A Bathroom Blowjob

I’d never witnessed a prelude to public sex before Sunday.  Preludes to private sex, yes – but public? Never.

I was at one of those fantastic restaurant/pub deals, and the establishment was almost deserted save for myself, my friend, and a table of loud, rowdy, drunk 20-somethings.  They were doing shots of tequila. 

Odd for a restaurant.  Even odder for a Sunday night. 

However, I once drank myself retarded (and $100 poorer) at a Boston Pizza on a weeknight when I was 19 – so who am I to judge?

One guy was a loud-mouth bastard.  He was obnoxious and vulgar (and not in a good way).  He had an off-putting fratboy quality about him.  He punctuated every sentence with a loud “fuck!”  He believed his stories about benders and epic hangovers to be genuinely enticing (they weren’t special or original).  He bragged about his spending habits (which is never a dignified thing to do). 

However, he had a fan.  She might have been his girlfriend.  I couldn’t be sure.

They didn’t seem particularly cuddly or intimate in that “exclusive couple” kind-of-way.  He didn’t have his arm around her, and she wasn’t leaning into him.  However, when their companions left to go smoke outside, they turned and started kissing. 

Since the restaurant was empty, I could make out parts of their whispered conversation.  I managed to overhear – and I’m paraphrasing – “if we don’t do something about this soon I’m going to have to leave and jerk-off.”

That caught my attention.

I, being of a naturally salacious disposition, strained to over-hear the erotic exchange.  It ended abruptly, with the obnoxious fratboy grabbing the girl’s hand and pulling her towards the washroom.

I started an irritating running commentary at that point.  I told my friend what they were doing and where they were going, and guessed (out loud) at what they’d do in the men’s restroom.

A quickie against a wall?

A blowjob?

Probably a blowjob, we concluded. 

10 minutes (if not less) later, the couple emerged.  The guy was grinning and sweating like a pig.  Well, not like a pig per se – but there was visible moisture upon his brow.  He had an awkward half-erection.  The kind that flops around at half-mast.  He continuously pawed at his balls on his way back to the table.

I think he caught me staring, but I don’t think he cared. 

I suppose that, if I were a loud-mouthed bastard, I’d sneer at those unlucky enough not to receive random oral sex in public washrooms. 

Nothing but a little public copulation to make an ordinary evening that much more memorable. 

On another note, I had two disturbing dreams last night that have plagued me all day.  Both were vaguely sexual, yet extremely telling. I’ll hope for no future encores come nightfall. 

Casual Sex Makes People Kill Themselves

Heath Ledger’s possible cause of death.

I like to stop by CWFA every once in awhile.  I like to see what topics have those ladies so concerned.  What, I wonder, is plaguing the steadfast souls of the devout women of America today?

Sometimes their pet issues are valid ones, such as sex trafficking.  Few people actively and consistently work to raise awareness of the plight of foreign (and sometimes local) women forced into prostitution.  That’s a serious issue that I (and hopefully many others) can get behind. 

However, most of the women’s (and one man’s) concerns are frivolous and petty.  The website consistently attempts to wage war on things it cannot (and should not) defeat – birth control, Planned Parenthood, homosexuality, anal sex, etc.  However, social politics are often complex, and vehemently defended by those who devote themselves to them. 

When you have a pet issue, you’ll promote it any cost. 

For CWFA, one of those pet issues is pre-marital sex.  It ruins lives, they argue.  It contributes not only to societal decay, but to disease, depression and, well, failure at life.  It’s something spoken about with sad eyes and pursed lips.  A ”sad shame” - much like poverty. 

Apparently, one writer theorizes, it may have been one of the many straws that broke the camel’s back and led to Heath Ledger’s shocking and sudden death.  Heath was obviously depressed because he was unmarried and sexually active.  His heart, too fragile to withstand the horrid strain of giving his body to women outside of the matrimonial boudoir, withered away to nothing. 

If only – if only! – he’d said “no” to sex and “yes” to traditional, conservative family values.  As if the only time one’s heart can be broken is if he/she engages in pre-marital sex with his/her partner.  As if no one has ever been hurt - deeply and irreversibly – by platonic friends, relatives and non-sexual romantic partners.  As if depression isn’t about a great hopelessness or sadness caused by a vast number of factors. 

Mental illness is not directly related to sexual activity, though irresponsible or unsafe sex can become a symptom. 

Oh, if only every broken man or woman had just kept their pants on.  If only they drank less and went to church more. 

Depression and anxiety can plague even the purest of virgins.  They can manifest themselves in God-fearing, sermon-attending folk with nice spouses and beautiful children.  They affect the wealthy, the successful and the beautiful.  Broken relationships – be they sexual or non-sexual – damage people.  Abandonment hurts, regardless of how much sex was involved. 

Depression is bigger than sex.  It is bigger than personal politics.

Yes, it’s a terrible shame that severe sadness (and perhaps associated excess) caused the death of a young, promising actor with a blooming career and two-year old daughter.  What’s a worse shame is using a tragedy to push a puritanical political agenda.  The death of a troubled man is just that – the death of a troubled man.  It is probably not the result of indiscriminate fornication or a “liberal” lifestyle. 

A lot of people live liberally, and not all of them are found dead in their friend’s apartments before the age of 30.  A lot of people have various sexual partners, and find happiness still.  A lot of people have few to no sexual partners, and experience crippling sadness and depression. 

Hopelessness transcends personal politics. 

No one will ever know exactly what killed Heath Ledger.  Perhaps it was a broken heart.  Perhaps the break-up of his relationship with his fiance left him devastated.  However, that relationship was anything but “casual.”  I’m sure that, upon learning that his girlfriend was leaving him, Heath’s first thought wasn’t, “I feel so cheap and used because we had sex several times before marriage.”

Broken emotional bonds can be devastating.  Broken hearts are hard – impossible, at times – to deal with.  Like any physical injury, they require healing. 

However, there are most likely many contributing factors to Ledger’s reliance on prescription drugs.  It’s simplistic and disrespectful to throw “pre-marital sex” into the mix.  These concerned ladies – like most of us - did not know Ledger.  They cannot know what pain he endured, emotional or otherwise.  It was unwise, callous and irresponsible to atttibute his untimely demise to something as vague and personal as sexual choice.  It was merely a way to say, “see, see – sex kills talented people with great potential!”

I can’t say I’m surprised.  Forcing their politics into stranger’s personal lives is what conservative think-tanks like them do best. 

Keeping up Appearances

I swore I would never go more than a week without updating.  However, like many of my goals, that resolution has not been met.

But here I am.  Updating.  For your viewing – well, reading - pleasure. 

Since we last spoke, I:

- Applied for two jobs that I’m not going to get. 

- I started something that I don’t think I can properly finish.  

- I repeated a troublesome past mistake, albeit from a different angle (and I’m going to have to fix in soon). 

- I was asked, repeatedly, “do you like your job?”  To which I replied, “No – and no, I don’t want to talk about it.”  By answering that question in that manner, I managed to do some “networking.”  Let’s see how that plays out.   

However, I do think things are going to be all right.  Eventually, of course. 

I also realized that a calm and reasonable demeanor can come in handy at the most unexpected times. 

This weekend, I went to a club for a friend-of-a-friend’s birthday.  The day itself was busy- I woke up unreasonably late, ate, showered for an extraordinary amount of time (Saturday is my “excessively long shower day”), went to the bank and liquor store, then drove to a far-off (well, not really) city to park my pussy wagon for the night, and then headed downtown with a friend.

Once we arrived, I began pre-drinking (which I never do).  I avoid pre-drinking because it almost always dooms me to suffer a terrible evening.  Every time I’ve gotten a buzz pre-club, something has gone wrong later in the night.  These mishaps can range from moderate to severe.  Some grieve me for hours, others for months. 

So here I am, sitting in a friend-of-a-friend’s apartment, intoxicated while watching people play video games.  It was the wrong time to be feeling the booze, only because it was horribly pre-mature.

The limo arrived, and we went to the club.  My buzz had worn off, but I was beginning to feel nauseous.  I hadn’t eaten since noon, and I’m not one who can drink on an empty stomach.  However, I willed myself back to a passable semblance of perfect health and unbeatable vitality. 

When I walked up the bar for my free shot, I knew I couldn’t do it.  One shot would have been the vomit-on-the-shoes death of me.  A near-stranger’s birthday party would be soiled on my account – and I couldn’t have that.  So I opted to start my “water-only” period at 10:30 PM.

On the upside, I saved a lot of money. 

As the night wore on and the crowd grew larger, the excessive presence of sweaty humanity became too much.  I was going to puke.  There was no more negotiating with my stomach.  I couldn’t beg my body to shut the fuck up and relax any longer. 

I was far – far! – away from the washroom.  In fact, there wasn’t one to be found on the main floor (which was precisely where I was located).  I moved, swiftly, through the crowd and towards the staircase. 

Do you have any idea how hard it is to navigate your way through hundreds of towering men and gyrating couples?  Do you know how difficult it can be to make your apology sound sincere when you’re holding back vomit and various people are yelling, “bitch, what the fuck?” while you shove them out of your way? 

They don’t know or understand your plight.  They can’t feel your pain, desperation or agony. 

When you have to puke, you don’t have an incredible window of time to prepare.  It’s not like having to pee.  With some exceptions, urination is something your body gives you adequate time to prepare for.  You have the luxury of saying, “hey, I should probably make my way to a bathroom within the next 10-15 minutes.” 

People who are about to throw-up do not have a comfortable grace period.  They have less than 30 seconds.  When the body wants something gone – by God, it’ll make it gone! 

So I ran up the stairs, trying not to cough or breathe or open my mouth.  I didn’t want to cover my mouth, because that just screams, “holy shit I’m going to puke!”  I wanted to be discreet.  It’s something I’ve managed to pull off in the past, actually. 

However, the stairs were too much (what with the bouncing and all).  I made it to a garbage can (which, in my estimation, was far better than the floor).

I almost managed to finish in peace, when I felt a strong, distinctly male hand on my shoulder.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Shit.

“I’m not drunk.  I’m sick.  I actually haven’t bought a drink yet tonight.”

“I don’t care, you can’t do that in front of everyone, that’s inconsiderate.  There’s a bathroom on this floor, you should have gone in there.”

“Well, you see…that was the plan.  However, I had to walk the entire length of the club and run up a flight of stairs.  My progress was impeded by the massive throngs of humanity blocking my way.  I’m surprised I even made it this far, and a garbage can is better than the floor, no?”

“Get your friends and get out.”

“Fine.”

Needless to say, I didn’t leave. 

I wonder if, had I been a man or a bitchier girl with serious attitude, he would have followed me down the stairs and escorted me to coat-check. 

I understand that it’s uncouth to vomit in a club.  However, I took issue with being told I was “inconsiderate.”  I’d be inconsiderate if I’d thrown up on the floor or staircase.  I’d be inconsiderate if I purposely drank beyond my limit and vomited on myself and others.  I’d be inconsiderate if I didn’t at least try to make it to a bathroom. 

However, I did none of those things.  Etiquette and dignity were great concerns when I made my way to the washroom.  I suppose I was just angry that my efforts – which were vast – were ignored.  I did the best I could under the circumstances. 

No more pre-drinking for me…ever.

Hot Slutz!

There’s a nightly process your mind performs to dispose of mental excess.  It’s kind of a psychological elimination of sorts, I think.  It’s commonly referred to as “dreaming”, and everybody does it (and those who say they don’t are either lying or forgetful). 

I think dreaming works as a trash-removal mechanism, condensing your daily thoughts into non-sensical images and playing them one last time before firing them from your psyche.

Last night, I had an incredibly strange dream in which I was aggressively fooling around with another woman – only I was a short, brown-haired man.  She was tiny and meek, with a kind of kitten-ish cuteness about her.  She didn’t know what she was doing, and relied entirely on me to lead and initiate.

I don’t think this dream was about gender confusion or control issues, but rather about a book I saw at Chapters earlier that evening when I was shopping for a birthday present for my mother (the most non-sexual thing one can do).  This is a bit of a roundabout segue, but hear me out. 

For one of my classes last year, I wrote a slapdash feature on porn.  It was rushed, and therefore not the magnum opus of my academic career – but it did get me thinking, reading and researching.

A lot of the literature I found on porn worked to condemn or sternly criticize it. It’s a topic that cannot be objectively addressed, mostly because it deals with sex (and we know how objective people are about that).  More specifically, it deals with selling sex as a forbidden but commonly desired commodity (which it is).  Porn consists of “dirty” pictures, stories, videos, etc.  It’s designed to arouse – and somehow this is problematic for a vast number of social groups.

No one cares that food is designed to satiate hunger, but people do care that porn is, more often than not, designed to quench (temporarily, of course) sexual thirst.  Though sex is dealt with constantly in the mainstream media, it’s still a paradoxially taboo topic. 

How much is too much?  Are girl’s clothes too scandalous? Are strip clubs bad for marriages? Is sex on TV causing teen pregnancies? Is raunchy pop-culture fostering misogyny in men and low self-esteem in women?

Everyone has a socio-political opinion about porn.  Some feminists say it encourages rape, battery and chauvinism.  Some pro-family groups say it’s responsible for adultery, sexual dysfunction and broken marriages. Some church groups say it taints the mortal soul. Pro-porn advocates fall back on First Amendment rhetoric – it’s merely titillating art, and should be protected under anti-censorship laws. 

The book I found at Chapters, though short, dares to say that porn is exactly what you make of it.  It looks at the hysteria surrounding the genre, and examines what attitudes and ideas contribute to making porn what it is today. 

I’ve always thought of a porn as a manifestation of societal attitudes about sex.  If it contains misogyny, it’s not because it has a vested interest in woman-hating.  It contains misogyny because there’s a prevalent social attitude about women who have and enjoy non-traditional and/or indiscriminate sex.  If porn depicts sex as dirty, it’s because it exists in a world that sees it as such. 

There’s a lot of porn out there, and it caters to every kink and fetish you can imagine.  However, it’s designed to titillate people into masturbating – its purpose is purely sexual and self-serving.  It’s a leg up for one’s existing fantasies.  It fleshes out arousing ideas, albeit in an exaggerated fashion. 

It takes common cultural fascinations (large breasts, large penises, submissive partners, dominant partners, ridiculous lingerie, etc), exploits the “forbidden fruit” appeal of each, and immortalizes them on film or in print.  People then respond – often enthusiastically.

Still, sexual material isn’t something people are entirely comfortable with – even though many consume it.  So people talk about it being addictive, detrimental and dangerous.  Perhaps, in the hands of the wrong creator and consumer, it can be.  It can be violent, distasteful and obscene.  It can also be playful, funny and amusing.  Some people have inherently harmful attitudes about sex (including misogynistic ones), therefore some porn will reflect those beliefs.

Porn cannot be “fixed.” Strictly regulating or outright banning it won’t end violence against women, infidelity, divorce, or sexual dysfunction.  That said, porn that displays actual non-consensual (or otherwise coerced) abuse should be monitored (if such a thing is indeed possible).  But negative attitudes about sex and sexuality pre-date the rise of Internet pornography, and they’ll continue to exist should every XXX site cease to exist tomorrow (perish the thought!). 

Last night, I thought about porn.  I thought about porn and feminism, and porn and religion, and porn and relationships, and porn and fantasy.  Despite my critical approach to the subject, I still had a fucked-up dream about being a man dominating a coyly submissive young thing.  At the end of the day, you just can’t rationalize desire or one’s conception of it.  You can only hope that you and others will express it in an ethical, dignified manner.

Perhaps if attitudes about sex were more ethical and fair (not irresponsibly hedonistic), porn would reflect that. 

 Until then, well, enjoy your facial you dirty whore .

Mistakes and the Like…

I rear-ended someone on the way to work this morning. 

I could make excuses for myself.  The road was wet, the guy in front of me abruptly slammed on his breaks, etc.  The truth of the matter is that I was making three mistakes simultaneously:

1) I was concentrating on changing the station rather than steering.

2) I was following too closely.

3) Given the wet conditions, I was driving too fast.

So in a split second, I was slamming on my brakes and sliding into the back of a purple Ford.  It made an unappealing noise, the vibration of the ABS combined with cracking red plastic.  To make matters worse, the guy I hit slid into the SUV in front of him, leading to a three-car pile-up on a congested highway.

We all pulled over.  It was hard to hear each other over the roar of morning traffic, and the spray from other car’s tires was hitting our faces as we examined the damage (most of which I, thankfully, sustained). 

The guys were nice enough.  The one with SUV took my information, but said not to expect a phone call.  His vehicle suffered no visible damage.  The man I hit has a bent license plate to contend with, but that’s the extent of the carnage.  I’m not expecting to hear from him either -but if he calls I’ll gladly cough up however much it’ll cost to fix the minor damage. 

I doubt he’ll insist on going through insurance. 

At least, I hope he wont. 

So needless to say, today has been a “bad day.”  It’s a different animal from the internalized bad day, in which one feels out of sorts.  This is the circumstantial bad day, in which things occur that are decidedly unpleasant.  A circumstantial bad day has more to do with fender benders, break-ups and firings than lack of sleep or existential angst.  And, I must admit, this is the first traditionally circumstantial bad day I’ve experienced in roughly three months. 

I suppose I was due for one.

However, I have no one to blame for it but myself.  I was careless.  I no doubt validated two people should they have believed (like many men before them), that blond women don’t belong behind the steering wheel of a car. 

I’m normally a good driver, I swear!

My plastic bumper is cracked to shit and my license plate is dented beyond repair, so it’ll have to be replaced.  The bumper might have to be as well.  I’ll take the car in for an estimation on Wednesday. 

I’m not opposed to leaving the bumper as is, but we’ll see.  I’m not under the illusion that I drive a beautiful or prestigious car.  It’s not monstrous, but it’s not sexy either.  Aesthetics aren’t of great concern to me.  Perhaps they would be if I drove a Mercedes, but I don’t. 

On an unrelated note, I’ve made some seemingly subconscious New Years resolutions.  I think that, in some cases, writing your resolutions down or speaking them aloud in the presence of others jinxes them.  Sudden passion is often the worst kind, as it fades faster than long-term, gradual, sustained passion.  Sure, it’s exciting to decide one morning that you’re only going to buy organic fruits and vegetables from that point on.  But the chance of you sticking to such a resolution is slim, especially once you notice the change in your grocery bill. 

Life changes need to be made gradually, and your mind (and sometimes wallet) needs time to adjust.  Rapid changes are jarring, and jarring changes can feel like ill-fitting ones.  Just as you won’t love your new dress shoes the first time you wear them, you wont feel complete the moment you order a salad instead of chicken wings. 

You need to decided – over a reasonable period of time – whether you’re truly dedicated and motivated.  You can’t go for three-hour runs four times a week when the only movement you’ve ever known is the brief walk from your car to the office.  You have to work your way there, and want to keep working.

It took a long-standing general malaise to compel me to make changes.  I needed to sit for awhile in my own dissatisfaction (like a monkey sitting in its own poop), before I realized the stench was worsening, and needed to be abandoned. 

Gradually, I learned what was working for me and what wasn’t.  My mind changed, then my actions followed. 

Oddly enough, whenever I’ve said, “I’m going to do this starting now!” – I haven’t.  Now, when I’ve made no conscious decision to shift my focus, it has suddenly shifted – in a good way, I think.  I guess it was just time, and a part of me realized and accepted that. 

Pussy

I got you, filthy perverts.

There isn’t mention of actual pussy in this entry.  I’m sorry.  I know you’re disappointed (and rightfully so). 

Forgive me?

This entry is going to be short, as I’ll be leaving work in 8 short minutes. 

I’m becoming scarily addicted to the Craigslist casual encounters section.  They’re intriguing, funny, perverse (mostly in a good way) and – on rare occassions – kind of  heart-breaking.  A lot of people out there just want to cuddle, and can’t find a real-life friend or lover to do it with.  My heart sinks a little at the thought of turning to the internet to find not merely sex, but human affection.  Some people – unless they’re lying, of course – just crave arms around them, and can’t find a willing body to provide them.

There is a certain beauty in just lying on a couch wrapped around another person.  I think a lot of people tend to forget that.

To fill the emotional void unintentionally created in my search for cheaply obtained laughter and titillation, I’ll comfort myself with a latte on the way home today.

That’ll do it.

P.S. Happy New Year.