Posts Tagged ‘sex


Driving: a contentious issue

So what about driving? How important is it to dating/relationships/intimacy? Let’s look at this phenomenon one by one:

Dating: When you’re dating, it’s important to have a car, especially if you’re a guy. Not necessarily because your date might demand it—though she might secretly be thinking, “What a putz, he doesn’t even have a car”, if you don’t—but because it adds to the dude’s confidence. Many a time I’ve been paralyzed about going on a date with someone that involved public transportation. Nothing kills romance more than riding a bus full of crackheads and juvenile delinquents, which are the two demographics with which public transit seems most suited.

It’s also important to drive fairly well. Like it or not, your date is judging you on your driving skills, and whether or not you’ve just backed into that nice BMW with your piece-of-crap Ford Escort. Parallel parking? You do this right, and she’s 95 % in the bag. Swearing at motorists? You’re back at square one, or worse.

Don’t drive drunk! Not for any namby-pamby reasons like you might hit someone, but because it’s just bad form. Although there are always those girls whom you’ve just met at a rocker bar who might be excited by the prospect of the “bad boy” who gets behind the wheel of his SUV and plows home after eight pitchers of draft, most women will be turned off at the prospect. Also, you might get pulled over, and that’s just not sexy. Unless you manage to talk your way out of it, or the cop recognizes you from the TV show you were in. Women, also, shouldn’t drive drunk, unless they’re mothers.

Remember, driving during the dating stage is one way of impressing your prospective mate, and one that doesn’t involve cash (after the initial investment, natch), wit or brawn.

Relationships: Driving, like money, sooner or later becomes a contentious issue. She doesn’t like the way you speed up at yellow lights, say, or he doesn’t like that, to see where you’re going, you have to lean so far over the steering wheel your nose is touching the front windshield. All this stuff seemed cute at first, but six months in you’re thinking, it’s time to get a bike.

Intimate: Well, outside of the fact that just having a car can be an aphrodisiac in the right circumstance, never mind something that’s actually kind of sexy (i.e. not a Ford Escort), the automobile offers plenty of opportunity go get frisky with one another. Our parents knew this, and their parents, and Meat Loaf sure as heck knew it. Now, of course, you can rent giant stretch SUVs that look like Tommy Lee’s kitchen, complete with with hot tubs and stripper polls. That takes some of the fun and innocence of parking at a Lover’s Lane-type area, but it’s nice to know that no one in that staggering party of stagettees is doing the driving.


The Jaded Lady Brigade

I’ve been collecting comments from my girlfriends for a book proposal, and damn, they make me laugh, but I must say Cali and NYC girls are jaded.  And Vancouver. And Montreal. And…my gosh, is there anyone in the world who believes in, like, fairy tale romance anymore? Read below and weep. Or, of course, you might laugh. I did both. Next, I’m going to go rent a whole stack of intellectual European porn (does such a thing exist? In my head, it makes sense)…because clearly I’m among the more naive single women on the planet, and have a lot of catching up to do…

Two tips : Great looking shoes, and amazing bra and underwear 😉 

Just do it.  It’s no fun to sit by and waste valuable time.  Let’s face it, you’re not getting any younger.

Sometimes you don’t want to chat right off the bat about the guy you’re seeing because you need to figure things out in your head first. But your girlfriends know you better than anyone and can sometimes read between the lines of your descriptions/stories. You might not always want to hear what they have to say, but unfortunately, they’re usually right.

Likation/Replusion.  You meet a guy.  He seems nice and you have a thing or two in common.  However, you are uncertain of the chemistry and level of attraction, hedge on accepting a second date or even remain unsure if you should have accepted the first.  At some point, despite earlier misgivings or in some cases because of them, you do decide that you like this guy.  At that very moment, a soundless, odorless, invisible signal is sent out across the cosmos.  You may not have laid eyes on or spoken to the guy in days.  No matter.  He just somehow knows that likation has descended.  Instantly, the tables have turned and this person is completely repulsed by you.  You never hear from him again.


What, me speak?

A sometime colleague just asked me to read dirty works at some crazy gathering called “In the Flesh.” My dirty works, no less. I told her this might be difficult, as I don’t really write smut and I haven’t gotten any action in months.*

In my head, this gathering is full of militant lesbians and poetesses, and then I’m going to go up there and what? Talk about strip clubs and Cabo bars? I don’t really see the lesbians loving that.

What else…?

Oh, I know. I’ll tell them all about that cute young neighbor who I didn’t sleep with, and then he disappeared forever.  Yawn.

Maybe I should just go the extra distance and write an original kinky porno swashbuckler, specifically for my harp-playing, hairy-armpit lady friends. (These two things seem to go with being a poetess, for reasons I know not.) The thing is… I don’t know if I could read it out loud. Or listen to it.

I know. I’ll download dirty limericks off the Internet and recite them. Brilliant! I love limericks! Problem solved.

At any rate, jeez. I think where I’m going with this is, I don’t mind blogging or writing columns about quasi-personal stuff sometimes. Even though it gets me in trouble, and very probably has had something to do with my diminishing number of dates. It’s still fun. But I don’t think I can write a whole essay–particularly not of the deep, emotional, embarrassing or sweaty variety–and then deliver it out loud. I would feel a fool.

And I’m not 100% sure, but it seems almost definite that the only people who would be interested in participating in these readings, or listening to them, or–gahhh!–discussing them would be wiomen. Right? Men would rather just watch a porno. Sooo….my question is, where’s the fun in reading sexy stuff and getting all dirty-librarian if there are no men around to to share it with? I’m sorry, but flirting is wasted on other women.

Anyway, I’m not really seeing the point of this event, unless you’re just one of those people who really likes the sound of your own voice–or one of those who thinks it promotes “personal growth.”  I’ll still do it, to help a friend–I’ll print those limericks out now–but I’m mentally prepping already for the agony of being TMId in literary ways by a bunch of total strangers.

*Okay. Maybe a tiny bit, of the FWB variety, but that was once, and weeks ago.


Sex. Coffee. Chocolate. White wine. Oysters. Good Vibrations.

Yes, you read it right. That is how my Saturday morning went. Or it may have been Friday morning. I cannot remember. It was that damn good.

There’s a boy up in SF who’s giving me the “full court press,” to appropriate a basketball term… and wow, is he ever doing it well. For starters, the “morning” didn’t even start till 10:30. The coffee was fresh-ground, from Cafe Abir. It magically appeared on my nightstand, with exactly the right amount of cream in it. The chocolate and wine occurred *while we were waiting to be seated* at the oyster bar. (Because baby gets grumpy when she has to wait.) The oysters…well, there were two dozen of them, all for me. Then off to Good Vibrations, the fabulous female-owned sex toy shop that all horny city-dwellers know and love. And finally, back home to test-drive our purchases. Meee-ow!

I was actually supposed to be interviewing a tour operator in Nicaragua about volcano surfing Cerro Negro…and I did. Much, much later. I also read up on elephant polo. (It’s much like equestrian polo, only reeeeaaallly sloooow and not as scary. The elephants sometimes wear makeup.)

I was writing a story on obscure adventure sports, in case you hadn’t figured it out. And I actually did make some progress. Not even daytime drinking or extreme endorphin overload can stop this girl from working, especially when a deadline looms. I am not sure how the boy will adjust to this, but at the moment, he’s playing it cool. 

We’d actually planned to go shopping for a slutty outfit for me to wear to the Exotic Erotic Ball, but that didn’t happen because

a) I was working

b) 7PM came of nowhere, and we went downtown to meet my sisters

c) I decided I didn’t want to go to the Exotic Erotic Ball. Too much nasty on parade, too many strangers trying to grope, sorry, not for me. Besides, I just got a big ol’ whopping serving of freaky at the Folsom Street Fair. (I will post pictures, so you can see what I mean.) In fact, I’m still dealing with the fallout.

So anyway, it was an early night–glass of wine at Place Pigalle, dinner at Delle Stella, back home and to bed.

“You know, this morning would make a hell of a blog,” he said.

“I think you’re right,” said I.

April 2020

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