attracting. What’s the point of hooking up with someone you got fuck-all in common with? How about you? Has it ever worked for you? Are you into the relationship equivalent of magnetic field reversals or something? ‘Sup with that? Enquiring minds, yada, yada. And were you at this wedding? What kind of cake was it?

Saturday, June 10, 2006

Say Something, Dammit

The sky is blue. This I know.

I can be told once in my life that the sky is blue, and I need not be reminded. I may have had three concussions and had bleeding on my brain, but I’m sufficiently clued in enough to be able to recall the blueness of that great big yonder up there. It’s there, it’s bigger than life, and it’s unavoidable.

What I’m not smart enough to remember, however, is just how spiffy I am.

You see, I have these alien invaders in my body that will never, ever go away. They’re from planet Estrogen, and, man, as far as aliens go, they’re a right bitch sometimes.

Unfortunately, there is an entire world filled with people of my ilk who have been invaded by these cosmic cunts, and we’re known as Women. These “Estrogenies” do things to us that we’re not that crazy about. They make us insecure, make us moody, and make us sometimes a little inconsistent. Fortunately, they also make our boobs swell once a month. It’s a give-and-take thing, really.

Guys are pretty low-key. We like that about you. We like the fact that we know we can make you a sandwich, kiss your neck, give you a beer, and you feel like you’re the king of the jungle. Easy-peasy.

We, however, communicate more than you. You, obviously, communicate less. And you’re deceptive. You like to think you’re simple. “I am man. I grunt, therefore I am.” But you’re complicated. You get moody, you get silent, and you internalize. It’s what men do. We understand this.

What we can’t process, though, is the price it sometimes comes at. Men close themselves off, and then by so doing, they also forget to communicate with us about the little things that help to keep relationships moving nice and happy-like.

“You look nice today.”
“Have I told you lately how much you rock?”

We wish we didn’t need to be told that everything’s well and good and we’re still cared about and we still do all the things to you that we did way back when, but we do need to hear these things. And frankly, you need to hear them from us, too. Everyone does.

Compliments and expressions of affection are like yogurt. They have a shelf-life, and while they keep a little longer than you might think, but when they go, man, they go. And then the weird comes down. Insecurities rise, distance ensues, and things get complicated. Relationship mold. Ew.

It’s lame, but it happens. It doesn’t take much to get out of your head sometimes and just remember to say good things about your partner. Keep them secure about how they’re valued, even when you’ve got things going on otherwise. We all get a little too internal, and it’s just not fair to our lovers if we’re all self-involved and failing to acknowledge their worth to us from time to time.

It’s really easy to forget to be communicative about these things when your sex life is going, but at least then you have a physical expression of that affection, and sometimes things can be left unsaid. If you’re not getting physical often, then it’s really important to at least have the communication working, right? Pretty obvious there. 2 + 2 = 4, yeah?

It’d be wonderful if we only had to be told once in our lives that we’re loved, but it doesn’t work that way. The more it happens, the more real it becomes to us. Fleeting suggestions of affection really don’t leave deep imprints on us, and frankly, they often don’t even make a dent. Even worse is, if we’re told how great we are over a period of time, and then time lapses where it ceases to happen much at all anymore, then there’s even greater reason to become insecure.

Put your money where your mouth is, people, and tell ‘em that you dig ‘em. Tell ‘em often, tell ‘em good. If you don’t, you never know, you might just lose what you have, and that’d be a crying shame. Especially if the feelings existed, but your communication simply lacked. The price we pay for these oversights is far too high.

(And, hey, watch out for the Estrogenies, eh?)

Now, this is good. I like finding weird pictures for my postings, so I do Google image searches. I entered “alien females” in my Google toolbar, and this was the first result. It’s a page called “Alien Sex 101.” Apparently the aliens are really hot fuckers. Literally, the fuckers part, anyhow. “I surrendered in ecstacy to the magic of his lovemaking,” is what one luck-to-be-celestially-fucked earthling had to say about it all. And it's shit like that that keeps me the fuck away from Harlequin. Why the fuck would you surrender to it? Get in there, girl! Participate! Geez.)

Friday, June 09, 2006

The Low-Down on My Down-Lowedness

Got a "When are you back?" email earlier. Here's the deal, folks.

I'll be back, I'll write when I'm more clear-headed. I essentially fucked up and didn't realize something pretty major and my finances have taken a turn for the worse, so I need to find a job ASAP. You don't know me, don't know my drive, and don't know how single-focus I can become when something needs to happen. I'm in that mode now. That, and two nights of three hours or less of sleep in a row. I'm a weensy bit obsessed.

When I want what I want, I want it when I want it, and I want a job -- now. I'm not one of these people who believes it's hard to find work, as it never has been for me. (Finding the right job, though, is trickier.) I've got a couple things I'm optimistic about, but the question is whether it's just a job or if it's going to be a career move, and with the latter, I do have something specific in mind. And I'm hoping like all hell. I'll probably hear in regards to whether that one has an interview available come Monday. Tuesday I already have one.

So, I'm sorry, but if it comes to the dogged pursuit of paying my rent and having a livelihood versus appeasing the masses, well, the masses'll lose every time.

The good news is, I've never had to hand out more than six resumes in my life, and I've already sent that many out. Should be any day now. (Hardy-har-har. That's my "sarcastic" laugh.) I believe in myself, yes, but I believe in commitment more, and I wanna know I'm in good with a new employer before I pop the cork. Y'know what I'm saying? My best record ever was three resumes to "real" jobs, and two interviews, and got hired for both, so I picked. :)

(All I ever needed to know, I learned in Marketing class. ;)

Aside from that, I believe I have some plans with the Guy this weekend, and I need a little downtime, as my brain stem snapped in two when I realized how colossally I had fucked myself. I mean, I believe in masturbation, but this is ridiculous. A week until I have no guaranteed income anymore. I made one of those mistakes that some people pay dearly for. I'm not content with becoming "some people," so hang tight. Lemme do my shit. You need a fix? I vent nearly daily on The Last Ditch.

I'll be back. Guaranteed. I'll probably drop down to about three posts a week or something to cope, after a few days of finding my pace or something. I was trying not to post anything about this, but if you're all sitting around wondering "What the fuck's with Steff?" then maybe I should end the enigmatic pause at the very least.

In the meantime, I've taken shipment of my snazzy new computer that will mean I eventually will have a podcast on the air. That air date may be affected by this recent turn of events, but I'm hoping to hold true to my original estimate.

The podcast-to-be will heretofore be called "SMUTT AND STEFF." [Grin.] Thought that one up as I laid in bed staring at the ceiling last evening. Nothing like a before-bed lightning strike.

(To the youngins out there, Mutt and Jeff is a comic strip dating as far back as 1919. I like bastardizing mainstream names, hence the Scribe Called Steff, no?)

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Taking A Couple Days

Bad things going down, and I'm suddenly looking for work. I need a job by next Friday. Fingers crossed and hope for the best and all that sort of thing, but in the meantime, my mind's fried and writing's the last thing I'm worried about. I've turned off comments so you don't have to do the requisite, "Golly, Steff, good luck!" thing. I'll report back as soon as synapses start firing.

In the meantime, if you really, really like me and you have extra dollars to spare (but who does?) feel free to use the PayPal-torso button over there. I've taken the liberty of begging for my old job back, though, so with any luck, my charm and dedication to a job well done and past history will speak for themselves, and I'll get good news by Friday. Luck, the negative sort, is partly why I'm now in this jam, so... Who knows.

(Oh, and I forgot: Got the doc's permission to go ahead and start artificially suppressing my period by way of not taking the requisite week off in between packets of birth control pills. Starting this Sunday, I am Continuity Girl. Which is good, 'cos I really do not need PMS this week.)

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Thoughts: On Stairwells and Other Obstacles

(In the face of being without media now for many, many hours, I’ve lost my distraction, and I’ve sought to clear my mind. As a result, you get two postings. One that I feel compelled to write, and am not wholly satisfied with but'll do for now (below, re: “Meatloaf”), and this one, which has nothing at all to do with sex, but those darker forces under our skin, and something I’m really quite happy with – something I haven’t been feeling about my writing for a while now, so, for me, my day has taken a better turn, regardless of how you might feel about the tone of this. Since the writing of this, a nice bike ride has been had, and order has been restored in my universe -- hence why you now have reading material. Don't forget the posting below this.)

The cable has been down now for some 14 hours. Both internet and television. They’re constructing a new transit line, a light-rapid rail line, over the water, and the workers in this area executed brilliant competence last night as they swung their heavy machinery and managed to sever the cable lines that feed probably 300,000 of us with pictures and words from the outside world. Whatever shall we do, home without distraction? Whatever can we put our lazy little minds to?

You, you get me with a many-hour delay. Fed to you through disrupted service, put on hold, stuffed away in some insignificant computer file until such a time comes as I can unleash my glaring insignificance upon you.

I’m thinking about stairways today. Steps that ascend, descend, or are even completely meaningless, leading to doors that stay locked and never, ever open.

There’s a poem by some dead poet – Langston Hughes, I believe… he of the jazz-rhythm behind words – about life being no crystal stair. There’s no clarity of where our adversities come from, no ability to see ahead of us miles on end. No, our stairs are warn and warped, wobbly and overworked. They creak and groan, there’s soft spots in the center, and hard metal-cased edges to save the joints. They’re dark and cramped and have no visibility beyond the next 12 or 14 steps. Stairs, I surmise, are a bitch, but they take us where we need to go.

I remember high school. Sometimes with a smile, but mostly with a groan. This is year fifteen since I graduated, and I’m sure there’s a reunion, but I’ve heard nothing. Would I go? I very well might. But not being afforded an invitation, I don’t see that happening anytime soon.

High school was a mix of craziness and dying to fit in. Most of my friends were outside of school, since I was raised in a white-bre(a)d town filled of wealth and pretension. The native reservation in town might’ve been a world away, because we sure as fuck never saw them. There were two high schools: One on the east side, where the poor and fucked-up would attend, the other on the west. Naturally, the west reeked of money and patronage. There were the whores (oh, were there) and the jocks and the geeks and the brainiacs. I was a geek with social promise. I had friends, I was a mystery, but I didn’t opt to hang out with my peers, other than a few of the cooler outsiders.

In the midst of it all, I had my stairs. I’d choose to slip away and find a stairway that didn’t have a lot of traffic, and I’d read to get my head out of the world that I knew was reality. Sometimes Paul Theroux, sometimes my biographies of dead great artists, sometimes Vonnegut. Whatever, but it was my time, my world, my secrecy. For those few stolen minutes, the world around me would cease to be.

And then a bell would ring. I’d be sucked back into that mind-numbingly uninspired life with an unchallenging curriculum and bored-shitless teachers. I’d be forced back into monotony, where I’d be compelled to stuff my individualism back inside me, rendered just another pawn on the board of life.

It’s fifteen years later, and I can’t say that much has changed.

I have my own little world, this fancy little apartment of mine, all decorated like an eccentric professor unafraid of colour, and here I hide from the world at large. Me, my books, my media, my cooking, my comforts. Me.

And then, time changes. The hands pass 12, appointments loom on the horizon, the world makes its demands, the internet surfs me through to my bank account, and I realize I’m not alone, I have obligations, and for whatever it’s worth, I have a role to play. One that is no choice of mine. No matter who or what I wish to be, somewhere inside of me sits a cog that fits ever so perfectly into the droning gears of the machine of life. I wish I didn’t fit, I wish I didn’t have to, but I do, and it’s my lot in life.

Just like it’s yours.

We forget those little desires and dreams of greatness that we all nurse deep within us. Who’s kidding who? Each of us at one point wished to be a ballerina, an astronaut, a rock star, a famous writer, an actor; each of us dreamed of greatness, of a life of envy and regard. Yet here we are, doing what it takes to pay the bills, because someone somewhere pointed out just how fucking tired we must be, struggling to climb those stairs. We forget our dreams because to remember them is to be conscious of how much it is that we want but do not have, that we may never have. We become accustomed to the simplicity of life: eat, sleep, work, play, pay.

We acquiesce.

So precious few of us ever achieve what we really desire. We learn to settle, to stop wishing for more. We learn to make peace with all that we’ve come to acquire, regardless of how short we’ve fallen from the heights we once dreamed we’d reach.

I’m at a point in my life where I need to struggle daily to ensure my bills get paid. Sometimes I begin living on the depths of my freezer, embracing the canned goods that fill my cupboards in wealthier times. Sometimes I crack open my jar of change in the hopes that the $18.49 in loose change is going to get me through for three more days. And that’s the way my life is, because that’s the price I pay for this: The chance to live my dream, if even just the tiniest bit, of being a writer for a living. Through it all, I mostly struggle to keep my pride and my integrity, if not my unending fear of what might never be.

Ultimately, the time will come when this isn’t getting me through anymore. That time’s nigh, my friends, and it saddens me. Soon, I’ll have to give up this dream and return to the mundane existence of the 9-5 world. Soon, I’ll have to work under another’s directive, because, soon, I just won’t have the steam remaining to live with this kind of uncertainty. And this is why dreams break and fall away from us, because the demands of life, from a system that truly serves few besides the wealthiest, are far too overpowering to avoid.

And what does it really do to us, these realizations of loss and failure and reality that come in dark places, like deserted staircases and empty halls? The realizations of just how much we’ve given up for that greatly sought-after myth of security?

Well, fucked if I know. I’ve never had the privilege of being on the other side of that myth of security, and maybe it’s my fault. Maybe I should’ve given up long ago, let myself be sucked into the beliefs of laying down a retirement package, buying the house, getting married, and becoming stable. Maybe that’s what it’s all about. Maybe I’m just a romantic, content now to live on dreams and love and all that comes with. Maybe I missed the memo, that life is for living and dreams are for dreaming. But as hard as all this is, the mental struggle to keep the faith against the odds, to realize that the negative balance in my bank account shouldn’t reflect my actual worth… I can’t help but to believe I’d make the same choice all over again.

I just hope it’s all worth it.

(The shot's one of my old, old ones, stairs I like to imagine lead to a brothel, but it's probably really just an accountant's office. Whatever.)

Q&A: Dear God, Stop that Already! PT. 2

Meatloaf has been neglected. But if your name was Meatloaf and you were a big, chunky singer with bad hair and a sweat problem who portrayed a man with giant breasts named Bob in a movie like Fight Club, it stands to reason you might find yourself a little neglected as well.

We’re here to fix that. Meatloaf’s on the table now, man.

Dude’s having issues. There’s an angelically moaning neighbour, a neglected girlfriend, and a completely lacking sex life, all while his hormones are raging.

In a perfect world, we’d flip the switch, the neighbour would shut the fuck up, the girlfriend would get hot and bothered and wouldn’t be able to get enough of him, and he’d be able to keep his mind on the task at hand, while suddenly having the kind of sex life he really wouldn’t want to write home to Mom about.

Unfortunately, it’s not a perfect world, and things don’t magically change. I wonder if Meat’s had a chat with girly-girl about Moana next door? If not, he should. To not talk about the sexaholic, constantly moaning Moana would be akin to ignoring that big fucking white elephant over there in the corner, and since the Laz-E Boy is now out of the question, squooshed as it is under that big white bastard, it might be time to have that conversation after all.

“So, um, she’s at it again.”
“You know, Moana. The neighbour. It’s getting pretty randy over there.”
“You can hear her having sex?”
“Can’t YOU?”
“Well, yeah, okay, I’ve heard it.”
“Doesn’t it get you a little hot?”
“Why, does it get you hot?”
“Well, I’d really, really like to throw you down and have some pretty wild sex right now, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You would?”
“I can’t stop thinking about you every time I hear that woman, but I always feel a little odd, like she’s having sex and for me to come in and just take you then and there would be a little too connected to that, and I always worried you’d have a problem with it, so I’ve just stifled myself.”
“Well, that’s a shame. I’m a little underutilized around here, you know.”

I mean, that’s the ideal “If Hollywood Wrote My Life” way that conversation would go, but it’d be nice, wouldn’t it? The nice thing about talking about this shit is that you can really sort things out. Conversation may not be a cure-all, but it sure as hell isn’t just a Band-aid, either.

You need to talk to her, let her know this neighbour’s causing arousal problems because you’re a guy with a creative imagination. Tell her she’s (girlfriend, not Moana!) on your mind constantly, and that you want to know what you can do to better fulfill her sexually, so that sex is something she’s more geared to enjoy.

Besides that, you need to put your money where your mouth is. You need to constantly start being present physically, without having sex on the mind. Touch her when you pass. Kiss her often. Snuggle when it’s TV time. Put down the newspaper during breakfast and really focus on her. Listen to what she says, make eye contact. You also have to make sure that it’s her entire body that you touch – not just ass or boobs or twat. Touch her belly, her ample thighs, her lovehandles. Anything she’s insecure with, ignore her protests and prove that you find it sexy, too, via light touches and kisses. After a bit of this, it should really help to make her feel sexually secure in the relationship, and some of her hang-ups should begin to drop.

I wrote something a while back that I think deserved a little more attention, and for relationships like these, where one person has hang-ups and doesn’t like talking about sex, it’s something that can take you to a new level. In this game, the point is to take sex books and underline passages that turn you on, that you wish your partner would do for you more often, and in another colour, underline all the things you enjoy doing or wish you could do for your lover. Exchange books, and get to know more about your lover as you read corresponding chapters, and rendezvous later in the evening.

If my math is right, your loverwoman’s in her late 20s, ie: 27/28, Meatloaf, and this is a great age for her to begin getting over hang-ups. It’s really around then that most women start coming into their own for the next five years. A supportive man who loves all areas of her body and makes talking about sex a safe thing by not judging what she says or scoffing in response to revelations is bound to make her feel more secure, and a secure lover’s a better lover. Always.

As for you and your mastur-ba-thon, well, there’s nothing wrong with masturbating, but if it’s getting in the way of your sex life, much less your work or other matters, then yes, you have problems. It is about willpower. It is about knowing when to turn your attentions where they need to be. Maybe you have a sex addiction, but you claim you’ve made positive strides, so I won’t take it that far just yet.

The thing about the neighbour, if you wind up discussing it, making light of it, and acknowledging that it happens a lot, then you have the potential to having a trigger for sex in the relationship. You hear it during a smoke break, you could come in, tell girlie that Moana’s making friends again, and just seduce her then and there. Who knows, it could work out in your favour, if you finally confront the fucking issue and open up to the woman who deserves to know what’s going on in those two heads of yours.

You absolutely need to talk about it. You need to focus on your girlfriend. You need to repress some of your urges so the sexual frustration drives you to repair your relationship. If that doesn’t work, go borrow a cup of sugar and see what happens.

Monday, June 05, 2006


So, my big, shiny new computer is slated to arrive Thursday. Sometime in the next week, I should also receive my fancy, big new microphone and preamp and headphones and all that.

In the next month, I hope to finally get my podcasts up and running on, a state-of-the-art new massively multiplayer online reality sex game. You can try it out for free, but in order to be there for first-run broadcast of my podcasts and participate in the live Q&A with yours truly to follow the broadcast, you must be a VIP member at the lofty price of $20 a month.

My podcasts WILL be downloadable for FREE after they've aired, and I suspect the Q&A with Steff (that's me!) will also be free for download after they've aired -- you're just not able to submit questions to me for the Q&A part in real-time, though.

I'm pretty excited. Are you excited? I'm excited. If you have any pressing topics you actually want to hear me TALK about, let me know. Any political story gets you riled up and you'd like to hear me blow a gasket live on the air? Do your part! Send it to me!

Anyhow, I'm nervous as hell y'all are finally gonna hear me. I've been looking forwards to and simultaneously dreading this for a while now, but I'm more eager than nervous. It'll be wicked cool.

As for length of broadcasts, the first'll probably be only about 15 minutes. Then we'll see from there on. We're also not sure if it'll be weekly or bi-weekly, but it largely comes down to how busy real life makes me, since this isn't a paid gig just yet. Still, I'm stoked. Sometime in the first week of July, I'm all yours.

And that reminds me! I owe a follow-up on Meatloaf's question! I'll get that up sometime this evening then. Completely slipped my mind. It was one of Those weekends. Many apologies! I really DO deliver on my teases, you know. I just take the scenic route a little too often. Dreamer I am.

(And for those keeping track at home... not one email has been received in regards to my male rape query. Pity.)

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Whip Me, Beat Me, Slap Me – Just Don't Judge Me

While all the good little people were out getting in touch with their god of choice, I was having a lovely Sunday morning watching a BDSM fairytale, Secretary.

I’ve been meaning to see Secretary since its release in 2002, as I’ve been a lifelong fan of James Spader ever since I loved hating him in Pretty in Pink when I was just 13.

I remember being apprehensive about the movie, though, way back in 2002. BDSM, I thought, was largely for Weirdos. I suspect the movie was the first really mainstream movie to introduce the lifestyle to a large percentage of the population who probably walked out of the theatre with a silly grin pasted on their lips. It’s not so bad, they likely thought. A little odd, and weird, but certainly not this horridly perverse thing their churches had them believing it was.

Since then, my eyes have opened. No, I’m not into S&M, though I don’t mind a little smack on my ass from time to time, but I’ll probably never join the movement. I ain't, however, writing that in stone.

The movie Secretary does not dispel the notion that those who gravitate to this pain-for-pleasure lifestyle tend to be somewhat broken inside. It echoes the common perception that the participants are hurting after a life of shortcomings and trouble, and this is their way of finding a coping mechanism. Control the pain that pains you, and you will control the life around you; this seems to be the prevailing wisdom.

So there are those who scoff at them and scorn them, as if they should find healthier mechanisms for dealing.

Aren’t we all hurting to a degree, though? Don’t we all nurse regrets and fears and wishes and wants? Sure we do. But the rest of us got the magic “All Better Now” button installed when we were manufactured. Or did we? Hmm, perhaps we could use a little coping, too.

And what would you suggest? How about a more socially accepted method? Alcohol to cure to ills? Cocaine’s making a comeback, you know. Perhaps cardio-holism is more your thing. Sweat, then, baby. How about a double-banana split? A bag of Doritos? How about shoplifting a new shade of red lipstick? Say, I hear they have a double-bill at church this weekend.

The point is, we all confront our demons in ways particular to us. The notion of willingly allowing ourselves to be hurt seems to be one that most people can’t handle. It’s not as if life doesn’t bruise us often enough as it is, is what people think.

And, sure, there are some right-fucked sadomasochists out there, but there are also some incredibly well-balanced ones as well. It takes all kinds, just like bowling. The thing is, do you understand why you like to have pain inflicted on you? Are you aware of what it does for you? By that same token, are you aware of why you want sex and romance to be all feathers and soft kisses?

It’s all about self-knowledge, this life thing. The more you know about what motivates you to do what you do, the greater your grasp on things will be. If you’re oblivious, then you’re in trouble. Simple.

I’d argue that the person who likes only the soft love – the gentlest of kisses, the lightest of touches – is equally as mentally ill-equipped as the out-of-touch person who prefers only pain. I’d say that they probably fail to realize just how sheltered they’re trying to be from the harshness of reality, and that they need to wake up and smell the rough sex.

I think anyone who’s only into pain for pleasure, and has no other outlets, is unbalanced. Just like in Secretary, there are plenty who like a little roughness and pain in between the soft kisses and lingering caresses. Balance is good. Experimentation is good. Sticking to vanilla all your life, or just Rocky Road, is probably never a healthy way to go.

There is nothing wrong with loving a little roughness. There’s nothing to be ashamed of when it comes to enjoying your lover smacking your ass so hard it’s red when they’re done. There’s simply nothing wrong with liking anything, as long as you understand why you like it, and you’re not just using it to cover up the ills of your existence.

Society doesn’t understand BDSM, and they’re not going to anytime soon, either. Acceptance is increasing, but as long as it’s all the hardcore folk riding front and centre and playing the roles of spokespeople, there will always be a negative perception about the lifestyle.

It is what it is. Enjoy what you do, and know that being discreet doesn’t mean being ashamed; it’s simply self-preservation in a society that just doesn’t understand. Sounds like being gay in the '40s, don't it? Oh, well.

(Oh, and a big "fuck you" to Bush and his proposal to amend the constitution to forbid gay marriages. I really don't have to explain my POV, do I? Amending the constitution to legislate intolerance? BRILLIANT. Be like Nancy Reagan and "just say no," you right-wing vote-whoring fuckwit. I fucking hate hypocrites.)

Friday, June 02, 2006

We Interrupt The Regularly Scheduled Broadcast... inform you that there'll be no regularly scheduled broadcast.

Every now and then I've been making mention of not feeling well. Truth be told, this has been ongoing for a long time -- months. This weekend, everything changes. I'm making some radical lifestyle changes because I'm tired of feeling like I'm drifting through life. As a result, I'm probably about to enter some pretty heady spaces, and postings might be interesting over the next week or so. Most of the lifestyle changes are dietary. No sugar, no dairy, blah, blah. For a foodie like me, you might as well just instruct me to climb on up and nail myself to a fucking cross, 'cos that's about how it feels like. Still, I'm excited.

Motivation is hard to come by when it comes to making drastic changes. I used to always joke that, "Well, I'd love to quit smoking dope but I just can't seem to find the motivation." Hardy-har-har. Same thing with diet. I'm the kind of person that'd rather haul my fat ass 30k on a bike than give up the brick of 5-year-old cheddar taking up space in the fridge.

[SFX: SCREAMING]: "Not the cheese! Anything but the cheese!"

"Oh, my God, Harry. I never thought I'd see this. Is this what I think I'm seeing? Death by cheese slicer? Shit, man. Hey, can you pass me a cracker?"

But, I'm pulling a Marcellus Wallace and I'm about to get medieval on mah ass, baby. What does this mean to you? A disconnected Steff for a couple days, but ultimately, a new, improved, better Steff! Now comes in cherry flavour, too!

My mind's been in a fog. Back when I was smoking dope chronically, I could blame the dope. When you quit being chronic, though, and you're still in a fog months later, you need to ask questions. Me, I'm a crystal-clear kinda gal. I'm used to being razor sharp, able to argue anyone on anything, always ready to go. THIS feels weird. I feel like one of those people you see underwater, trying to talk. Bubbles come out but sound's a murky mess, just tonal variations, and nothing with any semblance to clarity.

Ever notice that; that how you feel drastically affects all your relationships in your life? You're less able (less wanting) to communicate how you feel? Less able to put a finger on it? More muddled in your speech? More easily confused? Check, check, check, and check.

I know what's good about my writing, I think -- or at least I know what it is that I like, and it's my tendency to be open, introspective, and astute. I don't feel like I'm able to be those things these days, so how I'm feeling is literally changing who I am. And the funny thing is, I'm not falling over sick or anything. I'm not debilitated, I'm not chained to a bed, or taking tons of drugs. I'm just "off." It's time to flip the switch.

I guess that one of the hardest things we can do in our lives is admit that we're not happy with who we are. I'm more or less content with who I am, but these days I'm not happy about it. It's not a negative thing, this feeling I have now. This is really freeing, actually. Realizing where your problems or lack of satisfaction stem from can be a means of unlocking yourself and promoting change. I feel like I'm on the verge of exciting times. I feel like all this grief I've been going through has been solely to remind myself that there's something better around the corner, but I need to motivate myself to bridge that distance. Like I say, finding that motivation is always a challenge, but when it hits... whoomp, there it is.

And it doesn't matter what you're hiding from -- maybe you drink too much, maybe you smoke too much, maybe you're dishonest with friends -- who cares. Deep down inside, you know you're fucking up. You KNOW you're the source of your own problems, but admitting it's like stabbing a fork in your eye; you could do it, but why the fuck would you?

Of course, I'm not advising you stab a fork in your eye, but a little honesty with the self's not a bad way to start a day, you know. What do you least like about yourself? Why? And is it so hard to change that? What's the obstacle? Is there a way to change the difficulty factor in that?

I like me. I'm a good time to be around when I'm on my game. These days, I've been flat and listless and I just feel a world away from the gal I know I am. It's a diet thing. Tomorrow, a hardcore detox begins for a few days. This means, I'm gonna be unpleasant. Expect rants. Expect grumpiness. And then, I'll be back in black, back to cool, all that I wanna be, and more. I'll be like a fucking Army ad, man.

Know what I love most about self-analysis, though? I save myself $120 an hour. Fuck shrinks. I own a mirror. Have an awesome weekend. I'll be sitting over here, jealous, drinking lemon juice and wishing it was a beer.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

Politics As Usual? You Gotta Be Kidding Me

Don’t look now, but the fuckers are coming out of the woodwork.

I make a point of not judging people. Or trying not to. I speak my mind, I say what I really feel, and I let it fall where it may. On this, I can’t pretend to be openminded.

In the Netherlands, a political party has decided to fight for their right to be pedophiles. They want child pornography legalized, they want sex with animals legalized, and they want the legal age for sex to be lowered to 12 years old.

Most 12-year-old girls don’t even own a fucking training bra, all right?

Every now and then I hear about someone who was 11 or 12 when they had their first sexual encounter with an adult, and they go on and on about how it was so great and how wonderful it was to be christened in such a way, and yada, yada, yada. Personally, I shake my head and wonder what the fuck they’re thinking. I know they’re all well and good about their past, but I wonder sometimes if they really didn’t miss out. I wonder, too, if their take on sex is as healthy as they want to believe it is.

There’s the awkwardness most of us go through as we fumble our ways to ecstasy, as we learn about the boys and girls who sit across from us in school, get teased and taunted into sexuality, and so forth. It’s not always pleasant, but it’s a way of life and it’s how we grow.

For an adult to take that away from a child is just wrong, in my books. It’s unfair.

The one thing these “Yeah, I lost it when I was 11” types tend to report is just how long it took to find someone that didn’t disappoint them after all that time. They don’t talk about the confusion that must have ensued when this adult who was interested in them for a fleeting time just up and disappeared. They don’t talk about the strangeness of trying to account for what their daily life really was as opposed to what that surreal encounter must have been like.

Most kids can’t handle the oddness of that mix. Once in a while, someone comes along who truly does grow from a Mrs. Robinson encounter, but it’s not often.

A political party trying to pass all this shit off as moralistic, trying to label the rest of society as behind the times strikes me as laughable, and even as dangerous.

It’s not as if kids aren’t being exposed to enough sex as it is. It’s not as if teen pregnancies haven’t been a problem. It’s not as if the suicide rate for teens isn’t high enough without throwing more complications into their mix.

These laws they’re proposing are not for the good of the kids. They’re for the party members’ benefits, so they can fuck whoever they want, so they can look at pictures of kids looking terrified and scared and exploited. It’s so they can enjoy fucking a goat or sheep.

Who’s speaking for the kids? How do kids even have the emotional makeup to admit that they’re uncomfortable having these photos taken? How do we judge where the line is, who’s mentally stable enough to decide he or she wants this for the right reasons?

We can’t judge it. The kids aren’t emotionally prepared for it. And these fuckers sure as shit aren’t speaking for the kids. If kids want to explore sex, let them play doctor like we did, or have a round of “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” like I did in the forests behind our homes when I was 10. That’s how we learn.

I deplore child pornography. I loathe people who seduce children. I’m not much of an animal rights’ activist, but I sure as fuck bet a sheep would rather have a say in whether some guy’s cock enters its ass.

Yeah, I believe in free speech, but there are some people I sure wish would shut the fuck up.