Archives For Relationships

I woke up with my ass covered in a sunset of bruises, ranging from angry red to purpley-blue. My neck was sore and my scalp tender from having fistfuls of my hair pulled. My lips felt swollen and torn and my throat was streaked with finger marks.

It had been a fantastic night.

 

I like rough sex. I’ve been a pain slut for as long as I can remember, all the way back to college when my then-boyfriend used to tie me up and whack me with a hairbrush.

I need a partner who is dominant to my submissive sexual nature. I’m not into it as a lifestyle; it’s just a kink I like in bed. I’m not even sure how kinky it is, given some of the shit I’ve stumbled on while searching tumblr for cupcake recipes in the wee hours of the night.

I also love porn. In the pre-Internet 1990’s, the Ex and I had to drive into the Bronx like degenerates to buy our porn from sketchy porn purveyors. We had a sizable collection. My personal favorite was a 19-tape cheesy fake-lesbian series called “Where the Boys Aren’t.”

I have never publicly expressed my predilection for being sexually submissive, and I have only touched on my fondness for porn, because I often questioned my own desires. I was afraid that I was colluding with misogynists to objectify and dehumanize women.

Is my love for porn enabling an industry that is incompatible with feminism? An industry that profits from debasing women, forcing them to do things they would never otherwise do? I have read some chilling accounts of former porn stars who claim just that.

Even now, with this article – am I writing from a place of privilege about how I can ‘choose’ to be oppressed, when so many women face that in real-world scenarios, sexual and otherwise?

Does BDSM and porn contribute to the inequity of women?

I think not.

Women everywhere get off on the power play that sexual dominance and submission represents. Many may feel guilty about admitting it, but it’s pervasive. Long before ‘Fifty Shades of Gray’ (which isn’t even a true BDSM story, but seems to have been mistaken for one), BDSM culture has been eagerly consumed in film, literature and music. Sexual power-play tropes were packaged in Harlequin romance novels your mom bought at the supermarket decades ago. #YourMom #ThatsRightYourMom #DealWithIt

And why do you think the “smokey eye” look is considered to be so sexy? It looks messy, smudgy; reminiscent of having been up to naughty things, like having a dick smeared all over your face.

 

Sweet tender lovemaking doesn’t do it for me, never has.

I dated a man I referred to as ‘The Cop’ on social media. He was a great guy; in fact, he was a favorite among my Facebook friends to the point where a gaggle of them were planning our wedding (???). When the relationship ended, I attributed it to our vastly different schedules, but in truth, we were sexually incompatible. He was passionate, but always tender and gentle, and when I wanted him to spank me, he said he was too much of a pussy protector to ‘hurt’ me. He didn’t care for my filthy language in bed, either.

Every time we were together, I left with my stomach knotted in sexual tension. I was craving creamy chocolate mousse cake and being fed a dry Triscuit. I would leave him and end up sexting with an online friend I know affectionately as “Hot Buttered Sock Puppet.”

To be clear: the degradation and debasement of women is not a turn on for me. I’m picky about what sites I go to. I look for sex positive behavior where two (or more) people are together as equals. I object to women being used as demeaned receptacles; I prefer porn where her pleasure is every bit as important as his. Some people refer to this as “feminist” porn. I only know that if I am watching rough sex on-screen, I have to know that it’s consensual.

 

In light of the recent election, I am not being extremist when I say I fear a bleak future for women, one in which we have been stripped of all of our most basic rights. I believe there has never been a time when it is more important for women, for people, to stand together. I have become almost paralyzed, to the point of not wanting to write.

I’ve finally come out the other side of this. My declaration of feminism is more important that it’s ever been. To that end, I refuse to hide my brand of sexuality. I am who I am, and I like what I like. And I am a feminist.

I am wholly self sufficient. I have not now, nor have I ever been, financially dependent on a man. I have been supporting my child since he was born. I raise him without gender stereotypes. I’m his mom, and I’M the one who taught him to ride a bike, play basketball, throw a punch. I believe in the power of women to create world change. I champion women emotionally and artistically and in every way I can. I do not view other women as competition, but as comrades.

I know that there will be anti-porn feminists who disagree, who purport to speak for women, but I don’t fall within their victim narrative. The fact that I love porn, and that I enjoy being sexually submissive, is not a backtrack from equality. As a rape survivor I can state unequivocally that consensual sexual fantasies are not rape. They are FANTASIES, which by definition, makes them NOT REAL.

My sexuality is not a brochure for my political views: it’s how I fuck. It doesn’t model my values; it just gets me off, and it gets me off no where other than the bedroom.

 

Are you kinky? Fess up!
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

(I’ve gotten a bunch of emails from people wondering how I am. I’m GREAT! I will try not to disappear again! I’m working on several writing projects, some music projects, and busy with several life changes but I don’t want to stop blogging. I love you guys!)

The Phone Call

September 23, 2016 — 69 Comments

phone-call

 

“So, basically you just said anything so you could fuck me, is that it?”

He answered without hesitation.

“Yes. Of course!”

His blunt honesty dumbfounded me momentarily, the way an oncoming headlight blinds you. Disoriented by his unabashed admission, I blurted out a rhetorical, “But why?”

“Why do you think?” he said. “Because that’s what men DO. We tell you what we want to hear so we can have sex with you.”

I wanted this to not be true, despite the fact that I believed it was. I should have hung up on him right then. But now I felt like I had stumbled upon a tunnel into a secret room where All The Questions would finally be answered truthfully. And I am a truth seeker.

“All men, all the time? Or just you, because seriously, you were relentless!”

“Oh, you were definitely work,” he said, “but I knew if I kept feeding you what you wanted to hear, I’d get you eventually. But yeah, all men, all the time. Married, single, whatever. We say what we have to say so we can get laid. It doesn’t have to be true. It just has to work.”

I needed air.

I cracked my car window open and the cry of cicadas suddenly filled my car in surround-sound. They were louder than usual, and harsher, as if their haunting vibrato was the audio manifestation of my inner despair.

I was in my car driving home from open school night when I had called him to tell him that no, we weren’t going to be seeing each other anymore and that I didn’t like the way his behavior had changed. That he had gone from months of constant dogged attention to a more disinterested and sporadic communication.

After we had sex, that is.

Now I was pulled over on an unknown street, my car idling in the dark. Up ahead, I could see the lights of the stores still open on Route 9, and I fought the intense urge to drive to a nearby 7-Eleven and buy cigarettes. I hadn’t smoked in years, but suddenly I really, really needed one.

“So that whole first conversation we had, when we were on the phone for hours – was everything you said designed to get in my pants? I wasn’t even going to meet you, but you convinced me to have dinner with you that first night with all the shit you laid on me, about how women are emotional and sensitive and men need to be strong and supportive for them.”

“Yep. I knew that’s what you wanted to hear, so I said it. We had a great dinner didn’t we? We must have, because look where it led. I thought of it as an investment.”

“Dude, that is fucking cold! I mean, I’m jaded as fuck, but really?”

“Really.”

Fuck cigarettes. I needed tequila and opiates.

I said to him, “I don’t even want a relationship! Not a romantic relationship, but just friendship. So when I told you that I couldn’t commit to a relationship, but that I did want a man who would be there for me as a friend, you said you wanted to be that man just to fuck me?”

“Yep!” He laughed. “Why does this surprise you?’

I hated the way he sounded. Cold. Detached. The cruelty tingeing his voice gave him a hardness that didn’t even sound like the man I had spent time with.

“It doesn’t surprise me, ” I answered. “It’s just disappointing. Despite the fact that I think most people suck, I still want to believe that there might be a few decent human beings left. But this is exactly why I don’t get involved. This.”

“I thought you said you wanted to have this discussion in person,” he said. “Why don’t you come over?”

“Come over??!” I was aghast at his inane suggestion. “Because my kid is waiting for me at home, and also, I’d punch you in your face now if I came over!”

He chuckled. “I doubt that. How tall are you? I’m 6’4.”

“Are you drunk? You’re just shy of six feet! What, did you suddenly grow four-”

I stopped.
“Who is this??” I demanded.

“This is Michael. Who is this?”

I looked down at my phone.

I had dialed the wrong number.

 

Did you ever dial a wrong number and have a wake-up call?
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, so I can have friends without leaving the house. For real, I am NOT leaving my house!

tape-over-mouth-woman-480x279

 

I want to write about sex.

I want to write about the glorious way it feeds my creativity, and how deep pleasure is balm to my soul. I want to capture the absurd dichotomy of my existence as both single mom and sexual being, in long wet delicious sentences.

But then I would be a sex blogger. And I’m not brave enough for that.

 

I want to write about the tug of war going on in my brain, my anxiety and depression and PTSD and Imposter Syndrome.

But then I would be a mental illness blogger. I don’t want to be mentally ill, let alone write about it.

I’m inflamed with unexpressed ideas. It feels like sickness. Tender, feverish, swollen.

I want to bite off more than I can chew and chew longer.

I want to navigate the jagged edges of all my experiences, dance among the wreckage, celebrate the joy and the hideousness of every mistake I’ve ever made.

I want to write about the grief and anger that are spinning out of control, that feel like ground glass shredding me from the inside.

Instead, I am a phony.

 

 

 

Long ago I learned abuse and neglect as love. I am addicted to feeling never good enough, and the sweet momentary high when I’m mining for love and hit right into a silvery vein of approval.

Because in our first exchanges, you either criticized or ignored my writing, you felt like home. But this time, I WOULD be good enough. If only. If only.

If only.

 

I was new to the online world. And didn’t know that unwanted attention is part of the experience for many women.

You said it was because I had a sex blog. And that no one would take me seriously.

 

I turned to Brenda at Burns the Fire. Two years later, I have not forgotten how she saved me.

She told me, LOVE. Just, LOVE.

Yes, you are provocative, she said, and what’s wrong with that? Just LOVE.

 

I’m disconnected from what ever it is that people feel when they read me. When I sit at the keyboard all I feel is fear. The blood pounds in my ear so loudly all I hear is a verbal dance of madness.

 

I want to write stories of horrific post partum depression, the kind that makes you want to drown your own child. And how I crossed over to a love so deep, I’m the one drowning now.

But how tiring it is, that I need to share everything, down to the last blood cell.

I’m not funny on Facebook.

My rock tees are silly.

Bad things happen to me because I seek pain.

My beloved project was only popular because misery loves company. I left it over a year ago and once an arrow shot into the heart, it bled out.

 

I’m not a writer. I’m simply part of a cult that writes little 1000 word essays for other WordPress bloggers.

Yes, that is what I am. I have no evidence to the contrary.

Is that a bad thing?

*dances in a cult-like fashion around a WordPress statue*

 

I only use profanity because I’m a lazy writer. Yes, it’s an easy way to get a cheap laugh. Suck my dick.

 

I want to breathe fire into these keys and tear apart every fucking idea about what a blog should be

I want everyone to know that I’m crazy, and find it thrilling because it means I’m doing great things.

I want to Write Free!

Freedom feels like a walk along the ocean’s shore, accompanied by the cry of sea gulls and the briny smell and the wind blowing cooler than inland.

Freedom feels like a month in a loony bin inpatient treatment center getting electroshock therapy to burn this out of my brain, for once and for fucking final.

 

The wrong person at the wrong time can build a nest right inside your insecurities and confirm for you that you are, in fact, nothing.

 

I have learned the hard, soul crushing way that writing your deepest tragedies leaves you open to pain almost as fierce as the tragedies themselves.

When someone you cherish asks for the fourth time why you moved out of NYC. Or asks you how your beloved brother died, when you spelled these things out in technicolor horror on posts they, in fact, commented on.

I learned the painful way that some of the people I love most don’t read what I write, and that sometimes, people leave comments to keep up appearances.

Which is like, inviting you to my brother’s funeral, and you showing up in a clown suit.

 

My posts are too long. I violated the formulaic 700 word rule. What’s the point in tapping out this sentence when everyone stopped reading by the time I wrote “sentence”?

 

This will be another story that I won’t publish, part of the daily bloodletting.

I write daily but publish infrequently.

I fear being ridiculed again, hearing you sneer that not everyone writes about shoplifting and heroin, you know.

Yes.

I know.

Here. Here’s a recipe.

Vanilla Chai Frozen Smoothie

  • 1 scoop vanilla chai protein powder
  • I frozen banana
  • ½ cup almond milk

Put everything in your smoothie maker thing. Turn that shit on. Eat it.

 

There.

 

I often sob while I write. Out of sheer relief that comes with sharing my truth as transparently and vulnerable as humanly possible

Self sabotage is my comfort zone. I squander my life on drugs and terrible choices and people whose need to make me feel small meshes perfectly with my need to disappear.

 

I have been force-fed so many different versions of myself, there is nothing left but everyone’s idea of me.

 

He did not break me. I was broken when he found me.

He was just drawn to the glittering shards and could not help but grind them down into dust.

 

Please refrain from disparaging comments. Be encouraging. 
I need positivity. Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter . Or don’t. You do you. 

penis enlarger

 

This is one of the most sought after subjects on the Internet, so I thought I’d ask renowned humorist, Rodney Lacroix, about it. We also talked about his latest book, “Romantic As Hell.”

 

Samara: Your book was really funny. It might have been the peyote I ate, but I’m pretty sure I would have laughed anyway. How do you manage to be so funny?

Rodney: I’m an only child so I’ve had plenty of time to myself growing up. This usually meant I was either perfecting my comic timing or fondling my genitalia while staring at my Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders poster. Or both. My upbringing was mainly just me alone in my room trying to make pictures laugh so I could get a boner, essentially.

 

Samara: I love the cave man scene. How can I get a man to cover me in pine needles, a dead sloth, and feces?

Rodney: I’m pretty sure you’d just have to ask. Guys will do anything to get laid.

 

Samara: Of the five “typical romantic” gifts, JEWELRY. That is all. It’s not even a question, just give me jewelry.

Rodney: I’m okay with giving a woman jewelry if it’s just not, like, “Oh..I’ll just get her earrings because (a) I can’t think of anything else and (b) I’m pretty sure she has ears.” I’m also okay if the jewelry she wants is a pearl necklace because I know you write about a lot of sex stuff so this answer seems to fit in with your modus operandi (which is Latin for ‘labia,’ FYI).

 

Samara: Thank you for letting men know that a vacuum cleaner is not a present. However, I DO believe that lawn equipment is a suitable gift for a man. Am I sexist? ‘Happy Father’s Day, now go do yard work!’

Rodney: There are probably guys out there who are, like, “OH MAN SHE GOT ME THE BEST WEED WHACKER FOR MY BIRTHDAY” but I am not one of those guys. I don’t enjoy yard work or cutting shit up or hunting Sasquatch so shit like that isn’t for me. I used to get power screwdrivers all the time as gifts. I currently own 37 power screwdrivers.

 

Samara: You write that men are powerless against the “bitten lip” technique. Any picture I’ve taken of myself biting my bottom lip makes me look like a stroke victim. What am I doing wrong?

Rodney: You’re supposed to bite the guy’s lip. Seriously, it’s like I have to tell you everything.

 

Samara: You tell the story of dating a girl in high school who was missing her pinky finger and you didn’t even notice.

Does Kerri have all 10 fingers? Are you SURE?

Rodney: I’m pretty sure Kerri has all ten fingers.

I’m mostly sure Kerri has all ten fingers.

Probably.

Great. Now I have to go check. Sonofabitch.

 

Samara: You were getting a couples’ massage with Kerri, and you “farted away a boner.” That’s fascinating. For the sake of science, can you please elaborate?

Rodney: I’m 47. Erections at this point are hard to come by.

I’ll give you a moment with that one.

I also have adult ADD which means anything I’m focusing on like sex, maintaining a boner, maintaining a boner during sex, making a sandwich, the plot of any single episode of Game of Thrones, etc. can be gone in a flash if my attention is dragged elsewhere. So, for me, a fart completely deflating my manhood isn’t out of the question.

Also, “Deflating My Manhood” sounds like it would be a Kenny G single.

Ah. You’ve witnessed my ADD in action right there.

 

Samara: You and Kerri honeymooned in Vegas. That story had poop in it. Lots of poop, everywhere. Just wanted you know how disgusting that was.

Rodney: I LIVED IT YOU DO NOT HAVE TO TELL ME HOW DISGUSTING IT WAS.

Omg thanks for fucking reminding me now I have to go shower OMG THE SHOWER HAD POOP IN IT TOO. I hate you right now so much, FYI.

 

Kerri and Rodney Navy

Rare photo of Rodney and Kerri

Samara: Were you and Kerri in the Navy together?

Rodney: No, but [insert semen joke here].

 

Samara: The chapter where you are trying to make Kerri an elaborate gift spelling out the word “LOVE” and you’re exhausted after the first two letters, and decide to nickname her “LO” so you can just be done – that was one of my favorite parts.  I thought I’d share that with my readers.

 

Rodney: Hey, Lo

Kerri: The hell?

Rodney: I’m going to call you “Lo” from now on because I like you on the down, Lo.

Kerri: No you won’t call me that at all.

Rodney: Sometimes I wish she’d just play the hell along to make my life easier. This was not one of those times, sadly. That actually would have been a good nickname, too.

“How about getting on the down Lo.” See? Works on several levels (two..it works on two levels).

 

Samara: Kerri made you an actual book for Valentine’s Day one year. Was that really necessary? I usually just gave my husband blow jobs. Pretty much for all occasions – his birthday, New Year’s Eve, Columbus Day, the Jewish holiday Tu B’Shevat…

Maybe that’s why we’re divorced? Wait, what?

Rodney: I think Kerri felt the need to try to keep up at that point, I think. That being said, she obviously puts up with a LOT of shit as you can well imagine so I never fault her for giving me ANOTHER POWER SCREWDRIVER JESUS CHRIST ARE YOU KIDDING ME.

Wait. Back to the blowjob comment. Are you suggesting you only saved them for holidays? THAT’S why you’re divorced. If I had to wait for a holiday for every BJ I’d be Googling “National Holidays” all the time.

“Hey honeeeeyy…did you know it’s National Drink Water Day?”

[drops pants]

[farts]

[loses boner]

 

Story of my life.

 

———

Rodney loves to make jokes about how small his penis is, so he provided NO insight as to how to make your penis bigger. I searched it on Lady Google but MY GOD trust me, you don’t want me to share.

I really don’t know if he’s joking about his penis, since he’s one of the few men on the Internet who hasn’t sent me a dick pic.

You can buy Rodney’s books (and please do, so he doesn’t have to keep giving his wife handmade gifts) here:

Publisher’s Website (signed copies available from here) : http://www.rcgpublishing.com

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Rodney-Lacroix/e/B00ANN9ZVE

 

Follow Rodney (don’t let life get in the way of social media):

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/moooooog35

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/RodneyLacroixAuthor

Website: http://RodneyLacroix.com

Rodney

Rodney Lacroix is just one of those guys. He’s one of those guys that make you say, “You know, I’m glad I’m not THAT guy.”

Rodney Lacroix lives in southern New Hampshire. He is the proud biological father of two amazing children and step-ological father of two stepamazing stepchildren.
He also likes to invent terms.

Rodney Lacroix has been writing about his misadventures for years. He’s done stand-up comedy, emceed charity events and has hung out with many celebrities. He is worshipped in most third-world countries and is known as “El Chupacabra.’ Perhaps you’ve heard of him.

Maybe you shouldn’t believe anything he says. DO read his books, though. He’s hysterical.

 

Do you know Rodney? Don’t you wish you did? Have you ever heard of farting away a boner?
Talk to me. I’m listening. If you buy me jewelry, that is.

when-harry-met-sally-meg-ryan-faking-orgasm-1989-movie-still-03

 

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“What do you mean? Isn’t it obvious what I’m doing?”

I was trying to manuever us into the Cat position, and he was mystified.

Apparently, all the *other* women he’d been with had stupendous, earth-shaking orgasms just from the insertion of his Mighty Mighty Penis. And while this is certainly possible for me, why wouldn’t I want to have a different kind of orgasm, or three or seven?

 

Women don’t have sex to have orgasms. Unlike men, we don’t need that climax to feel complete. We have sex for all the other amazing feelings it elicits, but achieving orgasm is not always the be-all and end-all.

 

EXCEPT ME.

HELL YES, I WANT TO HAVE AN ORGASM AND IF I DON’T,  I GET PISSED OFF!

All these other spine tingling feelings are, well, spine tingling, but if I don’t climax, my vagina turns into a wildebeest and howls at the moon.

 

The reason why so many men are inept when it comes to making a woman climax is that too many women just fake it.

I have no idea why. That’s like going into a restaurant, ordering a fabulous meal, and then walking out, rubbing your stomach and saying,  “Wow, that sure was delicious,” and you didn’t eat anything.

Many women don’t want to explain to their partners what they need to have an orgasm. Maybe they feel like they need to present their orgasm to a man as proof of his prowess, to finesse his dainty ego. That’s ridiculous. Women are all so different, a good lover understands there will be a learning curve involved.

If a man can’t handle being told what gets you off, he’s not the right person to be having sex with. Period, end of story. Buh bye.

Some women start to feel bad if it’s taking too long. Don’t. Are you double parked? There is no “too long.” This isn’t a task that needs to be rushed through, like turning all the hangers in your closet in the same direction.

(Okay, if you have little kids, all bets are off. Then it’s every man/woman for himself until someone walks in. In this situation, I found that wedging a Hitachi Magic Wand in between the Ex and me sped up the whole orgasm process. It was magic, aside from my kid wondering why we were using a chainsaw in the house.)

 

We are all so different, not just in terms of sexual preference, but anatomically. Some women really have difficulty reaching climaxes through intercourse alone, which may be because their G-spots are small or more difficult to locate. Some women just prefer clitoral orgasms, whether they know where their G-spot is or not.

Tomato, To-mah-to. Whatever kind of orgasm it is, it’s irrelevant as long as it makes your whole body shake and your toes curl.

Also, the female hormones released in middle age (40 plus) increase a woman’s sex drive. No, this is not an urban myth. Yes, we get more sexual and orgasmic as we get older. It’s a beautiful thing. Vaginal orgasms only became an item on my sexual menu after I hit 40.

 

Men. Please know how to kiss. If you attempt to unhinge your jaw while flopping your tongue down my esophagus like a fish out of water, it’s not a good sign that you are responsive to my needs. I love the sounds of sex, but not the wet “flpflpflpflpflpflp” sound of your tongue slapping against the roof of my mouth.

If you like music to set a mood, then find something that’s going to play awhile without interruption. Never leave an iPod on shuffle. Woman don’t get quite as excited about the Pokemon theme song as you might imagine.

And we would prefer you not have a heart attack because you’re trying to keep up to “Trapped Under Ice” by Metallica. It’s hella awkward if you die on top of us.

Women’s lady parts are nature’s Rubik Cube. You’re going to have to invest a little time into figuring out what works for each woman. This is where the whole “faking it” thing is the Destroyer of Climaxes.

Men, be willing to try anything. There’s a whole world of sexual positions. Change it up. Be adventurous. Try the Flaming Amazon (set her pubes on fire), the Blanche Devereaux, (sex while watching a Golden Girls Marathon), the Texas Rodeo (mount her from behind like a wrestling hold, whisper in her ear, “this is how your sister likes it,” then try to stay on for 8 seconds.)

If you’re telling a man what you like, and he says, “It’s not sexy when women talk in bed,” find a way to get out of their, fast. Fake your own death if you have to. This is the same man who will squeeze your tits like a pair of bike horns. He doesn’t want you to explain anything. He thinks he can “read your signals” because you yelped and jerked out of his vicelike grip while he gave your breasts one-handed Indian burns.

 

Women of Earth, please stop faking it. If you fake your orgasms, he’s never going to learn anything. You are ruining him for all the women who come (or don’t) after you.

And men –  if your woman tells you, “The only way I can climax is for you to drive me to New York, escort me to the top of the Empire State Building and hum the Star Wars theme while you play with my butt,” your immediate response should be, “Let me get my keys.”

Wasn’t that a movie? “Sleepless In an Imperial Starship,” starring Tom Hanks?

 

Have you ever faked it, or been with someone who did? WHY??? 
Talk to me. I’m listening. 

 

Join me on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter  so I can have friends without leaving the house.