Recently, someone remarked that I date pathetic men. To my ex-partners who may be reading this, I certainly don’t think any of you are pathetic, and I apologize that this person has perceived you as such. While I bear a strong preference for sexually-inexperienced men who prefer to play an exclusively submissive role in intimate relationships and have ample emotional baggage, I would like to clarify to onlookers that fewer than half of the men I’ve dated meet these qualifiers.
My feelings aside, that comment got me thinking — what does it mean to be a pathetic man in our society? (more…)
To my dear boyfriend, please read with caution, though none of this will come as a surprise.
In follow up to this article I recently shared on here as well as on my personal Facebook page about vagina-bearers having unintentionally painful sex, I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching lately. I know the pain the author talks about all too personally. Although my boyfriend and I have attempted intercourse several times in the past few months, it has never been pleasurable because I’m in too much pain for us to actually do anything. At best, we try to insert him into me, then lay motionless until I’m sufficiently numb from the stinging to naively think I can tolerate more. Thrusting hasn’t even been a possibility yet, just (barely) insertion and the occasional wriggle forward and back a couple of times. Who’d have thought that something with such a soft, pliable tip could feel so sharp, like a dagger piercing through my flesh? (more…)
I decided to try something new at the dungeon this week. I was looking for a stimulating change to my usual routine, and despite my terror of the unknown, I took the plunge. Wednesdays are good days for new things.
When I arrived, I asked the attendant how long the sessions usually last. “An hour,” she said. “Would you like a pass?”
My heart raced. I hadn’t planned for this; I didn’t know I needed a pass. Luckily, she smiled sweetly and tendered a laminated slip my way. Then, off I went to undress. (more…)
My yoga buddy, a sixty-something-year-old engineer from an affluent family, told me this week that I have a perfect body. He meant it as a compliment because I’m thin with socially privileged body measurements, but his statement left me wondering about its deeper implications. The perfect body… what does that mean? (more…)
When I was twenty, I met a woman who remarked that she wanted to have a baby someday because that child would love her unconditionally. “HAH!!” I rudely retorted. “Relationships require constant maintenance. In the end, it is your child’s choice of what kind of relationship to have with you, if any. If you want unconditional love, get a dog.”
Since girlhood, I have always assumed I would have my own children someday because I love kids, and that’s what grown-ups do — reproduce. Recently, however, I have begun to question that assumption for the first time. Why make babies? (more…)
Gilly Hicks had a sale recently, and as usual, I deliberately ordered enough stuff from their website to get free shipping, with the intention of returning most of the lot. This morning, while searching for their return policy to see how many days I can hem and haw before the sales are final, I wound up on a couple of Abercrombie & Fitch (their parent company) and Hollister-inspired Tumblr blogs. Apparently, it’s customary in the group interviews with these stores to be asked a make-or-break-you question about “what diversity means to you.”
I just saw this on the news, about the little girl who — against her school’s dress code — shaved her head in solidarity with her best friend, currently battling cancer. The school board finally reversed its absurd suspension, details of which are linked below. Go Kamryn!!
Last night, I asked my mom why she and my dad decided to circumcise my brother when he was born. She replied that she’d left the decision entirely up to my dad, and, apparently, part of my dad’s rationale was that he didn’t want him to stand out from the crowd and be subjected to ridicule in the locker room in gym class. (In retrospect, it’s ironic now that my brother killed himself as a result of other social ostracism.)