Apparently I’m a Sexist Douche Bag

The other day I received a message on one of the dating sites I frequent quoting a section of my profile stating that it was ‘grossly offensive’.

What the fuck?

I was seriously taken aback. Offensive? To whom? How? I read the offending paragraph, which expressed my preferences in women, and scratched at my head. I replied asking for clarification, and was informed that my preferences were sexist. I was really stumped.

It’s not that hard to find blogs about the offensive ‘nice guys’ of dating sites. There are men who call themselves feminists yet think women have a moral obligation to shave their legs. There are men with the handle NiceGuy327 who say in their profile ‘Fatties need not apply’. There are even men who claim to be progressive and at the same time want a woman to have a job and be able to take care of themselves instead of relying on a man to buy dinner.

But me?

I like round women. I like women with strong opinions and knee jerk opinion and occasional bouts of insanity. I like freaks and geeks and craft store hippies. I like strong and confident, I like shy and awkward. I don’t like high maintenance plastic barbie types.

This really hit me hard, and I still don’t know why. I would say I don’t like the idea that I’ve offended people, but then I actually like offending the easily offended, conservative nut jobs and right wingers and religious fundamentalists. So why did this time bother me? Maybe because when I argue with a fundie and they tell me I’m going to hell I expect that: I’m an atheist and expect that kind of insult. But sexist? I’m the sensitive feminist guy!

During our conversation it was revealed she found my profile on a blog mocking sexist profiles. She claimed she was not the only one who thought my profile was sexist. It felt like I had been kicked in the gut. There was an entire blog post about how sexist my profile was, with several woman all joining in with complaints? I was sick to my stomach.

It took me a while to find this blog, and it turns out the owner is a self labeled Anti-Feminist who hates the words Rape Culture because, he claims, it promotes militant feminism, anti-male sentiment and also encourages ‘regret sex rape accusations’. My profile in particular was linked to in a rant about a forum thread four years ago in which I called him on being a superficial twat. The subject of the thread was men who felt attacked because they received criticism for expressing a repulsion for ‘fatties’. This guy was one of those guys who wrote in their profile ‘HWP only, no fatties’. As I said, I called him on it, and instead of fashioning a reasoned and articulate reply, he attacked me and a few others on his personal blog.

And this was the source of this woman’s complaint about my profile?

Ok, I’m starting to get it now. There are no real complaints, this woman simply reacted emotionally to something I wrote, and took personal offense.

Apparently stating a preference, ANY preference is sexist. To borrow one quote from a Tumblr blog mocking sexist dating site profiles: Pro tip: The only thing that turns me off more than you telling me how loving/caring/gentlemanly you are is you telling me what you’re looking for in a woman.

To quote from a previous blog post of mine: I prefer women with long hair. I like glasses. I like curvy girls. Punks and goths and hippies and librarians. I like sun dresses and leather jackets and combat boots. I like jeans and sweaters and flip flops… Are these preferences wrong? Am I being superficial for having them? I also like smart women, educated women, opinionated women. So am I repressing the dumb and the ignorant and the milquetoast?

Somehow that makes me an offensive sexist douche bag. Because I gave voice to things I have noticed I tend to notice.

I don’t like high maintenance plastic barbie types. That’s the kicker right there, the line that offended her. I was told that was offensive to women who have had plastic surgery, and that whole high maintenance thing really set her off. The word ‘plastic’ in no way links to cosmetic surgery, but is used to imply shallow and superficial. Ok, maybe I can see how you might be offended by criticism of high maintenance girls, in a different context. I was not ranting about girly girls or fashionistas. I was not attacking anybody, it wasn’t a criticism, though there are certainly unintended tones of negativity. I think there is definitely a difference between Refined and High Maintenance, between being able to express a desire for attention and demanding material things.  I thought I was clear I meant the superficial and demanding, rather than worth the effort. I’ve found quite a few blogs defending the term High Maintenance, and so have removed that from my profile. It’s a bit contentious, like taking ownership of the word Slut, and is too in depth to delve into here.

I think this woman was perhaps a bit too overly sensitive, and reacted emotionally to one or two lines. But she got me thinking, about good guy sexism and about derogatory terms like High Maintenance. And that’s always a good thing.

It’s Been An Interesting Year…

We aren’t dead yet.

It’s been an interesting year, since Kasini and I broke up. It felt strange to be writing on here without her. And it felt strange to be writing about my current relationship while still dating her. Let’s call her Isadora. In a previous post I wrote about two women, Mrs Coffee and another. I chose Mrs Coffee, and at the same time started dating Isadora. Technically, since Mrs Coffee and I had intercourse, according to my Rules of the Blog, she should be called Imogen. Since they both came at the same time, they both get ‘I’ names.

Imogen was married and polyamorous, and had the absolute largest set of knockers I have ever had the joy to play with. But it just didn’t work out, did not last long at all. Don’t know why. Not too upset about it, as much as I miss those knockers, because I started really falling for Isadora anyway, and would have chosen her over Imogen in the end.

Isadora and I have been dating for quite a while now. She also has great boobs. She is single, unless you count her ridiculous dachshund.

Bayani is still dating Beaux, and while there has been some drama here and there, they are quite happy. They just celebrated their one year anniversary.

I will save my reactions to their relationship for another post.

I have met a few other interesting people over the past year too. Like Jenevieve. She is a friend of a friend, someone I had met at parties a few times, where she seemed quite curious about polyamory, but her husband was less than comfortable with the conversation. She had been stalking Bayani and I on social networking sites for a while, watching us flirt and generally be sickeningly cute with each other. She started hanging out with me, talking about relationships. Hers was falling apart. Two years without sex, no love, no intimacy, and a whole pile of troubles that just couldn’t be worked out. She confessed to craving intimacy, and asked me to provide that. A Friend’s With Benefits situation. Well, she is pretty damn cute so I agreed, provided she tell her soon to be ex-husband.

Isadora was uncomfortable with the idea of Jenevieve, but to her credit caused no drama. Isadora is deliciously free of drama. It’s quite nice to date someone mature and rational.

Which brings me Kalliope.

She get’s her own post.

So, that’s it in a nutshell. Time to start messing around on the ol’ poly blog, I think.

And I Thought I Was Ready For This

Bayani is in love with Beau.

And I don’t like it.

Well, it’s not so much that I don’t like it, it’s the culturally programmed part of my psyche does not like it. I thought I was fine with her being with other men. I thought I had worked out all my negative emotions with Abe. I guess not.

Now, I am not bothered with her having sex with this new guy. Really, I’m not. I even offered to rescind our Not In Our Bed rule to make things easier for her(which ended up working to my advantage with Hildegard). But the sheer joy on her face when she gets a text or email from him, that bothered me. A lot more than I thought it would. And it’s not so much that I am bothered by this relationship, I find myself having automatic reactions, thought burbling up from deep in my subconscious, things I almost think I should think. These are nothing more than reactions I have been told my entire life I should have. Damn you cultural programming!

So it seems with Abe I had to work through my wife having sex with another man, and with Beau I have to work through her falling in love with another man.

I had my typical behavioral reaction: I at first tried to put limits on what she could do, but very quickly realized what I as doing. Abe taught me that about myself, I tend to try to control things that make me uncomfortable. I know better, I don’t get to control any part of her relationship with Beau.

I did make one mistake(that I know of so far), in that I kept asking her to reassure me that he would never be more than a secondary, that she would not want him to be more than a boyfriend. This was how I dealt with my insecurities, by telling myself he will never be more than just a boyfriend, I get to be the husband. But my asking her this repeatedly made her feel as if I did not trust her enough to  limit the relationship on her own.

Limit the relationship, there it is again.

There is going to be a limit to their relationship. There has to be. I cannot be one of those guys whose wife has a live in boyfriend. That’s not me. And I would not ask her to accept my live in girlfriend either. So I don’t think this is my trying to control things, there is simply a natural limit to where things can go, and I have to content myself with that limit and not try to impose my own. I have to trust that she will always choose me in the end, in the same way that know I will always choose her over any and all of my other relationships. And I should not make her choose either. I really don’t want to make her choose. She can have this exciting new relationship and it won’t really cost me anything other than a bit of anxiety I need to work through myself.

I’ve met the guy, which was not nearly as awkward as I thought it would be. He’s a nice guy, a great guy, and I find I like him. I like her with him. Last night we had dinner with Beau and his wife. Oh yes, he is married as well, which should serve to reassure me further that their relationship will never grow to threaten mine. Dinner was not nearly as uncomfortable as I thought it would be. Beau’s wife is pretty damn cute, and looks a lot like Bayani. In fact, Beau looks a lot like me too. They are like our evil twins. Well, I think we are the evil twins, as I think we are far kinkier than they. So Beau’s wife is cute, and I found myself wanting to know more about her. She and I agree that we should get to know each other better, if for no other reason than to better accommodate Bayani and Beau. To do this, she and I will need to be able to talk without our spouses around, as last night I think we were all too defined by our relationships. I want to get to know her as her, not as  Beau’s Wife. I know Beau would love for us to hook up, he thinks a new relationship would be good for her. But I don’t want to pursue her because it would be more convenient to be dating my wife’s boyfriend’s wife, or because she is the only one available for me at the moment(she’s not, I have several fish on the line right now). But she is pretty damn attractive, and she is pretty cool too. I think we may have a lot in common, and I am willing to put forth the effort to find out.

I am considering asking her out. Come to think of it, I may have already.

Well That Was Over Fast- Ooh Look More Cuties!

There is something magical about the number three.

In Fish Stories I talked about my curious habit of counting sexual instances, hoping for that magical third time. It’s a guy thing, maybe, or perhaps some hidden insecurities are creeping up to whisper in my ear. Hildegard made it to the magical third time.

Then she dumped my ass.

Hildegard and I shared great connection as we first corresponded through email, and that same spark was still there when we met in person, plus a rather intense sexual attraction. You could have bottled the pheromones floating in the air around us.

Bayani could read this chemistry as easily as she reads every other emotional reaction of mine. And she didn’t like it. A strong emotional connection is one thing, but add in a fierce sexual attraction, and she was more than a little bit threatened. And then she met Hildegard for the first time. And she freaked out.

Bayani was being very accommodating, and had offered to take the kids out of the house to give Hildegard and I a few hours of alone time. Coincidentally, my mother was taking the kids overnight, so Bayani had an opportunity to drop them off and then head up to Beau’s house. She cried the entire way. I will let Bayani write about her reaction, as she knows much better than I what she was going through, and why. To her credit, she did not allow any of her negative reactions affect her behavior towards my new relationship with Hildegard. There was only so much I could do, was willing to do, to accommodate my wife’s reaction. On the one hand, I did not want to do anything to make her unhappy; but on the other hand, she might very well have this kind of reaction to any woman I chose to date. Bayani assured me this was just something she needed to work through, that while she was not fine at the moment, she would be. I trusted her and proceeded, keeping her emotional state in mind.

Hidlegard had never dated a married man before. I had told her that I would prefer she date other men while she was dating me, as I could only offer her so much. She was new to the whole polyamorous thing, but was open to exploring. Then she met this man in Denver, a man with whom she could share a much more intense personal connection than she did with me(they were both musicians, I have zero musical talent). Bit by bit, our talk shifted from geekery and politics and sexuality and religion, to pure sex. As this other man filled her need for an emotional connection, I began to fill only the sexual needs.

And the sex was fantastic.

Sorry Bayani, I know you don’t want to read this, but it was. Well, no more fantastic than the sex has been with any of the other women I have shared an intense emotional/intellectual connection with, and was not nearly as satisfying as it is with Bayani. And I was able to help Hildegard explore new things: she had never been spanked or tied up, and found with my help that she enjoyed both. She giggled the entire time I spanked her.

But she wanted more than just sex, she wanted a relationship. She fell in love with this man in Denver. A man she has never met, and would not meet for at least six more weeks. And once again, monogamy reared it’s ugly head. She chose him over me.

Damn.

Now, I want Hildegard to be happy, I really do. I hope things work out with Mr Denver, I hope she can be happy with him. But I can still lament the loss of a really awesome gall.

And so once again I find myself moving on, looking for another girl, another connection, another relationship. At the moment I have been corresponding with several women I have met online. Yesterday I met one for coffee, a lovely, quiet, deliciously curvy girl; and tonight after work I will be meeting another for a beer. Mrs Coffee is much more the type Bayani would want me to be with, less classically beautiful and more on the plus side of plus sized, but is absolutely my type and I find I am seriously attracted to her. She is also married and polyamorous, though they are new to the lifestyle and I would be her first male lover since her husband. Ms Beer is a few years older than I and is deep her super-libido phase,  is rather hot, and is also open to polyamory. She might be looking for more of a fuck buddy thing, which is not exactly what I want. It’s difficult to let go of the possibility of screwing an attractive, highly sexual woman. And honestly, it’s flattering that she is so interested in me. I will have to see what comes of our meeting tonight, if it’s just about physical chemistry and sex, I may have to pass.

Damn, it sucks to be mature.

*Update: Mrs Beer did not work out. Mrs Coffee did for a while, and had lovely massive boobs. At that time I also met Isadora, whom I dated for about a year and a half.*

New Year, New Relationships

I almost had me a virgin.

Wait, let me rephrase that. I almost popped her cherry. No, that’s not right. I almost took her- no. I almost participated in her first shared erotic experience. That’s better. This was how I was going to start out my post about being with a virgin for the first time. We’ve talked before about virginity and giving value to breaking the hymen, and I thought it would be a good chance to open up that discussion again. But it never happened.

This was a girl I approached on Craig’sList. She was a bit(ok, a lot) younger than I, and there was nothing in her ad that blatantly said she would be open to dating a married man. But she was incredibly open minded, she replied and we almost instantly shared a very strong intellectual connection. We decided to meet, and the connection was still there in person. I was looking forward to sharing her first shared erotic experience. We got to second base. I wanted to take it slowly with her, easing into the experience. After we got to second base, she realized she wanted to do with me all those coupley things I could not do, and she was mature enough to recognize this. We ended things amicably.

Bayani in the meantime had found a new beaux. I guess after loosing Fanny(still friends, just no more sex) we both wanted a new relationship. We both have profiles on OkCupid, and she changed her account from ‘looking for bi girls’ to ‘looking for guys and girls’, and she was inundated with messages from horny men. I was a little taken aback by the difference in how these sites work for men vs women. Men are the active hunters, we have to put ourselves out there, searching for women and messaging them, trying valiantly to set ourselves apart from the hordes of other creepy internet perverts. She was able to simply sit back and sift through the chaff.

She found one, several actually, but one stood out. Let’s call him Beauregard. They met, and she fell in love. I was taken aback by the speed at which they connected, at the enthusiasm she showed for this new guy. I have adjusted now, and they are having a lot of fun together. She is totally twitterpated.

Meeting him was interesting, I like the guy, and was surprised to find I had virtually no negative emotions from our first meeting.

Beauregard is married, and his wife has been very accommodating. She even took the kids(ours and theirs) out for pizza so Bayani and Beau could have some alone time.

After their first time I was able to withhold my probing questions for a few days, to allow her to process things first.

I had some initial reactions to the frequency with witch they meet, but have realized that those are mostly my subconscious attempting to maintain a sense of control. I am learning to let go, to not get in the way of her relationship, and she is being patient with me as I do so.

And then I met Hildegarde.

I was contacting a number of women on OkCupid, talking to a few but none stood out. This one cutie caught my attention, though there wasn’t really anything in her profile indicating she was polyamorous. Maybe she just seemed open minded. So for the second time in as many months I contacted a woman who did not at first appear open to dating a married man. And for the second time, I had found a woman who was incredibly open minded, and who replied.

We connected, and decided to meet. She plays Dungeons and Dragons, she has opinions on which Dr Who is the best Doctor, and we argued for an hour over weather Superman was a better hero than Batman. I backed the Bat, btw, as he does everything Superman does, only without super powers.

The sexual tension between was palpable.

It did not take long for us to want to have sex, and Bayani stepped up and offered to take the kids out of the house for a few hours for us. She also wanted to meet this girl who had me all flustered.

That did not go well.

Oh, the sex was spectacular. It seems that Bayani had been holding off some jealousy for the past year or so, repressing it, and coming face to face with this new woman brought it all to the surface. I could tell she was uncomfortable meeting Hilde, so I took her out to see the chickens while Bayani got the kids out of the house.

Bayani assures me she is fine now. And no, I did not just go ahead and fuck another woman while my wife ran out of the house crying. She didn’t cry till she got to Beau’s house. I took Hilde out to lunch first, and I was not willing to take her home till Bayani could promise me she was or would be fine. She did, and is. This was a new experience for her. Before this all of our partners were either shared, or were existing friend relationships that grew to include sexual intimacy. This was the first woman I had met entirely on my own, entirely separate from her world.

Things are going well with each of these new relationships at the moment. I don’t know how long either will last, so we are just enjoying them while we can.

I will write more about each of these relationships, and our reactions to them, but for now this little update will have to do.

It’s funny, for months not much has been happening that is worth writing about, and suddenly here we are with two new people in our life and a whole lot to write about.

A new year, with new relationships, new drama, new personal growth.

They Say Passion Is Dead

They say toe-curling-passion will inevitably die out, that all relationships eventually settle into a comfortable, sexless rut. The only reasons to stay together are the kids or fear of being alone, of dating again in a world of online personality algorithms, speed dating and text break-ups. Sacrifice your passion on the altar of family responsibility. And they say this is normal.

I say bullshit.

Passion only dies if you let it.

Personal Space

Money is tight around here. Desperately tight. My time as a Stay At Home Dad might be coming to an end. My wife and I still want me here with the kids during the day, getting them up and fed and dressed and off to school. I still want my day free to do laundry and yardwork and remodeling on the house. And day care is freaking expensive, at the wages I could make going back to work as a carpenter, more than half of my income would be going to pay someone else to raise my kids.

So I have decided to look for a night job.

Last week I went for a tour of the UPS hub, looking at a position as a Package Handler during the Twilight Sort. There were about twenty other people in my tour. And as we each walked up to the guard shack and signed in, we were instructed to wait over by this picnic table. I was the fourth one there, and I sat down at the last open corner of the table. Now, that table would have held all twenty of us easily, but only four of us sat there. Each stranger stood about six feet from the others. We could have each extended our arms and not touched another person.

I found this interesting. There was more than enough room for each of us to sit, had we been willing to touch another human being. But we chose not to.

During the tour I was surprised by the cramped working conditions. It was a labyrinth of twisting walkways and cramped work stations. There was a row of perhaps sixty to eighty people standing shoulder to shoulder in front of a conveyer belt, receiving packages which they then sorted into one of the nine slots behind them. They had barely enough room to turn around.

This stood in stark contrast to the six foot clearance we had preferred earlier.

I could tell some of the applicants were seriously turned off by the conditions and type of work presented. Not me. I’ve been doing physical labor for fifteen years now, I am no stranger to it. In fact, I miss it. This sedentary life I have chosen is not good for me. I need to move, to stretch, to strain and work my muscles.

It seemed as though each of us were simply not used to being that close to people, to touching. No one sat at the table in a way that would have required us to touch, as if the idea of contact were unpleasant. As a society we have become too distant from each other, separated by chat rooms and cell phones.

It got me thinking about personal space.

For me, the personal space I value is not so much the immediate space around me, as it is my home. My home is inviolate, sacred. My time with my children is personal space that I value. I don’t want to give that up any more than those other applicants wanted to stand shoulder to shoulder with me, and that is why I won’t take another job that would require me to give up that time. Some people would never want to give up their evenings, but right now I would rather have my mornings and days with my children.

My writing is also a kind of personal space for me. A way to work out stress or ideas or worries, a way to express myself, to stretch my creative muscles, a way to exercise my mind. I think part of the reason I have not been able to write very much lately is this lack of exercise. I have access to the computer all day, it squats there like a high-tech toad, mocking me, teasing me with distractions(yes, porn is one such). Ideas don’t build up for hours while I am working, ready to burst onto the screen the moment I sit down at the keyboard.

So I am hoping this job will help with that. Get me out of the house for five hours a day, to let my creative mind wander, build up imaginative steam, till I am ready once again to sit down at the keyboard and write.

And as far as real personal space with people, I think I am a bit backwards. I desire my closeness with people who are important to me. I’m a hugger. And with those people I share an erotic relationship with, I’m a toucher and a cuddler, I allow myself to indulge in physical affection.

Last summer we attended an event with Fanny and her parents. I had to keep my hands to myself and I didn’t like it one bit. Her parents invaded my personal space, preventing me from holding hands or kissing her neck or even placing my hand on the small of her back.

There are lots of spaces I consider personal, places and ideas and times and relationships, things I do not want violated.

Having to choose to give up my evenings with my wife, dinner with the family, was a tough choice. I had to prioritize which of my personal spaces were important. I let my need for money intrude into my Evenings With the Family space. So be it. Some personal spaces are more inviolate than others.

Oh, I got the job. I start monday.

Theory on the De-Evolution of Man

I have this theory, that when faced with a problem, mankind will inevitably begin with the most technologically advanced option, and will then proceed backwards along the evolutionary scale until we eventually reach Hit It With a Rock and finally Bite It.

Right now that scale tops out at Particle Accelerator, or if you are not an astrophysicist, a Smart Phone App.

This theory was confirmed recently while watching two friends try to figure out why their car would not start. They both pulled out their smart phones and downloaded automobile repair troubleshooting apps. Then the internet was consulted. The Great Google God of Information. Next, volt-meters were applied. Then ratcheting wrenches, hammers, and and finally one lost his temper and just kicked the damned thing. The loose wire was eventually tracked down and repaired.

But the real story is the event that lead me to developing the theory in the first place.

Kasini’s story of lighting herself on fire reminded me of this one friend of mine I used to go camping with. One time, and this is not the relevant story but a segue, he was trying to start the fire using kerosene. Predictably, the can caught on fire, causing him to scream bloody murder, throw the can down, and proceed to stomp out the fire. He stomped on the can of kerosene, which then crushed and sprayed flaming fuel twenty feet across the campsite. I emerged from my tent to see a wall of fire separating me from what appeared to be a deranged orangutan running in circles screaming ‘oh god oh god were gonna die.’

No eyebrows were lost, the forest didn’t burn down, and he has yet to live down the event.

One a subsequent trip all our food for the entire three day back country packing trip, except for a bag of instant rice, was in cans.

Guess who forget the can-opener.

I did not find this out until we had set up camp five miles down Lower Courthouse Wash in Arches National Park. Not only had he failed to bring the assigned can-opener, but my emergency opener, which was wired to the zipper of my backpack, had mysteriously disappeared.

We didn’t have a particle accelerator, or a smart phone with a can opening app. But we had a hatchet.

That didn’t work.

Neither did a pocket knife, or keys or anything else we could think of . Finally, out of sheer frustration and desperation, I hit the damn can with a rock, which burst open, spilling forth its delicious guts of chicken and gravy. I swear, had the rock not worked I would have just bitten the damn thing and sucked out the juice, I was that hungry. There may have been warpaint applied, I cannot recall.

Half an hour later we found the can-opener that my friend had stolen off my backpack to try to gouge open a bag of beef jerky.

On Pornography

I too had my share of porn experiences when I was young, though I never had a porn ring like Kasini. My father didn’t own any porn, he felt he didn’t need it because he had a healthy view of sex and sexuality. Surprisingly, his voicing of that opinion probably did more to damage my view of sex than early exposure to pornography could have.

A healthy view of sex and sexuality precludes an interest in porn.

Like any other pubescent male, I was very interested in images of naked women and sex. All of my friends had access to pornographic magazines or movies. Every father on the street had a treasure trove buried at the back of their closet. But not mine.

I was probably ten or twelve the first time I saw a pornographic magazine, when a friend brought out his father’s stash. I had regular access to porn in that manner, where we would sit around and point and giggle and ooh and aah. But I wanted more, I wanted to take those magazines and movies and run off by myself, and I didn’t know why. They moved me in disturbing and compelling ways. I managed to find enough to get by, but barely.

When a friend got caught stealing his father’s stash to bring to the neighborhood clubhouse, all the mothers were notified. Mine sat me down to talk about it, probably thinking she was going to be enlightened and open. All she did was confuse me. I was told it was ok to look if I was curious, but in the same breath she told me only perverts and men who didn’t respect women would ever keep that kind of stuff in their house. She offered to buy a Playboy for me, so that I would not try to steal one, but only a Playboy because anything else was filthy perversion.

I was 19 before I had my own stash, a stack of mixed magazines I found in a parking lot. Again, my mother sat me down to talk about it after she found them, once again thinking she was being enlightened and open. “It’s ok to have those,” she told me, “but you do realize, don’t you, that women don’t really do those things?” What, don’t enjoy sex? Don’t suck cock? Don’t kiss other women or play with dildos or masturbate? So much for a healthy and open view of sex.

Well, all I knew was I was hooked. Not addicted, just fascinated. I loved looking at pictures of beautiful naked women, I loved reading stories about sex, I loved everything about those magazines. And I was torn. On the one hand, I had been taught to embrace my sexuality, that whatever I was feeling was natural, but on the other there were unspoken-and sometimes explicitly spoken-limits to what I should feel. It was natural only if it conformed to their expectations.

I went though my teenage years wondering if I was some sort of sexual deviant. I thought about sex a lot. A LOT. I know now that was normal. But I had no basis for normal. I was the odd kid out, the only one with permissive parents who didn’t make me feel bad for masturbating, and yet I was the only one whose father didn’t own any porn. When the other kids got the urge, they could just sneak into their father’s room for a peak. Not me.

And now I have internet. As much free pornography as I could ever want, right at my fingertips. I still look at pictures of beautiful naked girls. Hell, I have a second tab open right now, with, you guessed it, pornography. I don’t think pornography is dangerous or repressive of women. I think it can be, but no more than any other institution. I think banning pornography is more dangerous than allowing it. I do not think it is intrinsically repressive to women. Woman can give consent, and claiming that all women who participate, even those who do so willingly, are being coerced or degraded, is doing a disservice to women. By making that claim you are putting women into the same category as children or animals or property, as something that is incapable of making an informed decision, something that has to be protected and coddled and taken care of. And I absolutely hate that attitude. I do not deny that there are women being exploited for pornography. But there are women being exploited in every industry somewhere in the world. I still wear shoes, even though women receive less than 20 cents a day to make them in China. I don’t wear shoes made in China, nor do I enjoy porn made by exploiting women.

Worldwide pornography generates between fifty to a hundred billion dollars annually, and Americans spend more at the strip clubs than they do at Broadway, off Broadway, regional and non-profit theaters, the opera, the ballet and jazz COMBINED. This is not a sign of sickness, this is a sign that humans are incredibly sexual creatures, and we need an outlet for that sexual energy. Studies have shown that societies with easy access to porn have a greatly reduced incidence of rape and sexual dysfunction. Pornography is a reflection of sexual desire, not a creator, and usually serves to liberate and satisfy. And not just for men, porn can help women, gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgenders explore their sexuality and even empower them by helping them realize that they are not alone, that their urges are normal and shared by others.

Now, there is porn and there is porn. I do not like fake porn. Professional porn. Women with elaborate hair and makeup and obviously fake breasts being pounded by men with sculpted muscles, tribal tattoos, and ten inch cocks, that does nothing for me. That face they make when pretending to come, I hate that face. “Oh, yeah, give it to me, oh yeah’. Shudder. I don’t like to feel that they are acting. I like amateur porn. I like regular girls, girls next door, MILFs that  you could meet at the corner drug store. Real women who are genuinely enjoying themselves. Curvy girls, girls with love handles and real tits instead of scrawny skanks with plastic faces and silicone boobs.

Even when I was a teenager I knew the difference between fantasy and reality when it came to porn. I knew what was staged, what was done for the sake of more magazine sales. Penthouse Forum, yeah, I didn’t believe any of those stories then either(of course, now I get to live them, but that is another post). I could tell by a model’s expression that she was not really into having her pussy licked by another women or didn’t really like having a cock up her ass. But on some of those spreads, I could tell she did enjoy it, and that opened up a whole new world to me. Women could enjoy sex, and sex could be more than just missionary between a husband and wife. Women enjoy sex. Isn’t that one of the tenants of the feminist movement? Women enjoy sex to, it’s not just for the man. And porn taught me that.

Despite my parents best efforts, I learned a lot from porn. I had no idea you could lick a pussy until I saw it in a magazine. Kids talked about it, but there was no mental image to with the words. I didn’t know what they were talking about. I didn’t know the mechanics of sex, other than insert Tab A into Slot B, repeat. And I didn’t get to experiment till Bayani and started having sex at age 19. My parents were ex hippies, with a healthy fear of AIDS. “It’s not like it used to be, it’s not safe any more”. Save yourself for marriage, that was the message.

I want my children to have a healthy view of sex, I want them to grow up as well balanced and open minded as they can be. But what kind of double standard would I be giving, if I hid my porn from them? Do I let them see what is on my computer at this age? No. But when should they be able to discover it? Should I let them find it on their own, when they are ready? Should I carefully select examples of healthy sex for them to find? Should I just let it happen and be there to talk to them when they have questions? Will people react differently about exposing my teenagers to porn if they know I have daughters instead of sons?

Raising children with a healthy knowledge of sex and sexuality has been on my mind lately. How much of our lifestyle should I let them see? Will Fanny be nothing more than a good friend, or will they be allowed to see consenting adults showing affection for one another?

Our society has certain expectations about sex and how we talk about it, certain rules. Should I teach my children those rules? Or should I teach them how to hide, how to blend in, how to pretend for the sake of appearance? What will that do to them, knowing that their family is different?

I am torn. I do not have all the answers. No parent does. These are all things we have to grapple with, and I like to believe that the fact that I think about it will give my children an advantage over those who just let their kids grow up on autopilot, expecting that whatever society teaches them is good enough.

So I do the best I can, and hope I don’t mess them up to badly.

She Does It, Why Not Me? or To Shave, Or Not To Shave

I was at this party last month, one of those wild ones with bottles of absinth lounging about in sexy poses and a pile of discarded and empty clothing on the table, when the condition of my pubic hair became the topic of conversation.

Well, this was a bit classier than that, this was no orgy, just a wild party. It was a Corset and Glamor party, with a select crowd who could be trusted to behave a safe and non threatening drunken and debacherous manner.

I walked out to check on the stew of lovely ladies simmering in the hot-tub, and this new friend of ours, let’s call her Peaches, loudly demanded to know why I refused to trim my pubes.