A push in the right direction

My experience is… A woman’s sexual satisfaction is directly related to a woman’s belief that she is desired. Here’s the part that men don’t seem to get, a woman feels sexual, when she is viewed sexually. Here we are, our whole lives exposed to media, and this media tells us again and again, a man is turned on visually. Men fall in love with their eyes, women with their ears. Yes, we know. The bikini didn’t develop for swimming aquanomics. We understand the mini skirt is not the most practical item of clothing a woman can wear on a bus. Stilettos just hurt. But here’s what we want you men to get: When we feel sexy, we are sexy.

So how to translate this into real life?  Take my friend of many years, single she was a real little minx. All the guys loved her, and she loved guys. Everything was as it should be. She wore cute little skirts and oozed sex appeal, and men responded. It was cyclical.  It was a ying and yang… The better she felt about herself, the better men liked her, the better she felt.  Then marriage, kids, 20 pounds and a clueless hubby, and now she is about as asexual as a housewife can get. All those late night calls, talking about sexual positions, and peccadillos of her various conquests are gone, now it’s all the kids sports teams, and home improvement. Sex is gone. Sexy has left the building.

People say, “Confidence is beautiful”, which of course we all know is not true. I’ve been in the line at the  DMV and all those chicks with super tight jeans, with a muffin top which could be mistaken for a muffin avalanche, chain smoker with no bra... not the sexy way... the way in which sometimes a woman REALLY needs a bra...  she has confidence, but no… not beautiful. But some guy somewhere obviously still desires her, or she wouldn't have the nerve to appear in public that way.

Golda Meir was plenty confident, but come on.

Ok, so what is this all about? Here’s the deal in a nut shell. One of the biggest things for women is desire. DESIRE. They want to feel desired. This is why they blow a gasket if you point out a beautiful woman on the street – they want to be the women you notice. They feel the gap in your attention, they once lived in that gap. This is why they nitpick every detail of a more attractive woman’s appearance. (Just ask me about Angelina Jolie’s veiny arms! Go on, ask me!! )This is our competitive nature, how we get all out of joint if our hubby divorces us for a 22 year old – before we could find a 22 year old… Rat bastard – that reminds me: call my lawyer... again This explains the so called “rape fantasy”… we don’t want to be raped, we want a guy to be so overcome with desire, he must have us! It’s why we like hard kisses in movies. Men riding 100 miles, bareback, in a mule, in the rain, just to kiss us outside the farmhouse in all that cinematic grandeur.  D-E-S-I-R-E! Those anatomically impossible arched backed women, busoms thrusting, yelding to the handsome lover on the cover of the romantic pulp fiction. Bodice ripping.

Desire.

So now I hand you the keys to your woman’s Chevy: Fake desire. That’s right. We are polite enough to fake it for you, now you can do the same. Fake it until you make it.

But first you must learn the subtle signs. Notice when she’s made an effort, depending how far down the “life without feeling desired” road she’s gone, this might mean she’s washed her hair recently and is wearing a sweatshirt with only three toddler puke stains. Seize the moment and compliment her! Now, use caution, don’t go crazy or she’s going to know it’s fake. Sort of like when we shout, “You’re the biggest I’ve ever even heard of in the animal kingdom!!!” But instead keep it realistic – but not too realistic. Think back to the first time you saw her and thought she was beautiful, and say that in the present tense.

 For example, she was your date for the prom, and wore a pink taffeta floatation device, and you thought, “I can’t believe I am doing that girl… I am so freak’en lucky” .. Say that! “Sometimes baby, when I look at you, I can’t believe how lucky I am to have you…” And then just leave that there. Don’t try anything right away. Then, when you introduce her to friends, say, “This is my beautiful wife Joanne…” Maybe you don’t think so, but over time, she will believe it.  It took years to strip her self-esteem, it takes time, but really, you tell 10 lies a way, how hard is it to integrate this into your repertoire?

Try it, and watch: 20lb will melt away, she will be hotter for you then she has been in years, she will walk taller knowing her man desires her, your friends will say, “What’s up with Joanne?”,  she will grow more confident in bed, even get on top, cloths will get tighter and you won’t believe it was all so easy as a few lies a day.

If you build it, she will cum.

Wet Spot Wonderings

Two years ago, when fishing in bright sunshine, I would get a little line, pointing upwards between my eye brows like and exclamation mark! After a nap, and a vigorous rub, it would go away. Then, when I was worried or stressed, it would reappear even without the sunlight squinting – a worry line, which only made me worry more. But a day of moisturizing, and intentionally looking surprised rather than worried, it would go away… Then, as the months and years came and went, it no longer did. My first wrinkle.  It’s there, happy in its little spot. I threaten it with Botox weekly, but still in the morning, it arrives strong and determined.

So while sipping a morning tea, looking at the lovely lines in my boyfriend’s face. Every year he looks stronger, rugged and more handsome… We had made love that morning, I hadn’t showered yet. I feel the soft reminder of it warming me. The sun pours in, and on the radio Steve Nicks sings, “And so with the slow graceful flow of age, I went forth with an age old desire to please.  On the edge of seventeen…” and my wind wonders.

So many rock songs talk about the age 17. “She was just 17, and you know what I mean…” “Sexy and seventeen” “Dancing Queen, Young and sweet only 17”…And I think about my 17 year old self. So insecure, so unaware of the power I held. I could have burned men to the ground back then. I could have held the room. What fun it would have been. But I didn’t, I just hid under a punky haircut with long bangs, and slid into the back seat of my life.

So many women’s magazine now are publishing essays on, “Letters you would write to your 17 year old self…” They always say, “Realize how pretty you are, learn more, love more, be more adventurous, take risks, be fearless.” Good lord, stop writing those letters ladies!! We don’t want young women to know these things without earning them!! Stop it!! Stop it!!

What  a gift it is to us older gals that young girls don’t know the power they have. “Young, Dumb and Full of Cum…” Thank God. Thank God they don’t know how to be a woman. Thank god they don’t know their power, it is a magical leveler.  Mother Nature’s gift to us horny older gals. We can lord our confidence over the men around us. We know our sexual self. We know how to dress, talk, kiss, give head. Good thing too, because it’s the only weapon we have against the perky breasted, insecure, unknowingly gorgeous girls who could, if she knew her power, take it all away from us.

You can’t stay young, you won’t stay dumb, but if you’re lucky, like me in that morning sun, can remain full of cum…with an exclamation mark!

The Band Aid solution.

Love is a question I have no answer for. I am 42 now, and recently thought, what have my lovers had in common? Nothing to do with looks, or likes. They were smart. Sure. They were talented, in some way. Most of all I realized they were lonely. Palpably lonely. It was visceral; they wore it like a tattered sweater, full of holes, and patches from past relationships. Shabby remains of what once was warm and fuzzy. I remember the moment with each where I felt their aloneness. I don’t think any creature on earth can be as lonely as a man. They don’t have the means to create their own salvation from it, like women’s uteruses’ allow at times. They work hard at filling it. The searching for love, is something women don’t experience in the same way… The hunting, versus the hunted.

My current guy sat with me, on our first weekend together, and projected slides on a blank wall of this life at another time. Faces and places, peopled. His house was empty of photos, color, life, love, but the faded images projected on an imperfect wall, showed something else.  He meticulously edited out the slides with past girlfriends… for my benefit? For his? As I sat in the dark trying to absorb the relevance to him of the people flickering in front of me, trying to understand his need to show them to me, that’s when I felt his loneliness. It light up the wall. A shot of light through the darkened room. “This is when I wasn’t alone. This is when I was happy.” And this is when I started to love him.

But why? Why loneness? Of all the qualities to attract me, why this weakness? Not strength, not power… vulnerability plants the seeds for me.

So now, we move ahead five years, and his friends say, “He was so lonely until you…” and I think how that is such a subtle observation. I absorb it as a compliment. Could they see his loneliness? Paul Simon said, “Loosing love is like a window in your heart, everybody sees you’re blown apart. Everybody sees the wind blow…”  

I said to him once, “I am just a band aid on your loneliness.”  He said, “No, you cured it”… I was flattered. But why am I attracted to this specific thing?  Why did I take on this role, of rescuer? What does it feed in me? Is it the need to be important, almost necessary in someone’s life, or do I just see a problem I can solve? I feel the need to help. I know that in my life, but this is really the most rudimentary type of helping – being there. Physical presence… A door stop. A paper weight. A book mark. All useful things, but not particularly interesting or important.  Or is it a bigger thing when you’re holding off the werewolves of isolation? Am I an avenger? Protector? Is my role for him, or for me? And once the man finds the ground again, is this when I leave. Am I a platform from which he can rebuild his confidence and spring forth?

42, and I don’t know.

Trust is an issue

"Forgiveness is giving up the hope that the past could have been any different then it was"

All the baggage we hold, clinging on to it like it's something that sustains us. Rolling through our wicked lives, pushing a grocery cart full of things we think we might need, even though we can't afford any of it. Someone said the resentments of the past, for Father's lack of love, for Mother's lack of support, whatever the baggage, we carry around like the corpse of the past on your backs. But how do we put it all down?

Is what shaped us in the past, part of who we are now? Nature? Nurture? My father was/is a narcissist who taught me over and over, all that matters is looks. He still turns my stomach with the delight he takes in the minor accomplishments of other men's daughters... "She learned to drive a stick" and my accomplishments go unnoticed, or, in some weird way, are so expected... When you remove the sexual fascination from a woman, then she can do anything, unremarkable.

But, what if... what if... there's nothing he says or does that really effects my life? Can the snake rid the poison from his head, by choosing another way? Or is the poison his nature? His defence? His demise? Is the poison keeping him from knowing the tenderness of love? How to expel the poison in my head -- only trough a poisonedss bite? Should I even try? Who would get hurt?

"Never test a man, he will always fail"... So, my poison is that I believe men can't be faithful -- like my Father. And so, unlike my Mother, I am forever vigilant.. Watching, waiting for the subtle shortness, that distance in the eyes, the sharp rebuffs followed by excuses.. a dead bed. All the tell tales my Mother never saw. So I sit, not afraid, but in the dark, because you can never know the light of anyone elses' mind... and I wait, wondering, feeling, and when I can't stand it anymore, I switch on the light... Ghouls and monsters all around. I could feel them there. I knew they were there. Then I am damned to turn the lights off again to preserve the peace of ignorance. But you can never unknow the known.

I wait, for the chill his his manor. Then I go to work, searching for the evidence of all this things I already know. He still loves another... photos... emails... But I knew all of this before turning on the light. If you see a bullet coming does it make it less deadly? No. Then why do I search for the pitiless vindication of nothingness?

It won't change the past. It won't fix the future. The past is gone, not even God can change the past.... The future us just a dream, and mirage to keep is walking in this desert... The now is all we have. And I choose to skip to the imagined last page, always hoping to save myself the pain of a surprise ending. But all endings are a surprise, aren't they? And painful.

Put down the body Temptress, and live for the moment.

Men by Maya Angelou

Men"

 

 

When I was young, I used to
Watch behind the curtains
As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men.
Young men sharp as mustard.
See them. Men are always
Going somewhere.
They knew I was there. Fifteen
Years old and starving for them.
Under my window, they would pauses,
Their shoulders high like the
Breasts of a young girl,
Jacket tails slapping over
Those behinds,
Men.

One day they hold you in the
Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you
Were the last raw egg in the world. Then
They tighten up. Just a little. The
First squeeze is nice. A quick hug.
Soft into your defenselessness. A little
More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a
Smile that slides around the fear. When the
Air disappears,
Your mind pops, exploding fiercely, briefly,
Like the head of a kitchen match. Shattered.
It is your juice
That runs down their legs. Staining their shoes.
When the earth rights itself again,
And taste tries to return to the tongue,
Your body has slammed shut. Forever.
No keys exist.

Then the window draws full upon
Your mind. There, just beyond
The sway of curtains, men walk.
Knowing something.
Going someplace.
But this time, I will simply
Stand and watch.

Maybe.

 

"Remembrance"

 

 

Your hands easy
weight, teasing the bees
hived in my hair, your smile at the
slope of my cheek. On the
occasion, you press
above me, glowing, spouting
readiness, mystery rapes
my reason

When you have withdrawn
your self and the magic, when
only the smell of your
love lingers between
my breasts, then, only
then, can I greedily consume
your presence.

Prairie Wedding: Mark Knopfler

We only knew each other by letter
I went to meet her off the train
When the smoke had cleared and the dust was still

She was standing there and speaking my name
I guarantee she looked like an angel
I couldn't think of what I should say
But when Adam saw Eve in the garden
I believe he felt the selfsame way

I handed her up on the wagon
And I loaded up her trunk behind
She was sitting up there with the gold in her hair
And I tried to get hold of my mind

Do you think that you could love me Mary
Do you think we got a chance of a life
Do you think that you could love me Mary
Now you are to be my wife

We finally headed out of the station
And we drove up to the home trail
And when we came to the farm she laid a hand on my arm

I thought my resolution would fail
And I froze as she stepped in the doorway
Stood there as still as could be
I said I know it ain't much, it needs a woman's touch

Lord she turned around and looked at me

Do you think that you could love me Mary
You think we got a chance of a life
Do you think that you could love me Mary
Now you are to be my wife

We had a prairie wedding
There was a preacher and a neighbour or two
I gave my golden thing a gold wedding ring
And the both of us said I do
And when the sun's going down on the prairie
And the gold in her hair is aflame
I say do you really love me Mary
And I hold her and I whisper her name

Do you think that you could love me Mary
You think we got a chance of a life
Do you think that you could love me Mary
Now you are to be my wife

I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike…

I don’t understand you “other women”. I just don’t get it. My father used to speculate that woman don’t give clothes away that don’t fit them anymore because we can’t stand the thought of someone else looking good in them. He surmises this is why, even after a down-and-dirty divorce, women still react with jealousy when their ex reattaches. I can see the point. This summer I was walking down a waterfront dock, summer dresses were everywhere, and then, I saw her. A woman wearing -- quite well I might add -- a flirty silk dress I have the duplicate of in my  “maybe someday this will fit again”  closet. And I felt a bit of grief over it, but, as for old boyfriends, it has never fazed me that they have moved on… even when, God forbid, they do so before I can manage the same… No one like to loose that race!

That being said, when it comes to ex-girlfriends reinserting their ugly heads into my relationship, then I have a different feeling… more akin to a pain in the ass.

I see it this way:  When I was 12 all I wanted was a Banana Bike. For a full year I pestered my parents for it… then one fine “grading day” I got it. Bright green with yellow streamers flowing from white hand grips on the high arched handlebars. Long narrow white seat, in the signature “banana” shape. It was just fantastic. I rode it to death… for a year. Oh, that first year, when you just can’t keep your hands off -- or get enough. I was the queen bee on my Banana bike. But, you know, over time, I grew  and it seemed a bit immature. It lacked sophistication.  The things about it I once enjoyed, like that infamous seat, now just chaffed me. And it just started to seem more like work then fun to drive. Racing ten speeds were the practical -  and desirable -- replacement. And I moved on.

Oh who knows what happened to that bike, I lost touch. It was likely picked up for a few dollars at a yard sale or another. Poor sad little bike. I was on to bigger and better things. It remained the same.
But over the years, I never forgot my first great bicycle love. And for me, this is where it ends. But for some people, these “other woman”… the story doesn’t end there.

You see for them, years pass, bikes come and go…. They flirted with a sportier version, but racing bikes were too uncomfortable. Mountain Bikes, while rugged and handsome, were too tasking. And they think about that first bike, over and over. “What was wrong with it?” They wonder. “Was it my expectations? Did I just want too much?” Sure, they remember, it was childish, and hard to get moving, but as they move through bike after bike, they start to think differently about that old Banana bike they left behind.
Then one day, quite by accident…. Or maybe on Facebook… they see that bike. There it is! It stops them in their tracks. It still looks pretty good, maybe even better, with a hint of age, it looks more grown up… more of a classic then the toy it used to be.

They stop, and they see it there, parked in an alley of a happy home. But wait. It’s dangerously close to a drive way -- don’t they even appreciate what they have there??? It looks neglected! I took better care of that bicycle then that! THEY DON’T DESERVE MY BICYCLE! And they stop, pick it up and with minimal effort and put it in the back of their Subaru Outback and take it home. Sure that bike shouldn’t have gone along, but in the end, it was not HER’S TO TAKE! Owning something once, doesn’t give you the right to come and go in its life forever… does it???

So, sure, you can steal my bike. And sure maybe once it was yours, and you were here first. But it served you once, you had your chance. And worst of all, the person who owns it now loves that bike too… and the pity is, that once you’ve had it again for a few months, and the initial fun of reconnecting to your past memories is over, that banana seat will still be as uncomfortable as it ever was… And now, it’s too late, you can never take it back and I’ve bought a mountain bike. So who loses? The Banana Bike we both loved. That’s who.

Get your own bicycle!