Tag Archives: Sex

Beyoncé, Booty, and Feminism

Close-up of Beyoncé

1990 Madonna called. She wants her whole steez back.

FaceTweet it!

Beyoncé is a superb entertainer. One minute, her voice is the piercing blare of a trumpet and the next, it’s the gentle lilt of a cello. Of course, her body is equally as flexible, just as exquisitely crafted, and almost as thrilling to witness. Unassailable talent allows her to occupy an enviable position at the peak of pop culture, and she’s used that lofty site as a promontory from which to speak directly to the hearts—and importantly the egos—of millions of females who have come to see her as the embodiment of the ideal woman: talented, strong, and sexy. Queen Bey is a feminist icon, and she deserves to be one. However, there are those who would have us believe that BEYONCÉ, her latest album, marks her biggest step thus far in a retreat from the forefront of the feminist movement.

I say that those people are either overwrought feminist pedants or overly inhibited conservatives. Or they’re idiots. ‘Cause you know, there’s always that element.

I mean, look, the woman made some songs about being a strong woman. OK, she made quite a few of them. Hooray! Also, she’s managed to have a ridiculously successful solo career for more than a decade, when most acts appear and then disappear so quickly that you wonder if that’s why they call it pop music. Hooray again! Oh, and she’s seemingly happily married to a really rich and famous guy and has a cute little daughter, too. So now all of this somehow makes her a standard bearer for modern feminism? Or at least modern black feminism?

I’m sorry, but no. All it means is that she is a woman who has lived the kind of self-determined life that the foremothers of women’s equality envisioned for their sisters and daughters…and that she’s aware of that fact. I don’t doubt that Beyoncé honestly wants to encourage girls and women to think of themselves as self-sustaining, dynamic beings who are fundamentally equal to any man, but Elizabeth Cady Stanton she ain’t.

Perhaps a parallel example will assist in illustrating my point.

After he helped invent gangster rap, but before he started making feel-good movies, Ice Cube made a lot of passionate, pro-black music. Was I disappointed as I gradually watched Cube melt deeper and deeper into Hollywood, to the point where he’s actually game to do comedy bits with Conan O’Brien, possibly the whitest looking dude ever birthed? Not no, but hell no, ‘cause I never once got his vaguely menacing, yet somehow cherubic visage confused with that of Stokely Carmichael’s.

In the same way, members of the Yoncé Ate Sasha school of thought need to relax and understand that by releasing this album and the accompanying videos she didn’t forsake some kind of feminist mission, because dude, she never had one. Beyoncé doesn’t owe little girls, working mothers, the queens at the MAC store, or anybody else anything except good music and a good show. To the extent that she chooses to inspire a sense of inherent beauty within young women or to write lyrics that help generate female self-confidence of any kind, it is a good thing. Her decision to tilt the content of her art a little more towards sex in the bedroom…or the kitchen…or the limo floor…does nothing to negate her expressions of feminist positivity.

I fail to see why anyone’s in a tizzy over Yoncé’s sexy lyrics and skintastic videos at all in the first place. Curse words. Who cares? Bathtub intercourse while inebriated. Zzzzzz. Fleeting shot of supermodel’s tongue grazing the upper half of Beyoncé’s right mammary. Yawn. Allusion to oral sex and errant ejaculate (see Lewinsky, verb). Getting there, but let’s not phone the Thought Police just yet. Multiple potential references to anilingus…OK, sure that’s freaky. But hell, it wasn’t even explicitly stated. That’s just my interpretation. Other artists get far nastier on a regular basis, with no playful metaphors or euphemisms acting as prophylactics during their aural sex romps, so the only thing I’m left with is the idea that this new album is shocking folks only because Beyoncé’s behind it.

That begs a question for all of you grooooown women out there: What’s worse, a sexist man who won’t let you fully realize your multi-faceted identity or a feminist woman who doesn’t want you to display more than one side of it? Recall Yoncé’s sample of author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie reminding us of exactly what a feminist is:

“Feminist: a person who believes in the social, political, and economic equality of the sexes.”

So, even if Beyoncé isn’t leading the vanguard of 21st century feminist freedom fighters, forsaking her because she’s being just as loud about her sexuality as she’s been about female empowerment is unnecessary and unfair. In the end, it’s perfectly fine for her to sing of self-determination while shaking her fine ass in peek-a-boo shorts. After all, she woke up like this.

FaceTweet it!

Can’t get enough? Follow Scissorpeaks on Facebook and Twitter.

2 Comments

Filed under Pop Culture, Sexuality, Social Issues

A Game of Inches

Behold: The fruit most men secretly hate. (You did know it was a fruit, right?)

The Cucumber: A fruit most men secretly despise. (You did know it was a fruit, right?)

FaceTweet it!

I have no illusions about my penis. No woman has ever refused relations with me from fear of becoming a human kebob, but no one has ever complained either, and I’ve even gotten a few compliments. Fine, I’ll toss out the ones from strippers. Still, the average erect American penis is supposedly 5.6″ long and 4.8″ around, with standard deviations of 1.0″ and 0.88″, respectively. I say “supposedly” because the study’s data was self-reported, which means that the real sizes could actually be smaller. So, without delving into details, let’s say that if male members were Sunday brunches then mine might not be the all-you-can-eat variety, but most women would walk away…pretty full.

Regardless, that doesn’t stop an annoying little voice from occasionally surfacing in the back of my head all like, “Yeah, man, you cool…but that dude on “Star Sistas II” had a Klingon disruptor rifle, brotha. Yo’ Starfleet regulation issue phaser ain’t got shit on THAT!” I’m willing to bet most men have heard his taunting, even if in their minds he doesn’t sound like a Cooley High character with a penchant for sci-fi.

Look, I’m not flipping out here. I don’t want to get my joint surgically extended or padded, and I don’t feel the least bit ashamed when it’s time to pull out the iBone for some sex messaging. It’s more like there’s this nagging sense that a perfectly fine thing could be even better.

These sentiments aren’t helped by the fact that every woman I know says that the majority of the men that she’s “dated” have had lengths around 7″+, with a large minority having had Ding Dongs roughly the size of her forearm…no matter the length of her particular forearm. Considering the results from the study mentioned above, these admittedly unscientific personal survey results have always seemed statistically un-fucking-likely.

So, what’s behind these reports of monster manhood? Either my female friends are simply mistaken, extremely lucky, flat-out lying, or they’re in possession of some pretty powerful, preternatural penis PSP. Since nobody’s that damned lucky, most of my friends are honest folk, and I don’t believe in psychic powers (genitally oriented or otherwise), I’m gonna go with option #1.

Maybe it comes down to the fact that when they’re estimating penis size, it’s usually not done in laboratory conditions. After all, not many women keep a tape measure in their purse or on top of the nightstand. (Side note: Guys, if you meet a woman who does keep a tape measure by the bed, just back your ass away slowly, like the Kool-Aid Man on Family Guy.) Regardless, it’s hard to get a solid visual estimate when the room is as dark as the dirty deeds going down.

My hunch is that there’s something more powerful going on here though.

A big factor influencing women’s overestimations of their partners’ sizes might be the simple human need to feel good about one’s choices. Considering the persistent double-standard associated with female sexual activity, women expend a lot of emotional capital when they lay it down. In exchange for racking up another notch on the headboard, an action for which they risk unwanted pregnancy, STIs, and social stigma, they need to feel as if they’ve gotten a big ole bang for their buck. As a result, their internal rulers get stretched out, making them feel even luckier when they get lucky.

If you’re thinking that this hypothesis, um, falls short because “size doesn’t matter” to women, then you’re wrong. While it’s not the end-all-be-all, a recent study shows that women absolutely do care about penis size, rating men with larger ones as more attractive. So, it could be entirely possible that imagining their past partners’ thing-things on a grander scale is a kind of coping mechanism.

Totally not cool.

Totally not cool.

Fret not. I’m not laying the fault for men’s penis worries solely at the doorstep of women’s sexual insecurities. There are certainly other factors at play, and a major one is the effect of porn’s distorted depiction of penises on an entire generation. No, this essay is just an exploration of one corner of a larger conversation about men, women, attraction, and the ways that we make ourselves and each other crazy for hilarious, ridiculous, and tragic reasons. No doubt, men engender the majority of the crazy in the sexual ecosystem, but they’re occasionally victims, too.

So, lady reader, the next time you gaze into the mirror and start feeling insecure about your bee sting breasts or concave keister, I encourage you to think about your last asshole boyfriend’s almost certain penis issues. Sure, it’s slightly mean, but it might help you realize that you’re not alone with your body image concerns. Plus, a little schadenfreude in the morning goes a long way.

FaceTweet it!

Can’t get enough? Follow Scissorpeaks on Facebook and Twitter.

3 Comments

Filed under Sexuality

Boomerang Booty: Is Ex-Sex The Right Move?

I woulda done it too, Marcus.  I woulda done it, too.

FaceTweet it!

It’s been said that nothing beats vagina except new vagina, although the language used is generally rawer than that.  I don’t know whether it’s the mystery of the unknown, appreciation for subtle variances in individual lovemaking styles, or the ego rush from the idea that one more woman let us play genital peek-a-boo, but all things being equal men adore that new-new.  But there is an exception.  Sometimes, we get a yearning for something more familiar.  Sometimes, we want some ex-sex.

Fellas, we’ve all been there.  You’re between relationships, or maybe you’re dating but there’s nothing serious going on, or maybe you’re pretty deep into something new, but you haven’t had “The Talk” yet.  Whatever the case, you’re out and about having a few drinks and up pops one of your ex-girlfriends.  She’s rocking a black leather bustier with lace around the top, some skintight, lavender leggings with white polka-dots, and those studded black stilettos with the gold heels that you made her leave on that time y’all got creative.  Juicy.  When you roll over to greet her, she lets her right arm hang around your waist for at least 10 seconds after you hug hello. Shit is real, son.  Operation Booty Reclamation is in full muthaphuckin’ effizect.

“Lately I thought back,
When we made good love.
Listening to some Marvin Gaye,
All night long.
Now I want that old thing back…”

– H-Town, “Knockin’ Da Boots”

Like I said, we’ve all gone there, so I can’t blame you.  What I can do however, is equip you with a framework for analyzing whether your next trip down memory lane will lead to blissful nostalgia or to searing regret.  To that end, here are five factors to consider before next engaging in ex-sex:

  1. The Common Sense Factor: Was it good in the first place? If not, why expect a miracle now?  You still can’t polish a sexy-looking turd, gentlemen.  Spandex ain’t gonna help her throw it back in the sack…although if she keeps on the studded heels it might do a little something.  Seriously though, sexual chemistry can’t be manufactured, so don’t waste time barking up the same boring ass tree.
  2. The Rihanna Factor: Has the good girl finally gone bad?  If the answer is yes, then this calls for an exception to the conclusion reached via factor one.  One’s sexual expressiveness and appetites can improve, after all.  For women, this might happen during those experimental days in college, after their first surge of real independence in their mid-20s, or in their 30s when they finally get comfortable with their own sexual engine and learn to really let that baby open up.  If you happen to re-encounter your ex at one of these crucial times, then congrats!  You just hit the Pum-Pum Jackpot!
  3. The Suicide Factor: Are you over her?  Be honest.  We may not like to admit it, but men can have just as much trouble moving on as women.  If you’ve still got internal bleeding from the breakup, tread carefully the path to the boudoir.  You’ll likely find yourself hunched over in the shower, babbling incoherently, and crying your accursed eyes out faster than you can say, “pussy-whipped.”
  4.  The Douchebag Factor: Is she over you?  Don’t be an asshole.  If you know that she’s still got major love for you, please reconsider using her as practice for the Jackhammer position.  Look, for every two women who can handle sex with no strings attached there are like 327 who can’t.  Chances are that every one of your bourbon-empowered pelvic thrusts will serve as a battering ram, demolishing her already crumbling psyche. I don’t care if she begs like an unholy clone of James Brown and Mars Blackmon, DO NOT dance the mattress jig with this woman or you might push her over the edge.  And that brings us to…
  5. The Homicide Factor: Is she crazy?   Sure, unbalanced types are some of the sexiest creatures walking the planet.  Why?  Perhaps they arouse the same thrill-seeking drive that makes little boys jump off one story roofs onto pissy mattresses. But just like pissy mattresses, these women are dangerous, which is probably why you broke it off with her in the first place.  Now you’ve got the itch to get scratched again, but I implore you to back away from her Mouth That Cannot Bite…unless of course you’re not terribly fond of your nipples and testicles.  ‘Cause she’ll cut them off…and FEED THEM TO YOU IN A PÂTÉ.

Hey, when done responsibly, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with a visit to the booty archives.  Pick that shit up off the shelf, knock the dust off, and enjoy.  Before you do it though, take a second to think about the risks that go along with those 15.4 minutes of pleasure.  You may be better off hooking up with somebody new.  Or here’s an idea: how about some action with your current girlfriend?

Can’t get enough cut-up?  Follow Scissorhands on Facebook and Twitter.

FaceTweet it!

Leave a comment

Filed under Relationships, Sexuality

White Girls Have More Fun

Yeah, I know Maya Rudolph ain't white, but she passes better than Tim Tebow. So, whatever.

FaceTweet it!

Let me begin this missive by admitting that what follows is probably going to offend you.  I say that off top for two reasons.  First, I want you to know that I’m self aware enough to understand the delicate nature of the topic that I’m addressing.  Second, calling out the offensive nature of a piece semi-shields the writer from any subsequent fecal downpour.  It’s kind of like saying, “Hey, I told you that this one might make your ass itch.  Don’t blame me if you read it and got upset.  Matter of fact, I’m mad at YOU for reading it…inconsiderate bastard.”

Look, I can only expound on the truth as I see it.  And well, to be honest, lately I’ve been thinking that white women have a helluva lot of truth on offer.

Eh-hem.  Now that half of you have thrown your computers out of the window in fits of rage not seen since the CW cancelled “The Game,” I’ll continue.

When I say I’m seeing truth, I’m really talking about truth of being.  That is, living life in a way that is consistent with one’s authentic self, which leads to greater enjoyment, AKA fun.  I gotta say that in general, white women seem to be having more of it than their black counterparts.

OK, let me not overstate this.  I’m really talking about a specific part of living life, the part that has to do with love, sex, partying, and general good times.  Whether or not white girls are better at achieving positive work life balance or expressing their own political preferences vs. those of the patriarchy are for another writer to consider.  This is “Recognize & Realize,”  not “Feminism, Poetry, Pop-Culture, Sex.”  (Not that anything is wrong with that, in case the owner of that blog, Stephanie, actually reads this.  I mean, some of my best friends are feminists…)

I should also clarify things by saying that my comments are probably only applicable to educated women, too.  (Incidentally, educated in this context means having secured or on track to securing a college degree.)  Why?  Because those are the women with whom I’ve spent most of my time.  I’d be lying if I said that I could speak to the ins-and-outs (no pun intended) of blue-collar Beths and Bernices, ’cause well, I haven’t really gone there…that much.  All I know is that pound for pound, educated black women have way more stick up their butt, and like the late Bernie Mac said, “I don’t mean that in no nice way.”

A woman's body language can be so hard to read.

Beginning in high school, through grad school, and beyond, I’ve been amazed at the ease with which white women seem to live in their own sexual skins.  Hanky-panky doesn’t necessarily have a freakin’ timetable associated with it in Becky’s books.  It’s like you just say the right thing (or shut the eff up), pull the right levers, be there at there at the right time, and you’re off like a prom dress.  Ridiculously refreshing.  But dude, you could be trapped with a bougie black woman on an island after a zombie apocalypse has decimated 99.9% of the human population, and she’ll still make you wait ’til like the 4th date before she tosses off that grass skirt.  (Do y’all even realize how hard it is to make a coconut martini with REAL coconuts?)

I actually had a black woman tell me, after following up a very steamy initial encounter with a night full of nada in my bed, “You’re a great cuddler.  I wanted to do more, but I can’t go out like that.”  What the shit?!  Did the Great God of Blue Balls threaten to strike her down unless she sacrificed my testes on his nocturnal altar?  What kind of (un)fuckery is this?

Well, noted sociologist E. Franklin Frazier identified the roots of this problem back in the late 1950s.  In his seminal work, “Black Bourgeoisie,” Frazier let it be known that the black middle class was playing the assimilation game – hard.  Because they wanted so badly to be accepted by white folk, they actually tried to culturally OUT-white them.  This cut across multiple aspects of life, including the realm of morality.  As such, we developed the idea that a lady must never give in to desires of the flesh until – I’m guessing here – she can be reasonably certain that The People’s Slut Court would find her not guilty.  I’d argue that assimilation’s conservative grip on their panties is still quite robust and shit, 50 years later.

Meanwhile, white women found the pill in the 60s and never looked the fuck back.  I have to stop here and say that black men bear at least half of the fault for this, with all the “slut” this and “ho” that.  Dudes, if you continue with the double standards, you’re only gonna continue fucking yourself.  Literally.  But sistas, you gotta meet us half way.

Understand that no one is looking for the “Girls Gone Wild” experience.  OK, some people are, but those people are all named Colin and under the age of 25, or they’re over 35, named Eugene, and are registered sex offenders.  What is cool is the idea that folks can get together and feel free to let their hair down, do what they wanna do on their own terms, get it crackin’, or not.  ‘Cause by the way, the “not” can be cool too, sometimes.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, somewhere out there somebody just let out The White Girl Yell.  Whooohooo!

FaceTweet it!

10 Comments

Filed under Race, Relationships, Sexuality

The Love Menu: How to Eat to Live

"Ohhh. I thought you were using 'breakfast in bed' as a euphemism."

You are what you eat.

Everybody’s familiar with that phrase and, to some extent or another, can see the truth in it.  If you spend your time eating a bunch of crap, you’ll look like a bunch of crap.  If you consume only the finest food and drink, treating your body like a stone temple, you’ll look like a god…assuming you get your vegan ass off the couch and into the gym.

The thing is, the same axiom applies to dating, too.

People walk around so forlorn about relationships, wondering why old boy ain’t actin’ right or why homegirl is driving them up the wall.  They sit there confounded and confused as to why they either can’t find anyone at all or why the relationships that they do end up in always seem to blow up quicker than a new Israeli settlement on the West Bank.  Love is a 24-hour diner with a huge assortment of options, but they’re not feeling it at all.  The problem is that they don’t know how to eat to live.

As with any diner, you’ve got four types of dishes from which to choose: Appetizers, Entrées, Desserts and Junkfood.  Anybody that you meet is gonna fit into one of those categories.  Unfortunately, the Love Diner doesn’t actually tell you which option goes in which group – you’ve got to be able to sort the muphuckas yourself.  Lucky for you, I’m providing a cheatsheet to help you figure out what’s what the next time you’re feelin’ kinda hongry.  (Look it up on Urban Dictionary or something.)

Here’s a description of each menu heading and what it translates to in the realm of romance:

  • Appetizers – These people serve two roles.  When you’re young (or inexperienced), they get your feet wet and well…whet your appetite for love.  If you make the wrong choice here, it’s not that big of a deal ’cause you’ve still got lots more eating to do.  But, if you’ve been in the game for a while, you might be interested in an appetizer, too.  This is somebody who you enjoy spending time with and is pretty damn tasty…but not entirely filling.  That’s OK though!  Only a dummy would expect to get full off an appetizer…right?
  • Entrées – For those of you who’ve never been to a restaurant (yet miraculously have computer access), or who have problems with extended metaphors even when they’re about as subtle as a whore from Ipanema, this is the main course.  This guy or gal is what you’ve been waiting on all night.  Do yourself a favor and order something substantial.  Even if it doesn’t have the most gorgeous presentation, it might just hit the spot.  Plus, I always find that food that’s too cute usually doesn’t fill up the plate or me, and that will only leave you longing for…
  • Desserts – Yum, yum, yum.  Who’s got a taste for something sweet?  For some people, dessert is their favorite part of the meal.  In fact, it’s just so damn sexy that some folks even have it first.  I ain’t mad at that.  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with indulging in a little French Vanilla, Butter Pecan, Chocolate Deluxe.  Shit, even Caramel Sundaes is gettin’ touched.  Go ahead, lick the bowl.  But see, the thing about dessert is that it may taste like heaven, but you ain’t gettin’ no real sustenance from said delectable delights.  Oh, and need I say that if you eat too much sweet stuff, you might get sick?
  • Junkfood – This is a category that causes lotsa people lotsa problems, usually because they don’t even realize that they’re eating this crap.  Why?  Because some ladies and gentlemen fuck around and order junkfood as their entrée!  Oh, this greasy, crunchy, saucy stuff tastes great and can certainly sate your appetite.  Lord knows I’ve eaten so much pizza, spicy chicken sandwiches and french fries that you’d swear I was still gettin’ free public school lunch.  But yo, the shit ain’t healthy.  Are the big laughs and good sex worth all of the screaming and pure, unadulterated, high blood pressure inducing fuckery?  Methinks not.

So, there you have it.  Now all you’ve gotta do is make sure that you order the right meal at the right time.  Sure, at some point you’re probably gonna need a nice, fairly healthy entree to get the job done.  But damn, that don’t mean that you can’t grab some cakes and pies from time to time or get you a couple of appetizers to go!  Sheeeeeit, they got a Two for $20 special up in this piece!

Know what you’re eating and why you’re eating it.  Then you can enjoy your meal for what it is without starving yourself, i.e. taking a sex sabbatical, feeling guilty or leaving the table hungry.  Bon appétit!

3 Comments

Filed under Relationships, Sexuality

Sex Sabbaticals, Unicorns and Other Lies

Don't cheat yourself...treat yourself.

The ability to lie to oneself about matters of sexuality is one of the most captivating aspects of the female psyche.  Accomplishing that requires a degree of mental fortitude that most unconflicted, straight men simply cannot achieve.  We do alright when it comes to lying to women or other men, but we just don’t give enough of a shit to pull the wool over our own eyes.  But women…women are different.  You really want to believe the BS that you’re selling to everybody else.

I think my favorite example of this amazing mental wizardry is the sex sabbatical.  You might not be familiar with the term (I may have just coined it…gotta look into that), but I’m sure you’re familiar with the concept.

The idea is that a woman gets so fed up with men that she decides to give up sex for some amount of time.  Actually, that’s just the sex sabbatical in its weak form.  The strong form dictates that the woman gives up dating altogether.  In both cases, she approaches this commitment to revirgination with the utmost gravity and dedication, like an addict just starting the march up the famous 12 Steps.

Unfortunately, just like her drunk and drugged counterparts, our heroine is just one false move from falling down those steps and bustin’ her ass, or in this case, having her ass busted.

Given the right stimulus, you will gone ‘head and get you some.  A little Riesling, some Adele playing in the background, just the right combo of kisses on your neck and pressure on the inside of your left thigh…and you’re off the wagon.  But hold on before you sign up for rehab, babygirl.

Sex is fundamental to the human condition.  We quite literally need it, not just as a species, but as individuals, and denying our desire for it is futile at least and self-destructive at worst.  That’s why the whole sex sabbatical phenomenon is a big, fat, blueballs-inducing shame.  But who would put themselves in that predicament in the first place?

There are only two types of women that would arrive at the ridiculous conclusion that they should forswear sex.  The first one isn’t capable of maintaining consistent relations with men in the first place, or as one female friend of mine said, “she ain’t on a steady d*ck diet.”  That’s a classic sour grapes scenario of course, and for the purposes of this entry, not worth discussing.  The other kind of woman is different though.  She’s on a quest for power.

For some reason, real or imagined, this woman feels that sex has been her personal gateway to pain.  As such, her mission is to regain control over her emotional life by blocking all entry to her Hidden Valley, thereby cutting heartache off at the pass.  The problem is that this is a shortsighted measure.  Men absolutely need to be responsible with women’s feelings, especially after nastytime.  Y’all are delicate, and shit.  But would Mr. Voltron have been any more sensitive if he hadn’t already slayed your robeast with his blazing sword?  Childhood anime references aside, if you didn’t have sex with him, would he have treated you differently?

I think not.  Holding out on sex might keep a ravenous man well-behaved for a while, but it’s not going to change who he is fundamentally.  If dude is an unkind, inconsiderate prick, keeping him away from the goods ain’t gonna make him appreciate you more—it’s just gonna make you excruciatingly horny and ensure that he keeps regularly banging that waitress at Applebee’s.  I mean, he’s gonna keep doing that regardless (ummm…he’s a prick), but at least you’d be getting some action, too!

Oh, and I interrupt this entry to bring you a very important news bulletin: not every guy you date is an asshole.  The man sitting across from you might be a really cool person who sees you as a whole being, not just a piece of pie, waiting to get cut up.  So, while y’all may not end up together over the long haul, there’s no reason why you both can’t enjoy a little desert before dinner.

Look, it’s obviously not a cool situation when the bull’s been dragging you around so long that you don’t even wanna ride the muphucka anymore.  Who wants to get yanked and jerked around ’til they’re dizzy, then thrown down hard to the ground?  OK, men…don’t answer that.  Seriously though ladies, you can’t get the pleasure without the pain.  That’s the price we pay to live life fully.  So when it hurts, you just gotta brush yourself off, grab them horns with both hands, hop on top, and ride ’em, cowgirl!

3 Comments

Filed under Relationships, Sexuality

Your Cheating Heart: Infidelity Is a State of Mind

Dude, you’ve got a LOT to learn.

It’s a pleasantly warm and bright Sunday afternoon.  On one of the first real days of spring, the squirrels are playfully scampering around the path to your boyfriend Kevin’s apartment, and there’s more than a touch of excitement running through you, too.  You’re about to pay your man a surprise visit to celebrate this gorgeous day.

As you thrust the key into the lock, the butterflies do that little dance in your tummy.  Elated smile.  Walking in, those same butterflies rapidly morph into 50 pound stones.  Pained grimace.  You find yourself open-mouthed, staring at Lucinda (the only female friend of his that you never worried about) in a bright red apron, four-inch heels, what looks to be MAC Lady Danger lipstick, and nothing else, bent over the stove with Kevin behind her.  You do NOT like the smell of what they’re cooking.

In fact, it’s safe to say that you’ve probably lost your appetite for the entire week.  But should you lose your boyfriend, too?  Probably not, and there are two good reasons why.

First off, in all likelihood his cheating had nothing to do with you.  Yes, he broke a promise and probably your heart, right along with it.  For that, he’s as wrong as two left shoes.  But there’s a really good chance that his feelings for you are still just as strong as ever…it’s just that Lucinda’s ass looks like it’s pregnant with twins.  His embrace of her body is not a rejection of your love.  Dude just got caught up in the bootyliciousness, and I’d bet good money that if you give him a choice, he’ll choose you.  If he doesn’t, then that means that you didn’t have his heart in the first place.

The second, more important reason why you might wanna reconsider closing the door on Mr. Lova-Lova is the fact that you ain’t no angel yourself.  Please, don’t look all shocked.  Yeah, you may not have physically done anything with your colleague Jamal, but you damn near got carpal tunnel rub-a-dub-dubbing to mental images of him in the shower.  Plus, on more than a couple of occasions you even used him as a tool to push you toward the “little death” on those nights when Kevin just wasn’t killing you hard or fast enough.  Oh, and since y’all work together, you go to lunch with Jamal at least twice a week, and when he can’t make it…your day just isn’t the same.

In my book, that makes you just as guilty as Kevin, if not more.

Yes.  Kevin was definitely burying his bone in somebody else’s backyard.  But you were having a whole ‘nother relationship with another man, complete with full on muthaphuckin’ emotional attachment!  Where I come from, any real relationship is built on emotional bonds, not physical ones, so I’d say you and Jamal were going steady…even if it was only in your mind.  I mean, your mind is the most important sex organ after all, and we’ve known this for millennia.  The Bible says that “whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.”  I may not believe the theology, but I’ll be damned (hopefully not) if this ain’t one of the Good Book’s many nuggets of wisdom.

Where the scriptures get it wrong is on the moral implications of said burning yearning: lust is a perfectly natural, amoral emotion, not a sin.  You couldn’t stop yourself from lusting any more than you could stop poor white folks in Texas from voting against their interests.  But, what you can do is acknowledge that those desires abide within both you and your partner.  Don’t try to live in the illusion that no one else exists, ‘cause that will only lead to an unhealthy relationship with dangerously repressed feelings bubbling just beneath the surface.  Science has my back on this, people.  Apparently, being forced to block out other options actually ends up weakening a person’s resolve to stay committed, and who wants that?

So breathe for a second, little one.  Collect yourself.  Slowly walk over to the kitchen…and disrobe.  On top of being the only girl-friend that you never suspected, you always thought Lucinda was sexy as hell.

Hey, it’s a beautiful day.  Time to put a little work into your relationship!

14 Comments

Filed under Philosophy, Relationships, Sexuality