It was beautifully pristine, snow white on my calendar, a day void of appointments and obligations. Everything was taken care of; bills paid; calls made; texts, emails replied to.
The morning sun in my bedroom windows glowed autumnal amber; waning light, a sense of death, decay, sadness.
This would be my day of rest and relaxation.
The pandemic, the news cycle, work, family, global catastrophe, the economy, my personal finances, all the stress of 2020…I needed a break. I had deliberately set this one day aside for that. No plans. No one to see. A day only for me.
Years ago I wrote a whimsical poem called How to Give Your Man the Best Sex Ever for my blog Eroticapoetica. The poem was impressionistic. It wasn’t real sex advice. Yet I started to notice google search terms for “give your man the best sex ever” were directing to my blog. So I wrote a serious article on the topic.
Some women might assume that “giving best sex ever” means all the traditional images of bending over backwards to please your man; offering blowjobs, dressing like a porn star, doing anal, yada yada (yes I just yada yada’d sex). …
Perhaps I was
in your coffee,
scent of cinnamon
after too long;
spice of life.
Yet for you
the Silk Roads,
entered tribal lands,
In this desert,
arid and mysterious,
Are you an oasis
I cannot tell.
Still, I drink deeply
your lingering reflection
in this shimmery well
I’m feeling annoyed. I hate every goddamn perfect cutesy Instagrammable thing, all the candy-colored unicorn shit, the Mona Lisa latte art, the dried wildflowers on gourmet cupcakes, any stupid artisan foodstuff involving charcoal. I’m so fucking over all these impossible #goals, every impetuous #mood, every frickin hashtag cliche.
And I hate the way tech shit has taken over and bled into real life and I’m seeing Twitter birds and Insta hearts drawn in chalk on sandwich boards as I’m walking down the street IRL. Btw I hate all these snappy abbreviations. Lmao. Jk. I have a headache. I’m feeling dehydrated…
This week, Kate Spade committed suicide. A tragic event that mystified and intrigued many people, Kate appeared to “have everything” — fabulous wealth, success, celebrity, a family, a glamorous New York lifestyle. Her untimely death has brought mental illness into the public eye.
I feel compelled to address this topic. As a woman who has cultivated intimacy with the vast realm of consciousness, a deep thinker and lucid dreamer, an intrepid psychonaut who has devoted her life to mapping vast swathes of unruly terrain within the inner world, I want to share what I have learned about mental illness.
It took me a long time to realize that Zein was playing me. Or perhaps that is not entirely true. On some level I always knew he was playing me. I just couldn’t tell what his game was.
When I first met Zein he did not stand out that much. He was cute, but not that cute. His eyes were pretty, but not that pretty. He was charming, but not that charming. He made me laugh but not that hard.
I’m not sure why I agreed to go out with him. I’m an attractive woman and guys ask me out…
I was exquisite petals.
Pink, dewy, delicate.
Your fingers opened me,
coaxed me into full bloom,
until I reddened with color,
dripped with honeyed nectar,
decorous with feminine plushness;
a gleaming pistil,
a pulsing filament.
I was this radiant bouquet,
in your artful hands.
I was a pretty ache,
my breasts budding,
wet and open,
I was garlanded
with your kisses.
Aziz Ansari’s bad date, as recounted in salacious detail on babedotnet, stirred up the internet and got a lot of people talking. The romantic encounter, which started out with texting, progressed to a dinner date, and then an awkward sexual encounter, reminded me a lot of the New Yorker “Cat Person” story, another popular viral tale about modern love gone wrong.
Yet I found both stories to be of a categorically different stripe than others that have been shared within the context of the #metoo movement. I consider the line between crummy sex and sexual assault (which is a prosecutable…
Yesterday I read a story in Babe about Aziz Ansari and a terrible horrible, no good very bad date. The story was shared in the confessional, accusatory spirit of the popular #metoo movement and brought up a lot of questions for the general public around consent and sexual aggression in dating and relationships.
For me the Babe story was quite the uncomfortable read. I felt embarrassed for Aziz hearing such lurid intimate details of his date from a negative perspective. It was like he was his goofy out of touch character Tom Haverford, from Parks and Recreation, in real life…
After encountering much hullaballoo on the internet about the “Cat Person” story, I decided to give it a read and see for myself what all the fuss was about. I found the story, settled onto the couch, and enjoyed it leisurely over my morning cup of coffee. Morning is my favorite time for reading about the dramas of popular culture.
Given the recent events related to sexual improprieties of powerful men and the #metoo movement, the New Yorker’s “Cat Person” story has been perceived primarily as a commentary on male power and consent, according to articles like this one from…