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I’m too sexy for my car…

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Nope, it’s not this Man On The Fringe that’s too sexy for anything. Not a chance

However, my good pal (and regular guest blogger) Jim Ferguson was and is filled with sex appeal. He oozes sensuality from his pores… scratch your screen and smell the heady musk…

As you read this post, I may be running my grand ole a** through the streets of downtown Vancouver with thousands of other crazies, so this is a perfect time to have Jim take the reins and tell you another of his fun stories.

Thanks for jumpin’ in here James… it’s over to you:

………………..

Larry has once again asked yours truly to provide some MOTF blog fodder and so I will do my best to live up to the fine standard Sir Lawrence has set (there is a standard…right? 😊).

I was listening to the radio recently and Right Said Fred’s song “I’m too sexy for my…” played. I’m sure you’ve all heard this catchy tune.

Well, one of the phrases in the song goes like this: “I’m too sexy for my car, too sexy for my car, too sexy by far”, and on it goes.

Well…I started to ponder whether I am, indeed, too sexy for my car and I realized that I have two vehicles (“I’m too sexy for my vehicle” just doesn’t do it for me…how about you?).

Not only do I have two vehicles BUT I have owned 27 vehicles in my adult life, and I am here to tell you that I am too sexy for most of them. Just ask Larry. He will tell you I am about as sexy a guy as you’ll ever meet. Right Larry?…..Larry?…..Larry?

Okay… that’s up for debate but allow me to make my case here and you can determine if I am too sexy for the following samples of cars from my collection over the years. You be the judge.

I married my wife Deborah in October 1979.

She had a 1969 two-toned VW bug. It was awesome and some even went so far to speculate that I had married Deb for her car. NOT SO! 😊

It was a two-toned, stick shift, brown VW bug with a Porsche gear shift knob. It was fantastic and honestly, I must say I was NOT too sexy for that car. That car was fun to drive, and I wish we still had it today as it would be worth a nice tidy sum if it were still in decent shape.

We saw the proverbial writing on the wall as mechanical issues reared their ugly heads. So, we sold the bug to a friend who wanted to fix it up and we slid on into a 1971 VW Super Beetle.

What a letdown that was.

It was bright orange and flashy, we had a new engine installed, but, it was rather blah and uninspiring.

I was definitely a sexier beast than the Super Beetle (now… maybe if it had come with John, Paul, George, and Ringo…different story… 😊).

Let’s move on to a few others from my car collection that I know I am too sexy for.

How about our brown, blah VW rabbit?

It had four wheels and drove and that was about it. Having a root canal was more fun than driving the Rabbit! We had this car while at university and it was a good utilitarian car for college students. It was great on gas BUT that still does not make it sexier than me!

We did own a Ford LTD. Can you say, “boat anchor”. We bought it off my folks in Nova Scotia for $500.00 and drove it for a year before it tanked on us.

Now let’s get those damn minivans out of the way…right here and now!

Move them to the side of the plate with the Brussel Sprouts. No way I lose out to a minivan. I owned two of them. They are great when you have kids. There is no denying that! BUT they are still minivans!

I owned a stick shift Dodge Caravan and an automatic Plymouth Voyager. I am almost too embarrassed to be even having this discussion. I feel like I should apologize to each reader individually. There simply is no way I lose out to a couple of minivans. I am like Fabio compared to minivans! Or a cross between Fabio and Keanu Reaves…right!

Better than a minivan, yes?

Now, during our college days, we did buy a 1967 Dodge Dart on its last legs and drove it for a year or so even with a crappy radiator and a cracked manifold.

I can’t compete with a ’67 Dart (despite the crappy radiator and cracked manifold and all). Uncle! Uncle! I give up! The Dart was a sexy beast and fun to drive. I humbly submit to the Dart.

Oh! And when I was in grad school in North Carolina in the late 1980s, I briefly owned a…wait for it………wait for it………be patient and wait for it……….a YUGO!!!

Yes indeed! I was the proud owner of a Yugo. I bought it second hand, but it was essentially new and it had less than a thousand miles on it. It was a sexy little car and fun to drive.

Imagine Deb and me and three kids crammed into that tiny car zipping all over Greensboro, NC! I submit to the Yugo. It was sexier than me by a long shot. I bet you didn’t see that coming right!!!

Here’s a “gimme” for you.

I owned a 1997 Mazda Miata 5-speed stick.

What a fun ride that was. In the summer after a busy/stressful day at work Deb and I would head out onto the country roads of Oregon with the top down at high speeds for what we termed “Miata therapy”. It was always fun and relaxing and a sweet ride.

Not too much fun in the winter or when there was a lot of rain, yet, it was definitely a smidge more sexy than I.

As you’ll see in the list below, I also had a Kawasaki 650 motorcycle for a couple of years. I had similar exhilaration on the motorcycle as experienced in the Miata with the top down.

I can’t end this jaunt down memory lane without an honourable mention for my 1997 Ford Expedition. I bought it in 2001. When we moved back to Nome, Alaska in 2002, I made sure to ship the Expedition to Nome and man ‘o man am I glad I did.

I got in and out of some crazy remote areas for hunting and fishing in the Expedition. It opened doors to access areas a normal vehicle could not reach. The Expedition was definitely a sexier beast than I.

Well…that’s all I have for you this time. Definitely some lighter fare than my usual headier blog posts.

I would be remiss if I did not give you the full list of my vehicles owned since 1979 (as best I can recall).

You be the judge. I am feeling the love from all of you and know that you’ll agree that other than a few outliers…

I am way too sexy for most of these vehicles:

  • 1969 VW Beetle
  • 1974 Ford LTD
  • 1973 Super Beetle
  • late ‘70s VW Rabbit
  • 1967 Dodge Dart
  • 1971 Pontiac Sunbird
  • 1980 Dodge Caravan
  • early ‘80s Kawasaki 650
  • 1985 Nissan Sentra
  • 1988 Yugo
  • 1986 Nissan Sentra
  • 1971 Plymouth Volare
  • 1992 Dodge Dakota
  • 1994 Plymouth Voyager
  • 1989 Pontiac
  • 1981 Chevrolet Cavalier wagon
  • Chevrolet S-10
  • 1997 Ford Expedition
  • 2004 Honda Civic
  • 2008 Scion
  • 1997 Mazda Miata
  • 1996 Ford Ranger
  • Toyota Tacoma x 2
  • Subaru Outback Sport
  • Toyota Prius
  • 2006 Dodge Dakota
  • 2007 Lexus RX350

What vehicles are on your list? Anything worthy of a mention? Feel free to add your favourite(s) in the comment section.

Peace,

Jim

Is this man too sexy?

Sign Up Now… Coming This Friday Night… SIN CITY

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(WARNING: Adult (yet Juvenile) material lies ahead…)

AFTER DARK *cue sexy saxophone music* I woke up wondering…

… wondering WHY?

Why is it, when we have all these specialty “How-To” TV networks today… HGTV (gardening and home), Food Network (recipes), Home Shopping Network (buying stuff), YES TV (be your best Christian), DIY Network (do anything) and so many more…

… television that covers most of the important (and often trivial) things that we humans have a keen interest in learning more about:

EXCEPT (another exception carried over from last week’s post).

Where the hell is the SEXUAL INSTRUCTION NETWORK (SIN)?

Sex education in my early school years – or from my parents, are you kidding me? – never covered any “technical” aspects of carnal activity. Even today, I can’t seem to find any community college courses that delve into sensual systems or coital codes… best practices!

It’s crazy, isn’t it? It’s not enough to merely have the tools of the trade… owning a screwdriver doesn’t mean I automatically know how to drive home a screw.

And just because I read THE HITE REPORT 40 years back and belatedly discovered what a clitoris is, do you think I’ve self-actualized and achieved the nub of perfection here?

I don’t think so.

It’s always been learn on the job. Mistake after mistake after mistake wasn’t necessary if I’d only had a proper education.

So many *he blushed and humbly lied through his teeth* have suffered as a result.

Our TV screens are blanketed with society’s tough and messy subjects: blood-curdling violence, F bombs that could annihilate another Hiroshima, movies to wallpaper over Christmas from here to eternity… but… again…

No SIN network.

Doesn’t make sense… I still want to know where babies come from, or at the very least, how to make my very own (sure, even at this late stage… if I’m gonna live to 100, I should have another half dozen kids, yes?)

Maybe an updated DIY version of the Kama Sutra would come in handy for a lot of us who don’t want to break any body parts. The Joy of Sex in full-colour animated format?

I’ve been patient, but I’ve waited long enough. No one has yet jumped on this idea … so… taking it into my own hand…

Ahem… today is YOUR lucky day… you are in on the ground floor… the first to hear this XXXciting news…

Right here, right now, I’m announcing the programming schedule for MY brand new SIN network (and affordable at only $29.95/month!).

Try slipping into one these sensuous instructional SIN Network shows :

F**&ing FAQ’s with Dr. Ruth

TOY STORY – Woody Helps You Find YOUR Buzz

Dippers, Dive Ins, and Dives

Rachael Ray Flays Bobby

LOL (Lady on Lady)

America’s Test Bedroom

TransJeopardy

Double Pleasure With The Property Brothers

BRIGERTON ABBEY – Daphne and Simon Talk Tools

HOT CondomMints For Your Hot Dog

Barebottom Contessa

Trim Your Bush For Maximum Curb Appeal

and Streaming SoonGOLDEN SHOWERS IN MOSCOW

If you’re feeling tired of cooking and gardening and building closets… now’s the time to work on your Blue Moves…

Yes, we are the PBS… the Sesame Street of sexual instruction DIY!

So send in your cheque in the next 10 minutes and as my thanks to you… you’ll receive a FREE copy of Ken Burns’ newest video… SEX DURING THE CIVIL WAR… (Is That Your Bayonet Johnny, Or Are You Just Happy To Be Home?)

Close your curtains and join us today in SIN City… when you come here, you’ll stay here!

The Big E … The Edible Exotic Erotic Feast

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Man Big O

What does your face look like?

No … not when you look in the mirror.

Anyone can make themselves look presentable to the mirror, and if you’re lucky (*probably doesn’t include me) even handsome or beautiful, when all the stars align and you’ve put an hour of effort into making your countenance shine.

No, right here, right now, I’m talking about in the dead of night (or during Afternoon Delight) when you reach that hot moment of glory … the Hail Mary worked… your game “face” is on …

… you know, the Big O, where the inhibitions and worries fade away and all that remains is the pouty flash-of-glory, the swinging-from-the-chandeliers, the peeling-panties-off-the-ceiling, the fireworks and Northern Lights on full display.

Now it could occur in a tandem encounter (excellent), or perhaps a solo effort (great too) or … hell … if you’re into team sports, could even be in the Orgy Dome at Burning Man in Nevada (this one beats me).

Maybe still, it’ll be the Meg-Ryan-in-the-Deli (hell yeah!) scenario … where you and I wanna have what she’s having.

meg ryan O.jpg

Damn, I got distracted… again!!

*face palm*

The whole purpose of this post is supposed to be about how we eat. The cuddly facial contortions of the eating process. There’s lots to chew on here.

OK, though maybe not as titillating as the Big O … the Big E … truly does fascinate me.

And truthfully, in most cases it’s not a pretty sight (I sadly include myself in this category)

This past week, we were revelling in a delightful buffet and restaurant romp in the tropical heat o’ Mexico.

Mucho mucho demasiado comida.

Spooning (as well as knifing and forking) in the dining room is as entertaining as most other spectator sports.

My poor distracted eyes were in their most hyperactive state.

Gazing around the dining areas, the plethora of styles of masticating food is just too damned hard to ignore.

Through the musical meanderings of the accents from varied regions of the world: German, British, Japanese, French, Polish … yes, Spanish… and lots of Canadians.

There were: speed-eaters; plodders; the bend-over-to-the-plate-eaters; the eat-everything-except-mashed-potatoes-with-your-hands eaters; the mash-everything-together-eaters; the consume-while-you-text-eaters; the non-stop-talk-eaters.

Chewing is engrossing (and sometimes just GROSS) … the jaw-straight-up-and-down-chew, the circular-cow-eating-its-cud chew, the nibble-and-chew-at-the-front-of-the-mouth chew.

There really should be etiquette classes given to each of us as children on how to eat with some delicacy and grace.

Most of the consuming I saw was akin to watching a Grade B horror film… ugly but nearly impossible to look away.

And in fairness, there were a few instances of eating ballet on display… beautiful, delightful folks who obviously enjoyed their food without facial contortions while chewing, no ugly Big E moments, no displaying the contents of the food in their mouths for the world to admire.

Noshing Olympians. Bravissimo!

antelope eating.gif

The worst offence? for me? Pouring wine or beer or even water into your mouth while unchewed food still remains on view. Edentum deformis…

Eating and drinking are 2 separate activities… would you do your tax returns while approaching the Big O? … do not answer… I thought not!

Eat. Swallow. Drink.

Self Description? I’m not sharing my Big O face nowhere no-how … but my Big E face?… I guess I’m a bit of a speed eater… a slight left-to-right-jaw-drift chewer. I’m a gastronomic adventure eater (I like to try lots of different innovative foods… lots of ethnic diversity, guinea pig in Peru, snake wine in China, bull’s testicles in Greece).

When it comes to the Big O, there’s not much I can offer you … mirrors are not useful in these situations (except on the ceiling? whatevah you into)… but there is hope and help when it comes to the Big E.

Why not try watching yourself eat in a mirror sometime?

Try to adopt some classic grazing variations that increase your beauty quotient while eating. A great Big E could lead to a great Big O

Or … watch Halloween 3.

You can choose your fright-faced option!

ugly eating

50 Shades of Weinstein

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CAUTION:

The following post should be read and interpreted

through the murky haze of “man-goggles”. You’ve been warned.

50 Shades

Christian Grey: “My subconscious looks on with approval, her normally pursed mouth smiling, and I am the supreme puppet master.”

 

Anastasia Steele: He’s said such loving things today … But how long will he want to do this without wanting to beat the crap out of me.”

………………

What is more scary than Harvey Weinstein in his bathrobe?

Many years back when I was training for an Ironman event, I would wear… blush… a relatively skimpy Speedo bathing suit while doing my pool or lake swims in preparation.

My young kids recoiled in eyesore terror at the sight of their Dad displaying the gentle outline of his royal jewels in light lycra cover, almost like the disguising brown wrapper surrounding a newly minted PLAYBOY magazine.

They felt a true sense of abuse that, in retrospect, I understand. HORRORS!

But let’s move on…

So, is Harvey Weinstein the new Christian Grey? I get so confused.

Supreme puppet masters Harvey Weinstein and Bill O’Reilly and Bill Cosby and and and  …. somehow believed they each were the fictional “hottie” that drew women to them as bees to honey…

… but let’s face it, we all know the reality… it was more akin to flies to SHIT.

Not 50 Shades sexy, just 50 Shades creepy.

Weinstein and cosby.jpg

I can only imagine how frightfully difficult it must be as a woman (or even more so a young girl) to live in a world filled with testosterone-laden behemoths (strangers, friends, uncles, stepdads, dads) with the physical might to overwhelm you and take what they want sexually.

I can also only imagine how difficult it must be to be a woman living in a world where influence- and money-laden behemoths with the power to make or break your dreams of achievement or fame can overwhelm you (physically or psychologically) and take what they want sexually.

What’s even more scary?

We probably live in the MOST enlightened times of history where women actually exist in a locus of near equality with their male cohorts. Ain’t near enough you might say…

Just how truly truly worrisome it must have been to live as a woman 25 years… 100 years… or 1,000 years ago.

Not to be too narrow-minded, but being a man and trudging off to a gruesome bloody death in war was no picnic either, but at least there was a modicum of choice in the matter.

Abuse and rape don’t typically afford choice.

Throughout human history, coercion, rape, and sexual hegemony by men were for many, if not most women, as commonplace as free-floating oxygen.

Rape and pillage.jpg

But back to my confusion.

I’m betting that the #MeToo hashtag that is a ubiquitous part of our current news cycle could be used by almost 100% of the female population from at least one creepy incident in their lives.

Sexual touching and unwanted approaches have been as much a part of womanhood as the monthly “curse”.

And yet… once upon a time… there came upon the land a modern sexual tsunami called 50 Shades of Grey.

A mere few years back I wrote a post about how I was a befuddled male; I just couldn’t imagine how millions of women were clamouring for the supposed “romance” of the books and movies 50 Shades of Grey.

The notion of interactive romance in my little head doesn’t include a sub-section where an uber-wealthy man is able to dominate and subjugate a woman for his own selfish pleasure under the guise of it being ultimately for her pleasure.

She doesn’t know what she wants, not yet, but he’ll enlighten her. Huh? Women want to fantasize about being mistreated?

I reflect softly as a lovely hush of golden yellow leaves trace whispering paths of descent into my sun-drenched woodland garden.

I can only conclude that contradiction and ambiguity are integral to sex and the sexes (sorry… genders!), but I continue to hold my place in the line of the confused.

Of course I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to live on the other side of this gender-fence.

I’m trying to steer a straight manly path in a world fraught with potential pitfalls.

I’m acutely aware of how what I do and say might be interpreted.

I have a sense of humour that can take male/female issues to the edge. I’ve tried to stay clear of the line in the sand, but I grow ever more worried that I do, or have, crossed it with innocent intent.

“Fun” and “funny” are how they are interpreted and I can’t sleep at night with 100% certainty of where I’ve stepped. The one true certainty is to have never touched anyone inappropriately.

me too.jpg

In reality, I too could claim the #MeToo hashtag.

I’ve been touched and propositioned over the years by women – never by anyone with financial or workplace power over me – most recently with an “innocent” bum pinch in the gym.

As a man, perhaps because of my sense of physical strength, I’ve never felt truly “threatened” other than on one occasion when a man, larger than myself, grabbed my exposed genitals in a Prince Edward Island beachfront changeroom. WTF!

I pushed away and got the hell out of that changeroom… FAST.

Ultimately, I feel nothing but sickly distaste for the “men in the news” these days.

Thanks to the volcanic feeling of revulsion many women are experiencing post Trump “pussy grabbing”, a cathartic cascading torrent of stories and past experiences are surfacing.

The dam has broken and feminine anger and empowerment is flooding the soiled landscape.

The “casting couches” we all knew of and may have snickered about in previous years are taking on a new, more appropriate interpretation.

A few million years back, the dinosaur era crashed and burned, and so too now must the era of unwanted dominance by the powerful and ignorant, male or female.

We male dinosaurs are edging our way through the modern jungle where the hazards for both sides of the Mars/Venus chasm are not always clear, where the pathways that once seemed clear are now more hazy; ghostly pathways where honest intent occasionally ends up as the wrong route.

But for today, this old T-Rex is making at least a symbolic effort and tossing his old Speedo into the quietly flickering flames of the autumnal woodstove.

T Rex at beach.jpg

 

SEX? YES Please! … or is that GENDER?

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Yes Please

Sex is bloody wonderful, isn’t it?

Maybe even better than cheesecake and chocolate … I’ll let you decide.

You know, if I truly believed that God exists, I’d suggest to you that this gender-neutral spirit wrapped us up a big box of fun and called it sex.

Sort of like… “OK, it’s Day 7, this is how we rest.

“What… and you tell me it’s used for procreation too?!”  Now that’s a twofer …

Sex is a nice silk-swaddled divine present given to us when we enter puberty and beyond. It’s like a carnal Bar Mitzvah.

It’s right around the time we grow tired of playing in sandboxes but still want to get messy and dirty and fall into a deep slumber at night without imbibing alcohol or zopiclone or warm milk.

Sex is so wonderful that a well-known kids’ entertainer even sang a song all about it:

Having sex is beautiful,
Having sex is fine.
I like sex so much I do it all the time;
Sex before my supper and sex before my lunch;
If I had a hundred sexy orgasms, I’d have them all at once.

I’m a roaming and a rambling
And a wandering all along,
And if you care to listen,
I will sing a happy song.
I will not ask a favor
And I will not ask a fee,
But if you have a sexy moment

Won’t you share it all with me?

See?

OK… he was actually singing about sandwiches but I know for a fact that sandwiches are just a euphemism for sex. Children’s stories and songs have long been filled with symbolism. But children’s performers that sing forthrightly about sex end up on Sexual Predator lists… hence? Sandwiches.

But that’s not really what I’m here to talk about today.

I have a problem. Well, more an issue than a problem. Maybe a pet peeve.

I need help.

I’m challenged by the words “sex” and “gender”.

According to the World Health Organization,Sex refers to the biological and physiological characteristics that define men and women. Gender refers to the socially constructed roles, behaviours, activities, and attributes that a given society considers appropriate for men and women.”

sex gender

These English words sex and gender have specific meanings but I still have difficulty when I hear someone querying, “Their name is Chris? What sex are they?”

OK. I kinda get it. But the word sex has a definite meaning to me.

And that is why I get so confused (and a bit giggly) when I fill out forms and questionnaires and reach the part that says, SEX.

Do I write down M or F? Nope.

I always want to fill the empty blank next door with, “Yes Please“.

Or …”Heterosexual preferred“.

 

In my head, sex is a verb or noun that sweetly describes what 2 (or more!) people do with each other when they rip the other’s clothes off.

Sex is a primal animalistic urge, a delicious mingling of the naughty bits that bursts a fire-hosing gush of oxytocin and prolactin and endorphins that gives you that wondrous runner’s high, or in this case, f****er’s high.

The world is filled with ambiguity and so I suppose I should just accept that the word “sex” can have different meanings depending on its usage.

Lots of other words have multiple meanings so it doesn’t make a slab of sense that I stumble when it comes to sex.

In reality it probably comes down to my sex … er … gender. Dammit… I’m still confused.

I’m a man.

Pretty much every study out there tells us that we men think about sex … oh … 500 times per hour.

I’ve worked hard for years and have brought it down to 300 now thank you very much. (To get real for a minute, an actual scientific-based study carried out at Ohio State University uncovered a more moderate Male sex-thought frequency of 19 times daily compared to about 10 times each day for Females).

So when I encounter the word sex, my testosterone-based malemind immediately dives into the sexual cesspool. I can’t help it. It’s a biological response. It just happens. No VIAGRA required.

So world at large … I’m asking for your help. I’m begging you please.

Going forward, can you save me the hormonal confusion and blood surges to my nether regions when you use the words sex and gender. 

  • Please use the term GENDER on any form or questionnaire or statement that is asking if I have a penis or a vagina. This saves me a childish snicker and also an internal hormonal groin sproing. It’s easy for me to write down M when you ask the proper question.
  • But if you’re gonna ask SEX on the form, well … I just know I’m gonna need to distract myself with thoughts of playful golden lab puppies or a cold shower to make it through to the end.

Your kind assistance will go a long way from keeping me on topic and off any Sexual Predator lists.

Because really?

All I want to do is eat a “sandwich” and get back to my Key Lime Cheesecake and Chocolate.

key lime

 

 

 

 

 

Wheelchair Nooky – Should We Provide It?

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WHEELCHAIR-SEX

Strange ideas pop into my head sometimes.

Like … should I jump off this cliff and break my legs?

Wait.

I’m not crazy.

There’s a reason I might consider leaping.

It’s all about the Sex Surrogates.

A long while back, a co-worker stunned me when she said that some countries’ governments pay for regular sexual services for the handicapped.

How could I not jump into this fruitful fornication fray and not find a few thoughts bubbling to the surface?

Paid Sex Surrogates enter households like Home Care workers and housecleaners, but the pipes they’ve come to clean are … well … not the ones we usually consider when it comes to household sponging and scrubbing.

Yup … these workers fall under the category of:

  • Disabled Boinking…
  • Incapacitated Copulation…
  • Invalid Intercourse.

You can call it what you will, but I’m curious to know if government-sponsored lovemaking has precipitated a rash of self-inflicted auto crashes and bungee-less jumping?

My first internal response is to be a typical hormonally-driven male looking for the fun and humour when envisioning these scenarios.

Also, my immediate view is that the storyline would always involve a gorgeous able-bodied woman servicing a less-ably-bodied man.

Such an assumption!

Do women who live in a world of incapacities not also feel a desire for sexual touching? Shamefully, I wouldn’t have considered the notion, but that’s just my in-bred societal thinking rearing its ugly head.

…………….

The Sessions is a 2012 American independent drama film written and directed by Ben Lewin. Based on the article “On Seeing a Sex Surrogate” by Mark O’Brien, a poet paralyzed from the neck down due to polio who hires a sex surrogate to lose his virginity. John Hawkes and Helen Hunt star as O’Brien and sex surrogate Cheryl Cohen-Greene, respectively.

The film debuted at the 2012 Sundance Film Festival, where it won the Audience Award (U.S. Dramatic) and a U.S. Dramatic Special Jury Prize for Ensemble Acting. The Sessions received highly positive reviews from critics, in particular lauding the performances of Hawkes and Hunt. Hunt was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Performance by an Actress in a Supporting Role at the 85th Academy Awards.

the sessions

.

I haven’t seen the movie yet but I should because I need to gain a better understanding of the sexual needs, desires and frustrations of the handicapped.

One of the greatest wisdoms we can acquire, according to this Man on the Fringe, is that discarding ignorance is always useful in making the world a better and more peaceful place.

It shouldn’t surprise us that many people who are disabled continue to have a healthy sex drive. But I can’t imagine how exasperating it must be to be unable to explore and enjoy that side of life.

Sadly, many are unable to find a partner due to their disability, which leads to very high levels of frustration; in some cases, to such a degree that people have chosen to take their own lives instead of living such a life of torment.

Now, some countries such as Switzerland, have set up programmes to train people to be sexual surrogates.

This shouldn’t be confused with the business of prostitution because it is designed to provide those with special needs access to someone professionally trained to provide a supportive activity that most of us take for granted (or not!).

It’s different too because many people with disabilities have no choice, it’s either a sexual surrogate or nothing.

Some can’t even masturbate because they’re not able to carry it out. Some disabilities prevent people from engaging in sex of any type. For these people, a sexual assistant can offer little more than massage and talk therapy.

Grenoble, France. On the balcony of her flat on a hot afternoon. Laetitia Rebord suffers from a genetic spinal muscular atrophy and can move only her left thumb and her mouth. She lives in Grenoble, June 18th, 2013. France Keyser for the New York times.                              NYTCREDIT: France keyser for The New York Times

It’s a fascinating occupation, don’t you think? I’m kind of curious. Just who might decide to become a Sex Surrogate?

It’s a bit dated, but a 1983 study of 54 American Sex Surrogates came up with the following data on those who choose to become Sex Surrogates:

The demographics were as follows:

  • 43 female, 11 males.
  • Average age: 39 (ranging from 25 to 61)
  • Religion: 8 Catholic; 6 Jewish; 16 Protestant; 17 other; 7 blank.
  • Religiosity: 14 are currently practicing their religion; 25 are currently not practicing it; 15 didn’t answer.
  • Race: 53 White; 1 Oriental.
  • Marital status: 11 single; 13 married; 2 separated; 14 divorced; 1 widowed; 9 non-married couple living together; 4 other.
  • Average number of children: 1.4 (ranging from 0 to 4; mode = 0 ).
  • Years practicing as a surrogate: average: 4.26 years.
  • Approximate number of clients seen per year: average: 27.2.
  • Sexual orientation: 17 exclusively heterosexual; 23 primarily heterosexual; 8 bisexual; 3 primarily homosexual; 2 exclusively homosexual; 1 blank.
  • Contraceptive normally used: 8 condom; 4 pills; 2 i.u.d.; 10 diaphragm; 3 foams or suppositories; 31 self-sterilized: 2 partner sterilized; 2 rhythm or natural family planning 

As far as on the job happenings go… the following percentages were estimated to be the amount of time spent on each activity:

  • 16% talking with client, giving sexual information 
  • 17% talking with client, giving reassurance and support 
  • 1% observing client in social situations, such as potential singles meeting places 
  • 32% touching activities, teaching sensuality and body awareness techniques, e.g. massage 
  • 16% experiential activities, non-sensual, non-sexual, such as body image exercises, sexological exam, and relaxation exercises and techniques 
  • 12% sexual activities, intercourse, cunnilingus, fellatio, teaching sexual techniques.
  • 4% social activities, such as going out to dinner with client as part of therapy

Not very much “sex” actually.

Sex Surrogates pose a tough ethical question that should be considered since the need for sex is so basic.

  • Should governments allow for “prostitution” under certain circumstances, such as disability?
  • Should a severely autistic person have the right and ability to seek out and pay for sex without fear of breaking the law?
  • Some disabled persons would be unable to have any sexual pleasure at all unless they pay for it. Is it a crime to pay for sex when that is the only way the person can experience sexual pleasure?
  • Should governments support training programmes for Sex Surrogacy?

So, I’m left in this quagmire of snicker-snicker … sigh, weep.

But finally … in the end … after I stop my foolish boy-snickering … shouldn’t everyone, everyone … have a right to feel the completeness of a whole human being … to experience the fullness of sexual encounters … the joys and release … the touch of another’s skin against their’s.

For me, it just makes a lot more sense than 50 Shades of Grey.

sad_happy_foot

I’ve Slept With a Hundred Women …

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Probably more … Yup, it’s true …

Boy is this guy sleepy or what?

Is this guy sleepy or what?

… but not as many as former basketball great Wilt Chamberlain … please correct my math if necessary, but isn’t that one woman EVERY night for 55 years? With all that “sleeping”, Wilt must be VERY well rested … maybe lots of sleep makes a fellow tall.

And this is what brings me to one of my anal-side pet peeves.

When you came across and read this blog title, did you have visions of me making my best pouty-lipped Mick Jagger sexy look, bedding down and fornicating with dozens of lovelies? I thought so. Admit it.

NOPE, not the case … it’s just a euphemism:

An agreeable word or expression substituted for one that is potentially offensive, often having to do with bodily functions, sex, or death…”

Why do we use euphemisms to describe and hide what’s really happening?

Alright, I know the answer to my own question.

We often want to soften our words and statements if things appear too blunt in their truer form. I can understand the use of caring euphemisms when we don’t want to hurt someone.

euphemism lady's bathroom

I understand using the softer “passed away” rather than dead when talking to newly aggrieved family members. I understand describing someone as “big-boned” when it comes to sensitive weight issues.

We say these things to protect ourselves or others and their feelings, much like we utter little white lies when our partner says, “Does this make my ass look big?”, or “Was it good for you?“, or “Did you enjoy my new risotto recipe?

But the expression, “to sleep with someone”?? This one bugs me every time. It’s particularly deceptive and misleading.

Who are we protecting when we say “Margaret and John slept together”?

Is it so difficult for us to say that Margaret and John had sex … made love … mated … humped their little hearts out?

I hear “slept together” and I want to know …”Oh, does John snore much?” or  “what colour was Margaret’s flannel nightie?“. We all know there was no snoring (and if there was, I feel badly for them) and Margaret likely wasn’t wearing a flannel nightie at all, am I right?

When I hear someone say they slept with another person … I’m confused.

As a youngster living in a small home, I slept in a bed with my older brother every night until I was about 10 years old, yet to the best of my recollection, we never once “slept” ie. had sex, unless I’m suppressing some unpleasant memories. Please tell me I’m not suppressing any unpleasant memories!

When my kids were little toddlers, they climbed into our big adult bed to escape their fears or to seek comfort for their sickness, snuggled under the covers, and we “slept together”.

I’ve slept with many many others e.g. school groups, relatives, fellow travellers, over the years in tents, cabins, hotel rooms, living room floors, airplanes … but with rare exceptions, while “sleeping” with these women and men and kids, I’ve not had sexual relations of any type. I just : “SLEPT”.

euphemism

Euphemisms in and of themselves are not all bad. They often add colour or texture to our everyday language. Take as an example Meatloaf‘s song Paradise by the Dashboard Light. Now there’s a wonderful illustration of great use of the euphemism.

Some other examples of euphemisms?:

  • Correctional facility instead of jail
  • Departed instead of died
  • Differently-abled instead of handicapped or disabled
  • Ethnic cleansing instead of genocide
  • Turn a trick instead of engage in prostitution
  • Negative patient outcome instead of dead
  • Relocation center instead of prison camp
  • Collateral damage instead of accidental deaths
  • Letting someone go instead of firing someone
  • Put to sleep instead of euthanize
  • Pregnancy termination instead of abortion
  • Adult entertainment instead of pornography
  • Portly instead of heavy or overweight
  • Chronologically-challenged instead of late
  • Break wind instead of pass gas
  • Economical with the truth instead of liar
  • Powder your nose instead of using the toilet
  • The birds and the bees instead of sex
  • Between jobs instead of unemployed
  • Go all the way instead of have sex
  • Domestic engineer instead of maid
  • Sanitation engineer instead of garbage man
  • Vertically-challenged instead of short

Yes, our use of language is filled with sanitized ways of saying what we really mean and sometimes I just want to yell out in frustration.

For me at least, if I’ve made love or had sex with someone, the last thing I would want my lover to pass on to others is that they “slept with Larry“.

Whaddya mean, slept!??“.

Maybe Wilt Chamberlain has laid down beside so many women that the only energy he has left is for sleep. But I’m not that naive.

I prefer to keep a separation of state in the bedroom. Sleeping and making love are two separate activities, just like cooking and eating. They may be related and take place in the same room, but they are definitely not the same thing.

Sure, I’ve slept around, so have you. I love to sleep.

But I have way too much male ego bubbling inside me to have anyone insinuating I’d been so lax in the sexual, intimate arts that we were “sleeping”.

Let’s leave it at that, shall we? …

slept around

50 Shades of … Shame …

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christian and ana

Tsk tsk Christian Grey!

Are you serious? You’re showing your face in public again with some sort of boastful, manly pride?

Here we are once more, back in the news with a Valentine’s Day release of the tawdry film 50 Shades of Grey.

Our book-inspired imaginations can finally relax now that we can gaze in stunning Technicolor at your little fantasy world of mental, physical, and sexual abuse. Oops … my apologies Christian, you’d prefer that we call it BDSM to dress it up pretty and sound sensuously sexy.

…………………………………….

I don’t know whether to worship at your feet or spank the living shit out of you.”

…………………………………….

And you, Anastasia Steel?

Ana, you will look gorgeously enticing and naive and innocent, occasionally displaying some subtle signs of estrogen-strength that will float the illusion that dominance by and submission to another… any other … is really quite empowering, somehow acceptable, yes, even dreamily romantic.

Oh Ana, get thee to thy shrink!

Anyway 50 Shades … Congratulations.

50-Shades-of-Grey-Movie

It will be a colossal smash box office event. It will.

Millions of women with submissive stars floating in their wide, moony eyes will drag their gal pals, maybe even boyfriends and husbands to the event of the year.

The sequels will be in filming mode before you can snap a whip on a woman’s ass and “playrooms” will fill with nouveau riche moviemakers sporting huge smiles.

And me? Well, I’ll still be scratching my head at the hypocrisy of what women want in this world; and also the men who believe that objectification and dominance over women is just fine, thank you very much.

In a way, 50 Shades transports me through time and history … the story’s insinuation that men can sit back and assume a controlling, dominant role, well, it takes me back 150 years to the plantation porch – back to the good old days of Lincoln and slavery and the quaint notion that having a master/servant relationship is tolerable in any sort of sane world.

…………………………………….

I want you sore, baby,” he murmurs, and he continues his sweet, leisurely torment, backward, forward. “Every time you move tomorrow, I want you to be reminded that I’ve been here. Only me. You are mine.”

…………………………………….

Almost 3 years ago I wrote a post expressing my disappointment in current-day liberated women who flocked in huge numbers to read the BDSM mega-hit 50 Shades of Grey.  Well … have I softened on my stance over that time you ask? Definitely… NO…

https://lwgsummerland.wordpress.com/2012/07/16/50-shades-of-green/

It clearly taps into a large female segment who tingle to an interior women’s world that is beyond my understanding.

Obviously, I can’t claim that 100 million readers are all mistaken in their admiration and might I say –  desire –  for a sexual fantasy like this.

We all have interior domains that thrive inside – worlds of bizarre and untold fantasy that we would never want the rest of society to be aware of. I’ll cop to guilt on many fronts where fantasy of various makes and models thrive. But never a fantasy that places someone in a lowly, denigrated position …

A Toronto Star article this week made this point: “ … it’s not the BDSM that has Joe-Anne Dusel, provincial co-ordinator with the Provincial Association of Transition Houses and Services of Saskatchewan, worried.

“The elements of isolation and humiliation that go on outside of the bedroom are serious red flags,” Dusel said, noting that in the book, Grey tracks Steele’s cellphone, follows her to work, threatens her and isolates her from her family and friends.

“These are the tactics that the women who walk through our doors report on a daily basis they are experiencing in our own lives,” Walker said.”

We read the daily news and take in the dark, disturbing stories of Jian Ghomeshi, and Bill Cosby, and Ray Rice, and Chris Brown, and Charlie Sheen and we shake our heads saying “tsk, tsk”. And then paradoxically, we fill the local theatres to watch it acted it out as a desirable fantasy. Huh????

The book’s author E.L. James has long defended her books against accusations they promote violence.

But you know what? I don’t blame Ms. James for her book or the characterizations that are portrayed.

I don’t “blame” anyone.

It merely tells me that despite ALL of the strides that Western civilization has made in terms of gender equality and respect, there is still a huge number of those – both men AND women – who believe, or at least fantasize about a world where men can exercise total control over women.

 

… leaving me wanting, unzipping his fly, and pushing me down onto the couch so he’s lying on top of me.
“Hands on your head,” he commands through gritted teeth as he kneels up, forcing my legs wider…
“We don’t have long. This will be quick, and it’s for me, not you. Do you understand?
Don’t come, or I will spank you,” he says through clenched teeth.”

And those same women will sensuously sigh and raptly eat it up with delighted visions of denigration. Denigration at the hands of a handsome muscled hunk that treats them like a spent cigar butt on the street… enjoying a puff or two… but believing that it’s really just someone else’s trash.

It just leaves me sad…

oneshadeofgrey

50 Shades Shelters

Put On Your Kinky Boots Jian Ghomeshi

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Who are you doing this week Jian?

Watch where you put those hands Jian!

 

I’m not surprised often, but that morning I was pretty shocked.

And it wasn’t just that my left sock was black, the right navy blue.

Years ago I worked in a mid-sized medical lab at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Comox, on Vancouver Island. I went to my job one day, and returned home a little less naive at the end of my shift.

Entering the lab, I had to pass through the front waiting-room area. Chairs stood in rows where patients sat before being called into one of the smaller back rooms to have their blood taken or electrocardiogram leads laid out in a curving river across their chest.

A long narrow hallway led into the back of the lab past an open washup and sterilization area on the right, followed by the tiny pathologist’s office in the far right corner.

Each morning, I veered left at the pathologist’s office into my Microbiology department. It opened out with its warm incubators and cold fridges and counters layered high with multi-coloured petri dishes sprouting bacteria of all makes and models.

There was a familiar – almost sweet – but not totally unpleasant bacterial scent in the air. You probably know you’ve worked in a lab for a (too) long time when the putrid scents begin to develop an appeal…

Microbiology

.

But really, it was the pathology office that held a magnetic lure.

.

On many, if not most mornings, protruding from the IN-BOX screwed to the wall just outside the door there would be a long paper sheet or two loosely jutting up from the upper opening.

It was an invitation begging to be looked at.

These long sheets were dropped off by the local coroner from the previous night’s usually routine, or sometimes macabre adventures that resulted in a chilled body stretched out in the morgue downstairs.

The page was a request to the pathologist to carry out an autopsy on someone who had expired and where some explanation was needed. Tidy block writing described all of the important details of the poor wretch’s demise. The factual commentary outlined the circumstances of the death and the reason an autopsy was needed.

Most were straightforward and vanilla: suspected heart attacks, strokes, tumbles down stairs, drownings.

But one day … this day … a story unfolded in the coroner’s script that still stands out in my mind all of these years later. It was a sad little tale of sexual kink that ended tragically for one poor fellow.

morgue body

So why am I thinking about this now? I blame it on you Jian…

Well … Jian Ghomeshi, Canada’s premier radio show host, it’s thanks to you and your 50 Shades of Grey proclivities and adventures. The stories are popping up all over like a Whack-a-Mole board about your BDSM lifestyle and sexual recreations with choking and other maybe-not-so-fun stuff.

I’m no prude. What happens behind closed doors is all fun and good with me.

Most of the time.

I’m trying really hard not to judge you Jian so early on without more background detail. And it’s hard because I’ve always admired you and your considerable abilities to carry out wonderful interviews with both the famous and the common folk.

You are the epitome of cool, you have a great radio voice, a charming smile, and your questions are insightful and respectful, even if Billy Bob Thornton thought you were an asshole when really he was just looking at himself in the mirror.

Hearing the stories about Jian from increasingly numerous young women of beatings and forced chokings in a sexual context carried me back to the moments years earlier as I stood outside that pathologist office in Comox reading the coroner’s notes graphically detailing a young man’s death.

I had never heard the term before:

Autoerotic Asphyxiation

Wikipedia describes it as:

When you rob your brain of oxygen (asphyxia), you experience a high — euphoria, dizziness, and lowered inhibition — before you lose consciousness. To make their sexual experience more thrilling, autoerotic asphyxiators masturbate while strangling themselves with cords, ropes, scarves, and ties, or they suffocate by sealing their heads in plastic bags.

The vast majority don’t mean to kill themselves. They usually devise some kind of rescue mechanism to stop the asphyxiation once they’ve climaxed. But the fail-safe often fails. For example, they may tie a slip-knot or hang themselves from something that’s shorter than they are, so they can simply stand up to stop the strangulation. But they may get so weak and disoriented from lack of oxygen that they can’t pull out the knot or stand up, and they pass out and die.

The Wikipedia description almost perfectly outlines the coroner’s notes of the young man in the morgue fridge downstairs.

He was found hanging, a knotted rope circling his neck, porn magazines scattered open on the floor around him, a carrot protruding from his rectum. While standing on a small stepstool in order to get some tension around his neck, somehow the stool had slid away and out of his reach. He was found a couple of hours later – too late – by his wife when she returned from work.

North American statistics suggest this is a occurrence that repeats itself over 1,000 times each year.

My little naive mind was shaken and disturbed. It was an uncomfortable and sad feeling that stayed with me and lingered. It even still resides like a dormant virus in a tiny corner of my mind.

And so this week when I listened to the (alleged) stories arising about Jian, I felt that same sense of unsettled discomfort. It’s a lifestyle choice that is far beyond even my own internal kinky fantasy life.

50 Shades of Grey, like a good horror movie, transports many of us into a world of supposed make-believe that has some shock appeal perhaps solely because it is pretend. Fantasy and imagination can be a wonderful enriching part of our existences.

I’m just not sure I’m ready or want to disassemble my naivety and enter a place where “normal” people like Jian Ghomeshi (supposedly) roughly take their personal narcissistic enjoyment.

I’m still in recovery from one day in the Comox laboratory all those years back.

Are those your Kinky Boots Jian??

Are those your Kinky Boots Jian??

I Have Bagina Envy …

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Boy did we get it wrong. 

Who is this WE I’m talking about?

MEN.

little girl and underwear display

 

All these many Freudian decades we thought that women suffered the slings and arrows of PENIS ENVY. Ha!

It’s difficult for me to say this, but the painful non-patriarchal truth is that I, and most men actually suffer from BAGINA envy (see, it’s so difficult and painful that I can’t even say the real word!) … the Grandest of All Canyons.

OK, it’s probably not envy so much as worship. It’s like the control centre of our universe. We always thought that Captain Kirk (Penis) was at the helm of the Starship Enterprise, but really, all along it was Commander Uhura (Bagina), the Communications Officer.

UhuraTellsFerrisKirk

Yup, the Bagina is in charge…

We can’t help it. We just can’t help it.

It’s not a conscious choice where we men sit ourselves down at the conference table one morning and say, “Today I shall lay myself at the blessed altar of the bagina.” Unh-uh. Some joker of a mind programmer inserted a viral chunk of code in our heads that dictates, “you must have the Bagina, the more the better”.

There’s a ton of science behind it all.

Many have addictions to drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, race horses (for betting, not carnal relations) … these are isolated, one-or-two-off dependencies for select individuals. ALL heterosexual men have an addiction to the big V, bar none. Why are porn websites so popular?… yup, worship of the bagina.

But are women as beholden to the phallic member of their male brethren?

By the popularity of BDSM literature like 50 Shades of Grey, you might be tempted to think so. But really I think that women are more attracted to the romance and desire inherent in the stories … a penis just happens to be involved – perhaps this is one more instance where a man is incidental to the true lusty lure.

Women say that men don’t understand them, which is probably true. Of course it works the other way around as well. Just as Men Are From Mars and Women From Venus, women don’t necessarily understand the primal sexual urge that propels the male head(s).

men-and-women-brains

The appeal of visual porn for men and written erotica for women reveals the differences between the needs of the two genders. Men are viscerally turned on by the mere sight of female skin – foreplay be damned – show us a bagina, and we’re 95% of the way to steamy liftoff.

Women say “hold on … talk to me, hold me, tell me I’m desirable, touch me all over, not just on the naughty bits. Let’s make this performance a full-length feature, not just a 30 second commercial break.” 

…………………………..

Women know the formidable power that resides in their nether regions. Men have guns and swords and big bicep muscles for weapons. Women carry an arsenal that’s far different. They wield a softer, furrier form of authority that they carry with them at all times and can never set down or misplace. Men fear, yet yearn for it more than they fear or covet the sword.

…………………………..

To be in possession of a bagina confers automatic membership to an exclusive club, no boys allowed.

It’s a whole secret organization, a club for bagina owners, like the Freemasons or the Knights of Pythias (what the hell is a Knight of Pythias anyway? … is there some connection to urine worship here?)

There are pluses and minuses to Bagina Club membership, but the real bottom line of the clique is that its members secretly rule the world, a sort of  The DaVinci Code.

vagina-club

Men have no Penile Club to belong to where they share genital inside information with their comrades … no “I’ve got penile cramps”… no, “I’m a week late”, no, “is it hot in here, or am I just having a hot flash?”. NOPE, nothin’.

Women share the mystery and glory of their private parts as cooperative partners with other women. They carry spare tampons and pads for those stranded in distress. They nod compassionately and offer Midol to those in cramped discomfort. They visit restrooms (something they call “Powder Rooms”) together.

The closest men come to this clubby sort of atmosphere resides in the urinal line-up where we huddle in straight lines, hand-on-member, looking bored into a cold, tiled wall 6 inches from our nose … sure, 6 inches is really more like 3 inches, but we boys have difficulty determining true length. Talking is frowned upon while urinating because it just feels too intimate to be chatting to another guy when you have a penis in your hand.

Yes, to men, the bagina – and its club – are mysterious. The bagina is, like the Wizard of Oz, hidden behind a lacy curtain and all powerful.

Here are some of the features, tenets, advantages, and disadvantages of belonging to the BAGINA CLUB. I can’t know them all because I don’t have a membership card to the coven of adherents (and obviously never will):

  1. Women have monthly menstruation … until they don’t, then another set of complications arises.
  2. Women have hysterectomies – this is the easy way out of the complications mentioned above.
  3. The bagina doesn’t protrude like a pistol when excited.
  4. Women need options: Birth control pill, the ring, IUD’s, hormone shots, sponges, diaphragms, even female condoms. It’s like a shoe closet for the bagina.
  5. There are whole aisles of product set aside in supermarkets for the care, scent and maintenance of the bagina … no penis aisles. OK, one shelf of condoms, but men don’t really want to use the product, so who is it really for?
  6. There are special spa treatments for the bagina… Brazilian waxing, bikini waxing, sugaring, threading, bidet rinsing.
  7. Sexual performance isn’t complicated … the emergency backup method is a bottle of lube, and if it’s still there in four hours, you don’t have to consult a physician.  You just wash it off.
  8. Cutesy names: Peach Pit – Velvet Office – Temperamental Tunnel –  Garden of Eden –  Pride Lands –  Love Cushion –  Nappy Dugout –  Kitty Kat –  Mystical Fold –  Pandora’s Pink Box – Box Office

So for all the men who have derogatory comments about the one place they are constantly, actively trying to enter, and for all the ladies who are the gatekeepers of such an exclusive location, listen up.

I think we can all agree that women are not going to give up the “pit of power” anytime soon. So let’s shelve the Freudian pretense that women envy and want what we have and accept that girls have a more desirable “Playhouse” than boys.

The consolation? We boys still have control over the power tools  – at least the ones that reside outside the bedroom – the TV remote and the BBQ.

What more could we want?

Yes, you are the king here, and THIS is as good as it gets!

Yes, you are the king here, and THIS is as good as it gets!

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