I once knew a guy who claimed that hearing the word "delicious" uttered slowly by a woman gave him an instant hard-on. I totally understood. Since I was a young girl, random words or phrases have had an electrifying effect on me too.
I remember looking through cheap mail-order catalogues as a kid and fixating on some of the descriptions of girdles and trusses and other restraining undergarments, rereading the words and silently forming them with my lips. It's so unpredictable and strange how some words and phrases sometimes will still inspire a bizarre little thrill. I saw an oil can (of all things) on eBay, and, well, wtf do I need an oil can for? NOTHING. But it was the title that got me, and specifically the words "extra long flexible spout." I had to look. And, yep, it was just your average oil can. But it did indeed have an unusually long metal hose -- an obscenely long metal hose. An obscenely long sinewy flexible metal...*shudder* spout.
Words can sometimes do that to me. Even innocent words. The right place at the right time, suddenly even the most innocent phrase words can make my mind whirl into depravity. It's just a metal hose, for God's sake.... But wait. Ooooooooooooh! It's an extra long flexible spout. *pant*
Someone's orifice will have to pay.
Couple days ago, I blogged about the new study which claims that BDSMers are happier about life than other people. Personally I never trust studies that say "X is happier than Y" since happiness itself is undefinable in concrete terms. Happiness, like unhappiness, is subjective, plastic, and fluid throughout life.
As straights try to parse the study results, though, many are dismissing them of hand rather than deal with the underlying message that BDSMers are indeed as normal and well-adjusted as "regular people." Oooh. How can it be? We do naughty things AND we're functional. Imagine that. Well, apparently a lot of vanillas cannot.
Even seemingly more tolerant and enlightened quarters are issuing quirky theories. Not sure whether to laugh or cry at this Atlantic blogger's absurd conclusion. Suffice to say, though, I suspect more Evangelicals will be offended by it than BDSMers.
In which I explore parallels between evangelical Christianity and BDSM, though probably not in the way you're expecting
This popped up in my Digg feed this morning:
You might think that wanting to be tied up and whipped is a guaranteed sign of psychological distress, but according to a recent study, people who participate in bondage and dominance/submission play may be happier and less anxious than those with more conventional sexual tastes.
Public health researchers studied 20,000 Australians to determine that despite the stereotype that people with off-the-beaten-path sexual interests are somehow damaged, men who take part in BDSM score significantly lower on a scale of mental distress than other men.
The prurient mind immediately wonders if there is a difference between the anxiety levels of those who are beaten, and those who do the beating; being tied up and flogged does seem like the sort of thing that is supposed to make you anxious. But that's not really where I'm going with this.
My secondmost immediate thought was, of course, of evangelical Christians. Specifically, the fact that they report being happier than the rest of us. The article in Christianity Today argues that this is a function of the social support provided by an inclusive community. But I wonder if it isn't, in part, the decision to stand out from the community that leads to greater self-reported happiness. People who have decided to do anything so far outside of the mainstream are people who a) have a powerful preference and b) have satisfied that preference. The mainstream, on the other hand, contains all the people who have extreme preferences, but not the willpower to buck convention and satisfy them.
What is it about me that makes other species GLOM onto me?
I understand, all too fucking well, why I'm the only member of this household who has, repeatedly, been swarmed by red ants. I'm a klutz. "You don't look where you walk!" family members have been saying to me ever since, at age five, I walked into an upright girder on a subway platform and broke my nose. In my defense, it isn't that I don't look where I walk: it's that I don't see the things other people see. Like walls in my face or obstacles in my path. Or ant hills.
But why is it I'm always the lucky person who gets the first mosquito bite of the season -- and then is eaten alive while the person next to me yawns comfortably. Once I was sitting innocently in bed reading a book when a stag-horn beetle suddenly crash-landed on my skull. I shrieked and jumped like I'd burst into flames while Will (after assuring himself I hadn't actually done so), about died laughing. Sure, everyone has memorably horrible bug stories: still, facts are facts. Take three people, a random selection of insects and bugs, and vote me "most likely to dance like a chicken on a hotplate" before too long.
Not just insects. Before I lived with cats, I didn't care for them. That never bothered any of the assortment of friends' cats who took special delight in nesting on my face when I slept over. Indeed, once upon a time, I was not terribly keen on dogs either. At least not on a conscious level. Almost all the dogs I met, in their divine canine wisdom, decided to awaken me to the reality that we were fated, one day, to join hand in paw. A thousand disgusting dog-licks later, I saw the light and got my own pack of constant kissers.
Now that I've given up the fight against cats and dogs of the world -- along with the wild birds, squirrels, aquarium fishes and dwarf shrimp-- I feel like I should have worked off all my bad-animal karma and restored the cosmic balance. Like "Ok, guys! I feed hundreds of you now. No need to torture me into awareness of your existence. OM."
But clearly the insects still bear a grudge. Specifically the fruit flies. Or maybe they're drain flies. Or perhaps what we down here call noseeums (flies so small you no seem um). No matter where I am in this house, if I have a cup of coffee, there will soon be a tiny brown fly carcass floating on its surface. Will and I can sit side by side, drinking coffee prepared in exactly the same way (we both take milk and 2 sugars), and he will enjoy his cup to the last drop while, by my second or third sip, I am sure to spot a floater. It's maddening to brew a fresh cup of coffee and find a fly by the second or third sip. It's more maddening to go downstairs, repeat the process, bring the fresh cup back upstairs, pose it on the table while I sit, and then find another tiny bastard has snuck in for a final swim. And when -- as just happened a few minutes ago -- someone's spreading his limp wings in the third new cup I had to brew, I start wondering: why do fruit flies so enjoy committing suicide near me?
I may need to set up a scientific experiment to determine whether it's all a cosmic joke or just my own stupid fault. Do microscopic traces of lipstick or makeup migrate to the cup's lip, attracting flies with their fragrance? Is it my perfume drawing them to me (or, again, microscopic traces, since showering doesn't change anything)? Or perhaps I just naturally secrete some special stinky something that drives insects wild.
Meanwhile, I've resorted to Emergency Plan A for the rest of the day: keeping a lid on the cup between sips. The system's failed me in the past. One time, only seconds after removing the lid, a fruitfly kamikaze'd past my nose and drowned in front of me. Gruesome. If you can think of an Emergency Plan B, I'm all ears.
Found this yesterday, went back to check on it today and discovered the eBay link is already dead -- most likely deleted for violating some policy or other. Pity. It's not every day that someone tries to sell an "erotic vagina rock." Asking price half a million bucks and there were already a few offers on the thing. Damn eBay (or the twit who complained): this auction promised to be one of the funniest.
Fortunately, I snagged one photo of this objet and some of his text before eBay censored it. The vendor wanted half a million for this oddity. A tad high, I thought. On the other hand, his narrative is priceless.
EROTIC VAGINA ROCK
THIS BEAUTIFULL EROTIC ROCK WAS FOUND IN THE RIVERS OF POLISKY N.Y. DURRING A SALMON FISHING TRIP. IT WAS A CHANCE MEETING AFTER SEPERATING A BAD RELATIONSHIP OF 12 YEARS. WHEN FIRST FOUND I TRIPED ON IT AND FOUND MYSELF IN VERY COLD WATER, WITH POLARIZED GLASSES I FOUND THE CAUSE OF MY DISCOMFORT, WET AND VERY APEALING I FOUND IT WAS A GREAT STROKE OF LUCK. IT FOR STRANGE REASON GAVE ME MORAL SUPORT TO ENJOY LIFE AGAIN, NEW RELATIONSHIP WERE EASY, CONFIDANCE WHICH ATRACTED THE OPOSITE GENDER WITHOUT ANY PROBLEMS.
AFTER ALMOST 4 YEARS IN MY OF OWNERSHIP MY LIFE JUST GOT BETTER IN EVERY WAY, AT THIS POINT I FOUND THE RIGHT PERSON AND I CAN SAY THE ROCK HELPED ME .. WHEN WET IT LOOKS LIKE A VIGINA, THE CENTER MOVES FREELY. 5.5 INCHES LONG, 4 INCHES WIDE AND TALL WEIGHING AROUND 5 LB.
YOU CAN BID ON A PEICE OF TOAST THAT LOOKS LIKE JESUS, OR A PIZZA IN THE SAME FORM--- LETS GET A GRIP THEY CAN BE ALTERED AS A PUBLICITY STUNT... BUT IN REALITY THIS WAS FORMED OVER YEARS OF WATER CUTTING A RIVER BED, WAY BEFORE THIS COUNTRY WAS ESTABLISHED, AND SITTING IN THE SAME SPOT, AT THE SAME ANGEL EVERY DAY... NOT A CONTROLED EXPERIMENT IN THE KITCHEN.
But wait! There's more! Wanted to see if the above had been relisted and discovered that another vendor is offering a much-discounted (a mere $169k) and far less exciting Vagina Rock! What in tarnation....?! Is there a market for rocks shaped like genitals?
For sale on eBay this week: a 1940 edition of Casanova's Memoirs, illustrated by Vincente Minelli, father of Liza, one-time husband of Judy Garland, and the gifted director of many a classic American movie, including "Gigi" and "An American in Paris." Apparently before his career as a film director took off, he had time to illustrate this scandalous work. This piece immediately caught my eye.
Ladies, you may wish to wear your sports bras next time you go through airport security because it seems the T in TSA stands for tit-grabbing.
A big-busted woman, Kates was wearing a large underwire bra as she went through the security check at Oakland International Airport but when it set off the metal detector she was pulled aside by a TSA agent.
Kates accuses the agent of getting a little too personal. "The woman touched my breast. I said, 'You can't do that,' " Kates said. "She said, 'We have to pat you down.' I said, 'You can't treat me as a criminal for wearing a bra.' "
Sorry, Ms. Kates: obviously, they can.
Interesting that the TSA is being so vigilant about underwire bras, given that they take a lackadaisical attitude towards verifying passengers' identities, as Ketzl recently found out.
It's always cool to find out that some celebrity-type takes a broad-minded attitude towards BDSMers.
It's even cooler when they seem interested....
A bustle of BDSM aficionados (a gaggle? a passel?) gathered at the Cutting Room in the Flatiron district last night to celebrate all things lusty and heinous. Co-owner Chris Noth (aka Mr. Big of Sex in the City fame) was there, ostensibly fixing the jukebox (according to event organizer Aerik Von, who admitted he didn't even realize who Noth was.)
Noth also found time to hang out and admire two women in action. One was topless and enjoying a good swish of cat-o'-nine-tails from her attractive dominatrix. Von, who said his aim was to make the BDSM scene in New York sexy again, was having a grand time. His events, he said, were also designed to reunite two things so long torn asunder in the city: bondage and booze...
(Image of Noth and SJ Parker from Sex in the City)