My Only Weakness is a Listed Crime

...my only weakness is...well, never mind

I've always wanted to be able to say that truthfully and now I can.

Indeed, much to my surprise, I like that. I mean, I really really like it.

That's not the depth of my depravity though. The bottom of darkness is that...

I can think of Severus with Remus as we engage. It's the closest I'll ever get to boys together, and me as a boy. Would I be Remus? No, I think I'd be Severus. Sarge would be Remus. But I'll never tell that to Sarge. I don't think he likes the Potions Master like that.

Sexy Minotaur for MJ

Note if you will the hooked heel, the muscular thighs. The sword.

Another Contest

This blog has too long been fallow.  I have many things to post here, but have temporarily lost my nerve.  So I'm going to kick its renaissance off with another contest...

The prize: an amigurumi of your choice.  If you win, you can assign me to create a crocheted stuffed toy in any shape you desire.  Perhaps you would like a kitty.  Perhaps a donut.  Or perhaps something a bit more...NC17.  Let's see what I can come up with.  The sky's the limit!

But this one is not by random drawing, and I'm going to make you work for it! In your comment, please suggest a new object of fetish for me--I've been fetishizing Victorian frock coats, buttons, fingers, fan art, and gloves.  I need some new material.  The suggestion I like the most wins.

There you have it.  Don't be shy!

Let's Have a Ball Girl

Noon, bedroom floor, everyone gone but us, window open against the law of the house, strong Texas sunlight through the sheer curtains, birds in the tree outside busy with nests and hot-weather insects hissing...

Our daughter had that morning broken a cascarones on her father's head, and when he bent close I could see how the confetti brightened his sparrow-brown hair, and when he was over me, fell all around my head and on my closed eyelids in a soft, sweet paper rain.

How long it had been since we were together like this, on a floor, in midday sun, warm and happy and then shivering, thrilled...

The Penis Book: A Report

I've had this glossy, compelling little tome since last year, when I won it in a contest over at MJ's place. How did I win it? I cleverly identified a photo of a very very nice well-groomed and appealing appendage belonging to...well, in the interests of propriety I won't say to whom it belonged, but anyway, I guessed correctly. I don't know how; I just had a feeling about it, a mystical connection, if you will, to this disembodied penis. I was proud to what some might call an unseemly degree; I think it was one of my finest moments of womanly intuition. And who knew then what I know now: the brave and possibly exhibitionistic owner turned out to be a charming friend indeed...

But enough about that, let's take a peek at the book.

By Joseph Cohen, who has a good sense of humor. It's a motley collection of anecdotes, slang, history, and pictures. Here are some highlights:

Funny: Landon, a random interviewee, discussing his penis named Perky: "Perky could definitely use some extra girth. I'd like it to be more of a handful when I grab it, like a Sicilian dockworker's, even though I'm Jewish."

Very funny: masturbation euphemisms, including "shaking hands with the governor" and "roughing up the suspect."

Gross: discussion of "schmegma." Simply put, no. I skipped this section.

Very gross: ingredients, caloric and protein content of ejaculate. I'll swallow it, but as with Cheetos, I don't want to know what's in it.

Smarmy--a quote from the perenially sappy fave, "Lady Chatterley's Lover": "and now he's tiny, and soft like a little bud of life!" That book is dreck, and probably shouldn't ever be quoted. Even as a teenager, I recognized how Constance emasculated her gardener. This had no place in The Penis Book. Plus, the editor didn't catch the misspelling of "Chatterley."

Subjective: the section entitled "guaranteed turn-ons." Includes "letting the neighbors watch you in action" (no), "the thrill of an affair" (hell no), "the sound of a wailing saxophone" (fuck no), "a slap across the ass" (yes), "a kiss that never ends" (never?! what about when it's dinnertime?), "your lover shampooing your hair" (sure!)...you get the point.

Beautiful? Maybe: the a-ma-zing penis tattoos. Wow.

Anyway, I recommend this book as great fun for an evening. But if you have children it definitely needs to go up on the top shelf with the R. Crumb, the Tijuana Bibles, and any other dubious adult fare...

And after a thorough perusal, I was left with a greater question: do I like penises anyway? I mean, do I really, objectively, like them?

I have concluded that I have mixed feelings. I love my own penis--I mean the one that I have access to at home. But it's sort of a devil-you-know affection...

the boys i mean are not refined

the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night

one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross on her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined

they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite

the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever's on their mind
they do whatever's in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance

--e.e. cummings

Beyond the artifice of literary sadism, which I love in theory and imaginings, and the saccharine and unrealistic act of making love (who really does that? that expression has always given me the willies, with all the resemblance it doesn't bear to anything fun, I don't think I've ever uttered those words out loud, either as invitation or description of what we've done together, I consider it as reprehensible as the word "panties," but I digress) is my true feeling about sex and sexuality...

I've never "studied" this poem in an academic setting, and had not even read it until Sarge showed it to me a few years ago, although I love e.e. cummings. That Sarge, always full of surprises...

I'm not sure of the context to this poem, except that what immediately came to mind was an image of WW I soldiers on leave, exercising a rough, frantic joie de vivre. May I note that their ladies are no shrinking violets either.

All this is just coming to the point that the poem is for me intensely evocative in strange combination: poignant and nostalgic, as I love and have hero worship for soldiers both vintage and modern, and also perfectly capturing what sex is, in the end, all about--leaving pretension and artifice behind, liberated, not giving a shit, shaking the mountains.

For me, at least.



photo: drinking lemonade with some girls (who bite and buck?)

Blue-Lit Songs: A Brief Survey

What makes a sexy song? It's admittedly somewhat subjective. First, of course, there's sexy by context. That is, if you've had sex to it, it may forever seem sexy to you. The association alone could do it, which is why perhaps you find "Yes We Have No Bananas" dead sexy. I certainly won't hold it against you--we all know it's a Pavlovian response.

Then there's a song like Justin Timberlake's "Sexyback." It's just too obvious. Granted, it's a pretty great song and also he has a sense of humor ("I'm bringin sexy back/them other boys don't know how to act"), but still, too obvious.

Positive reinforcement, the painfully obvious and unimaginative, as well as weird predilections aside, there are certain reliable criteria for the sexy song: 1. Rhythm and bass (you know what I'm getting at so I won't elaborate) and/or grinding guitar; 2. Lyrics; 3. Vocal timbre. Some songs have got it in spades on all these levels, some songs on one or two levels, and some are sexy on two levels but the third is so unsexy that it cancels out the other two and renders the song impotent. It's complicated business here.

So, Sarge and I spent an hour with our MacBooks, dueling it out over itunes. I'm lucky that Sarge, like me, is always game to discuss music--neither one of us is content just to listen, it must be also dissected and deconstructed. That's just how we rock and roll.

So to begin with, here are some songs that, after argument, got tucked into the Unsexy file:


UNSEXY

1. Mystery Train by Elvis Presley. It had the vocal timbre, pure maddening sex, but ultimately made me feel funny and not in a good way. Sarge fought for this one on the basis of suggestive lyrics, smoky vocals, and driving beat, all three. I couldn't get past the Elvis part (not that I don't love Elvis, but his voice is just too iconic, and the choice I feel would bring unwitting irony to the bedroom).

2. Majesty by Madrugada. It had two of the three components--a moody insistent guitar (which Sarge maintains the ladies love, and he's probably right but not in all cases), a 3/4 octave range all in the sexy octave--God, does that singer whoever he is have the vocal balls--but then ultimately failed me in the lyrics. It starts out well with the question "Am I good or bad?" which is a terrific come on line, but then makes the fatal mistake with this line: "we cried and we cried on the phone." Dude, noooooo! You can't cry, there will be no man-weeping, what a turn-off (again, this is subjective, some of you may enjoy it when your man cries, who am I to judge). Sarge didn't care for the crying either, although he thought its sheer laziness was sort of appealing, so it was cut with high honors.

3. Breakfast in Bed sung by Dusty Springfield. Cut, again, for the lyrics which tell us about her man weeping right there in the first line: "You've been crying, your face is a mess." Come on now, pull yourself together, that's no way to show up at your lover's door. Man up!

4. Anything by The Who. They are practically our favorite band, but I argued "too cerebral" and Sarge felt they were on a different plane entirely from the humdrum of human sexuality. Sarge said "Pete Townshend thinks that sex is for girls." Originally, we had two Who contenders. I thought that "Naked Eye" might do it. After all, the first line goes "take a little dope, and walk out in the air,/ the stars are all connected to the brain/find me a woman, and lay down on the ground/ her pleasure comes falling down like rain." But it spirals rapidly into black depression, and maybe that's not a characteristic desirable in the sexy song.

I also love "Love Ain't for Keeping" because I think that, like James Joyce's "Ulysses," it's an anthem to the power that sex can still hold even over a very long-lived relationship. I mean, I can't totally ignore a song with a line like this:

Layin' on my back
In the newly mown grass
Rain is coming down
But I know the clouds will pass
You bring me tea
Say "the babe's a-sleepin'"
Lay down beside me
Love ain't for keeping

But then Sarge told me that Keith Moon used to put a paper bag over his head when they played this in concert, so embarrassed was he by the maudlinity of it...

5. Bruce Springsteen--two songs were in contention: "Candy's Room," which is fantastic but ultimately too much like the guttural musings of a stalker, and "For You." "For You" contains the following line, one of the most suggestive in the pop music canon: "Remember when I poured salt on your tongue/and hung just out of reach." But ultimately the song is just much too jaunty to join one in the bedroom, we both agreed.

There were many more that didn't make the cut, but let me proceed to some of those which by mutual agreement did:


SEXY (check out the sidebar for your listening pleasure...or dismay...are you with us or against us, people?)

1. Several from the Rolling Stones: No surprise here that the Stones have often achieved sexiness across all three criteria. Sarge and I agreed on

a. "No Use Crying"--see, he's not crying! Those other weepers can take a lesson from him. And that falsetto? Oh yes.
b. "Loving Cup"--just. sexy. so. sexy. If you've never heard this song, go to the sidebar and give it a listen. I think it's one of the best songs ever written.
c. "Can't You Hear Me Knocking"--for the rhythm and lyrics and vocal quality. Again, go listen to it. For me this one just so completely obviously makes the cut.
d. "Worried about You"--again, all three criteria. Falsetto and effective little gasps. Mick's the master of the effective little gasp. Rhythm. Lyrics.

2. "Statesboro Blues" by Blind Willie McTell. Yes, he's blind. Yes, he's been dead for like a thousand years (okay not really). Yes, he sings in a very peculiar octave. But when Willie asks "Wake up mama, turn your lamp down low/ have you got the nerve to drive Papa McTell from your door?" I answer, "why no, I do not have the nerve to drive you from my door." Hell, not even Sarge has the nerve to drive him away.

3. "Baby Let Me Follow You Down" by Bob Dylan. Very early Dylan. Misleading in its gentle acoustic-ness and simple quatrains. Has some pretty potent stuff in there: "Can I come home with you?/ Baby, can I come home with you?/ Well, I'd do anything in this god-almighty world/ if you just let me come home with you." So, yes, Sarge and I let him come home with us.

4. "Visions of Johanna" by Bob Dylan--this was on the line. But we both had to agree that it is a sexy song. Beautiful. Haunting. Like poetry. But sexy. See? Poetry can be sexy. Just look at John Donne.

5. "Rock n' Roll with Me" by David Bowie. From "Diamond Dogs," which is a harrowing, dark, literary, and sexy glam rock odyssey. Some might argue, but Sarge and I have long had this in our canon. (although Bowie does mention that he's "in tears again," somehow I don't believe it, so it's okay.)

6. "Sweet Thing" by David Bowie, off the same album. I admit to being nearly overcome when he sings "I'm glad that you're older than me/ makes me feel important and free/ does that make you smile?/ Isn't that...me?" But it requires a great deal of stamina, as it's quite a long song. Stamina that some might not possess! Just saying.

Of course that's just a sample of our playlist.

And I'm sure I haven't convinced you of the sexy merits of some of these, but no worries, ultimately to each his own.

Of course I'll leave with a question: what from your personal playlist makes the sexy cut for you?

UPDATED: A very insightful reader has suggested "Ball and Biscuit" by The White Stripes. Yes, yes, and oh my goodness yes. Enjoy here with caution.

Fetish

I know what a fetish is.  I've discovered that I have more than one.

You have some idea about fetishism, don't you?

The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders defines the fetishist quite unflatteringly as one who has, "over a period of at least 6 months, recurrent, intense sexually arousing fantasies, sexual urges, or behaviors involving the use of nonliving objects (e.g. female undergarments)."  This inanimate turn-on disrupts normal sexual function, in that one can't "perform" without aid of the fetish.  I reject this pathologizing description for my own purposes.  

Sacher-Masoch has a slightly more poetical take on fetishism; although his characters come to no very good end, at least they traffick in more original objects of desire than prosaic "female undergarments."  Severin loves Wanda's fur coat like anything! And if you've never read "Venus in Furs," I do literally mean that he is hot for her fur coat.  Meaning her outer garment made of ermine.  That, and her whips.

A languid abandonment pervaded Wanda's entire being. What a voluptuous softness there was in the gloaming of her half-closed eyes, in the red flood of her hair which shimmered faintly under the white powder, in the red and white satin which crackled about her with every movement, in the swelling ermine of the kazabaika in which she carelessly nestled.

"Please," I stammered, "but you will be angry with me."

"Do with me what you will," she whispered.

"Well, then whip me, or I shall go mad."

"Haven't I forbidden you," said Wanda sternly, "but you are incorrigible."

"Oh, I am so terribly in love." I had sunken on my knees, and was burying my glowing face in her lap.

"I really believe," said Wanda thoughtfully, "that your madness is nothing but a demonic, unsatisfied sensuality. Our unnatural way of life must generate such illnesses. Were you less virtuous, you would be completely sane."

"Well then, make me sane," I murmured. My hands were running through her hair and playing tremblingly with the gleaming fur, which rose and fell like a moonlit wave upon her heaving bosom, and drove all my senses into confusion.

Well, when he puts it like that, you can understand it, can't you? I can and it's not even my fetish.  "Make me sane" indeed.

So what is my particular fetish? I've been thinking about it over the last few days (in between taking dissertation notes of course of course) as I've been reading certain blogs whose authors sometimes write in dialect (and yes if you happen to be reading this, you know I'm referring to you!)  I must pause here for a moment and doff my little black velvet cap, yes, hats off to the rarest of rare who can pull off written dialect.  It is the hardest thing on earth to do, and if done well it is absolutely fucking brilliant.

Brilliant and, well, delicious.

So there you have it, I love accents.  Not just any accents of course.  Specific ones.  Certain accents, and correlatively, certain dialects, have become inanimate objects of my desire.

An old boyfriend, whom I wrote about here, hailed from the deep, deep South where the men apparently drawl all over their girls.  Each night of our courtship, he would call me long distance from South Georgia, and read to me over the phone--I don't even remember what it was he read--poetry probably, and Pogo, and other things which I didn't really pay attention to--so carried away was I on the cadences of his voice.

As for my other fetishes, well, that's a story for another time.

Are you a fetishist?