My Beau and I don't go out anymore.
It's not that our lives have become that boring now that we are an Old Married Couple - it's just that with him unemployed and us planning a cross-country move at the end of this month, the money isn't there. And given the economy, it probably won't be there for a while.
That means no dinners out, no going to see the new Wolverine movie in theatres, no day trips to the Vancouver Art Gallery. Our evenings on the town usually consist of collective meetings (free food!) and Fuck Of And Dance parties (cheap beer!) and the occasional show, whenever a friend's band is playing somewhere. In short, we've taken to staying in a lot, mostly just to save money.
One of the things I’ve noticed as a feminist – and as someone with an interest in all things sex-related – about the new president-elect of the
While initially I found this troublesome and annoying (personally I am much more interested in Obama’s stance on the Israel/Palestine conflict than in the idea of him screwing his wife on Bush’s old desk – REALLY!) I’ve started to look at it as being a dubious side effect of something much more positive – even refreshing, after the stiflingly sex-negative attitude of the Bush administration.
I am lying on my back. My blouse has been unbuttoned, hanging unceremoniously (yet revealingly!) off of one shoulder. My breathing is ragged, my pulse races with anticipation.
It sounds like something from a bosom-heaver novel, right?
Actually, I’m getting tattooed.
Having an ageing punker inject ink into your skin with a motorized needle that’s set to jab you hundreds of times in a split second might not be the first thing that comes to one’s mind when one considers erotic experiences. But for me, consensual pain has always been a huge part of eroticism. The focus it affords, the rush of adrenaline, the sense of release when the pain stops – it’s not entirely unlike sex, in and of itself.
Except it’s a hell of a lot more expensive.
Recently, my primary partner - my beau - and I got married.
There, I said it.
Between meeting each other two years ago and holding hands in front of a notary public last month, we found (sometimes fumbled) our way down a path of mutual admiration, then friendship, love, trust, desire, and then an unfolding of a whole new road stretched out in front of us.
The decision to get married, for us, was at once both very simple and very complicated. It was simple in that it was a logical step to make - it makes tons of things easier, and affords us certain legal rights that are handy. We love each other, we live together, we took enough time establishing our relationship that by the time we brought up the possibility there was no doubt in either of our minds that this was something we were going to do.
It was complicated because our commitment to each other doesn't look like a lot of peoples' marriages.
I’ll admit it: I don’t really like to swallow.
I’m sorry, okay? I’ve sat in on the Suck It Like A Porn Star seminar – I get that Daniel Packard thinks that all good partners to men are obligated to swallow, like it or not, lest they irreparably damage their man’s ego by rejecting the evidence of their all-important manhood. But I’ve had too many bad experiences. You know the type: In good faith, full of youthful optimism and eager anticipation, I will go down… only to have my mouth filled with a sticky fluid that tastes like a concentration of cigarette butts, rancid soymilk, and piss. And spitting is considered impolite.
Recently I've been put in charge of doing ordering from a number of book vendors and distributors - which means I've been taking time to further familiarize myself with the titles we carry. Raiding our bookshelves, I had an eye out not just for excellent titles that I love, but also to titles that I didn't feel so good about.
I have an admitted bias against "gimmick" books, particularly gimmick books that focus on dating techniques. You know the type - their content echoes those glossy girlie magazines they sell at Supermarket checkouts, with phrases like "5 Moves To Drive Him Wild!" and coyly-worded tips that talk about your relationship's progression using words that are commonly associated with hunting and organized sports - how to "trap" your guy into marriage once you’ve “scored”, etc. These books are very fond of grouping men into neat categories ("The Mama's Boy", "The Lothario") as though men were objects, like stamps or buttons, to be collected and sorted, and they are ALWAYS about straight relationships.
Valentines Day at
Ordinarily, Saturday is a day off for me, but there’s no way two people could handle the V-Day rush, so I was there working overtime (sort of) with my co-workers
Like I said, craziness.
This morning when I arrived at work, there was a pleasant surprise for me waiting in my little plastic inbox, on top of the Midori book I’ve been meaning to purchase when I get my next paycheque – a neat stack of brand-new business cards!
They have my name on them in a font resembling Caxton (not my design choice, but whatever) with the title “Sex Educator” beneath it.
One of the things we stand for – if not the main thing that we stand for – all the time here at the Art of Loving is peoples’ right to bring themselves sexual pleasure.
Masturbation, for me, isn’t just about orgasms. I know it may sound melodramatic, but I truly believe that there was a time when masturbation saved my life. When we are able to give ourselves orgasms, we don’t need to engage in risky sexual behavior, we don’t need to get sexually involved with other people beyond what we’re ready for – but most importantly, when we are able to give ourselves orgasms, it is because we are connected to and knowledgable about our bodies. And that’s good for us all around. It’s good for our health, it’s good for our sex lives, it’s good for our peace of mind.
Which is why I think this sort of thing is just messed up: http://www.p4cm.com/p4cm/store/launch
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