baserinstincts

Alone but Not Lonely

Alone (adj.) - 1. Being apart from others; solitary.
2. Being without anyone or anything else; only

Lonely (adj.) - 1. Without companions; lone
2. Dejected by the awareness of being alone

(definitions taken from The Free Dictionary)

I began to think about this when a guy friend at work suggested I get a new boyfriend.

I was all but disgusted by the suggestion.

I’ve been enjoying my freedom and independence so much since the aftermath of the-breakup-that-took-way-too-long-to-happen.

My coworker mentioned something about me wanting to be lonely and that he couldn’t understand why.

After this, I firmly corrected him.

“I am alone,” I say. “But never lonely.”

He was thinking of the situation in overly simplistic terms, a flaw that unfortunately ails most men. He deduced, logically yet incorrectly, that if I didn’t have someone in my life then it could only follow that I was lonely.

I broke it down to him like this.

Loneliness occurs when you feel the absence of Other.

Aloneness occurs when you feel the presence of Self.

Vex Money

Vexed (adj.) - 1. Irritated, distressed, or annoyed

2. troubled persistently especially with petty annoyances
The concept of “vex money” was explained to me by my mother and is just one of many jewels given to me by her that I treasure.

All of the women in my family, on both sides, are fiercely independent.

There weren’t really many men around and the women made getting by without them look so very easy (and in fact preferable). I guess I always sort of had the idea growing up that men cramp your style (except during a couple of boy crazy phases during junior high and high school).

Anyway, one day as my mother was cooking (something that didn’t happen often so I remember it well) she said to me “Desi, never go out with a man unless you have money.”

I made some comment about that defeating the purpose and she just repeated herself more forcefully. “Even if he’s taking you out, you should not be going out with him if you’re broke. You must always have your vex money!” It was her way of telling me to make sure I had an out if my date ended up pissing me off.

I laughed it off then but it stuck with me.

My mother’s sound advice proved itself as such again recently when I was on a first date with a seemingly very sweet guy.

This sweet guy just seemed to be a little too fond of liquor for my taste.

For one, I could tell when I met up with him that he’d already been drinking for the better part of the evening.

It wasn’t long into the date that he was slurring his speech and talking in circles. He was amused by everything and as for me, well I wasn’t amused in the least. I suggested to him gently that he slow down a bit. He waved me off and ordered another martini.

Now had I not followed my mother’s advice I’d have been shit out of luck as far as getting home. See, he had promised to send me home in a cab whenever I was ready to go. But as the night went on, he got so trashed that I don’t even think he noticed when I just left and hailed a cab my damn self.

Now I know that on the whole women are independent and doing more than well for themselves. But there are still quite a few who depend entirely on a man in social situations. I mean depend on them enough to leave the house with an empty wallet and no way to get home.

It would be nice if sometimes we didn’t have to worry and let them take care of everything and yes, on occasion you can find one who’s happy to without being a creep.

But the truth is you just can’t put your stock in a man to take care of you. And yes that includes a simple dinner and cab home.

And what if he does turn out to be a creep or worse a lecherous bastard? What if he tries to feel you up (assuming that’s not what you want)? What if he’s on something or in my case extremely drunk?

Do you really want to leave yourself at his mercy?

You could end up like my cousin who got asked out on a date by a seemingly sweet guy. They had a great time. And when the check came he waited quite obviously for her to pull out her wallet (this same guy incidentally was with her some time later when his car got towed…he borrowed a couple hundred dollars from her to get his car back and she hasn’t seen a dime of it yet).

So I never assume a man is going to pay for me or make sure I get home safely.

And I always carry my vex money.

Penis Envy

I was reading this post over on Funky Brown last week and it got me to thinking.

Is that all men have to complain about?

Inopportune erections?

I’ll do you one better. In fact, I’ll do you three better.

Junior High, 7th grade -  I was on my period. I think I was the last of my friends to get it. I hadn’t even  even heard the phrase “Always with Wings” yet. So my friends and I are in the pizza shop during our lunch break. The period was particularly heavy and my tampon, unbeknownst to me, was leaking something awful. When I got up to return to school, blood had soaked through my gray checked uniform skirt and onto the booth in the pizza shop. The stain was huge, but the worst part was watching one of the employees have to come behind me and clean up my blood.

High School, Junior Year -I was in gym class. One of my bra straps popped during jumping jacks (I’m a big busted woman so my girls were noticeaby lopsided after that). I was supposed to be meeting a guy after school and had to cancel my date for fear of wierding him out with my lopsided titties (I was used to men staring but I wasn’t about to give them extra reason to).

Freshman Year of College - Mr. H, hitherto the fuck of my life, had a mean cock that he wielded with deathly precision. After one particular episode I remember walking home, lost in post coital bliss, when I felt something move in my bowels, or rather, felt my bowels move.

In my pants.

How can you play something like that off? The worst part was that a very astute observer calls out to me on the street and says “Miss there’s something on the back of your pants.” I turn around and muttered that I accidentally sat in something on the bus (because what was I supposed to say…”my boyfriend fucked the shit out of me”…
literally). “Well people will find it looks bad,” she added. 

I had about seven blocks to go.

True story.

So the moral? I’d take an unsolicited woodie over any of the above incidents any day.

Powered by ScribeFire.

My Own Private Hillary

I feel for Hillary.

I’m not saying that I am a Hillary supporter per se.

I, in fact, didn’t vote for her in the primaries.

I do wonder, however, just how much of her perceived shortcomings and personality flaws have anything to do with her as a person.

Or does she get a bad rap because she’s a woman?

I sought to find out why Hillary inspires such strong feelings and such strong rhetoric.

I came across this article and it really brought it home for me.

There are many interesting points but this quote really summed up what I was looking for:

“Some of the more common adjectives hurled at Hillary are familiar to any high-achieving female. And, sure, the woman known in high school as “Sister Frigidaire” faces all the glass-ceiling, woman-in-a-man’s-job, underestimated, underpaid, overworked gender guff that also frustrates senators Olympia Snowe and Mary Landrieu. But what makes our reaction to her far more extreme? More than any other public figure, Hillary forces us to acknowledge that the path to power for American women is not all that clear, more an odyssey than a march…Ask your friends if their fear and loathing of Hillary has anything to do with her being a woman, and you’ll undoubtedly get a denial.”

It must suck to have people doubt your capabilities for no other reason than you were born with a slit.

And I truly feel that that is the gist of it. Hillary’s less admirable characteristics wouldn’t really be a big deal if she were a man.

And I know just how she feels.

I got promoted at work this past week.

It boggles my mind that in the four years this location of my company has been doing business, I’m the first woman to hold the position I hold now.

When I first began work in this department, I entered into a serious boys club. Having worked primarily with women for the entirety of my work history, I had quite a bit of adjusting to do. But adjust I did and I eventually earned the respect of my co-workers.

Well, most of them.

I found my victory (beating out two male candidates) to be bittersweet.

“Congratulations sweetie,” one coworker, who was now in effect my subordinate, said to me. “I’m so proud of you.”

Proud of me? I wondered if he would have said that if any of the guys had been offered the job. He made it sound like I beat the odds or something.

There was nothing for him to be proud of.

I worked hard to get where I was. I was the most knowledgeable and qualified candidate.

Period.

Another coworker, one of the guys who’d applied for the position as well and again was now my subordinate, quipped about how sexy women in power were and alluded to being willing to offer me sexual favors in exchange for a raise or promotion.

Was I in the twilight zone?

Just today, one of the guys almost bumped into me and then remarked snidely “Oh, I don’t want to hit the first lady.” A political debate ensued between him and another coworker, during which he states emphatically “America doesn’t want a female President.”

America, for him at that moment, was our department and that female president he resented so was me.

There was my boss (well he’s no longer my boss as we’re on the same level now), who tried with all his might to convince the panel not to vote for me (or so I’m told…the particulars of post-interview deliberation are not to be discussed once interviews are over but the scoop inevitably always leaks) saying that I was unreliable and that I was “too emotional”, but publicly, in the weeks leading up to the interviews, he was the absolute pillar of support.

And then there’s the Big Boss, who made no secret of his doubts on whether I could handle the job, even as he was offering it to me. I had to wonder if he’d have hit any of the male candidates with the same spiel.

And so instead of feeling great about my career and more confident in my abilities, I ended up feeling dubious and anxious.

I got over it though and decided the best revenge would be to prove them all wrong (bloody ignorant naysayers, the lot of them).

This speaks to a much bigger issue of course. Women in the workplace still don’t get the respect (and in many cases, the money) they deserve, even when they prove themselves, their brilliant, competent selves, time and time again.

Brilliant, competent women in the workplace are called bitches. Crazy bitches.

Brilliant, competent men in the workplace (and even men with talent that’s mediocre at best) are called CEO’s.

Pimpin’ ain’t easy (but it sure is fun).

I really don’t get why everyone is so shocked over the whole Governor Spitzer prostitution fiasco.

Do people really doubt that any of these politicians (much less the majority of them) are regularly cavorting around with working girls?

I don’t.

Maybe that’s just me being a jaded New Yorker.

Or a realist.

Wherever there’s powerful men and money, there are girls getting paid for their services. This is a given.

Not saying he’s right.

It’s just that they all do it…he just got caught.

Bush Revolution

I don’t shave my bush anymore.

There was a time that, and certainly more for whichever guy I was with more so than for myself, I’d diligently shave every week before graduating to dreaded Brazilian waxes every month (incidentally, if you must wax, I recommend J’adore Day Spa in midtown, great work for less than half the price of J sisters).

The effect was nice at first. I marveled at the smoothness of it, the utter exposure making me feel innocent and dirty at the same time.

But I got over that shit real fast.

Ingrown hairs are neither cute nor fun to have and it seemed I was prone to them despite my best efforts to follow the salon’s instructions. I misted with azulene oil and exflolited everyday. But inevitably, my cooch went from pretty and smooth to looking like an adolescent smack dab in the middle of a bad acne breakout.

And that’s before the itching starts.

The horrible, intense itching that will have you very tempted to put your hand down your pants in public places without shame. The itching that makes you walk funny or duck behind objects that you hope will obstruct the view as you reach under your skirt.

So why is a bald pussy so glamorized?

I read somewhere that beauty is pain. Oh well, guess I’ll be an ugly duckling then because after maybe a year of this I asked myself why I was torturing myself this way, especially when most men really don’t care if you’re bald or not. Sure they’ll notice, and yeah they like it and are excited by it but I’ve never once had a man say to me “Oh you’re not shaved, well then I just can’t fuck you”.

And if any of you ladies have heard something so vile, you’re better off without him.
If he doesn’t want you for you, bush and all, then do you really want to give it up to him?

The answer for me is no.

Take my hairy pussy or leave it.

Sex and Socks…80/20

Funny how I never really thought of this.

I’m surprised that the majority of people are bothered by the whole sex during socks thing.

I never even gave it much thought until I ran across the poll.

Gee, I guess I was always to busy enjoying the sex itself to worry about whether or not to take my socks off (*resisting urge to make extremely corny joke*).

Yes socks are certainly counter productive if there’s foot worship involved but other than that I’d skip the socks debate and get to the more important stuff (like the actual sex).

It’s the 80/20 rule.

Technorati Tags: sex, socks

Powered by ScribeFire.

Cinewhores NYC is official!

I’ve finally got it together after weeks of running around like a … well you know the saying.

Voila!

Whore! Magazine presents Cinewhores- Scandalous Sex on the Silver Screen, a monthly salon devoted to classic cinematic portrayals of sex, money, power, and the goodness in going bad (hosted and curated by moi).

This month in NYC we’ll be showing Blonde Venus starring the fabulous Marlene Dietrich as Helen Faraday.

Helen Faraday is a nightclub singer turned housewife, but when her husband needs money to have a life-saving operation, she decides to resume her career as a singer to raise money, she undergoes a chain of events that separate her from her husband and force her to make a choice between her lucrative singing career, and her role as a wife and mother.

Suggested donation is 5 to 20 dollars and the money goes to benefit various women’s organizations.

Free popcorn!

The Hand Test

You know how they say a woman knows within five minutes of meeting a man whether or not she’d sleep with him?

Well in my experience that’s pretty much true.

Not only  do I know if I would sleep with him hypothetically, but for the most part I can also tell if it will actually happen in real life.

So there’s this guy.

He’s kinda cute, deep voice, very intelligent.

I became intrigued by him one day out of the seeming blue after having seen him everyday for awhile. He struck me as the shy, reserved, inexperienced type and for some reason that made me even more curious. So I started to talk to him. And eventually he’d talk back and then I noticed he’d blush and smile when I greeted him.

We got together one morning to play SCRABBLE.

I won (I always win).

We’d go to the movies, cafes. We’d talk on the phone. Our relationship was wonderfully platonic.

See, it was taking me way longer than five minutes with this one. I enjoyed his company immensely but couldn’t determine if there’d be any sexual chemistry there.

One day a bunch of us (meaning me. the guy an a group of our mutual friends) were horsing around and this one guy who’s like my little brother asks me what I want for Valentine’s day.

I whisper to him that I’d like for someone to tie me up and spank me.

He related this to another mutual friend who then asked if he could do the honors.

“I’m taking applications,” was my reply.

I held out my hand and told him to hit it.

He hit like a bitch.

Immediate disqulification.

Another friend of ours came by (and incidentally it only took five seconds before I knew I’d hypothetically jump his bones) I asked him to hit my hand.

He raised his arm and brought it down hard.

My hand turned red instantly and welted up within a few minutes.

I smiled.

Too bad he had a girlfriend.

I was tempted to ask my platonic friend to hit my hand just out of curiosity but I held out at first. Would I offend him? We’d never joked like that.

But I wasn’t going to find out where this might go if I didn’t push limits a little.

I walked up to him, smiled, held out my hand.

He looked up at me, blushed, smiled back.

And then….he walked away.

Didn’t even take the hand test.

Whether he was a prude or just not into spanking didn’t matter at that point.

Didn’t want to spank my hand?

That settles it.

Friends it is.