The Air Down There

Ladies, did you know that the only thing standing between you and all the attention you can stand from your man is your feminine odor? Want to have him crawling all over you to do his business every night? Well, then look no further than your well-organized cleaning cabinets! See it there? That glowing bottle of chemical stink? There's your ticket to conjugal bliss! LYSOL. That's right, girls, Lysol disinfectant and cleaning fluid extraordinaire is all you need to wipe out any vestiges of your biological femininity and leave your naughty parts squeaky clean and ready for him!

That's my paraphrase of the ad to above. It incites on so many levels. I won't lie. I laughed my ass off the first time I read it. It's sick, but it's gotta be a sick joke, right? Nope. This is for real. And it stands as a testament to so many levels of ignorance that persist in our culture, not to mention that it reads like a textbook example of the unstoppable, manipulative power wielded by the advertising industry.

Let's start there. Advertising is the art of manipulation perfected. Before a company can sell you its product, you have to be convinced that you need it, on some level. This ad goes straight for the heart by way of the crotch. The wife is locked out of her husband's affections and she need look no further than between her own legs to know why. After all, he married her because he loves her. If he has stopped showing interest, the fault must lie with her. Don't waste your time, the text admonishes its female target, looking for outside causes for this dearth of marital frolicking. YOU are the problem. You and your hideous "femininity," code here for your vagina and all its myriad odors and seepages. Your vagina cannot be left to its own devices. Regular bathing is NOT enough to stop the tidal flow of heady and musky gyno-fluids and their attendant aromas. (I think here of Tom Robbins and his countless metaphors for the wonder and delight that is the vagina. He would be horrified by this ad and all its implications.)

Ladies, you stink. That's the gist of it. And all you need to cure that is the sterilized sting of Lysol. Funny stuff, no doubt. My husband and I had a good giggle envisioning a generation of geriatric old men who wax nostalgic about the enticing scent of disinfected snatch...

That's the latent humor which I impose on this ad from my post-feminist, enlightened, 21st Century perspective, but that same perspective was not readily available to the mid-2oth Century reader for whom it was created. The warning here is serious and is yet another example of the ways that "femininity," womanliness, female sexuality and even the vagina itself have been co-opted, controlled, defined and compartmentalized by a society that clearly fears the power that resides there. Convince women that they are inherently repulsive. That left to their own devices they would soon send their husbands running from the marriage bed, and you've got us where you want us. Suddenly we need your products to assure our feminine allure does not fade.

I'm not writing anything revolutionary here. This has all been pointed out before by minds greater than mine. But seeing this ad brought it into such sharp focus. And this sort of manipulation is still going on. If anything, it's more insidious, more embedded into our culture. When clothing lines make thong underwear for preteen girls, when an entire generation is repulsed by the slightest hint of vaginal pubic hair (Hey, I'm all for pube-scaping, but I don't tremble at the sight of a little hair down there), when the "feminine hygiene" aisle overflows with a pandora's box of tricks, treatments and sweet-scented aerosals--these are sure signs that the big V is still a marketer's dream. Oh yeah. We've come a long way, baby.

Sex on the School Bus

I learned about sex mostly on the school bus. This was the '70's and '80's so luckily I didn't have to watch any sex on the bus, but I certainly heard lots of talk, most of it painfully, blessedly inaccurate. No, I learned what sex looked like on TV, daytime soaps, most specifically. My larger point here, though, is that I learned nothing about sex from anyone whose job it was to teach me about it.

My mother operated on the philosophy of "what you don't know about you won't miss." "Sex" was not and is not a word that she can utter full-voiced. This philosophy flies in the face of human history and our inclination to charge full-steam into sexual escapades whether we know what we're doing or not. But she clung to it. Even as her little black sheep wandered bravely out on her own to taste what life had to offer. Lucky for her, I was too smart to get knocked up.

This is on my mind, though, because I've been writing about two characters who are having quite a lot of sex. (Hey, I go where the story leads.) And I am struck by how ridiculous it is that any two adults enjoying each other should be scandalous. I've had the realization that what I'm writing would be LESS shocking if the sex were either tinged with or completely overshadowed by violence.

Consider the "torture porn" genre that emerged full-force in film a few years ago: The Saw series, Hostel1 & 2, Touristas, yadda yadda. You couldn't pay me to sit through an hour and a half of watching people and, esp in Hostel 2, women getting chopped and sliced and bled to death. But those movies raked in the cash. No surprise. Violence has long been sexualized in pop culture. This stuff gets an "R" rating. But film two consenting adults making love, fucking, getting freaky, whatever, and it gets an "X." That really is a sick statement about our society.

How did we get it so backwards anyway? We point to the Victorians (back when women went to doctors for "nervous" conditions and were treated to a little in-office dildo action as a cure--I'm not making this up). We blame the Puritans, but, come on, how many Puritans have you ever met? That religion ate itself alive long ago. I do place the blame at the foot of religion in general though. Fundamentalist faiths, especially. How many times did I hear growing up that "women should be silent in the church," that Eve's sin was sex and that all our suffering due to her wanton ways? If I heard it once, I heard it a hundred times: a woman's place is in the home. Ugh. Made me want to be homeless.

Why are Christians so obsessed with sex, who's doing it, when and with whom? Especially when it's so obvious that everyone is doing it, wanting it or thinking about it? This is why it's so frakkin funny when evangelical ministers get caught with a gay prostitute and chrystal meth. Or when "Promise Keeper" blow-hard senators who wave the flag for "protecting marriage" get caught stepping out on their wives. That shit is hysterical. But it points to a deeper hypocrisy. The recent trend of "purity ring" ceremonies is a just plain creepy manifestation of that wierdness. I would have been scarred for life if I had been forced to stand with my father in front of our church while he placed a ring on my finger and I pledged my "purity" to him until my wedding night.

Wouldn't we be better off as a society if we just relaxed a little? I mean, what if we taught our daughters to OWN their sexuality, not deny it? To hold out, not for Mr. Right, but for themselves? To know that sex is a wonderful exchange of energy between two people, not something you sneak around to do just to keep your boyfriend happy. Would that be so bad? Have sex when you decide you're ready, on your own terms, and safely. What if we taught our sons not to just try to scheme until they could "get some" but to understand that it's about more than their own overwhelming urges?

But the truth is that patriarchal society and the religions that prop it up fear a sexually assertive woman. So women who enjoy it too much get labeled, get scorned. Hell, in many countries on this planet women are subject to "honor killings" should they have the misfortune of being raped. They are born and die as some man's property, no one ever bothering to ask what they want, or if they are happy, much less whether or not they have orgasms. So while I lament our backwards culture, I am also thankful to be a woman in the time and place I find myself. However I'm not blind to the fact that a sexually assertive woman even today still risks ridicule and a loss of her essential dignity if she is "outed."

It irks me, this perpetuation of ignorance and shame. And I have a feeling I'm not alone in that.

Subversive Sex

Here it goes. I'm popping the cherry on this blog with an excerpt from my current writing project, an erotic narrative about two people who discover their mutual, insatiable passion and, despite what it may mean to the rest of their lives, who choose to give into it. Repeatedly. With each encounter, he pushes her past her limits, drawing out the part of herself that she thought she had so well-contained. She longs to submit to his every desire.

It's a work in progress, but it is some of the richest writing I've produced in a long time. So here's a little taste. (Not for the easily offended...) Oh, and I have the original, copyrighted files, so if you steal from me, I'll sue your ass off.

“Do you know where you are?” He brushes a stray hair from her cheek, and his touch sends waves of pleasure through her.
She knows. Maybe she’s known all along. “We’re at a swingers party. Aren’t we?”
“Very good. Tonight you are going to show these people what a perfect little sub you are.” He smiles at the combination of fear and excitement that flashes across her eyes. “Don’t worry. You are mine. Everyone here knows that, or will. No one may touch you unless I say so. And I promise that no one will do anything to you that you do not want.” He leans in and parts her lips with his tongue, kissing her deeply and passionately. She responds instantly, opening not just her mouth, but her most secret self to him. She releases her fears, giving herself over to him and all that he has planned for her.
He moves his mouth to her neck, nibbling and sucking his way down as he slides his hand inside her blouse and cups her breasts. Burying his head into her exposed breasts, he slides a hand up her thigh, parting her lips and slipping two fingers expertly inside her. She gasps then moans, her hand buried in his hair as he consumes her tits. He begins fucking her slowly but forcefully with his hand, and she grinds against him, her head thrown back, her eyes closed, her moans getting louder as she builds to her first orgasm of the evening. Coming fast and hard, she opens her eyes to see that several people have gathered around to watch and the couple he was talking with in the lobby have settled into the other two chairs at their table.
The woman raises her glass in a silent toast, smiling appreciatively at her. The man eyes her hungrily, “So this is the perfect sub? Yes, I can see why you say so…I hope you’ll let me have a taste.”
A mixture of fear and excitement courses through her. She has willed herself to trust him. She has given herself over to him. What he asks of her, she will give, but she knows that he will not ask for more than she is capable of.
“Well, that’s up to her. She belongs to me, but I will not force her to fuck another man. But if she likes you, she’ll tell me, and then I might let you taste her.”
She belongs to him. Hearing him say it fills her with longing for him. Her pussy aches for him. She longs to take his cock into her mouth, to show him that she is his. Instinctively, she reaches for his cock, rock hard and pressing against his zipper. “Would you like some of that?” She nods her assent. He reaches down and releases it from its confinement. “Take me in your mouth. Show them how much you love my cock.”
Sliding out of her seat and onto her knees, she wraps her lips around the head of his cock, moaning appreciatively as she slides down the shaft. “That’s my good girl,” he croons, running his hands gently through her hair. She sucks him greedily, aware now that she is being watched by a growing crowd of people. She focuses on him, on making love to him with her mouth, willing herself to accept all the strangers’ eyes upon her as she works. She hears random comments and encouragements coming from them, but they don’t matter. She is performing for him, not them.
She slides slowly up and down, taking more of him into her throat with each pass. Her eyes are closed in pleasure and she works passionately, wanting only to bring him to climax. She suddenly knows that she wants them to see her drink his cum, wants them to see just how much she loves being his perfect submissive bitch. Willing herself to ignore her gag reflex she forces the last inch of his cock into her mouth. As he rises to meet her, the head of his cock makes contact with the back of her throat and she is overcome with pleasure, an orgasm building deep within her.
She tries to scream, but very little sound can escape her now. He feels her cry more than he hears it and he can no longer hold back. Burying his fingers in her hair, holding her tightly, he comes into her mouth, coating the back of her throat. She sucks greedily, refusing to release her hold on him until she has drank the last drop. Finally, she slowly slides her mouth up his dick, releasing him with a satisfied smile and that wild look she gets in her eyes, like a caged animal that’s been set free. He knows the game is on, now.


Writing this has been incredibly liberating. I do enjoy playing with the subversive. As a woman writing so openly and brazenly about sex, I invite criticism, speculation and ridicule. Especially because my female character finds the freedom to express her sexuality in submission. But everyone knows it's the submissives who hold the keys, who set the limits. And my male character is not some misogynistic, sadistic dom. He revels in watching her discover her power, and he wants her as badly as she wants him. But he is more experienced, he knows their journey needs to be well-paced, and he sees both her amazing strength and her fragility and does his best to honor both.

If I made him a blood-thirsty serial killer and her his ultimate victim, it would be more acceptable. Women who enjoy sex this much are supposed to suffer for it. Religion, society and pop culture have enforced this idea for ages. We shouldn't like sex this much. If we do, we're tainted, defective, and doomed to suffer for our sins. Bullshit. Men are supposed to secretly despise the women who will fuck them so unabashedly, not revel in them. How sad. Why can't two adults who know what they want indulge in it without bearing the weight of their sins on their shoulders? What a sick, twisted world we live in. Maybe this is my own little way of lashing back at that insanity.

Bette Davis, another Shameless Wench

Audacious

I intend to blog brashly. To post the most brazen and wanton of my fiction, my observations, my reactions to the world. Quite a few of you who know me know that I've undergone a bit of a transformation over the course of the past year or more. I have discovered that my biggest stumbling block has been myself, and I am working to get out of my own damn way.

That has manifested itself in many ways, from newer, bolder tattoos to a revisioning of my sense of self, to writing some raw and intense erotica. Thus the "adult content" warning that you encountered as you entered this blog. So here's your fair warning. I'm not censoring myself here. If I've invited you to become a reader, I'm sure you can handle it.

I bought a journal over a year ago, designed to look like an old 1950's-era pulp paperback, complete with a very audacious-looking woman in a low-cut gown sprawling across the cover. Titled She Couldn't Be Good I could not resist it, but neither could I write in it. I was determined that I wasn't writing about just anything in that one. I wanted a different perspective, an unabashed approach that went beyond the emotional purging and spiritual longing that usually packs my journals.

I still haven't written in that journal, but I have taken up the directive I gave myself when I bought it, and that's the approach I intend to take here. Direct, raw, honest, uncensored and uncontrolled.

I hope you will enjoy it.

Getting Religion

It's impossible--maybe even asinine--to attempt to explain or justify your love for your favorite musical act or artist. It would take me thousands of words to explain my relationship with Pearl Jam, and I do consider it to be a relationship. Witness the band's 2006 VH1 Storytellers episode: Ed tells the story behind the song "Alive" in which a 15 year old boy finds out from his mother that the man he "thought was your daddy, was nothing but a---". That's Ed's story. And, he explains on Storytellers that, when he wrote the lyrics, the chorus (just the repeated refrain "Oh, I, I'm still alive" ) felt like "a curse." The anger and rage of a teenager coming to grips with a grievous wrong done to him that can never be undone, especially because the real father, a family "friend," had died a few years earlier.

Cut to years later, when "Alive" becomes the break-out hit on PJ's first album and Ed begins to witness the phenomenon of the audience responding to his lyrics. They--WE--took it on as a mantra, an affirmation of our own will to survive. As he watches fans responding to the song, as he hears the audience take his words and sing them back to him, he realizes that the meaning of the words has shifted. And, he explains, "Here's the thing. When you changed the meaning, you lifted the curse."

That's a hint at the connection I feel with "my band." You many not get why I love Pearl Jam so much, but I'm pretty sure most of you understand the sort of connection I'm talking about. At least I hope you can. I can't imagine my life without Pearl Jam in it. I mean that literally. So many of my fondest memories are attached with road trips to PJ shows. So many of my darkest moments have been soothed by Ed's cracked baritone rumbling out of my speakers. To say that I've often grounded myself in this music is an understatement.

We've grown together, Pearl Jam and I. The music reflects that. The one thing you can't accuse PJ of is repeating itself. Each disc stands as a singular statement, not so much encompassing as eclipsing the one that came before it. I remember the first time I heard Binaural, without a doubt the least accessible of all the discs, I was put off. There was so much pain there, and not the angst-ridden pain of Ten, but a more resolute sort of pain, an acceptance that the world is just plain fucked-up. I didn't want to face up to that at the time. Then, years later, I'm listening to a Bootleg and the band eases into "Sleight of Hand," a song about a man who wakes up to find himself empty and "wondering about wandering."

"He found himself staring down at his own hands, not remembering the change, not recalling the past."

The aching loneliness of that song hit me like a ton of bricks . It just rang true in a way it had not before. Then I went back to Binaural and listened again. The disaffection and the pain were still there, but suddenly I understood it. Some imperceptible shift in my own perspective made me respond to it in a new way.

The fact that I can constantly find something new within music I've been listening to for nearly 20 years is enough of a justification for my love of it, in my opinion. And, honestly, I don't really feel the need to justify it. I'm really glad that the masses don't share my passion for Pearl Jam. I love the fact that going to PJ shows feels more like a reunion than a gathering of random strangers.

This brings me, finally, to my main subject. Most of you know--because I didn't let you forget it--that I recently saw EdVed play two back-to-back shows at the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville. The "mother church" of country music, with it's red brick exterior,hard church pews and stained glass windows, is a singular venue. Steeped in history and tradition, a Ryman show is always an occasion, and the artist on stage better damn well know it.

Ed most definitely knew it. He vowed to "channel the spirits" on night one and by night two was talking about the fact that "since we're in church, we might as well sing about god" before launching into "Sometimes" ("...sometimes I walk, sometimes I kneel, sometimes I speak of nothing at all, sometimes I reach to myself, dear God...") and a string of his more esoteric songs.

And if Ed was feeling it, quite a few of us in the audience were swimming in it. Not counting the asshole dudes who kept yelling at Ed to "bust out the UKE" (admittedly Ed CAN rock a ukelele, but come on) and the redneck jerk who shouted "Freebird!" on night one (to which Ed responded, "Get that guy outta here. Kick him out. That song was worn out before I was born and it wasn't even written yet.") and the random girl who wouldn't stop, as Ed put it "screaming like a banshee," MOST of us were there to commune with the spirits along with Ed.

God knows I got some religion. On night one, about halfway through the show, I felt someone press their palm into the center of my back. I turned to see a lovely woman, probably close to my age. She leaned forward and said "I've been going to see Pearl Jam since 1993 and this is the most amazing thing I've ever seen. I haven't been this happy in 15 years!" I smiled and said, "I know, sister, I know."

At the end of the show, after Ed closed out with "Arc," a wordless song in which he sings a series of moans and cries and "ahh-ah-ahhhh's" that overlap and build on each other, I turned to her, both our eyes full of tears and we hugged each other so tightly. The spirit had moved us both that night in exactly the same way. I can only surmise that she could tell from being behind me and witnessing my reactions that I was in the same place she was, causing her to reach out to me. It is a moment I will never forget.

He closed out night 2 with "Arc" as well. And I was on pins and needles all night hoping he would do so. But how could he not? At the Mother Church, with the spirits moving, there was little else he could do. Prior to witnessing it, I would have said that it would be impossible to duplicate "Arc" in a live setting. But Ed settled onto his seat, grabbed a second mic and leaned into that suitcase I'm so fascinated with and turned on what I'm gonna call his "loop machine." He leans in and sings the first "ahh-ah-ahhhh" in his upper tenor range, gets that going on the loop then adds another layer, and another until his baritone vibrates the floor. Soon he is screaming and crying and sighing out layers of yearning and wonder and pain. As in night 1, I was speechless, I was tearful. I was in awe.

I could go on about the setlists: Cat Stevens' "Trouble," best audience sing along's to "...Small Town," "Porch" and "Wishlist" I've ever had the privilege to be a part of, a totally new arrangement of "Betterman" that prevented the audience from taking it over, forcing us to listen and hear it for what felt like the first time. And so on... But the real heart of what I experienced there was the exchange between an artist and his audience, the call-and-response feedback that is at the heart of all the best music. The spirits came down and played with us at the Ryman last week. And I am better for having been there to witness it.

Viva La Rock!