Of Vampires and Lovers: A Halloween Posting

It's Halloween and I'm a little neck-obsessed just now, craving a middle-of-the-night visit from a Transylvanian count, but you'll hear none of it if you just sit here. It's over at Smut and Steff.

Getting Laid, Getting Tested, Getting AIDS

There's a new posting over at Smut & Steff about new relationships, getting tested, and then some pretty mind-blowing stats on AIDS/HIV that every sexually active person needs to know.

Check it out.

And the time's a-comin' when this place ain't gonna get updated anymore. Adjusted your bookmarks yet? Your Feedburner/RSS service? Hmm? No? Whatcha waitin' for, Willis?

Didja Miss the Memo?

There's a couple new postings over at Smut & Steff. Whatcha doing HERE and not THERE anyhow? Sillies.

The first, yesterday's, is potentially a downer, but something I think needs to get talked about more often. I wrote about my experiences walking in on my mother attempting suicide, and I spoke of how important it is to not keep some secrets.

The second is from tonight, where I've written about the importance of communication... again. I'll say it till I'm blue in the face, because, until the shame of talking about sex is gone, bad sex is gonna keep on happening. And that's bloody intolerable! Bad sex? NYET. Not on my watch!

Go, now. Shoo. Vamoose. Click here. C'mon. Ya know ya wanna. In case you TOTALLY missed the memo... this blog's now an archive. ALL NEW POSTINGS WILL BE AT SMUT AND STEFF. ADJUST YOUR BOOKMARKS and shit, eh? :) Thanks! (Seriously!)

They Like Me! They Really Like Me!

I'm thrilled to announce that I've just gotten a glowing review from the incredible Jane's Guide. I feel like a proud mama! Woot!

They said:

This journal is sort of a combination of personal diary entries and how-to articles related to sex. Steff is a confident woman that approaches sexuality in a pragmatic and mature fashion, but doesn't let that lead to a lot of stuffy language. Some of the most worthwhile advice I've ever seen about being a good lover is here, "Being a good lover is: A) Knowing what you like, dislike, and love. B) Knowing how to express your needs. C) Being open-minded without compromising yourself, whatever that might mean for you. D) Not judging your lover’s desires, but being true to yourself so you’re not going to resent them after the fact." Great advice! She has many other articles with titles like "Kissing: Oh So Telling" and "Bondage for Beginners". I recommend this one wholeheartedly! - Vamp

This has been a great start to my day!!

Now, if you're coming here by way of Jane's and Vamp, please note that I'm just in transition and all my postings (except the "lesser" archives) are getting transferred to their new home at my new site -- www.smutandsteff.com. This site's going nowhere, though. Please add S&S to your bookmarks as that's where all my new postings will be showing up.

Also, I'll soon be launching a new podcast, too. So keep an eye out for that.

Tee hee... I'm a happy girl. I've been trying to get Jane's to review me for a while. Thanks, Vamp!

Sugasm #50

Welcome to my headache. I'm transferring all my "best of" posts to the Smut site, so if you're being redirected, don't freak out. Advertisers care about hit counts, so, I'm being pragmatic and putting my archives where it counts: in the future, and not my past.

So, no worries, everything will be preserved. You can still delve into my dirty past. I think I have a lot of work ahead of me, but the mountain's getting climbed. Meanwhile, this is the most recent Sugasm for ya.

The best of the sex blogs this week by the bloggers who blog them.

This Week’s Picks
Dear Diary - Part One (http://wetbeyondbelief.blogspot.com)
The Lure of Darkness (http://www.easilyaroused.co.uk)
Flash (http://gentlygently.blogspot.com)

Mr. Sugasm Himself
50 Simultaneous Bloggasm’s… (http://sugarbank.com)

Editors’ Choice
Let go, just let go (http://sugarbutch.blogspot.com)

Sex News and Sexy Reviews
Anastasia Probes the Pornos of Michael Ninn (http://blog.johnqafterhours.com)
Doc Johnson Dick Rambone Cock (http://www.orgasmarmy.com)
Free whores of warcraft video (http://sultry.naughtyblog.net)
How to invent a sex toy - week 4 (http://sextoysinsider.com)
The Secret Porn History of Mahna Mahna (http://www.quirkysex.com/blog)

NSFW Pics
Cum Shot HNT (http://stilettodiaries.blogspot.com)
Crazy Bitch HNT!!! (http://texasspitfire.blogspot.com)
Half-Nekkid Hottie (http://www.tarasnaughtyshop.com)
HNT 31 - Are You Paying Me For Sex Edition? (http://everythingoze.blogspot.com)
Lingerie Battle (http://myhotbox.blogspot.com)
Nora Marlo Nude (http://eroticandy.blogspot.com)
Pornstar Legends (http://www.internetisforporn.com)
Thick booty with a wedgie (http://phatbootysolos.ilovejulienight.com)
Valia - Vision (http://hotboxbabe.thumblogger.com)

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
50 Ways To Leave Your Lover (http://saphirsatya.blogspot.com)
The “backdoor”, I went in. (http://wanklog.blogspot.com)
Big Dicks (http://www.model-chat.com)
Celebrity Sex Tapes (http://www.teen-porn-site.com)
Cock size & male ego size… a balancing act? (http://faltenin.blogspot.com)
Cocktoberfest - Day 9 (http://shayssexcolumn.blogspot.com)
From Working The Fields To Working The Streets (http://virtual-sex-tourist.com/index.php)
The Girl Inside the Steff (http://smutandsteff.com)
Longing for a Woman’s Touch Part II (http://www.taratainton.com)
The next best thing to hotel sex… (http://hard-and-fast.blogspot.com)
Of fluffers and cake frosting (http://www.jessicagoldharalson.com)
Perfect Porn Part (http://alwaysarousedgirl.blogspot.com
Sexual Thoughts–I’m “Coping!” (http://totalsensuality.blogspot.com)
Somebody not too bright but sweet and kind… (http://lumpesse.com)
Wrap Around (http://www.seskuality.com)
You Say Pain, They Say Play (http://cuntinglinguist.blogspot.com)

BDSM and Fetish
Are you sure? (http://www.blog.sex-mad-witch.com)
Boris called me this morning (http://thediaryofanenglishrose.blogspot.com)
Darth Vader spanking (http://darkside-journey.blogspot.com)
How does that ass feel after Me raping you??? (http://www.caramelvixen.com)
I Need A Spanking! (http://accidentalmistress.blogspot.com)
The Importance of Correct Attire (http://adelehaze.com)
Knots (http://ourdreaming.blogspot.com)
Mecca-Streisand of Traffic (http://spankingkatiespades.blogspot.com)
My Tiny Dick Poll Question (http://www.spoiledebonyprincess.com)
Next day (http://bratmaster.blogspot.com)
Nothing Says Innocence Like…… (http://aliceinawonderbra.blogspot.com)

Sex Work
L.A. Trip Part 2- Mismatched Whores (http://radicalvixen.com/blog)
Stimulating me…..the right way (http://www.justcalllauren.com)
A Whore By Any Other Name … (http://lipstickexplosion.com)

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Actually wanking outside (http://orgasmcurious.blogspot.com)
Almost in real time… (http://dontwakethekids.blogspot.com)
Beachside encounter (http://skyoto.blogspot.com/)
The Beauty of the Beast (http://principles-of-lust.blogspot.com)
Birthday Gift (http://confessions112.blogspot.com)
Claiming A Friend’s Pussy (http://dirtydetails.blogspot.com)
Cowboy Cocksucker (http://theholidaylife.blogspot.com)
Desperate (http://pick-up-pieces.blogspot.com)
Goose Bumps (http://masterenigma.blogspot.com)
Home cooking, part 1 (http://erotischism.blogspot.com)
Island Love (http://mandyseroticlife.blogspot.com)
Joint: The Cyber Seck Convo (http://totalgeeklust.blogspot.com)
Mr Henry is a voyeur (http://junohenry.wordpress.com)
My First Taste (http://talktovanessa.com)
Nature Hike (http://wantonyou.blogspot.com)
Sugar Stick (http://makemycopcome.blogspot.com)
There’s Something About Tristan (and Dana) (http://lustylady.blogspot.com)
Who I Wished It Was (http://nyc-urban-gypsy.blogspot.com)

The Ugly Side of E-Dating

There's a new posting on Smut and Steff. Go find out about some of the dickheads responding to my Craigslist ad. If only I wasn't so nice and had the lack of scruples that would allow me to expose them. But, sadly, ethics get in the way of that.

WHY must I be born Catholic? WHY must guilt be as prominent a part of me as my social insurance number? Yeesh.

Go this way, Frodo.

The Craigslist Experiment... Steff Style

So, it's official. My hat is back in the ring. I posted a personal ad today. You can read all about it on Smut and Steff.

Just a Few of My Firsts: Part the Second.

Hey, boys and girl. I'm a bad blogger and didn't put a pointer up here for the second part of my firsts, which was posted at Smut & Steff yesterday. Here's the link for ya. It's getting dirty.

Part three will be up early next week. I'll break up the mix a little with some other kind of posting likely tomorrow. Hope everyone's having a good weekend. I'm off to see the Gomez concert tonight, so a little steam will be blown and fun will be had.

Just a Few of My Firsts: Part 1

If you've missed the bulletin, I have a new blog which is due to be replacing this one. Please update your links accordingly -- it's much appreciated. It's found at www.smutandsteff.com. Most of the content from here will gradually be moved over to there. It'll take a while, though. (If anyone's written a program to simplify the chore, let me know... there's about 400 posts!)

For the time being, I'm shadow posting here. I'll tell you what I've written, and send you over there. One day, that'll stop. So, update your links and bookmarks, and know that I love you so for it. Thanks!

The latest posting over there is part one in a series I'm calling Just a Few of My Firsts. In it, I'll share some details about first kisses, first fucks, first flings, and more. We're starting off slow and letting things heat up. Check it out.

Announcement!

You can now subscribe to the new Smut & Steff RSS feed. Go there to do so.

(Hi, how's it goin?)

"Taking a Look Behind the Packaging"

Hey, folks. I've posted a new thingie-thing over at Smut and Steff.

It's a look at Dove's popular Campaign for Real Beauty. I'm not "just another fan" of the campaign and have been on the fence about publicizing it for a while. But, finally, I have. Take a lookie look.

I'm inspi(red) to act

I am a stark-raving liberal. I care about my fellow Earth citizens. I think "luck" plays too great a role in the human condition. Why am I not some rural African dead or dying from AIDS? Why I am not subject to the ludicrous conditions and threat of rape in modern day South Africa? How did I luck out, born middle class, white, and reasonably happy in free North America?

Couldn't tell ya. Is what it is. I'm grateful daily for who I am and where I am.

But, also, I am apalled by the western world's lack of involvement in the African condition. After all, if it's just luck, then why is theirs so goddamned bad?

It was about 120 years ago that the first-ever human rights campaign began. The birth of photography made it possible to document horrors happening, and it was first used to document the horrors of the rubber massacre at the end of the 19th century. The Congo was being obliterated by King Leopold and his Belgian bastards because of the discovery of rubber trees there (the birth of the auto made rubber, for tires, a highly prized natural resource until a synthetic form was invented much later). It was an attrocity that became the basis of Conrad's Heart of Darkness, upon which the movie Apocalypse Now was based. Head-hunting was a sport, one could claim. Nearly 10 million Africans were murdered in what became the first modern genocide... greater than the Holocaust.

In that 120 years, incredible tragedy has consistently clouded the continent. From genocide after genocide to drought and starvation and racial cleansing and horrific rape statistics, the continent serves as a reminder of just how much can go wrong when political instability is inflicted on a region. Throw into that mix a little climate intensity and general social unrest and you have the hottest hotbed in the world.

**

Y'know, Africa's a part of the world I'd like to get lost and never found in. Something about that part of the world makes me wanna weep inside, the good way and the bad way. The cradle of civilization, indeed. If the earth is an animal, Africa is its pulsating heart. I wanna go, and bad.

But I really want to see it start to heal some. Believing in manifest destiny, white Europeans landed on Africa and decimated it for its bountiful and enviable natural resources. They brought firepower when Africans had only fire. The place has never recovered. Can't we at least atone a little for the sins of our fathers? Just a bit?

So, I'm going to make a point of it in the next week to go to the Gap and buy a (Red) t-shirt. Bono of U2 fame and pal Bobby Shriver have come up with the idea. A (Red) brand shirt* will mean half the money goes to buy drugs for AIDS victims in Africa. Oprah bought shirts for her audience of 300, and that profit alone was enough to pay for the drugs to inhibit transmission of AIDS from a mother to her unborn child for 14,000 women.

More than providing cold hard cash for a problem that is more economic than it is anything else, though, is that it proves people care. It proves that western people WANT their governments to contribute to the global human condition in a positive, lasting way. It proves that we think they deserve to live, too.

I mean, you agree, don't you? Then why doesn't your government react? Buy a shirt.* Become a number. Become evidence. Become a powerful political platform. Become part of a movement that's proving it feels good to give a shit. It really, really feels good.

Like that $20 was gonna go to something better, anyhow. Do it. Get (Red).

*Or shoes. Or blue jeans. Or an iPOD Nano @ Apple. Or a cell phone @ Motorola. (Red) is an entire line of products. All fall under the (approximately) 50%-to-AIDS-prevention/treatment guidelines for African charity proceeds.)

The Girl Inside the Steff

There's a new posting, but it's at the new blog. Today I've written about trying to reconfigure my image, trying to do things a little more feminine, and the mental trip it's taking me on.

Here's an excerpt.

Doesn’t it make sense, though? You want to feel and look the way you think “hot” is defined, don’t you? I’m never, ever gonna be hot in the Britney Spears sort of way, and never do I want to be. I’m more turned on by the girl next door from your childhood who can really kick your ass now. You know the type. You're secretly really wishing to lose a wrestling match with her? Yeah. That’s my style. I’m working towards that.

And if you want to read the whole posting, then click here!

The birth of the New Blog

Well, I'm launching the new blog today. It's not done. It's not ready. It's ready enough. "New" as in "about to replace this blog forever" type of "new".

I need to make the stupid unfinished thing public or I won't actually do what needs to get done. I'm too lazy. I love to procrastinate. I see fun things to do them, and the crazy part of me inside says, "Yes, I'd rather have fun than do boring shit like transferring over 200 old postings, Steff!" Go figger.

So, having it up and open for biz will help me get my shit together. This is the first posting. Slowly, I will move all the important archives here to there, and will cease updating this blog. One day, this blog will be nothing more than a solitary satellite adrift in the gaping space that is the cyber universe. For now, both will be updated.

Don't worry, baby, I know you don't like change. We'll do this real gentle-like. Trust me.

I'm an Enthusiast!

Surprisingly, I don’t get as many negative comments as I would have expected, considering the volume of comments I get through here. Now and then, though, someone does leave something dick-ish, or just plain stupid.

The other day was one such day. Someone left a bit of a rude comment accusing me of wanting to be the Dr. Ruth of the BDSM crowd and how my advice was not expert advice, ergo a grain of salt should be consumed by anyone taking my advice.

Well, duh. Thanks, genius.

I have indeed said it before and I will say it again: I am NOT an expert. NOTHING I say should be taken as “real” advice. Any tips I give are from MY EXPERIENCE only.

I am not an expert. I am, however, an enthusiast.

And I’ll tell you something else: I have no wishes of being the Dr. Ruth for the BDSM crowd. I am utterly removed from the BDSM crowd. I’ve never really done any serious toying there, but the older I get the more curious I’m finding myself. Still, I know nothing, not really. My “intro to bondage” is actually the piece that raised this dude’s rancor, so let’s tackle that for a second.

My “intro to bondage” is perfect for people who are entering that area completely ignorant of what to do. Dude took issue with my saying how *I* will go and run off to the kitchen to get a few things with my submissive fellow all tied up. Dude said no one should ever be abandoned when bound. Strictly speaking, dude was right, and the content of that comment was pretty spot-on, but the delivery left a lot to be desired. And that's why comments are enabled -- so others can weigh in.

So, yes, I’m a bad little bondage girl and I abandon my bound subs. However, my kitchen is literally 15 feet from my bedroom, and any man lucky enough to find himself tied up in my world winds up under my constant supervision, even if I’m 15 feet away. And everyone should take heed to ensuring their submissives are being watched good and close.

If you want an intro to all things BDSM, this is probably not the spot to get it. I’m thinking about tackling more topics in that realm, but not just yet. Like I say, I’m not really big on that whole world.

But let’s get back to the “enthusiast” bit. I’m not an expert. I’ve never taken any courses in psychology or human sexuality. I’ve never gone sleeping my way around town for better working knowledge. I’ve not read every sex book ever written. I have no real credibility for writing about any of this shit.

It’s a blog. Get a fucking grip, right? And that goes for anyone who takes me too seriously. This is a blog. I take great pride in it, but it’s not a job. Not yet. I don’t have the time to edit every posting perfect and make sure things I post have no flaws. That’s just reality. Sometimes, I come up a little short. C'est la vie.

Whatever I say, I say it only as a natural response. I’m smart, I’m well-read, I’m open-minded, I’m thoughtful, and I have a pretty good cause-and-effect meter. Therefore, I write about things from my POV. If you missed the “You are entering the world of Steff’s rant and whimsy” sign upon entry, then take another look.

I suppose the next step is that I’m going to post a legal disclaimer on my new bloggie. You know, just in case anyone’s silly enough to think my advice should trump a medical professional’s. Sheesh.

And to the 90% of you who seem cool enough to know it’s just a blog, thanks!

I Need A Hug

It was a Canadian long weekend -- I think the States had one too -- and turkey was had by all. Happy belated Thanksgiving, my fellow Canucks.

The holidays tend to depress me. I've got one parent dead and six feet other, and every holiday reminds me how, sooner or later, that number's changing to two. It's looking sooner than later by the looks of my dad, so I'm feeling a little sad and scared, really. I feel like his counter's officially counting down now as his diabetes looks like it's winning the battle they've been fighting. Suffice to say, I'm in the right mood to have found this website.

I don't really have a lot to write about today, though, as it's been a busy weekend.

I've thinking a lot of my dad and taking the chance that he doesn't read this blog at all, by posting here, but if he was to read it, that'd be fine too. I love my dad, even though we're cut from very different cloths. I'm much more into culture and I'm more worldly than he his. He's more of a bingo player than anything, really. But I still love him, even though we've got nothing in common.

I tell him I love him and have tried to make him see that I'd like to ensure he's around down the road for me. If I do marry, I'd like him to see it happen. If I do become the success I'd like to be, I'd like to have a shoulder squeeze and giddy smile from my pop.

But he eats horribly. He will eat any and all things, and he'll even have wine, though he's been told his heart can't handle it. He's diabetic, and he has weeping ulcers on his leg, and worse. And, me, I remember I'm not that far off from being a little girl after all. I saw him yesterday, and I would be surprised if I was very wrong about how long he might be around. I'm scared, I'm sad, I'm feeling a little alone.

Worse is, I remember the day I looked at my mom and knew she wouldn't be around for another year -- long before a doctor's diagnosis ever confirmed anything.

I've gone through some phases with some anger in the last week, moments when I feel terribly guilty, as if my mother's death was my fault as a result of my inaction after my suspicions began. My father, though, has long known of my concern and chooses to ignore it. I now avoid him a bit, but mostly because it breaks my heart every time I go over and see how much he's not doing to improve his health. I can't sit idly by as someone so obviously decides not to choose life in front of me, you know?

All things considered, I'd rather have a hug. What can I say? Holidays suck when it means you're constantly realizing that parents won't be around much longer. Yeesh. It's hard to watch someone slowly lose a battle to a disease. The five-minute cancer death of my mother's was easier, in some respects. Sigh. Well, one major holiday down, one to go.

Only The Lonely

(I wasn't meaning to write two posts today, so, hey. Lucky you. Seeya on the weekend.)

The greatest gift the internet provides us with is universality. Through it, we have become Hillary Clinton's Global Village. Through a series of microchips and fibre-optic wires, a person in Nantucket can wake up and realize they're having the exact same kinda day as their favourite blogger in Guayana. Suddenly the human condition isn't caught in only brief snippets in plays and movies. Now, it's all over the world wide web.

It's with great irony that blogging has become such a public way of revealing the private self. Anonymity allows for nearly anyone to open up the wellsprings and let it flow for the world at large to be a part of. The anonymouses of the world, aware of just how little voice they have in day to day life, are speaking pretty loud and clear these days.

Every now and then, someone comes along who's able to tap into the darker currents that course through their innerselves. Every now and then, someone captures that elusive truth of what makes the human condition such a mesh of experiences -- the highs, the lows, the sub-terranean depths of it all. And it's all free. With an ISP, you can log into the wired world and tap into someone feeling, experiencing, being everything you relate to. And that's a good thing.

It's an even better thing when we realize just how much some people need to find that commonality. I've been through some pretty dark times, and that does not make me exceptional. It makes me pretty plugged into that universality I mentioned earlier, the proverbial Matrix. Of course our pains and loves and triumphs and losses are things we understand only up until a certain point. It's so mysterious. Such a muddled mess to wade through. When others can express what we feel, well, suddenly it's like we've had a light shine onto us. Wow, that's my sentiment exactly. And there you are, in your own skin, feeling just like I do. Why, we're not so very different after all. Thank God, it's true: I'm not alone.

Loneliness is quite possibly one of the worst feelings I've ever endured. Hopelessness is hard, too. So's plain old fear. I've been there, done that, didn't want the ugly ass t-shirt.

I got to spend just under three years with my mother before she died. I'd left town, moved to the Yukon, fell in love with Northern Lights and wide-open spaces and that silence that bludgeons you dumb (as Robert Service once said), but the expense of living in the great white north just about crippled me. Too dumb to live within my means, I came home to Vancouver at 22, my tail between my legs, and some $35,000 in debt, sans job. I moved back home and stayed there, at first because I had no choice, and then because I realized something was wrong with my mother (though it would be some time before the cancer was diagnosed; take it from me -- if you suspect something's seriously wrong with a loved one, do not follow the complacent course I took -- get them to a doctor. Get involved. I wish I had).

But when I arrived home, late one night my mother had had a couple glasses of wine and said to me, "Don't ever leave me like that again. I couldn't bear the quiet." And I never left her again. I would have, but she beat me to the punch.

Being alone is hard. There is nothing I feel more empathy and understanding towards than people who fear aloneness. And while it would seem to be an easy fix -- it's a big world, getting bigger every day, billions of others walk this terrain, just like you, and all you seemingly need to do is step outside your four walls -- nothing seems harder when you're on the other side of it.

The walls seem thicker, others seem happier, things just keep happening, and all the while, you're experiencing none of it. An outsider peering in. It's like some puppetmaster is holding strings and keeping you back from it all.

Unfortunately, that's often your choice.

I write from time to time about all the injuries I experienced over the last few years. In one year, I was on crutches for more than 20 weeks. I've never felt as alone as I did then. There were a lot of long, quiet nights, and I felt pretty abandoned by the world at large. It was during all that that I first turned to blogging. A lot's gone down since then, and while I'm often playing the solitary game, it's pretty much by choice these days. I'm single now, but I've had a couple recent chances to change that status and have passed on 'em. Partly because I wasn't ready, and partly because I really don't mind being a party of one. It works well with the writing gig.

But being injured did force me to learn that others were there when I wanted them, and, more importantly, when I needed them. All I had to do was speak. Out of all the lessons I've learned in my life, learning to ask for help has been the one I'm most proud of. Learning how to admit that I need someone or something has been one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I'm a proud, proud woman, and I have been reduced to fucking dust at times in the last few years. I've realized something, though, that it's in that dust that something new in me began to grow. I realized that reaching out, asking for help, allowed others to give. It allowed them to be there when I needed it, and allowed them to feel like they were really contributing to me and my life. It profoundly changed my closest relationships, and the friends who stood by me then, I know they'll always be there.

So many of us never really let our friends and family be there for us. We let our pride fuck with us and we tell ourselves our loved ones are too busy. We fail to realize that most people hang around the peripheral, waiting on us to speak up and tell them what we need -- because they know we'd be there for them if the tables were turned.

So, if you're among the lonely and you feel you've been abandoned, well. You might just be surprised. It's more that people are busy, they get involved in their lives, but somewhere in the back of their minds, they're waiting for you to speak up, to tell them they're wanted around, or that you just plain need'em. What are you waiting for?

Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy [Insert bleeding here]

Every now and then, I get reminded of how dumb corporate America really is. This is the tab on the Always Slim Maxi with Wings. You pull this off, and you adhere it to your panties. I've mentioned this before, but now I've photographed it for proof. Dumbasses.

Have a Happy period? And what part of it is supposed to be the happiest -- the cramping, the irritability that has successfully been used as a defense in murder, the occasional staining of sheets and underwear, the fact that it costs $10 a month in products, the inability to play/do certain sports, like swimming? Which part is supposed to make me happy, huh?

Here's a memo, Corporate America: I bleed because I have to. I bleed only because biology deems it necessary. I've tried to suppress the bastard through drugs, but when I became a murderous, depressed bitch, I decided that bleeding was an only slightly better option, because then my murderous depression would at least be on the clock.

And you fucking know this slogan was written by some mama's boy who's always the first to show up on holidays and who tries to constantly please every woman in his life.

Happy ain't part of the gig, man. I'd be more loyal to a product that called it like it is. How's this:

Your period sucks, and we know it. That's why we've made the best product we can. Here's hoping it makes things just a little better for you today. Oh. And don't kill anyone. Here's 50 cents off your next bottle of Midol.

You Say Pain, They Say Play

As a little girlie, I was as tomboy as they come.

In my ‘hood, back in the day, the girls (there were three of us) were outnumbered by the boys at a 3:1 ratio. One of the girls, my mother told me quite certainly, was “beneath” me, and I was encouraged to either play with the boys or the other girl.

To me, “play” meant getting pretty physical and doing whatever the boys were doing. We fancied ourselves “police kids” and made ourselves uniforms and badges and ran down the street yelling at and feebly trying to throw Nerf footballs at cars driving too fast for our domesticated side street. We climbed into the ditches and crawled through the huge pipes. We painted our faces for no reason at all. We dug through our parents’ shit and played “dress-up” for the sheer hell of it.

Sometimes “play” involved projectiles and violence – since I’m from that generation born on the cusp of actually having cool shit to play with before people figured out things were dangerous; lawn darts, for instance, became illegal in my 15th year, back in 1988. We played with slingshots and broke windows in abandoned buildings. We tied each other up and left each other for “dead” in the middle of the “enchanted” forest. We nailed apple crates onto skateboards and rode down the steepest hill in the ‘hood. We’d climb (and fall down) cliffs by the beach. We dared each other to venture into the rat-a-tat “haunted” house around the corner.

Getting hurt was par for the course, and most of the time we barely noticed the pain.

Out there in the world, a number of you readers are nodding and grinning, remembering summers spent pitching lemonade stands and jumping fences, throwing stones and jumping off piers into water too cold yet for swimming, and winters spent hurtling iceballs at each other and crying out in pain. We took our chances and we lived with the consequences, because, for us, it was fun. Fun at any and all costs.

Somewhere along the way, we learned about pragmatism and all the things adults do to lessen risks of danger and lost limbs. We toned it down, we learned the rules, and we played safe. In adulthood, “play” means sports and board games, and little else.

Unless, of course, you belong to the BDSM community.

One could argue that, in ways, BDSMers are just children at heart. They want to play, be told what to do, often dress up in silly things, and need to have rules to follow or else things come apart at the seams.

Suggest this to the religious right and anyone else who gets creeped out at the thought of grownups in leather and ball-gags with whips at the ready, and you’ll be unceremoniously turfed faster than you can shout your stop word of choice.

Not too long ago, a big kerfuffle was raised and I have yet to really comment on it. A fuckwit by the name of Jason Fortuny took a very, very sexually explicit posting of a slave woman seeking a very aggressive male master through Craigslist and he reposted it in Seattle, using his email address as the letter through which any masters would be responding.

He then took all the responses from the males and posted them publically in an attempt to mock, humiliate, and out them. I haven’t really followed the whole mess, but I think he’s an asshole who deserves a little of the treatment the original woman was begging for. I think this for about a million and ten reasons that I’m not going to bother getting into, save for one –

What pisses me off most about the whole debacle, I think, is what the woman who originally posted that email must have felt when she discovered that she had unwittingly become the eye of this cyberstorm.

Sadly, we live in a society that deems fit to judge others for what they do in the privacy of their own homes. Only now are gays starting to really own who they are, but every now and then one gets beaten to death for no good reason. BDSMers have a fucking long ways to go before they get accepted by the mainstream.

It’s happening, in bits, but if a woman was to walk out into regular society and announce that she wished to be urinated on, called names, slapped around, and forced into submission regarding everything from doing the dirty deed right on down to doing the dirty dishes on demand, then she’d be besieged by women telling her she deserved better.

The point that they’re missing is, she doesn’t want better. She wants to be treated that way. I have no right to judge her, and neither do you.

Yet here’s this Craigslist woman, who probably debated for a good long time about taking her desires semi-public (because just admitting shit on paper’s hard enough to do some days). Now she’s being used by this post-collegiate fuckwit, who thinks he’s God’s gift to bloggers, who then goes and bastardizes everything she’s gone through to get to this point where she feels safe asking to be abused.

Funny thing is, she’s asking to be used and abused, but the number one rule in BDSM, basically, is that the submissive has all the power. They stop the play. They control what happens, because if they’re not a willing participant, it ends then and there. But she never asked Jason Fortuny to use her or abuse her. She never got to say stop. And that’s wrong six ways to Sunday, man.

If you don’t GET BDSM, then so be it. It’s not for you to appreciate or understand. Their rights, though, to do as they like, as two (or more) consenting parties, behind closed doors, ought to be protected in the constitution. Here in Canada, it is. (More or less.)

I own no dog collars, nor paddles, and I don’t know if I’ll ever go that way. But I own an open mind, and as a tax-paying member of a supposedly free society, I want the fucking right to explore whatever crosses my dirty, filthy little mind. After all, playing keeps the heart and soul young.

(Speaking of playfulness [in general] and Craigslist, allow me to introduce you to my brother. Seriously. He's single, cute, and a little weird, but in mostly good ways.)

[Photo courtsey of Wikipedia.]

Nothin' Like an October Surprise

Republican Representative Mark Foley's knee-deep in the shits after having exchanged dirty emails with 16-year-old boys.

He's resigned and now the Republican party is flailing like a drunk guy in a pool. Oops. Who knew that filth and debauchery could be exhibited by their own kind? Gosh!

I'm thrilled Foley's been exposed. I hope the FBI investigates him as thoroughly as they would anyone else. I hope they examine his computer. I hope he's prosecuted for whatever tidbits they might find in his computer. The dude's chaired the Congressional Missing and Exploited Children's Caucus, for God's sake.

Of course he purports to never have done anything to a minor before. Of course it was his "first time" being this way. Yeah. Right.

I'm pretty strict about the definition of the legal age. I think kids can engage in sex with others, if they like, of their own age. I think adults have to fucking know better. Maybe that makes me square. But Foley's a pedophile, whether he's acted on it beyond these emails or not. Let's see how concerned the courts really are about protecting kids, shall we?

Talk about the privilege to serve when you're a page or an intern, huh? Geez.

Fat or Phat, It's All that

Though I’m overweight, I tend to pride myself on the fact that I’m often a fairly athletic person. Of late, I have not been. My pride, too, has been ebbing away. It’s starting to come back, and so is some anger. I’m mad that I have been so neglectful of myself. Every now and then, I realize how little I seem to care for myself just by how I’m failing to exercise or eat well.

I may never be a thin girl. That’s entirely possible. It doesn’t mean I can’t try to get there.

What you probably do not know about me is that The Last Ditch, my other blog, was not my first. No. My first was called Beyond Fat Girl. Nowadays, I’m really pissed that I deleted the blog without backing any of it up. Think twice before you do some dumb shit like that. Today, I would be proud if it were up there. After all, I began that blog in an attempt to finally admit to myself that I had to do something about my weight. Since then, I’ve lost near 50 pounds.

I’m pretty vocal about the media’s attention to heroin-thin being some kind of beauty standard. I think that’s bullshit. I think life’s hard enough without setting unrealistic goals for thinness. There are skinny people out there, and good for them, but most people carry a few pounds extra. I say that’s just peachy. (I’ll write more on why fat is phat later this week, but today’s just a personal reality check. Stay tuned.)

But what I won’t get behind is the idea that morbid obesity is a good way to live. It’s not. It’s unhealthy. It’s unattractive. It’s just plain hard – mentally, spiritually, and physically. That’s not being prejudiced against fat people. That’s using common sense.

I’m fat. I’m overweight. I know it. No shit, Sherlock. But I don’t sit around stuffing my face 24/7 and I don’t eat fast food often and I don’t buy chips often and I don’t drink pop (not even diet pop). I’ve had three hamburgers this week and I think that’s the most I’ve had in a week since I was a kid. I don’t have cookies in my house, nor do I buy baked goods.

If you’re one of these fucking twits who thinks every fat person is some slob sitting on a sofa with a fist full of chips, then you’re a little too prone to stereotyping. Looking fat doesn’t necessarily mean being unfit.

I know exactly why I’m fat. I’m ignorant. I don’t know enough about nutrition. I know far more than I once did, but I could learn a little more. I’m also overweight because I was a profoundly ill child. I had medical tests every week and by the time I was 11, suspected I wouldn’t live to see 20, thanks to what was then a pretty serious kidney disease. I was always sick and physical activity was hard on me. I got excused a lot and honestly never learned to like any kind of activity until my 20s. And then there’s just fat genes.

I also know I can be pretty cute. I’m overweight, and I can and will get thinner, because I know I can improve on what I’m presently doing. Accepting myself as I am, though, is a delicate balance. I don’t loathe myself. I loathe the fact that I feel like a pudgy lazy oaf, but that’s because I’ve been inactive. 10 hours from now, I’ll be in a swimming pool and the proud new owner of a 6-month Fit Pass with the city. Normally, I can do a pretty decent bike ride. Probably the most ever was 65km in a day while packing 45lbs on the bike when I rode Vancouver Island a couple years back. Sometimes I hike, and so forth. And I’m strong, too. I’m good in the gym.

But if I only ever lose maybe another 3 or 4 inches (I’ve lost about six or so already) then I’ll be all right with that – as long as I know I’ve put my all into it, you know? Besides, my body’s a little cuter when I exercise, and I get this little shuffle in my step / ass, and that’s never a bad thing.

I had this bad moment earlier, though. I’ve been having neck and shoulder problems this week, so I’m all hunched over, plus I’ve not been exercising, plus my period’s around the corner, so I’m all bloated anyhow. Well, naturally, I was shopping and I took a sideways glance at myself. Boom, that was it. Self-esteem bottomed right out. “Fuck, man.” I decided then and there the pool was happening in the morning. Good lord, did I.

I think we’ve all had those “Holy shit, has my mirror at home been fucking lying to me or something?!” reality moments when shopping for clothes. It’s enough of a reality smack in the face to send you home early without any new clothes, huh? It’s the lighting. Bastards and their cheap-ass fluorescence.

The point is, it’s not about what you look like compared to others. Do you look better than you did? Do you do your best to look nice? Does it look like you have pride? Great. There you go. Comparing yourself to Brad Pitt or some heroin-tweaked runway goddess is probably not the sane way to go, y’know? Just sayin’.

Saying Something

A now-dead Canadian literary icon once said, “One ought not write until the thought of not writing becomes unbearable.”

I’m guilty of the exact opposite. So, I’m holding back a little, hoping that I at least get out of the habit of writing and somehow return to the wanting to write. I forget what that hunger to write feels like. I’m bored, tired, and fed up. I’ve got a lot of stress in my life, and I still have some traces of my depression. It hits me in that I find it really hard to get motivated, so everything I do still feels like an effort. Writing, these days, feels like an almost constant reminder of the things going wrong in my world. Most things are all right, but… The things that aren’t are really proving to be thorns in my side.

Soon, I’ll be launching a podcast. I keep saying “soon” because every time I set a deadline, life inadvertently seems to topple it. First, technical problems, then mojo problems, then more technical problems, then I get sick, then I have the solution to all my technical problems, it would seem, then I buy the product with which to solve those problems, and then I can’t install the bastard.

So, today is the can’t-install day, and I’m frustrated yet again. It’s this frustration that prevents me from caring about writing, because all my thoughts are preoccupied with how can I overcome the obstacles in my life, and what is it going to take to do so?

But given that it’s an install issue, ergo a product issue, and both the technical department of the manufacturer and the store at which I purchased the product are closed today, there’s not much sense in sitting around and trying to overcome it all, huh?

Today I’m calling it quits on pissing around and I’m recharging my battery for my camera. I love taking photographs, so why have I not been doing so? That changes this afternoon. I’ll be heading to the Commercial Drive area for some autumnal photos of the popular ‘hood. I think I might just capture the kind of whimsy and zest for life that will translate into inspiration for later.

Another reason my writing’s been lacking of late again is the recurring absence of sex drive. Whee, how fun. I’m starting to suspect it’s my sudden sedentary lifestyle that’s the problem there. (Probably some stress, too.) I might be overweight, but I’m always somewhat active, except for of late. I’m just realizing how inactive I’ve been, and it’s pretty surprising, actually. But exercise causes blood to flow and you gotta have the blood flowing in order to get aroused, eh? Anyone who doesn’t think their level of exercise affects their sex drive needs to check their heads.

And yet another reason my writing’s been lacking of late is probably a result of my not listening to music. With this piece-of-shit soundcard provided by Dell as a stock item, I can’t listen to anything on here, and I never think to listen to it elsewhere in my pad. Music’s a huge factor in creativity for me. Funny that I should be so without it these days.

Then again, all this shit can be a result of depression, too. I’ve been doing really well, but maybe I’m just used to feeling it, you know? Ah, life’s a complicated wench.

In an hour, I pounce on the east side with my camera. Should be a fun departure. Then, hockey. If young, virile, energetic men can’t kickstart some hormones for me tonight (especially hanging out with a gay male in that arena) then I’m officially declaring myself a eunuch.

I shall report. Down with eunuchy. Let us end the exiling of horny Steff. Yeesh. Hockey, indeed.

(*On the music front, I turned on the soundtrack to the Killing Fields, and I'm feeling it for the first time in a while. Fantastic.

And about the podcasting thing -- there's nothing I want more in my life right now than to get past the first show. This has been one of the most trying experiences of my life, but I refuse to give up on the fucking thing even though almost everything in me wants me to do so. I cannot possibly convey to you how utterly conflicted I am within about it all. I'm so angry and frustrated and exasperated, yet something else tells me that it's all going to be worth all this angst. That, also, I can't explain to you. Some knowledge is intrinsic, you know? I'm just tired of feeling like I have something to prove... which I know I do. I'm ready to prove it, but nothing else is ready for that yet. And that's the problem. So, there you have it. A bit more context. How can I possibly be having this much trouble with technology? Oh, right. Dude's got a Dell. Fuck, man.)