Coffee Rhetoric: Sex
Showing posts with label Sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sex. Show all posts

March 11, 2013

The Intersection of Madness & Reality Cross-post: Lil Wayne, Emmett Till, & Rap's Misogyny

This post (written by Intersection of Madness & Reality contributor, Livication) was originally published February 22, 2013.

Why Lil Wayne’s Emmett Till Lyric was Also a Women’s Issue


I love hip hop. Loving something doesn’t make it free from legitimate criticism; there is a history of certain rap/hip-hop artists maintaining a certain attitude toward women and in discussing this in my personal conversations, I’m often brought back to a chicken-egg conversation. Do artists have a responsibility to restrict their message because some of the people who receive their work may not be capable of examining and properly critiquing it? Do audience members (and whoever may be responsible for them) have a responsibility to withdraw from supporting the artists that they like when they are offensive, outrageous, and disgusting? I’d argue yes, to both.

So, yeah. Lil Wayne is featured on the remix of Future’s song “Karate Chop” — which appears to be about selling cocaine, riding in fancy cars, and generally blowing money — and yet again, he’s offended the masses. As an artist, I often wonder if certain things are untouchable; as an activist (and supposed decent human being), I know that many people abide by our social mores and the cultural understanding that we have of the difference between ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ and behavior that is simply in poor taste.

And along comes Lil Wayne. Not-in-his-defense, I have found that our objections of the really awful things that he says aren’t particularly for all the right reasons. For example, the latest hubbub is based on Tunechi saying: Beat that p*ssy up, like Emmett Till.

As with anything, we should look at the lyric in it’s full context. So, Weezy’s full verse, if it provides any source of context for you, says:

March 06, 2012

The Disintegration of Black Sexy Times

As a young girl, I’ve always been a bit curious about porn, and while it never prompted any deep desire in me to sneak and watch anything particularly hardcore; I did develop an affinity for the erotica shown on Cinemax after 11pm as well as, finding and then reading Jackie Collins's titillating plots, Erica Jong's Fear of Flying, and the illustrated wonderment of The Joy of Sex. I found adult literature and cable erotica far more compelling.

I didn't watch hardcore porn until I was in college, with my best friend. We watched out of sheer boredom and because we wanted to know what it’d be like (as two young women) to blatantly walk into an adult video store, rent a porn DVD, and watch the puzzled look on the cashier's face. We walked down to the college town's local video store and picked something from the late seventies/early eighties, much to the store cashier's amusement,  as expected.

The flick we chose and brought back to the dorms featured an interracial raunch-fest; Basic man-on-woman boning, nothing too shocking or sexy, and void of anything particularly depraved and disgusting. It was the usual cheesy porn fare, in fact. Neither of us found the antics sexy or arousing. We laughed raucously and critiqued the clownery the scenarios and uncompromising positions. Other than an art house flick there and here- (like the movie Short Bus, Romance, and 9 Songs; which featured un-simulated sex)- I haven’t felt any pressing interest or need to rent an actual DVD.

Over the years... after having watched and read a great deal of behind-the-scenes documentary style films and books, I came to realize that most mainstream porn that’s distributed, directed, and produced by men, isn’t erotic or very female-audience friendly. It features distorted visions of how women should look and the ridiculous sexual positions we should be bent and twisted in. I've never been one of the detractors screaming for the industry to be wiped from the face of the earth. That being said, a lot has changed with the porn industry. The ever increasing advances in technology, the internet, video cameras, webcams, and the like have made porn more accessible and more achievable for aspiring porn mongers. Any amateur can film their sexual exploits and upload them onto Xtube or Pornotube with relative ease. In turn, the industry has become a virtual free for all. College fraternity houses host parties where group sex and orgies abound, while their peers (men and women spectators) stand off to the side, cheering the guerrilla fuck-fests... clutching beers, fists pumping in the air.

These "gonzo"  films have raised-- (or lowered, depending on how you look at it) the stakes... and the stakes have become even more disturbing in their delivery. The acts women subject themselves to is enough to make the most hardened, difficult to offend person cringe. And it takes a lot to make me want to gag (no pun).

I recall watching a compelling documentary some time ago called, Sex: The Annabel Chong Story, which documents- Grace Quek's (Porn name, Annabel Chong) - rise, exploitation, and eventual fall from the porn industry. Annabel allegedly pioneered the whole "gang bang" trend in the industry. Nothing was too graphic or hardcore for her. She performed a diverse array of hardcore sex acts, including "triple penetration." Annabel's motives for starring in The World's Biggest Gangbang were troubling as the documentary delved into her past. Needless to say, in some respects the current wave of pornography breeds misogyny and perpetuates racial stereotypes about women, particularly the gonzo films featuring Black, Asian, and Latino women and mostly White mal antagonists who take trips to urban areas or under developed countries, in search of "Black ghetto sluts" or African prostitutes willing to oil up, shake, and then spread their cheeks in a seedy looking hotel room, on film. The perpetuation of sexual stereotypes is what frustrates me the most. I believe in people having the right to engage in whatever consensual sexual act they desire, but I would love to see more sex positive images in porn, especially those depicting Black women, which is why I’ve been so intrigued by the history of Black pin-up/adult models and our image in the adult industry and overall media. And why I love and appreciate the photography work of Carnalas Vidal and what Scottie Lowe of Afroerotik is doing and whose company exists to provide people of African descent a place to escape the narrow-mined, stereotypical, limiting and oft-times degrading beliefs that abound about our sexuality.  No, not all Black men are driven by lust by white flesh or to create babies and walk away.  No, not all Black women are promiscuous welfare queens or willing to do any sexual favor for money. “
While I don’t expect porn to be riddled with deep, complex plots and soft, romantic interludes; I wouldn't mind seeing a shift in the very limited images featuring women (and even men) of color, rather than the racist portrayals that continue to pervade the industry. To my knowledge, I don’t know that there are any Black porn producers and distributors… or any Black female porn producers, directors, or distributors who aren’t perpetuating these stereotypes.  

This criticism of the porn industry isn’t about being a prude or even about taking an anti-porn stance. I'm merely challenging the habitually crude images portraying women (and men) of color. It makes me wonder why people continue to frame my folk within this type of based sexual, "ghetto gagger"context. And while I'm sure Black women in the industry don't think folks should be ringing the alarm, it doesn't negate the fact that the racist elements presented in porn definitely sexualize Black women in a negative way and sometimes those ideas spill outside the confines of porn. Porn aficionados, please weigh-in...

Also read: 

April 29, 2011

Guest Post: Watch My Vagina Dentata-- (WARNING: Adult content NSFW)

Recently, while catching up on some interesting flicks, one film of note I'd seen several times before, was the comedic-horror flick, Teeth. A seemingly feminist manifesto of sorts (written and directed by a man, no less) about a young virgin named Dawn with a mean case of Vagina dentata, whose delicates snap, bite, and dismember any man trying to violate its orifice without her consent, including a male gynecologist who tries to molest her upon learning it's Dawn's first experience being examined. I started imagining the power every woman would have if her vagina were able to reject unwanted penis forced upon her during an attack or wayward penis that played games and whispered sweet nothings and lies ... Interesting concept when told from the perspective of the movie.
I did a little research on  Vagina Dentata and found its folkloric origins intriguing. It's apparently every man's fear of sex... that a woman's toothed parts will castrate and eat his throbbing member during intercourse. I'd be willing to wager the fear is derived from the age-old masculine dread  (and misunderstanding) of the vagina. The many myths that involve women always seem to revolve around the mysteries (and in many cases, evil) of her vagina. Psychologist and Carl Jung alum, Erich Nuemann relays one myth in which a fish (major side-eye over it being a fish) inhabits the vagina of the Terrible Mother archetype (a Jungian theory)- who is saved by a male hero who eventually overcomes her... breaking the teeth out of her punany, causing her to become a "real" woman. Chinese myths also dictate that a woman's vagina is not only the passageway to immortality... but "executioners of men." Another Muslim adage says: "Three things are insatiable: The desert, the grave, and a woman's vulva."
In any event, female genitalia is the most intriguing, hated, loved, studied, desired, feared trope and idiom of any part of a woman's anatomy next to her breasts and perhaps large posterior. It's the one part of a woman's body a man can't even begin to truly understand or inhabit, despite grunting and panting over top or underneath her with every painstaking thrust or exploration of the tongue. Therein lies the speculation that breeds suck folklore, perhaps? In the same breath, many women don't even completely understand the intricacies and power of her womanhood either, most of us don’t even like touch ourselves let alone utter the word VAGINA in and of itself and so have resorted to calling it a vajayjay or some other equivalent name. Interesting and compelling thought...

October 02, 2010

A Double-Standard Situation

Preface: I watch the foolery known as Jersey Shore. That is all. 
MTV's Jersey Shore... my emotions run the gamut... I laugh, I yell, I throw major shade, I cry (but not really). While most of the general populace (read: those people who refuse to admit they've indulged in an episode or two) - might respectfully disagree, the reality show chronicling the tom foolery of a group of mostly Italian American adults- (I must admit, I'm glad to see Black folks get some sort of reprieve after Flavor of Love and Frankie & Neffe) -  fist pumping, fighting, GTL'ing, and screwing their way towards instant fame and fortune, is a lesson in sociology. This second season alone (which kicked off on Miami's South Beach), presented some rather uncomfortable scenarios that had social media outlets buzzing with furor. Most notably, the dysfunctional on/off/on, co-dependent, and dare I say abusive relationship between Ronnie Ortiz-Magro and Sammie "Sweetheart" Giancola in which Ronnie lovingly calls his beloved a bitch and a cunt, sloppily hooks up with women and then drunkenly returns to the beach house to climb in bed and spoon with Sammi... but not before cockily bragging about his intentions to do so.
Watching that volatile segment unfold was most disturbing. Couple that with the way the other male roommates round up eager women at the club, as if they're cattle... judging them on a scale of DTF to Grenades... and then running on the opposite side of the club to round up another half dozen, in the event the fugs don't suffice, and you have yourself a formula that'd make you vomit. Which brings me to my primary analysis... 
The male roommates in question: Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino (a 30 year old muscled Alpha-male type, who's gelled and overly spray-tanned to perfection, with chiseled abdominal muscles that distracts from a visage only suitable for drunken, lights-off loving) leads the cattle call as his cohorts (DJ Pauly D and Vinny) eagerly follow suit. Collectively, the triumvirate of trick-masters refer to themselves as MVP (to reflect the first initials of their respective names), and giddily bring a seemingly endless supply of women by the cab-load in and out of the house... dismissing them aloofly when they've had their fill, and then later pow-wowing to giggle and reflect on their conquests.
Enter tortured roommate Angelina... a slovenly, obnoxious, insecure young woman who espouses a false sense of bravado by proclaiming to be the "Kim Kardashian of Staten Island" (no comment), and who is also an outcast amongst the roommates for a number of different reasons. Angelina gets major flack for having "hooked up" with all but one of the male roommates in the house. She's perceived as being passed around, called fat, and crucified for bringing men back home to lounge with. In essence, for essentially mimicking the behavior of the male roommates who bring women in and out like it's Grand Central Station. "Staten Island Dump" she's christened. The Situation, the most non-discerning (despite rumblings to the contrary) and promiscuous roommate in the house derisively opines, "Angelina is like the Staten Island ferry. It's free and everybody gets a ride." 
Angelina also decides to keep time with a lovestruck chap named Jose. Jose buys Angelina a Fossil watch, despite not having slept with her. The house is incited to raucous chorus. They chide Angelina for refusing to sleep with Jose, despite being the owner of a new Fossil watch... they ridicule her for having sex with roommate Vinny after a drunken night out and despite having argued heatedly with him a day or two prior (can't ever be sure of chronology with editing). Damned if she does, burned at the stake if she doesn't, Angelina lies and says she did in fact, have sex with Jose when she's accused of ruining his birthday because she refused to put out. The chorus bellows!
Angelina is further embarrassed her in front of friends and prospective lovers; Mike "Situation" calls her a "dirty little hamster" after loudly belittling her in front of her bff and a newly acquired guy picked up at the beach, for leaving a dirty sanitary napkin on the bathroom floor... 
"Hey Angelina, how's Jose? How many men have you slept with in 24 hours??"
Mike presses on in front of Angelina's male companion... who is growing visibly uncomfortable during the altercation. Situation calls her a whore, so forth and so on... not withstanding the fact he had drunken, loud sex the night before with one of his club conquests, who he adoringly made an egg sandwich for the next morning. 
Another scene that got under my skin is when the male roommates (3 of whom have had relations with her), pontificate about Angelina's sex life. "She's a whore..." they mutter and grunt... "I never met such a dirty woman like that..." grunt ...then this -> "Men do that... that's what we do. Women aren't supposed to do that..." grunt... grunt. And Why not? Why can't a woman explore her options and sexuality without being labeled a bottom feeder? Why Angelina and not the women they drunkenly carry home from the club? Why are egg sandwiches a lounge lizard's due but  not Angelina's? It's because anytime a woman dictates the terms of her own sex life, she is seen as wanton, dirty, or whorish... that's why. Perhaps the women who agree to bed the likes of Situation aren't considered sluts because they're feeding his (and men with his belief system), ego. When a man is not at the helm... coercing a woman to have sex, if she goes out and dates freely... not necessarily even sleeping with whatever man of the moment she engages, she's held in low-esteem. 
An after-show follow up finds Vinny explaining that there're certain women a man sleeps with and disrespects and another type you wine and dine. He argues that he used his penis "as a sacrificial lamb" to sex The Staten Island Dump with, so he could brag "you didn't say that last night" in the event they had any future arguments where she further accuses him of lacking game and looks... *blank stare*
On the flip side of the coin, does a woman not have a right to desire to settle down with a quality man of means rather than a jerk with no discernible accomplishments other than his kissing abilities, six-pack, and skills in bed? What's good for the goose is good for the gander, no? 
I honestly don't see how a woman who obliges a man's request to go home with him for a one night romp is any better than a woman who determines who she will have sex with, on her own terms, without being prompted by a man to do so. Promiscuity has its pros and cons whether you're a man or a woman. It can be both disturbingly empty, vile, and irresponsible... or it can be liberating, mature, and ... responsible... depending on what one's reasons are and their mental/emotional state. This revelation is not exclusive to just women. 
One shouldn't get the green light, while the other is expected to yield when it comes to matters of sex. In this day and age, that is not how it should work. Jersey Shore definitely offers interesting insight on the dynamic between men and women co-habiting with one another. The result is a sloppy amalgamation of today's sexuality and yesteryear's antiquated expectations/treatment of women mixed with male privilege. The male cast of Jersey Shore are definitely awash in the whole Madonna/Whore complex. Do I only get a pass and an egg sandwich if I'm DTF as opposed to my LTF also known as a "zipless fuck"?

Other interesting and related links to consider:
College Girl's PowerPoint "Fuck List" Goes Viral
Free Herself
Promiscuity: Educated Women vs. Hood Girls

Rent: She's Gotta Have It, Romance, The Last Mistress, & Anatomy of Hell

April 02, 2010

The Persecution of Ms. Badu

I don't have cable. The delectable bits of trash I do get to watch are courtesy of my mother's digital cable box, when I have the pleasure of visiting for the weekend.
Ofttimes, I shake my head (while still watching) at the train wrecks colliding on the screen: Young women on "reality tv" jumping into hot tubs... obscured nudity jiggling in the wind or clawing one another's eyes out in a fit of rage as their boobage and delicates burst through the seams of too tight clothing for all the world to see. Thonged asses and commando-ed vaginas (aye-aye captain) flap free amidst the chaos. Not a problem. Ratings booster!
I also love to watch music videos, most of which are par for the course... The grandiose donks  (read: big butts, fake or otherwise) gyrate and twerk in the camera, struggling to stay contained sheathed behind dubiously fitted hot pants... some parts of their bikini-ed bottoms distorted just enough to make it past the network's Standards and Practices department. All of this current comehither lasciviousness notwithstanding, I am reminded of the furor Janet Jackson caused during her performance at Super Bowl XXXVIII when her adorned breast popped out for the briefest of brief moments. After which she found that same dirty pillow branded with a piping, hot scarlet letter. People were not pleased, despite her pleas for forgiveness, regardless of the fact that the media and the very network looking to air her immodesty out at the public square took a blink and you'll miss it moment, slowed it down, and played it repeatedly, despite being offended by the moxie of the act: A tit breaking loose from its harness for the briefest of seconds.
Flash forward a few years since Ms. Jackson's "Nipplegate." We've seemingly evolved even more where the grandeur of the female form in all its voluptuosity,  is par for the course...  considering several petulant nipples, butt-cheeks, and vaginas have cried out in protest since that incident in a united front in public under the glare of public scrutiny, and for pop starlets who are taking a queue fromn the Video Vixen book of trickery... succumbing to re-marketed aesthetics at the suggestion of male record executives and managers... winding their hips and carefully manicured poontangs in nothing more than a skimpy top, taut thighs, and heels in an effort to sell more records. Pants be damned! We've evolved... or perhaps not, since creative mind, beautiful eccentric, keeper of the 'izm that snakes upward like a cobra ... allegedly causing men to swoon, and accomplished musical artist Erykah Badu's new video for her single, 'Window Seat,'  has incited the public to chorus. Erykah cites guerrilla filmmaking as a method, as she methodically walks through downtown Dallas, stripping away layers of clothing until she's completely naked, in the name of art and near the same location JFK was assassinated ... but some naysayers aren't feeling it.
Please get into my argument....
Why is it when a woman (especially a Black woman) takes charge of her image and body, and projects it in a way she sees fit... particularly when it's in the name of art, the public finds it obscene? Lest rappers are asking challenging questions and making demands like "How Low Can You Go?," and  "Gimme that Becky!, or the likes of Hugh Hefner doesn't put you on the cover of Playboy or make you 1/3 of his harem, a woman's body will never be beautiful, unless the rules are dictated by the patriarchy and the media.
I'm still struggling to find the obscenity in Erykah's message and visual: Which essentially, is to break free from societal norms and to formulate your own thought process.
Perhaps if she were stripping within the subtext of Playboy or King Magazine ... bent over in a teeny-weeny bikini... hands placed over bare breast to titillate and cause massive erections for the male populace and/or being violated/beaten/brutalized on film, she wouldn't be facing charges for "public indecency." America seems to be okay with the exploitation and violence shown toward women, but we're damned if we dare have orgasms on-screen (see the documentary 'This Film Is Not Yet Rated'  or express the splendor of our bodies via our own visions, on our own terms, shouted through our own voices.

That is all.
*Perhaps due to its controversy, video links are no longer readily available. 

March 04, 2010

Leave Me Alone!

Black women. We've been labeled as Mammies, Jezebels, Golddiggers, Undesirables, and now Tragic Figures?  Yes, 2010 seems to be The year of years to bash Black women, in yet another redundant cycle of trash talk about why we are, the way we are. Some might read this post and disagree, but then those of you who do probably aren't Black women and are whispering under your breath for me to shut my gob because, Michelle Obama is this country's First Lady. It's just that simple, really. *insert side eye here.* 
It seems as if every publication I read, or program I watch has an article or segment discussing why Black women are single. Forget the construction of the pyramids or the Bermuda Triangle. ... Black women being single in high numbers seem to be the mystery du jour! To hell with finding a cure for AIDS or getting over this country's health care, job, and economic crises. Black women are single and it's our own fault. The world needn't be bogged down worrying about the important issues... but should mull over my love life instead. You see, Black women... we're just too driven and unyielding. We're difficult to please and our need to find our place in the world and plant our flag is off-putting... apparently. How dare we try to better ourselves or even entertain the notion of having (insert danger music here!)... EXPECTATIONS. Not to mention we aren't trying nearly as hard enough to look like the vixens in the rap and R&B videos. 
According to these articles, newsreels, blogs, and public forums of the like, seems like the only, and I mean THE ONLY way Black women can reconcile being tragically single is to date White men, and ONLY White men. This White Knight In-waiting, will apparently salvage what's left of our lonely years, and is a last resort to prevent us from dying alone with nothing more than a house filled with cats, all of which would undoubtedly nibble away at our rotting corpses. To hell with dating someone who has mutual interests, regardless of his skin color or ethnicity. Who cares if you like various types of men from all walks of life, with GREAT PERSONALITIES, or if you're even interested in going that route? Racial/Ethnic fetishization is definitely the solution to our habitual singledom! Non?  *shrugs*
Listen, I don't know why my sex and dating habits have become public fodder for the media and various other men and people to pick apart and scrutinize. I guess the fact that many Black women aren't rocking back and forth in a corner or curled up under the covers in a fetal position, because no one has "put a ring on it"... or aren't bemoaning the fact that we're single or unmarried doesn't occur to those of you doing the judging and marking ticks in your little notebooks. We aren't the only group of women who live singly, however, our White counterparts are merely single, looking, and living footloose and fancy free a la 'Sex And The City.' They're simply exploring their options and building their careers until Mr. Big catches their eye and having a great time playing the field in the interim. Why can't this simply be the case for Black single women as well? Why are we scraping the earth for scraps, clucking around like confused chickens... looking for any remnants of a good man... rather than just exploring infinite possibilities and having fun too? 
Everyone's an armchair anthropologist or sociologist these days, especially when it comes to Black female sexuality. Our femininity... our desirability is constantly up for debate. Men (especially) have mucho jokes and take low brow swipes for days talking about our appearance, our attitudes, and our personalities. Residents holed up in their glass houses, throwing stones. Black women aren't good enough because we want better... or at least according to Black male comedians and social critics turned dating experts, with dubious track records of their own.
I've grown tired from reading these statistics about the numbers of Black women who aren't hitched. Why is this even newsworthy? Why is anybody still single in this complex era of love and dating rules? Moreover, why am I being told to date this type of man or that type of man... do *this* with your body, but not *that* by critics who can't even fathom... who don't even know my core and all of its wonderful complexities? 
Men, the media, and so called experts on Black female sexuality can tout off a long list of reasons why Black women are single and the primary, b.s. song is that our standards are too high. The last time I checked, having standards (within reason), is a common thing to expect. Men also are notorious for having outlandish standards, and those very same standards could also be indicative of why many of them are hopelessly single and are prompted to fly overseas to woo desperate and eager foreign women. Most of those who're anti-standards seem to be sub-par to mediocre at best and so complain the loudest about a Black woman's high standards.
At the end of the day, I'm single because I've chosen to be. Because I'm preoccupied with various other things in my life that fulfill me or keep me too busy to lament over such nonsense. Perhaps it's also attributed to my impetuous and overly sophisticated bon-mots and risqué coquetries... perhaps not. I'd like to think I'm a little more multi-layered than most would have me be. 
No one has the right to dictate the reasons why so many Black women in America are single, and claim it as fact. There is no one, fundamental reason why. It just is, what it is. We aren't some abnormal sub-species. And anyway, mind your own damn business. That is all.

July 16, 2009

Order In The Court

I've noticed an annoying trend in courting rituals. One more small annoyance to add to the already difficult process of dating. Texting. I am not one of those self-righteous, anti-technology people who goes on boring rants about the evils of social networking, texting, and mobile phones. As annoying and impersonal as those outlets can be, I am very pro-gadget and technology. While it has it's cons, technology and social networking has made it easier to keep in or get back in touch with long lost friends, enemies, frenemies, and prospective employers. Many things in life have negative aspects to them... you couldn't pay me to travel back to the dark ages. Advancement in technology is not the sole vice or annoyance society has to grapple with. The phenomenon is only as stupid as the moron accessing it... which brings me to my primary point.
Men- (I can't speak for women, because I don't date women and many of the ones I know aren't this inconsiderate, but I'll be fair and say I'm sure they're just as guilty)- if you've just met a woman for the first time, made out with her, groped her, etc... and you've decided "Wow, I like her and I want to talk to her and get to know more about her beyond this point" and you insist... DEMAND that she give you her phone number... and you make a point of programming it into your phone while she's standing there, then CALL her. This texting bullshit as the FIRST official attempt at communicating ... "Hey sexy" and "wat u up to?" is nothing short of rude and disrespectful, and it's not a good first impression. Not to me and many of my friends anyway.
How do you expect to develop any type of rapport with someone you supposedly like... or want to hop in the sack with by TEXTING grammatically lazy phrases??
Behavior like this is vexing and agitating. Myself? I may give your brusque and short messages the side-eye, and after careful consideration, might even respond a few times. I may even give you the benefit of the doubt that you'll actually CALL and I'll hear a live voice either on my voicemail or in real-time at some point throughout the course of the courtship. I'll do you one better; In the past, I've responded to text messages by leaving a voicemail, saying "Hi," asking to "Give me a call when you get the opportunity." Which means, TAG, you're it! Your turn! Only to get yet another text in response, RIGHT AFTER I've left the voicemail! After a VERY short while, your texts WILL go ignored! Trust this.
I will flat out refuse to respond, assuming that you have no desire to actually TALK for 5 or 10 minutes, which is enough time to determine someone's personality and whether you want to ask them out on a date. I'll assume that you aren't interested in setting up a time to meet up and that you have no real interest in me as a person, and that you're only wanting to waste my time by playing electronic footsies with your cyclical, same sounding two word sentences. ... "Hey sexy. Wat u doing? Wat u wearing?" Level headed and tech-savvy folk in the know realize that "wat u wearing?" is code for, "send me a topless photo, and I'll send you a pic of my genitals."All before being asked out on an ACTUAL date for coffee or a glass of wine, because you'd rather wile away valuable time sexting messages like some sexually precocious preteen: "i want u so bad. wish u were here."
Listen, I text more than the next person, but I'm usually texting with people I KNOW. People I have connections with. People I also chat to on the phone. My close and best friends, my sisters, my mother, acquaintances I pal around with, someone I've dated, don't despise and have maintained a friendship with, so forth and so on and I'm not making an ALL DAY AFFAIR of it. If I don't KNOW you and am making every attempt to GET to know you within the context of dating, and you don't reciprocate that gesture, then you may as well kick rocks. And don't you DARE send me a message at 1:00 in the MORNING asking, "hey u up?" OMG!! R U SERIOUS!? How dreadful! Moreover, don't respond to my obvious exasperation with your thoughtless time wasting, texting : "I thought u liked me ???" or "It's just easier to txt cuz am on the run." If you're on the run, then BE ON THE RUN! How about contacting the person of your desire when you AREN'T "on the run" and have a moment to spare.
Look, I'm not one for walking down the street or going about my daily activities, jabbing at my phone's keypad like crazy. I understand that some people love it, but my thumbs get tired, it wears on my nails, more importantly it's distracting and detracts from whatever it is you're doing. As many people as I see running their pie holes on the phone while en-route somewhere, that "on the run, can't actually call" excuse is utter doo-doo. Texting sentences on a small keypad, on the run, seems like it takes more effort than talking to someone for 3 seconds to say, "I'm out and about, just wanted to call to say hi and that I'm thinking about you, we'll talk later though!" and then you hang the eff up. Don't ask for someone's phone number if you have no intention of talking to them. Get their email address instead if you want to type at them.
Cut this foolishness out. It's not a good way to connect with someone you supposedly want to learn more about. KNOW them first before you start texting them a bunch of nonsense. That is all.

September 01, 2008

Dante's Inferno

There's a new book out. Yet another manifesto that feasts and nibbles on the fleshy insecurities and perceived shortcomings of women. Because Tariq "K-Flex" Nasheed's Art of Mackin' and The Mack Within' needed a supplement. Because men are infallible masters who hold all the answers to life's complexities and one of their primary purposes is to guide us wayward women into a magick fairyland where we would gladly submit ourselves to a life of passivity and servitude.
In any event, this latest fuckery is entitled, The Re-Education of the Female and it's written ever so eloquently by computer engineer and first time author, Dante Moore. Moore-- described by Washington Post writer Laura Yao as a well groomed, heavyset, baby-faced, 33-year old with neatly twisted dreadlocks-- professes to love women, and that he wrote this book to help us along .
Moore was also raised in a matriarchal household, and his father was mostly absent. His mother insisted that he treat women like, "queens." But as Dante aged, he came to the realization that his mother was oh so very wrong. See, he discovered that acting like a douchetard toward insecure and needy women, made the phone ring off the hook, much to his delight-
"My mother used to say, walk them home from school, grab their books, give them gifts, blah blah blah, yada yada yada. I went like that for maybe two years, and I probably lost every girlfriend that came along- Once I started being myself and saying, 'look, I'm not going to do this, this, or that for women,' the phone didn't stop ringing, "
The kicker is that Moore was able to train his girlfriend of two years, into dressing sexy on the daily and even prompted her to clean the house looking like a femme-fatale.
"He's wonderful. He's one of the good ones." She coos lovingly (I assume she cooed lovingly). Despite succeeding in brainwashing gaining the adulation of his girlfriend, Dante still claims to not have found "true love" as yet, which would explain why he's not hitched, even though he has an impressionable 11-year-old son to doucheify. Yao neatly summarized the crux of Dante's literary point: Women need to Cook, clean in sexy-hot attire, bow down to a man's every command, put out, and stay skinny if they want to snag and keep a man's interest.
"I like someone of a certain size," Dante rambles on. "My preference would be African American, size 10 or under, conscious about her history and culture."
Miseducation Re-Education of the Female reinforces Dante's preference in this excerpt in which he charmingly compares women to rotten fruit--
"The fatter you get, the more you decrease your potential single-man pool. Let me give you an example. When you go to the grocery store to shop, do you pick out the nastiest-looking, most rotten, smelliest fruit or meat you can find? Oh, you don't? Why not? . . . It's the same with men when they see baby elephant-sized, out-of-shape women."
If Dante Moore's douchery still doesn't illuminate, read this excerpt from Yao's interview with him, in which he fumbles an attempt at being evasive about his dating history--

Though generally reluctant to discuss the specifics of his dating life, Moore does talk unabashedly of a time he broke up with a woman over the fact that he inadvertently almost stole $15 from her.

He took her on a date to Maggie Moo's, and she gave him a $20 bill to order for her. He pocketed the bill and, distracted by the menu board, claims he never saw the value of the bill and just assumed it was $5. When his date later asked why he hadn't given her change, he thought she was accusing him of not treating women well, and dumped her on the spot.

"If I would've just paid for it, had she not given me the money at all, we'd probably still be dating," he says.

This incident, he recalls, happened about two months ago. But weren't he and Tuitt (the trained girlfriend) "exclusive" during this time? Moore quickly revises it to "several months ago," he can't really remember, but probably before he and Tuitt "became exclusive."

Dante's bottom bitch girlfriend later covers for him, saying he probably made a mistake with the time frame, for he's "open with everything he does."--- (queue the collective Bitch PLEASE! and eye-rolls). Laura Yao concludes her expose by mentioning that a 14-year-old girl enthusiastically purchased the book promising to lend it to her mom when she's done reading it, and that a "large stack" still remained during Dante's underwhelmingly attended book signing, that particular day.

Unfortunately, this is what relationship advice has been reduced to. Insecure and bitter men doling out wordz of wizdom to other insecure, bitter men seeking validation and this overwhelming need to rate or condescend to women, not to mention the naive women who will undoubtedly fall for this hype, because they are sick of waiting by the phone (when they should be doing something far more productive).

I've extricated myself (unofficially yet gladly) from the market sans regret, and must admit that while annoyed, I can't be angry over books (or ideas) like this. All one has to do is find the comic relief and entertainment in its message. To read between the lines and wonder why yet another man, would go out of his way to write such a bittersweet symphony about the evils of womankind.
I'll bet Moore almost exploded into a million teeny tiny douche pieces when his book got picked up. All the more reason to gloat and pound his chest. Why not just enter into a legitimate BDSM relationship, complete with a signed contract and willing participant, if he is that intent on dominating and subjugating a woman?? At least it'd be a lot more honest and less bullshitty. I also just LOVE how he considers us FEMALES and not WOMEN. Makes me all shivery. If Dante Moore is indeed, considered "one of the good ones" as his loyal girlfriend claimed, then I'd rather find some Aggressive to do the scissor with. Look, everyone is entitled to having preferences when it comes to what they consider aesthetically appealing. I'd be lying if I said certain physical traits on a man didn't attract me. And admittedly, Dante Moore appears to be an attractive looking man. And while I believe I can pass for being quite attractive despite my flaws, I don't walk around pretending to be perfect looking or that everyone should want me because I think I'm goddess's gift. I'm realistic, and while my expectations are up there, they're within reason... with the bulk of the emphasis being on intellect and whether or not a man is respectable and respectFUL.
I am sick of dudes lumping ALL women in the same categories due to their own personal experiences:
  • Golddiggers,
  • Unappreciative,
  • Hyper-sensitive,
  • Gullible,
  • Not attractive or mindful of her appearance due to having some meat on the bones,
  • Expecting the world to revolve around her
  • Uncooperative.
We're automatically uncooperative and high-maintenance because we want to be treated respectfully? I'll be the first to admit that many women may be conflicted over that concept and will send mixed signals... and blow off a genuinely nice guy, no matter what he does for her, but the majority aren't. Trust. I mean, I could neatly classify ALL MEN under the same categories and write them ALL off for the following reasons:
  • Jackass
  • Douche
  • Disingenuous
  • Unreliable
  • Too Dumb
  • Not packing in the meat department
  • Fug
  • Blathery
  • Uneducated
  • Boring
  • Poor
  • Old
  • Impotent
  • Sloppy
  • Unstylish
  • Misshapen
  • Dogs
  • Liars
  • Cheaters
But I don't, because I realize one's personal experience with a few isn't indicative of the sum total of a whole lot. And more importantly, most of those labels and rating men based on bullshit standards are unfair. It's a shame that a few bad dating experiences from seemingly ungrateful women resulted in Dante becoming crass, bitter, and cynical enough to pen this book. Rather than suggesting that women need to be "re-educated", perhaps he should get some therapy and explore the things that may very well be wrong with him as well. Women who fall for men who treat them poorly have deep rooted issues they need to work out. i.e. the women who seemed to call Dante once he started treating them like yesterday's bowel movement. Or the groupies Dante met during his signings and whispered their phone numbers in his ear. I'm tired of guys of Dante's ilk thinking perfection is their due, when they have a looooog way to come themselves ... physically and especially intellectually. These distorted and unrealistic perspectives regarding what womanhood entails. Par for the course as far as the patriarchy is concerned. I am a LADY who would not give this type of base chauvinism the time of day. Get a fucking uterus, a pair of tits, some culture, and a clue and I just might engage you.

I shall certify Dante with Massengill's stamp of approval for exerting the effort, for having a great smile, and more importantly- for successfully conning his girlfriend.

June 26, 2008


I'm no prude. My mouth and mind emit and harbor some rather colorful and randy thoughts and commentary. That aside, every now and again I will meet the acquaintance of a phrase or piece of slang that'll make me either giggle with glee, shrug my shoulders indifferently, or roll my eyes, perplexed by its sheer stupidity. Yesterday was no exception, for I recently discovered the term "No Homo." Which has been in use for some time, apparently. Ridiculous and awkward sounding... its meaning is even more nonsensical. basically defines No Homo! as a phrase one shouts out after having inadvertently said something, well, 'gay'. Anonymous contributors offer up a wide array of witty examples (and I'm copying and pasting them verbatim. Grammatic errors and misspellings intact) such as: Hay man, pass the nuts. No homo and I cornered him in my room and nailed him with a board. No homo. Or my personal favorite: 'yo homie, i just spent five hours talking with my man on the phone, no homo'
Apparently, yelling out "NO HOMO" after having made an ambiguously homosexy sounding comment, is supposed to cancel out a heterosexual man's femme side or make him seem even more virile. How butch. Non? I opine that it's just another way for some chauvinist, insecure fuckknob- (conflicted over his own sexuality)- to unnecessarily assert his manhood, because he may perhaps (I'm just speculating) harbor some deep, dark, sexy fantasies involving Leather Bear Daddies, lithe... sinewy Twinks, and silicone butt plugs.
What better way for a man to feel like a MAN than to indulge in a daily dose of homophobia? It's simply not enough to hoot and holler in a strip club or pour Cristal and money all over a hooker, for that's just a whetting of the MAN'S appetite for destruction. I'd be willing to wager that this term is born out of the RAP (notice I said RAP and not Hip Hop) culture of posturing, dick swinging, and champagne dreams and delusions of making it rain on some ho's. Just saying... NO HOMO!

May 09, 2008

This Little Bird's Coming Out of It's Nest

Dear What'syourname,

I thought it over for the briefest of moments... a very brief moment. As I sit here, even now, munching on Cherry Berry Nut Mix, interrupting my red wine thoughts to ponder your proposition... the answer is fat chance. I don't think so. Absolument pas! Nunca! Aller merde vous! Basically the totality of my final answer is the equivalent to No. But thank you anyway... which is an unequivocal and emphatic, Not in this lifetime... ever again. Have a great weekend though... sans moi.

xoxo Coffey

November 10, 2007

The Disintegration of Sexy Times

I've always been indifferent toward porn. It has never prompted any deep desire in me, during my precocious pre and late teen years to watch out of curiosity, amid all the salacious buzz. Sneaking a peek at the erotica on Cinemax after 11pm, finding and then reading Jackie Collins's titillating plots, Erica Jong's Fear of Flying, and the illustrated educative wonderment of The Joy of Sex was it for me. I didn't watch hardcore porn until I was in college... with my best friend. We watched out of sheer boredom. We walked down to the town's local video store and picked something from the late seventies/early eighties, much to the cashier's amusement. It featured an interracial raunch fest. Basic man on woman boning. Nothing too shocking or sexy and void of anything particularly depraved and disgusting. The usual cheesy fare, in fact. Neither of us found the antics sexy or arousing. We laughed raucously and critiqued the clownery of it all. Pure comedy. We decided perhaps we were too intellectual and snotty to get it. Other then a porn clip online here and a legitimate art house flick there- (most recently the movie Short Bus, which featured unsimulated sex)- it hasn't interested or enticed me since. Despite the rash of filmed celebrity sexploits being "leaked" online. Over the years... after having watched and read a great deal of "behind the scenes" documentary style films and books, I've came to the conclusion that porn is not erotic, is silly, quite frankly, ridiculous. Most of the pornographic material being released is filmed and produced by men. Men and their distorted visions of how women should look, what ridiculous sexual positions we should be bent in, and how we should act. Despite rumblings to the contrary, I doubt any of the women acting in these films have any actual orgasms. Hair flinging, head whipping, and high pitched 'O' and fuck yeaaah sounds, I'm sorry but the orgasm is fake. All in all, it's harmless fun for the lonely, lecherous, and in some cases... the socially inept. I've never been one of the protesters screaming for the industry to be banned. That being said, a lot has changed with the porn industry. The ever increasing advances in technology, the internet, video cameras, webcams, and the like have made porn more accessible and more achievable for aspiring porn mongers. Any amateur can film their sexual exploits and upload them onto Xtube or Pornotube with relative ease. In turn, the industry has become a virtual free for all. College fraternity houses host parties where group sex and orgies abound, while their peers (men and women spectators) stand off to the side, cheering the guerrilla fuckfests... clutching beers, fists pumping in the air. All in front of the camera and easy to view over the internet. These "gonzo" type films have raised the stakes... and the stakes have become even more disturbing and depraved in their delivery. The acts women subject themselves too is enough to make the most hardened, difficult to offend person cringe. And it takes a lot to make me want to gag and then vomit in my mouth or turn away with disgust. Some of it is downright perplexing. Such as the compelling documentary Sex: The Annabel Chong Story, which documents- Grace Quek's (Annabel is her porn name)- rise, exploitation, and eventual retirement from the porn industry. Annabel allegedly pioneered the whole "gang bang" trend in the industry. Nothing was too graphic or hardcore for Annabel. She performed a diverse array of hardcore sex acts, including "triple penetration." Annabel's motives for starring in The World's Biggest Gangbang were troubling as the documentary delved into her past. Needless to say, this current wave of pornography breeds misogyny and encourages violence toward women. Spat on, slapped, pissed and defecated on, penetrated and fisted in every orifice by several different men at once... It's sickening. And it's distressing. Particularly the gonzo films featuring Black, Brazilian, and Latino women. Men take trips to urban areas (usually scouting in a van of some sort) in search of "Black ghetto sluts" willing to oil up, shake, and then spread their cheeks in a seedy looking hotel room, on film. The perpetuation of sexual stereotypes frustrate the hell out of me. Two steps lower and more debased than the garbage shown in rap videos. And those in and of themselves are bad. I'm open and believe in people having the right to engage in whatever consensual sexual act they desire... but some of this stuff is troubling, notwithstanding my liberal stance. And it's not behind closed door. I think challenging what's wrong with the porn industry as it depicts itself today, does not a prude or anti-sex type make. I do believe there's something wrong with people who don't challenge this sort of behavior, the women who willingly subject themselves to this sort of humiliation, and the men who encourage them to do it or who are sitting at home with their hand down their boxers watching it and then thinking it's okay to go out and mistreat women, outside the realm of that business. In fact, I'll go as far as to say that the behavior in these gritty porn movies- the degradation, the abuse, the spitting, skull f*cking, quadruple penetration, crude talk, choking etc. are anti-sex. Here's a small snippet from Robert Jensen's book, Getting Off:

It hurts to know that no matter who you are as a woman you can be reduced to a thing to be penetrated, and that men will buy movies about that, and that in many of those movies your humiliation will be the central theme. It hurts to know that so much of the pornography that men are buying fuses sexual desire with cruelty.

It hurts women, and men like it, and it hurts just to know that.

Donkey punched, penises rammed down their throats until they puke, heads dunked in toilet bowls while they're being reamed from behind, faces saturated with semen and pee, wanting to jizz on a woman's face... Is this the type of sexual interaction men are craving to have with women?? Do you all secretly fantasize about making some woman vomit, while you force your penis down her throat? If so perhaps I should get my delicates stitched closed and look into becoming a nun.
Read a more substantial excerpt from Jensen's book here.
Also read this Money Shot entry, from October 29 blogged by Girl with a One Track Mind.

September 03, 2007

August 04, 2007

Bearded Lady

I hate body hair. I've been an avid shaver since the age of 12 and use depilatories and creams (provided they're safe, hypoallergenic, and wont skin me alive). I don't get hair on my legs but I shave the imaginary ones I know are there anyway. The only visible hair I acknowledge is the thick, coarse mass on my head. Luckily I'm not a woman who requires electrolysis, monthly bikini waxes, and who needs to shave her chin. I think my complex about body hair developed during my middle-school years.
Whilst taking a pre-pool shower before the required swim class I resented in the most violent of ways- (we had to get suited up and then rinse off, in a communal shower- any body lotions perfuming our persons, before diving in the pool, so as not to get residue in the water)- I happened to look to my immediate left at one of the more popular girls in my class, rinsing off and talking animatedly to her friends while they waited to walk with her to the swimming pool. She wasn't addressing me at all. She didn't even look in my direction but that didn't stop me from looking in hers, to listen to whatever superficial rant she was rambling on about. I hate myself terribly because I also happened to look down. In the Netherlands, I noticed she had a thick, black, coarse Chia Pet growing out the sides of her green one-piece. The beast couldn't be contained, and so it snaked it's way from each side... mocking me. I was horrified. I averted my eyes quickly and scurried to the pool. Needless to say, that experience scarred me. I rushed home right after school, found a men's Bic razor in the medicine cabinet, and shaved my delicates, arm pits, legs, you name it, I shaved it off. I shaved it off and never looked back. I shaved with passion unbridled.
Fortunately I have minimal amounts of body hair and shave the ones that sprout up a couple times a week. As far liking men with massive amounts of body hair and unruly beards, I prefer long, unkempt beards and hairy backs. That being said, I met a good male friend of mine for a drink a few days ago (his treat). My dear friend. Attractive, well dressed, with a keen fashion sense. My friend of the nice light brown skin (a result of Italy intermingling with Africa). I feel confident relaying this story because I know the likelihood of him reading it is... well... not very likely as he's not technologically savvy nor does he have access to the internet and rarely ever web surfs (knocking on wood). My dear, attractive sweet friend. Whom I've known for a spell and who I always suspected was closeted behind thick winter sweaters, coats, button downs, shoes, and summer apparel. Tucked waaaay in the back behind the "in case I run out of laundry" wear. His choice. His demons to slay. I stand behind him regardless. I just would like to see him happy. I'm a huge supporter of his (prospective) brethren. They make my heart dance and sing. I understand why they choose the rainbow as their symbol. I'm a self-described hag and think it's important for people to be themselves and not hide what they can't help being. I keep my mouth shut regarding such matters, because it's not my place to dictate to someone when they should be themselves. Anyway, my dear friend seemed rather flirty and touchy-feely... leaving me flummoxed. He threw me off even further by relaying an erotic dream he had about me. Despite my confusion, I responded the way any mature adult would. ... "EWWWWWWW!!!!! UUUUGHHHHH!!!"
"You weren't saying that in the dream." He said, coyly.
I clasped his hand in one of mine and used my other to pat his, platonically and friendlike and then quickly changed the subject. I turn 30 in a matter of days. Lately, I've been singing the praises of singledom. I enjoy my solitude more and more and appreciate it for what it is. That being said, I'm not dead nor am I desperate. I don't want to live out the rest of my single days playing a beard. It's not a lifestyle I envisioned for myself and it'd make for a pretty inactive and boring sex life, no? That charade would also be murder on my drain pipes and a bitch to sweep up, as it'd grow wilder and more bedraggled... becoming evermore out of control and hard to manage, that not even Nair or Epilady would be able to contain it.

November 02, 2006

Beautifully Broken

I called in “sick” today, in hopes of decompressing and getting some laundry and other domestic things done. I did have a bit of an upset stomach, but not uncomfortable enough, to warrant my playing hooky.

Needless to say, it’s 10 minutes past 9pm, and I’ve yet to launder the load of linen and towels I planned on doing this morning. I will though.

While I lazed about, not doing anything beyond drinking coffee, logging onto MySpace, showering, brushing my teeth, and watching Judge Mathis and reality-tv of the like, I also managed to stumble upon some titillating and erotic weblogs, and have been glued to my computer for the bulk of the afternoon. These particular weblogs center on the BDSM lifestyle and all it entails.

There’s one extremely well-written and detailed blog in particular (explicit pictures are featured) that at once repulses and intrigues me. I’ve always wondered what prompts a person (usually female) to enter into a consensual relationship, where they succumb (wholeheartedly) to someone, mind, body, and soul; choosing to acquiesce to the sovereignty of an unrelenting Master. I’m flummoxed as to how a person tingles with anticipation… knowing they’ll be flogged, branded, made to sleep on the cold floor whilst chained to the bedpost, made to wear a butt-plug, or anal-extender (my sphincter tightens at the thought) for an extended period of time, or told to act out some squalid sexual deed.

While I know basic things about the Marquis de Sade, and how he may very well have influenced this brand of unconventional sex, reading these blogs prompted me to further investigate the mechanics of this lifestyle a little bit more. I learned interesting phrases like “vanilla”; which applies to those of us who engage in relatively standard sexual activities. I mean, us vanillas have flown (or are currently flying, as I type this) the freak flag every now and again, during intimate moments, but probably nothing as intense and methodical as sadomasochistic relationships.

While I’ve no desire to enter into this type of relationship myself (I’ll leave it to the experts), I’ve always been intrigued by reading other people’s accounts of their alternative lifestyles (see Delia Day). My interest was first piqued many years ago, after reading Pauline Reage’s “The Story of O” and then watching the film adaptation of the same name. I also found myself reading and flinching at Anne Rice’s (written under her the pseudonym A. N. Roquelaure) “The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty” series (yup, I'm a closet debauchee and voyeur).

While many of us are repulsed by, and in some cases outraged, by the BDSM lifestyle- (particularly since it seems to be contrary to everything women fought against… or at least that’s what many of us may believe)- we are still intrigued (despite whatever protestation we make against it)- I know I am.

To each his or her own, undoubtedly, different strokes for different folks, as they say. I suppose us “vanillas” will never understand what we don’t truly know about, something that goes way beyond and outside the realm of what we’re used to. I know that when I first stumbled onto the aforementioned blog, I was disgusted, flinched at the visuals of her torture (yet I could not stop reading this woman’s discourse on her life as a willing sex slave or as a self-described “married man’s fucktoy”). My antipathy is what prompted me to, at the very least, learn a little about this practice- (as it also aroused my interest in Fellini's Satyricon, all things Catherine Breillat, to read Pauline Reage's novel, and to complete Anne Rice's Sleeping Beauty series, etc.)- so as not to partake in it myself, but to understand and further respect someone else’s right to succumb to humiliation and pain; moreover, my constant need to understand the many layers of human sexuality (I think I lived one of my former lives as a sexologist). We’ve all stumbled onto our parents' stash of erotica (or snuck it out of our local library) and giggled under the covers or muttered “ewww” as we greedily absorbed the visuals and words.

Either way, for obvious historical and cultural reasons, I completely and emphatically refuse to become anybody’s slave... just not my bag … but I will continue to lurk on the outskirts and indulge my curious mind, as if I were 10-12 years old, precocious, and giggling in the privacy of my room at the images illustrated in The Joy of Sex, or over the content of Erica Jong's, Fear of Flying (more my bag).