But Cuntlove is now closed for the foreseeable future.
I’m not a huge Chris Isaak fan, but I’ve always liked that song. Maybe, because it speaks to a part of me that wants to do bad things just for the hell of it, or maybe it’s because of the two strong memories I associate with it. One, Stanley Kubrick’s last movie. Two, a play I was once involved in. Either way, I like it, and it’s a perfect fit for the impulse I gave into last night (or early this morning rather).
I don’t know what the temperature is like in your part of the world right now, but where I am, it’s hot as a motherfucker. The sun is blazing, the air is thick, and the only thing I have to cool myself off is one lonely fan.
As most of you know, I’m a freelance writer, which means I work from home, which means I make my own schedule, which means if I don’t enforce some kind of routine, I usually go to bed when the sun is rising.
Falling asleep is impossible when the sun is creeping through my curtain and the birds are chirping, so when I finally decide to head on over to bed, I cover my window with multiple thick towels and I’ve taken to wearing earplugs in the last few days to keep the sounds of birds starting their day at bay.
Wearing earplugs is always a strange feeling. It blocks out most surrounding sound, but it also amplifies the sound of your own heart and breathing. It reminds me of that scene in The Graduate where Dustin Hoffman’s character is wearing a scuba diving suit and all he can hear is his own oppressing intake and release of air among the chatter of his parents idly sitting by the pool. That scene speaks of alienation and dissociation to me.
That’s how I felt last night (or early this morning rather) when I was lying in bed with the suffocating air pressing against my skin with the sound of my own breathing to keep me company. My breathing and my laptop, and by extension a million other people who, in different time zones, were starting their days instead of putting an end to them.
He was awake and online; the signs where there. I sent him a simple Facebook chat consisting of his name and I waited for a response. The “hey, what’s ups?” and “how are yous?” out of the way, I didn’t waste anytime. I asked him if anyone was reading over his shoulder, because what I was about to write wasn’t meant for the eyes of significant others, kids, or co-workers: “It’s 6am in my part of the world, I was just about to go to bed. I wanted to tell you that I will start masturbating in the next thirty seconds. Something for you to think about while you go about your day.”
I got a “Goddamn” out of him and a request: “Please think of me all the way to the end.” “Maybe,” I said, “but I can’t make any promises.” I signed off, but not before he had the time to write: “Perfect answer.”
My orange foam earplugs were still blocking out the world around me; there’s nothing like cutting off one of your senses to make you feel disconnected and with my laptop closed and pushed to the edge of my bed, all connections were cut. I was alone, engaging in a solitary act that is all about the self, all about engaging your own senses for one purpose only: pleasure, but by telling him what I was about to do, I felt strangely connected to someone half-way across the world.
I did think about him all the way to the end, and I’m hoping, no, I know, I was filling his thoughts at the precise moment I made myself cum; once, twice, three, four time, and maybe, just maybe, he felt a twinge of pleasure when I let his name ride a moan out of my mouth into the humid summer air.
Yes, I know, I’ve been away. I’m not dead, I wasn’t lying in a ditch somewhere, nor was I hospitalized in an institution for the criminally insane. I don’t have a good excuse for not blogging; I just didn’t wanna. So there you have it, just good ol’ irresponsible lazy me, but baby, I’m back. At least, until the next time “I just don’t wanna.”
Now, that the trials and tribulations (or lack thereof) of Olga (referencing yourself in the third person is the new black) have been covered, let’s move on to “Broad Smacking.”
I was slapped by a guy once, across the face, hard. To be fair I slapped him first, but then again, he asked for it. He wasn’t being a dick (okay, he was being a dick), but he literally asked me to slap him. You see, I was a loudmouth eleven year-old hanging outside our local cinema. Listening to a bunch of older guys talk shit to each other like I belonged, when I made a joke that didn’t sit well with one of the gentlemen in question. I don’t remember what I said; it might have been something along the lines of: “Punch him.”
Yeah, so I was young and thought making a bad situation worse was cool. Dumb move. One of the guys turned around and decided to take his anger out on me. Long story short, he asked me to slap him. I didn’t move a muscle. Everyone’s attention was turned to me. He asked me again. I let my hand fly. My hand had barely landed on his face when he lifted his arm and gave me one hell of a good one. He was big, he was a lot stronger than I was. It hurt like a bitch.
I was also beyond humiliated. One of the many lessons that taught me to mind my own damn business, especially when my actions where motivated by something as stupid as wanting to fit in or be cool. That slap hurt like a motherfucker. I’ll never forget how the force of it made my head fly to the side, knocking me off balance.
It was incredibly shocking to be hit like that. I didn’t know what to do. One thing was for sure though, I would never show that guy how much it hurt. I walked away as tears welled up in my eyes. Had it killed me, I still wouldn’t have blinked.
The strange thing was how nobody said a word. Everyone just stood around in stunned silence. It was as if all these people could feel the sting on my cheek and were afraid to move in case they made it worse.
I wonder if anyone actively remembers that incident besides me? One thing is for sure, it wasn’t caught on video:
I don’t know where I was or what I was watching when I came across this video; all I know is that I bookmarked it in my “blog post leads” folder for future commentary.
I feel like I should go on some feminist critical tangent, but to be honest, I kind of find the video funny. Of course, I don’t think violence against women (or violence of any kind) funny, unless it’s a guy falling through a manhole cover, but this is the movies, people; you’re allowed to enjoy or find amusement in things you wouldn’t otherwise like in real life. Not that a good spanking isn’t fun, occasionally.
Looking below the surface though, it’s easy to see that “smacking broads” was much more acceptable in the Golden Age of Hollywood than it is today, you know, a good, fast, efficient way to calm a hysterical broad or put her in her place. That alone says a lot about social norms and how they’ve changed. Nowadays, when you see a broad gets smacked in a movie, which doesn’t happen very often, it’s usually meant to shock and dismay you.
Of course the above video doesn’t address any of the underlying issues inherent in violence, domestic or otherwise, against women, but I think that’s okay. Sure, it makes light of a deeper societal problem that affects many people, but I don’t think it glorifies it either.
Besides, the song used in the video is kind of ironic, or contradictory, which I dig, as you may or may not have noticed with my use of pulp artwork.
A lot of people get upset when topics like: rape, abortion, domestic violence, etc, are talked about through the filter of comedy, but I don’t think we do anyone a service by continuing to address these subjects through the all serious dramatic veil of saintly decorum. Yes, they are serious topics, but we need to open the dialogue up to different styles of speech and expression.
For us, for anyone, to get anywhere, it has to be possible to have casual/light conversation about these subjects, if only to make it easier for everyone to have a voice.
Confrontations give me heart palpitations. When faced with something that upsets me, I shut down. To some people the statement “I don’t know how to deal with conflict” won’t ring true. It’s not like I’m shy when it comes to expressing my opinion, disagreeing with people or even being argumentative, but given a certain set of circumstance, when faced with conflict, I can feel myself growing cold and hard… pulling back from myself, from the person who upset me and the situation itself.
I haven’t had a drink or touched drugs in over a decade, but in those moments where my body turns cold, I remember what it was like to use “mind-altering” substances to shut out the world around me or at least experience it in a different way. I don’t miss it per se, but part of me would like to fall back into old habits and addictions just so I could enjoy that familiar numbness, but it didn’t really work that way back then and it wouldn’t work that way now.
When my best friend of fifteen years and I had a falling out a few years ago, I reacted in much the same way. Her “accusations” made me defensive, but mostly I stopped registering any emotions and my reaction can only be described as “checking out.” I didn’t handle it well. Had I exploded in anger maybe things would have blown over and we’d still be friends today, but I shut off. I retreated within myself and wrapped myself in an invisible blanket of hard cold steel.
I have a great poker face. If only I knew how to play poker. Instead, that particular skill turns me into a roadside attraction where passersby can stop and gawk at the incredible woman who can withstand a sucker punched to the gut without even blinking. There might be internal damage, but you would be none the wiser.
There’s no need to look very far to figure out when and where I developed my stellar conflict resolution skills. Blah, blah, blah, child of a messy and explosive divorce, blah, blah, blah, alcoholic father prone to bouts of occasional meanness. The ability to shut down and weather the storm might have served me when I was kid, but what now? My 31st birthday is fast approaching and I don’t want to turn into a rock every time someone I love treats me in a way I deem undeserving.
Loosing my temper isn’t a better alternative, and there’s just something about telling someone I’m pissed off in the midst of the situation that scares me. Yup, that’s right, scares me. What if my reaction only causes more conflict? What if they don’t want to talk to me anymore, because I tell them the way they’re treating me is pretty damn shitty?
Can anyone say fear of abandonment? All together now, once more with feeling.
Of course, you can’t just hang on to feelings of anger, because that shit will make you bitter or, gasp, passive aggressive. A long back and forth of “you did this” and “you did this” and “this is why I’m right” and “this is why you’re wrong” doesn’t appeal to me either. And once I’ve cooled down, I always wonder whether I’m being too sensitive or whether I’m overreacting. Shouldn’t I be able to take things less personally? Shouldn’t I be able to let go? Live and let live and whatnot.
But then, you’re stuck in the same situation where you’re not being treated in a way that sits well with you; stuck in a situation that makes you unhappy or worst of all filled with anxiety. I suppose, the answer isn’t that complicated. There’s a way to express your feelings and your expectations in a calm and direct way. It’s not that hard really, but in that moment where my body and my mind turn to ice, it’s incredibly difficult to figure out what my feelings and my expectations are, let alone find the words to express them.
The guy in the picture doesn’t seem to mind the view.
When I was in high school I was horrified by the idea of someone (okay guys) seeing me put makeup on. I got over that in my late teens early twenties. Hell, I would go to the laundromat across the street wearing a clay mask on my face. There’s no shame in letting other’s see what you do to make yourself “pretty.” The illusion is fun, but it’s not worth feeling shame over.
Good posture does go a long way, but so does being comfortable.
I don’t know about you, but she looks like she’s having more fun than he is, which I count as a point in her favor.
Oups, I’m always re-arranging my bra in public. People don’t seem to mind though, except maybe my mother, but everyone else seems to like the view.
Road safety first, ladies.
PDA isn’t for everyone, but I don’t think I’d answer this dudes call for a second date if he shot me that look for touching him in public.
Oh tears, why must you always be the downfall of women?
This one ain’t bad, I’d be irritated as hell if I as on a date with a guy who was talking about the “good time” he had with someone else. That’s just disrespectful, but “men deserve your entire attention.” Pshaw.
God forbid you talk about something other than him.
Sloppy drunks are never attractive, but seriously, “some girls seem clever, but most get silly”? I don’t even drink, but this makes me want to have one or two.
On a date, no one exists but the the man you’re with. Come on now, that’s just common sense.
Dating a guy like that would make me want to take a nap too!
My mom is visiting for a couple of weeks, she’s been here since Monday… leaving not this Friday, but the next, I believe. Why does any of this matter? Because, I’m a freelance blogger, which means I work from home and my life for the last three days has been like the last 8 seconds of the commercial you see up-top.
She keeps talking to me, and I keep telling her I’m working. This is happening RIGHT NOW. Continuously. It’s driving me crazy, and it’s making writing very difficult, so don’t expect too many updates this week or the next. I can barely get my work done without an interruption every four seconds.
Just wanted to let you guys know that’s why I haven’t been posting on the regular and probably won’t be until she takes off. Ahhhh mothers, can’t live with them, can’t live without them.