Synchronicity?

s-JOY-OF-SEX-large

joy_of_sex_vulva_old

This evening, in my cold-medicated state Arthur and I padded over to the movie rental store to find the kind of entertainment that we could enjoy from the sofa.

I picked up the first disk of the series True Blood because everyone keeps telling me I’ll like it. I’m two episodes in, and it’s definitely sexy, but I find some of the writing a bit weak. I’m already attached to a couple of the characters though, so what the dialogue lacks is made up in development. I’ll keep watching. I’d forgotten that the show is an Alan Ball creation, who I love.

Completely and totally randomly, I picked up Towelhead. It was recommended by the movie store, and I always like their recommendations. I didn’t even read the synopsis. I just saw that Toni Collette was in it, and figured it must be good. I popped this into the DVD player after episode two of True Blood.

The story is about a thirteen year old girl with a white mom and Lebanese father. She gets shipped to her father’s home in the U.S. suburbs after a complicated scenario arises at her mother’s house. At first, this starts as a quirky coming-0f-age story.

As the tale unravels, my heart starts to break into a million little pieces. I can’t get into the nitty gritty details of why this affected me so without spoiling the plot, but this movie is such a raw take on the idea of female sexuality. It’s amazing that I randomly selected this, because this exact topic has been on my mind a lot lately.

There is a real disconnect between how women are expected to feel about sex, and how they themselves would like to feel about it. This mass confusion and hypocrisy affects both genders too. For all our feminist efforts, things really haven’t changed that much, and sometimes I feel like my attitude towards sexuality is what will always make certain aspects of my life challenging.

I don’t just mean the act of sex, either. I mean sexuality at large; maybe even sensuality is the word to use.

This particular entry is long overdue, and this movie really drove it home for me.

I began to ask questions about sex at about eight years of age, if I remember correctly. My questions were met by my mom, who very calmly gave me a book to read and then told me to ask any and all other questions I might have after reading it. I don’t remember the specifics here, but I know I felt comfortable, and fascinated, and not really embarrassed at all.

I also remember finding my dad’s Playboy collection, and being intrigued. When I got busted for that, I think I was only told that they were magazines for grown-ups and that they were private.

Then, my search led me to the original edition of The Joy of Sex. I still love men with beards and shaggy hair because of this. I hid that discovery for weeks under my bed, until my mom asked if perhaps I might know of its whereabouts. I fessed up, and as I recall, she told me she would prefer that I leave this book on the bookshelf, and ask any questions I might have about what I’d read there.

Several other discoveries were made, always through snooping through my parents’ bedroom, which proved to be something of a treasure trove. Each time, burning curiosity, and my mother’s open nature led me to confess my invasion of their privacy so I could ask the questions that were begging to be asked. Each time, I was gently admonished for my snooping, because private time and privacy were very important, and then I got a clear and honest answer.

I never, ever heard or walked in on my parents having sex, but at least once a week, after we were tucked in, the lock on their bedroom door would click, and the entire house would smell like lavender massage oil. It was easy for me to piece this mystery together.

I’d always taken this for granted, assuming that everyone I knew had learned about sex by finding interesting things in their own homes, and having at least one parent who was comfortable explaining what was going on.

The more people I talk to, the more I learn that this is not the case.

I was never, ever, ever ashamed of my sexuality. Any awkwardness or embarrassment growing up was a result of feeling like I didn’t fit in with the other kids, or feeling like they thought I was strange, and ugly.

Once puberty was full swing, and all of my girlfriends started getting it on at the tender age of fourteen, I knew I wasn’t ready, and really wasn’t interested. Everything I’d read sounded interesting and important, and the boys I knew at that time were mostly really awful. If it was going to happen, I wanted to be ready.

When that time came, I was almost eighteen. I’d switched from hanging out with gun-toting Jamaican drug dealers to really granola actors and musicians. I made my own appointment with my family doctor to discuss this matter, have my first pap, and go on the pill. I told my mother about this after the appointment. I bought condoms, and lube, and announced to my twenty four year old boyfriend (yikes, I know) that I was ready. I still think I deliberately chose this boyfriend as my first because I knew he’d know what he was doing.

My mother’s straightforward, open approach to sex gave me the confidence I needed to make clear decisions, and made me really curious and interested in understanding this aspect of my personality. I credit this for saving me from some pretty stupid decisions growing up. When I kept company with the aforementioned dealers, the pressure to drink and do drugs was constant at first, and I was interested in neither of those things. I quickly figured out that I could weld my virginity like some strange kind of trademark, and even went so far as to frequently wear white outfits. Soon, I was really novel in these circles, and some of the meanest mo-fo’s had my back (side). Nobody pressured me anymore, and in fact, they kind of found it endearing, I think. Every now and then I would throw them a bone and pretend that they had hot-boxed me, but I never got stoned with them. I later found out there was a pretty significant cash pool on who would take my virginity.

All this to say “thanks mom”. There’s so much more to learning about sex besides the basic biological function. They are still not allowed to teach sexual confidence, self-exploration, or the dynamics of sexual power in schools.

Towelhead made me realize, once again, how essential this really is.

I was so enthralled, and moved, that I Googled this movie after it ended, only to find that it was written and directed by Alan Ball.

Universe, I love your clever sense of humour.

Be advised, Towelhead is not for the faint of heart…it’s also based on the novel by Alicia Erian.

The Massacre of the Innocence

may-pole-daisies-600kb

Is it ok to enjoy someones company if you have a nagging feeling that there is no potential for anything lasting, or substantial? If in your gut you feel like they are just not on the same page, or that their own personal “stuff” will prevent them from meeting you halfway? Is it ok to ignore these things for the sake of appreciating the now, and “seeing what happens”? No, it is not. I already know what’s going to happen.

What is ok, absolutely ok, is to feel exactly as I did yesterday afternoon, as of about two pm. Perfectly at ease, fascinated, open, engaged, safe, and ready. Amazing. I’m tapping at the pedal brakes to avoid my Leonine overwhelming enthusiasm, but whatever happens next might be less important than the realization that those feelings are what I need to feel. Nothing less.

I liken it to the first time my untrained voice realized how to use my breath to properly support the sounds I make. I was filled with more air than ever before, and could sustain the note, and the intensity of the note for as long as I needed to. I hung there, played there with my own sounds, and felt the power and control that I was capable of. Magic.

So, thank you for Saturday afternoon magic. For children pulled from ancient photographs covered in spaghetti sauce before my very eyes. For tiny birds coming in for a landing on my shoulder. For wooden rooms filled with wood. For slow grazing on greens. For bordello teepees. For that nape of the neck image that made my heart sing with how fragile and pure it was.

For remembering something I thought I’d lost a long, long time ago.

Lady Lazarus, at your service.

All the Poetry I’ve Been Missing

This week has been a struggle. I’ve had just enough energy to survive the work day, and all I care to do is come home and lay down. All of my resources are tapped, and there’s not an ounce of creativity in me. Several lovely people have pointed out that perhaps I need this time where absolutely nothing is going on. I suppose that’s true. I also need a money truck to back up to my patio and unload it’s contents. And I need an all-expense paid, month long vacation in Italy.

And I need someone. Just a little.

I haven’t felt like that in a long time. I’ve wanted people for many of the wrong reasons. I’ve behaved like I need someone there most of the time. I’ve acted like I just can’t make do without someone to flirt with, and what have you. I haven’t really needed someone. It’s possible to continue to get by quite well on my own, and the idea of a summer of absolute freedom is not without its own allure, but I’m starting to wonder exactly what I’m doing.

There are certain things I need to address, and work harder towards resolving before I can really look someone in the eye and say “Yeah. This could work.” This is the major reason why I continue to be a singleton. I’m ok with this, it’s time, but there’s something about being sick, and feeling vulnerable to the point where you miss cuddling your mom that makes you kind of look at the bigger picture.

I haven’t had a lot of single time in my adult life. I’m coming out of two major relationships, back to back, and this time in my life feels like the fairly magical time when I was between high school and college. I felt free, and happy, and mad about my friends, and so very creative. The exception, of course, is this week.

Tell me, how does one make the most of the time they experience without a romantic partner in their life? I have my own formula, but I’m so curious to hear what else is out there. Are we confidant, and happy, and independent and fulfilled, or do we mask our loneliness by projecting these qualities?

Also, I’ve realized I’ve made bad on my promise to write poetry every day for April. In lieu of my own pathetic attempts, here is some poetry by a great master, as curated by some very good people that I know.

For you because I understand:

For you because you are true and noble:

For you because you inspire me:

For you, and our talks and spiced oranges:

For you, because I think you can hear my thoughts:

My current choice:

And one for your sad and beautiful eyes:

And for you because you are so sweet to me:

The Birthday Phone Calls

mydad16944

Randy Mantooth

I can’t recall which birthday this happened on, but one year when I was a little girl, my mom thought it would be really funny to have my aunt and my grown male cousin call me and pretend they were various characters and celebrities that I admired.

I received birthday wishes from the following:

The Wicked Witch of the West
Dorothy
Miss Piggy
My Imaginary Friend Jenny (I was not fooled by this one. I knew Jenny only spoke in my head.)
Bo Duke
Luke Duke

And this last one, which really rocked my (maybe five year old?) world:

Johnny Gage from the show Emergency

I must have had a wicked crush on Johnny Gage, because this is the very first time I ever felt butterflies. I didn’t want to come to the phone because I was too nervous. My mother had to coax and cajole me. Then, when finally on the phone, I uttered a few words and had to give the receiver back to my mom. I think I remember crying because I was so upset and embarrassed.

I couldn’t understand why someone so handsome and awesome would call me, and I felt incredibly confused and unspeakably shy. I remember allowing myself to feel very special for about one minute before completely caving under the weight of my own nerves and tossing the phone at my mom.

Today if some handsome celebrity crush were to call me (heh) I would feel the same butterflies, but now I would have the adult ability to picture him in his boxers (or briefs? I’d bet on boxers…) and this would give me the edge I needed to carry on a semi-intelligent and definitely witty conversation. Celebrities are people too, right?

What the hell was my point in all of this?

Oh, right.

Briefly today, I allowed myself to reflect on my ideal man-mate. He looks a bit like this:

Stylish in a very casual, effortless way that makes a statement about his personality
Mad about music. If he can sing or play an instrument, this is a plus. Also, his musical knowledge should span several decades, and he should have a thing or two to teach me
Passionate about his work
Eager to share the things he loves with people he gets excited about (imagine late night vinyl listening-parties interspersed with fierce make out sessions)
Hungry for the world
Independent – values the hell out of whomever he decides to love, but has his own very full life, circle of friends, favourite motorcycle routes (he’ll go for really long rides and come home smelling like sweat, leather, and road dust)**
Thirsty to experience as much as possible
Active in arts and culture
Healthy
Vibrant sex drive
Humble
Grateful
Slightly rough around the edges – bad boy with a heart of gold
Smart – not necessarily book smart, but quick witted, clever, and hungry to learn more about interesting thing and people
Loves animals and nature
Healthily (mostly) in touch with the Dark Side of the Force

** I still firmly believe that men who love motorcycles have a deep, restless spirit, and this should be seen as a flag, because I believe part of them really wants to just take off and never return. I secretly love motorcycles, but they also terrify me.

So, the above list is great, huh? Well, here’s the thing. It occurred to me today (and not really for the first time) that although it would be great to be happy-ever-after with such a dude, it would be even better to BECOME that dude. Obviously, I’m not talking in the literal sense. I quite enjoy being female, thank you very much. What I’m suggesting is that by using this as a checklist of things that I myself wish to embody, I will likely end up feeling more fulfilled.  I mean, I’ve got a real handle on most of those things. It will just take a little bit of focus to really fine tune, and beef up some of the others.

I’m going to embrace my own inner dude. My own XY who is kind of aloof, and sometimes complicated. Who prefers to be alone, but likes to share his space with someone every now and then. Who can date any chick he wants, so is in no hurry to settle down because there is no ticking of anything except the engine of his (insert bad ass motorcycle brand here) as it cools after a long ride chasing the sunset. I’m adjusting my package, cracking my neck with a good shake from side to side, and jumpin’ into the ring.

I’m not going to date you. I am going to BE you.

Muwahahahahahah!

Monday Poem:

Myself
Edgar Guest

I have to live with myself, and so,
I want to be fit for myself to know;
I want to be able as days go by,
Always to look myself straight in the eye;
I don’t want to stand with the setting sun
And hate myself for the things I’ve done.

I don’t want to keep on a closet shelf
A lot of secrets about myself,
And fool myself as I come and go
Into thinking that nobody else will know
The kind of man I really am;
I don’t want to dress myself up in sham.

I want to go out with my head erect,
I want to deserve all men’s respect;
But here in this struggle for fame and pelf,
I want to be able to like myself.
I don’t want to think as I come and go
That I’m bluster and bluff and empty show.

I never can hide myself from me,
I see what others may never see,
I know what others may never know,
I never can fool myself- and so,
Whatever happens, I want to be
Self-respecting and conscience free.