For Ladies Only

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Knowing how to make men hard doesn’t necessarily translate into an understanding of the penis.

The latest sexting scandal to involve New York mayoral candidate Anthony Weiner (what an unfortunate name!) means that more and more perplexed women are asking me to help them understand “what’s up” with men and their penises.  Here’s what I say:

Imagine you’ve just stepped out of the shower, your hair shampooed, conditioned, and rinsed…and…and…

And you can’t get your stupid blow-dryer to work!  No matter what electrical outlet you try, you’re frustrated.  You stomp around the house…not one of the outlets works!

That’s what it’s like to have a penis!  You’re constantly looking for a place to plug it in.  (I wish I could take credit for that wonderful imagery, but I heard it from a stand-up comedian a while ago.)  It’s the best explanation I have when genetic girls (GG’s) ask me what it’s like to have a penis.

In theory, a special girl like me (who still has a penis!) would possess some kind of profoundly unique wisdom — and so could act as an honest broker in the endless war between the sexes.  But since my cock has always seemed to act just like a Big Clitty, I don’t know how much help I can really be.

Still, I’ll try…. so in coming posts I’ll share all my most private penis secrets.  I promise!

Decisions, Decisions….

Am I doing this right?  Posing for a camera is harder than you think!

Am I doing this right? Posing for the camera is harder than you think!

Do I dare? Go topless, that is. It’s commonplace — going topless — at beaches and spas around Europe. But, still, I worry and wonder.

Most men couldn’t tell — and wouldn’t care if they could — but I know most women could spot right away that I’ve had implants. “Not real,” their eyes would say. And if my boobs aren’t real, what else about me is not real, too?

I’m inviting needless scrutiny.

And then there’s this: I think tan lines from a bikini top are incredibly sexy. Don’t you?

The Facebook Effect

 

Sex Objects or Zombies?

Sex Objects or Zombies?

To say I’m a sex object is like admitting I’m a zombie.  Not an oxymoron exactly, but how can an object have self-knowledge?  How can it even know that it’s an object?  As for zombies, one of the classic definitions is “bereft of consciousness and self-awareness.”   Just an animated corpse, right?  I don’t know why I’m going on a riff about zombies when the subject (and object!) is sex, but anyway….

Hey, babe, how R U?  “Ping” goes the sound signaling a new instant message on my laptop. So annoying:  I must get hundreds a day, and if I try just ignoring them, the senders’ desire only intensifies and the pings grow more insistent.

Woke up thinking of you, baby, my cock so hard.  Another ping, different sender.

Bisou chère!  Yet another ping.  Anyway….

Most of my friends and followers are guys, of course.  “Followers” – that sounds so creepy, doesn’t it?  But no, surely it’s a positive thing, this term, with a meaning more like fans than stalkers.  And my fan base is truly global.  Anyway….

I don’t have a bimbo’s clue how it all works, with its computerized algorithms and whatnot.  All I know is that it does works.  Facebook, I’m talking about.  Just to take my smartphone and snap a self-shot in the bathroom mirror and post it on my timeline – saying something fatuous like, “In my new demi-bra and matching panty from Victoria’s Secret getting ready for work….” – and suddenly I have a score of new friend requests.

I want to ravish you!  Another message goes ping.

Yes, I admit it, I’ve fashioned myself into a sex object.  If that’s what it takes to get attention, then, yes, I proudly proclaim: I’m a sex object!  Plus, I must confess that it’s an incredibly good sensation — to know I’m so desired — as if I’m having sex 24/7.  It makes you feel so alive, truly alive, just the opposite of a silly zombie, right?

Already, in the six months I’ve been on Facebook, I have over 4,000 friends and thousands more followers.  I sometimes wonder how my life would be different if only I had gotten on Facebook sooner.  But like a lot of women who preferred to use their leisure time curled up with a good novel or flipping through the pages of a fashion magazine, I had smugly scorned the whole notion of what’s called “social media.”  Which seemed to have about much relevance to my real life as a zombie (there’s that word again!) or something equally outlandish.

Now everything has changed….

Shopping for Meaning

The Thinker?

The Thinker?

For answers to life’s most enduring mysteries, go shopping.  I have my best, most profound thoughts while trying on clothes in a store’s fitting room — all alone, just me and the mirrors, and clothes,of course,  lots and lots of clothes, different styles, different looks, different sizes!

As many choices, seemingly, as there are stars in the universe….

From the suits the sales associate has left with me, I slip on the cobalt blue, raw-silk skirt.  It fits perfectly.  But the matching jacket is another matter — much too tight around the shoulders!

This happens to me a lot.  For there are no hormone therapies or surgical procedures that can diminish my studly broad shoulders.  When the store offers the jacket and skirt as a pair that cannot be sold separately, the ethical dilemma becomes:

Do I tell the sales associate that I need to mix and match?  Or do I just do it?  (And secretly hope that the next customer will have the opposite problem to mine, namely narrow shoulders and broad hips!)

The disembodied voices coming from the adjacent stalls are of no help.  The chatter belongs to women who have their own consequential choices to make.

It’s dangerous to have too much time to try on clothes.  The temptation is to luxuriate in the possibilities, to experiment with endless looks as if a teenager.  Then the paralysis of perfectionism sets in. Before you know it, the morning’s gone.

But the world has kept on spinning:

There’s news chatter about the U.S. “alienating its European allies,” and I think of ugly clothes that don’t turn heads.

“Actionable intelligence” sounds like a snug micro-miniskirt.

And “the end of history” must mean androgyny and unisex (sooooo boring) fashion.