Friday, December 31, 2010

The Friday Sex Blog [Exhibitionism/ Voyeurism]

¡Hola! Everybody…
Well it’s Friday New Year’s Eve! The last sex blog of the year. LOL I’ve been working on some blogs that… well suffice it to say I’m not taking any motherfuckin prisoners this coming year. Please be careful driving and have a wonderful New Year.

* * *

-=[ Exhibitionism/ Voyeurism ]=-


The title is a little misleading, since this post, while addressing both fetishes, is about neither voyeurism nor exhibitionism, but a slight mixture of the two. I think the two are connected.

I love to screw and/ or watch people screw in public places. I know this sounds like a pure fabrication, but one of my greatest sexual experiences was fucking a woman I had just met on New Years Eve… at Times Square!

Mind you, I am neither a voyeur, nor an exhibitionist, but I enjoy fucking in public places and have fucked in almost every public place imaginable. An exhibitionist, or scopophile, by definition is someone who derives erotic pleasure from the display of genitals or other parts that are normally considered taboo. While exhibitionism is a common occurrence as foreplay, exhibitionists usually expose themselves without the consent of their audience, or with any intention of consummating the sex act.

There are many degrees of exhibitionism, some of them not very healthy, as with exhibitionists who derive pleasure from the horror created by their exposure. These individuals often expose themselves to younger victims or unsuspecting victims. To be fair, most American™ women are exhibitionists to some degree. This started happening when pre-arranged marriages ceased to exist in the United States and women were thrown into competition for husbands. You could see immediate changes in ads and the forms of dress women adopted. For the first time, women had some measure of power over men. I believe this is part of the erotic pleasure derived from exhibitionism.

One of the most erotic exhibitionists I ever saw was a young blonde woman who lived in a mostly Puerto Rican neighborhood. Everyday, at an appointed hour, she would undress in front of her window in her second-floor apartment that faced the street. It was like a TV show. Guys would rush home, buy beer and weed, sit by their windows, shoot the shit and wait for “Blondie” to do her thing. And she did her thing everyday, like clockwork. She was a petite, slim woman, very light-skinned and a real blonde. You could tell she knew people were watching and she was very meticulous in her manner of undressing. She obviously paid close attention to her use of undergarments and undressed slowly in front of her window. After she finished undressing, she would pull down her blinds and that was it. End of show. LOL

She would give no one any conversation. She had a Puerto Rican boyfriend who visited her now and then, but otherwise she kept to herself and interestingly enough, no one messed with her.

I was always curious as to the inner processes at work in this type of behavior. Later, as part of my studies, I would learn that, as with other forms of anticipated sex, there is a certain amount of arousal present. An exhibitionist will become stimulated as they plan what to wear, where to expose themselves, and to whom or what type of audience, they will expose themselves. Coordinating the right sequence of location and events adds to the tension that produces amounts of adrenaline and hormones that in some cases leads to genital orgasm.

As I stated before, I am not an exhibitionist in the strict sense of the word, but I have a huge fetish for fucking in public places. I was never happier, sexually speaking, than when I was in a relationship with a woman who shared my enthusiasm for public intercourse. We did it everywhere. Once she fellated me at a restaurant, swallowing me completely while on her knees under the table. People caught that one!

But one of the most mind-blowing sexual experiences I’ve ever had was at a Puerto Rican Day parade. My lover and I spent days planning and on the day of The Parade, she wore a short skit with no panties. I wore no underwear also and we got to the parade early, lining up against the police barriers. For those who are unaware, The Puerto Rican Day Parade is the largest outdoor event in the States -- millions of people attend. By noon, we were surrounded on all sides by a mass of humanity, crushed together literally. That’s when I reached in, pulled out my cock and slipped it underneath my lover’s short skirt where the head nestled itself between her cheeks. With the exception of one woman standing right next to us, no one seemed aware as I pushed a little until my cock was at the entrance of my lover’s anus. I kept it there for what seemed like a lifetime. There was much fondling and nibbling and eventually, my lover would spread her cheeks and invite me to push a little more. It took literally hours but eventually I would be able to insert the head of my cock into her ass. It took everything I had not to come inside her. By this time, I was fingering her clit with one hand, my cock inching deeper into her ass. At one point, a famous celebrity, I forget who, passed by on a float and this allowed my lover to jump up and down, in the process, impaling herself on my cock.

Gawd!

She was one of the greatest lovers I ever had. We would fuck everywhere: on subway trains, theaters, on a late-night plane trip to Puerto Rico, all kinds of autos. We screwed in alleyways, hallways, beaches, pools -- you name it, we probably fucked there. We would sit down and plan these sexual trysts in detail and that was half the fun. On many occasions, we were discovered or watched by strangers, and while this wasn’t the turn on, it did add to the excitement.

Then one day, I was watching out my window and noticed a couple in a parked car. I had a bird’s eye view of them and it was evident the woman was fellating the man. I realized that watching them was highly arousing. I had an erection just watching her go down on that cock. At one point, she saw me looking -- we actually made eye contact -- which made her stop. However, after a moment, she resumed sucking her man off and it was a huge turn on. The fact that she was sucking his dick in public and that she knew I was watching was extremely sexually arousing. When my lover became curious and saw what I was looking at, she scolded me, but she too became transfixed by the act. Eventually, I would take her from behind while the woman in the car continued sucking her lover’s cock. She would make eye contact with us while she bobbed her head on the cock and we made it clear that I was fucking my lover doggie style.

Whew!

Voyeurism involves the act of watching other people for the purpose of sexual arousal. Most often, a voyeur will station himself outside a window, what’s known as a Peeping Tom. Voyeurism seems to surface in many people when it involves celebrity. How many times has Paris Hilton’s skinny snatch been shown on the internet? Better yet, how many times have you looked at it?

::blank stare:

LOL

In our society, voyeurism is celebrated in many ways and rewarded handsomely. For example, a photographer lucky enough of taking a shot of Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, or Paris Hilton flashing their anorectic snatches will easily command six figures. This indicates that there are hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of quasi-voyeurs who derive pleasure from a glimpse of the forbidden or unattainable. The embarrassment of outrage of the victim makes it all the more appealing.

Love,

Eddie

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

The Snow, the Dog, and the Lion

¡Hola! Everybody...
I finally took some vacation days (after not taking any time off for 18 months) and what do I do? I get sick! LOL I’m venturing outside for the first time since Sunday. Oh yeah… and it snowed after Christmas. What kind of fucking shit is that?!! Which brings me to today’s offering…

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-=[ Michael Vick, Climate Deniers, and Quacks ]=-

Self-righteousness is the load din raised to drown the voice of guilt within us.

-- Eric Hoffer


The Center of the Known Universe just got about 20 inches of snowfall the other day. An old-fashioned snowstorm. Two things jump out at me immediately: the mayor chastising New Yorkers for being quite vocal about their displeasure on how the storm was handled and the knee-jerk reaction from the conservative climate change deniers. The first item is quite strange. The mayor, last I looked, works for us. And… the response to the snowfall was sub par, to say the least. The mayor should be out there fucking shoveling snow, instead of whining about our critique of his management capability.

The second item is even more exasperating. The media whores, the front-line of the corporate-funded “libruhl bias,” would embarrass Pavlov’s dogs they salivate so much after a snowstorm. You see, it seems these dolts don’t know the difference between weather and climate. So, if it snows, it means that the overwhelming scientific consensus/ evidence on global warming caused by human activity (Anthropomorphic Global Warming -- AGW) is really a vast socialistic conspiracy to make us bow down to the treehugger agenda. Tragically, Americans for the most part buy this stupidity. this anti-science attitude helps explain why so many dismiss evolutionary science.

Have I mentioned my idea that anyone admitting they don’t believe in the science of evolution should be exempted from its benefits? Shit like vaccinations and life saving treatments against horrible diseases should not be wasted on these knuckle-dragging barbarians. We all would be better off without them. Oh, if you need to slap your goober brother-in-law or cousin from the South with some facts AGW, check this site for easily digested responses to some of the stupidest claims from climate change deniers (click here). It won’t change their minds (apparently, conservatives are less evolved), but at least you can enjoy the perverse please of the confused looks on their faces as cognitive dissonance settles in.

Next on my list is the mostly conservative (mostly feigned) moral condemnation of Michael Vick. Let me just note that just recently a police officer received less time for shooting a defenseless, prone black man, than Michael did for running a dog fighting ring. Let us also conveniently forget there is a current (white) quarterback who is, at the very least, a serial sexual harasser who is playing in the NFL with nary a yelp from the wingnuts. For the record, I abhor cruelty and inhumanity of all kinds and what Michael Vick did was reprehensible. However, he paid for his crimes and has tried to make amends for his past actions by becoming a spokesperson against animal cruelty and has used his talents to become an honest, tax paying, working citizen. Conservatives feel that people don’t deserve redemption. This focus on vengeance, a core conservative value, is in large part responsible for the fact that the U.S. incarcerates more people than any other nation in the world. In fact, incarceration measured as a percentage of the population is unprecedented in human history.

Luckily for Mr. Vick, he has a highly valued set of skills that demands a high salary from these corporate types, so he has an opportunity to pick up the pieces of his life. Shit, even PETA is saying to leave the motherfucker alone. I say that if your sins were writ on your forehead (as it is for people who have been incarcerated), you would be wearing your hat pretty low. Of course, there’s a double standard. If you’re a white collar criminal or conservative politician, no crime is too great not to deserve redemption. But may the full force of hell come down upon you if you’re black.

And speaking of quacks, allow me to leave with the following (true) story. I won’t name names here folks, but some of you might now…

Some time ago, a recently incarcerated man was going through “orientation” at a New York State prison. Orientation, from a penal perspective, resembles a brainwashing experience: your head is shaved, you are deloused, you are humiliated, your name is taken away and you’re given a number instead. You’re instructed that that number is now your name and must respond when it is called out. You’re also given a series of measures in order to gauge your academic attainment and personality.

As part of the psychological profiling, this individual was called into a psychiatrist’s office for an examination. As part of the questioning process the following took place:

Psychiatrist: What would you do if you were to suddenly discover that a lion was in your cell?

Inmate: well, I would reach for my gun under my pillow and shoo the lion!

Psychiatrist: (somewhat taken aback) Where would you get such a gun?

Inmate: From the same place you got the lion, you stupid bitch!

Of course, the man in question was beaten by the guards and immediately diagnosed as suffering from an anti-social personality disorder. The psychiatrist, on the other hand, is probably still “practicing.”

Love,

Eddie

Friday, December 24, 2010

The Friday Sex Blog [Breasts]

¡Hola! Everybody…
There are stories to inspire, stories that remind us of what truly matters, and then there are the stories we carry inside of us. When you get a chance, check my traditional (Nuyorican-Style!) story about Christmas published by Subversify (click here)

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-=[ Ode to The Breast ]=-

Thy breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies.
-- Song of Solomon, 4:5 The Bible

I am not a “breast man” in the coloquial sense of the phrase. In other words, my fascination with big boobs is not as ingrained as with other U.S.-raised men. However, if you were thinking of sticking your lovely tit in my mouth (probably to shut me up), please do! LOL I just want to state for the record that I have never turned down the sexual advances of any big-breasted women!

Actually, I do love breasts, love to suck on them, revel in their softness. While my preference is for smaller breasts, I love what are known as “puffies.” These are breasts with swollen nipples (the picture above is an example). GAWD! I love puffies! If you have puffies, you should be proud. I think they are one of the most beautiful sights on a female form (send pics!).

Anyway, there’s probably never been a culture in history that has been blind to the beauty of the female breast. This is no surprise considering it has suckled civilization. More importantly, it’s also a powerful trigger of sexual arousal and pleasure.

The breast, nipple, and areola (the darker ring that encircles the nipple) are dense in nerve endings, which is why they’re so sensitive to all kinds of stimulation. In fact, sex researchers at the Masters and Johnson Institute in St. Louis report that a tiny fraction of women (about 1 percent) are able to masturbate to orgasm simply by touching and stroking their nipples and breasts. Apparently, women have a much higher ability than men to “erogenize” areas of the body that are far away from the clitoris and vagina. [On a side note, please remind me to post my critique on scientific research on the female orgasm.].

Conversely, many women simply do not respond to having their breasts kissed, sucked, or stroked. Studies have shown that although 90 percent of women say their partners like to fondle their breasts during sex play, only about 50 percent actually like it. Some women find it uncomfortable or even painful, especially just before or during menstruation, when breasts seem to become tender. According to researchers, the only real stimulation many women get in breast play is “watching the man enjoy it.” Whatever the case, communication is key in creating an intimate language. Tell your partner if you enjoy it or not; ask her if she does or doesn’t enjoy it.

There are changes a woman’s breasts undergo during sexual arousal that are dependent on whether a woman has breastfed. In a woman with unsuckled (“virginal”) breasts, nipple erection is usually the first sign of arousal. Then the areolas swell, often so much that “frequently it looks as if she’s lost nipple erection,” says sex researcher Dr. Masters who has probably observed the process more than any man in history. Then the breast itself, engorged with blood, begins to swell -- sometimes by 20 or 25 percent. It becomes so swollen that the blue traceries of veins can be seen and resembles a nursing breast.

[Note: not all women get erect nipples, though -- and if your nipples don’t stand at attention when you’re aroused, you shouldn’t fear that you’re frigid. In addition, some women have inverted nipple -- “innies” instead of “outties” -- which are quite normal but make nipple erection impossible.]

The breast of a woman who has suckled a child goes through the same changes during arousal, except that they don’t swell as much. Nursing results in a changed pattern of blood flow.

Breasts are probably as much a symbol of womanliness to women as they are to men, at least in part because breast growth is usually the first sign of puberty in girls. Usually, breasts begin to bud after the age of 12, but in some girls, the process may begin as early as eight. Budding breasts are the first proud announcement of a whirlwind parade of changes that accompany puberty, usually followed by the appearance of downy pubic hair, then a generalized growth spurt, coarser pubic hair, menstruation, and finally the growth of hair beneath the arms.

The media obsession with large breasts and breasts in general has had a huge impact on the way women view their bodies. For example, many women worry that their breasts are not the same size. The truth is that just as no two pairs of feet are precisely matched, no woman has a perfectly matched pair of breasts. In fact, some studies show that that more than half of all American women have breasts that vary so much in size that it’s noticeable to the naked eye. Nearly a quarter have one breast that is at least 20 percent larger than the other, reports the Kinsey Institute.

Many women long for bigger breasts in the belief that men will find them more attractive. Yet the truth may be that men may not be as infatuated with the Dolly Parton School of Female Beauty as women think they are. The Kinsey Institute reports that at least one study of what men find sexually attractive in women showed that only half even mentioned breasts at all, and of those, half said they preferred small ones.

I say this because many women buy into the image of those high, full, firm, breasts our culture idolizes. Over a million American women have had breast augmentation surgery, involving the implantation of envelopes filled with silicone gel or a saline solution. The vast majority of these procedures (80 percent) were done for cosmetic reasons. Just so you know, breast implants may pose serious medical side effects. So much, in fact, that the FDA has called for a moratorium on the procedure in the past. While there aren’t any conclusive findings either way, there are enough reports of health problems associated with implants leave cause for concern. Secondly, there isn’t enough conclusive data to conclude that implants are completely safe. Most troublesome is the likelihood that implants interfere with early detection of breast cancer.

The point being that every breast has a potential admirer and we shouldn’t get so caught up in the barrage of media images where impossibly skinny women with huge breasts have become the norm for female beauty.

Ladies?

Those women are freaks, and while some may have great bone structure, a size “zero” with double-D cups you can hang your coat on is really not that sexually attractive.

Especially is she ain’t got no ass! LOL

Love,

Eddie

PS: Happy Holidays!

Thursday, December 23, 2010

Class War

¡Hola! Everybody...
Trying to get some things done, like getting a haircut, etc. Then it’s off to see moms!
First, some Nuyorican music (played by a combination of Puerto Ricans, Dominicans, Panamanians, whites... etc):

* * *

-=[ Excavating the Future: Class War ]=-

The only thing worse than a knee-jerk liberal is a knee-pad conservative.

-- Edward Paul Abbey (1927-1989)


Knee-pad conservatives love to spew the fave talking point that “liberals want to take money from some people and give it to others.” What they fails to understand is that the “some people” they’re referring to are the richest 1% who now own about 70% of the wealth (I’ll have to check for the exact number, but trust me, it’s not that far off).

This kind of wealth gap hasn’t been seen since the great Depression. Is it no wonder that we’re all struggling today? As billionaire, Warren Buffet has stated, there is a class war and the rich are winning it.

Let me roll back a little right now...

When I was a young child, my class went on a class trip to New York’s World’s Fair. What I saw there was the promise of a future in which technology would make our lives easier and the increase of leisure time would free all of us to pursue the lofty goals of the further reaches of human development. There were moving sidewalks, automated homes, skyways, and trams. There was modern architecture and a moonwalk on a roof. At that time, young president stood up and proclaimed to the entire world that we would set foot on the moon before the end of the decade. As a young child, I remember thinking this would be the world I would inherit.

It was a different time, a time of hope and optimism.

And why shouldn’t it have been so? Our country had overcome a major depression, won (and paid for) a global war, created the finest educational structure the world had ever seen, financed an advanced education for millions of GIs, and built a large number of innovative and effective corporations.

People then still remembered the sadistic excesses of the wealthy and powerful of earlier times and, through visionary politicians and legislation, created an economic system that was fair to both investors and workers. Not only did investors become wealthier and more numerous, but a typical working-class American -- working a 40-hour week -- could support a family of four.

The huge income gaps of the 1920s had been slightly reversed in the 40s and 50s, and were largely held at bay in the 60s and 70s. Except for people of color, this can be rightfully considered the greatest Golden Age for the middle class ever.

But that wasn’t all. In those days, corporations were more progressive in their thinking -- there was a moral force helping build a climate of fairness and openness. People took pride in and saw their organizations as part of their community. They saw closeness between their own interests and the interests of their companies. The implied promise of the corporate executive or business owner then was, “Work hard with me, grow with me, and you will share in my prosperity.”

Then in the 1980s, a new kind of political life form arrived with a vengeance. Apologists for the wealthy and the powerful sold a new set of values to the public that allowed pro-business, anti-worker politicians to get elected. They, in turn, changed our economy from one that benefitted both the investor and worker classes, to one that today benefits investors at the expense of workers.

Today, investors regularly plunder the workers, the professionals, and low-level managers that have produced over the decades and they invest those stolen assets outside our country -- purely for their own benefit -- with no regard for those who work hard or for our society.

It gets worse. No matter how much time and effort workers expend in improving equipment or increasing efficiency, they don’t share in the benefits. As a group becomes more effective, it increases the chances that some of the other workers will be fired, and those who remain will have to work harder than they did before, with incomes that don’t keep pace with inflation. The middle class is told that “competition demands it” -- despite record corporate profits and astronomical incomes for investors and golden parachutes for corporate executives.

Of course, the executives and stockholders exempt themselves from the cost-cutting competition and get filthy rich in the process. As a result, between 1979 and 2000, the stock market rose over 1,100%, but real wages for the middle class didn’t keep up with inflation. In terms of opportunity, the U.S. no longer leads in terms of upward mobility. Several advanced nations leave us in the dust (France being one).

This increase in the disparity in wealth and income between the ultra-rich and the poor-and-middle-class is not, as knee-pad conservatives and lower life forms will tell you, because the wealthy work harder or are more successful on a level playing field. It’s because corporations now have all the power, and they have conveniently shifted their values from fairness to survival of the fittest.

Love,

Eddie

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Mirrors of the Self, pt. I

¡Hola! Everybody...
Taking a few days off, trying to organize my place and then spend some time with mother dear!

* * *
(l-r) My sister Darlene, my maternal grandmother holding my newborn cousin, and myself

I was my grandmother's favorite. Sometimes it was cruel, but she made it clear to everyone that I was her heart. Every time she saw me, it was all hugs and presents -- secretly handed folded crisp bills, a toy, a bicycle. My grandmother worked her fingers to the bone in the garment industry, exploited by heartless men who paid her by the piece. She would bring bags of work home and cut lace by the miles. She always had something for me, even if she didn't have for the rest of the grandchildren. I was her fair-haired boy. My paternal grandmother died when my father was a mere boy, but his sister, my aunt, was a surrogate grandmother for me. And here too, I was her favorite. Both women knew pain. The pain of arthritis, of hands broken down by years of hard, relentless work. My aunt was a washerwoman, whose hands were stripped of skin from the harsh chemicals of her trade. Both women knew pain, both worked hard, were poor, but they always seemed to have enough for me. It was only when I grew older I realized the tremendous sacrifice a bicycle or a brand new pair of shoes meant to them. They gave and never asked for anything in return, except perhaps that I be a good boy and do well in school...


-=[ Song of the Self: The Grandmother ]=-
-- Alma Luz Villanueva


Surrounded by my shields, am

I:
Surrounded by my children, am
I:
I am the void.
I am the womb of remembrance.
I am the flowering darkness.
I am the flower, first flesh.

Utter darkness I inhabit --
There, I watch creation unfold --
There, I know we begin and end --
Again. In this darkness, I am
Turning, turning toward a birth:
My own -- a newborn grandmother
Am I, suckling light. Rainbow
Serpent covers me, head to foot,
In endless circles -- covers me,
That I may live forever, in this
Form or another. The skin she
Leaves behind glitters with
The question, with the answer,
With the promise:
"Do you remember yourself?"
"I am always woman."
"Flesh is flower, forever."

I enter darkness, to enter birth,
To wear the Rainbow, to hear her
Hissing loudly, clearly, in my
Inner ear: love.

I am spiraling, I am spinning,
I am singing this Grandmother's Song.
I am remembering forever, where we
Belong.


Monday, December 20, 2010

What Really Matters, pt. I [The Inner Holidays]

¡Hola! Everybody...
If you’re sad or stressed do some service. It's the greatest antidepressant known to humankind...

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-=[ The Inner Holidays ]=-

The holiest of all holidays are those… Kept by ourselves in silence and apart… The secret anniversaries of the heart.

-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


The holidays are an opportunity for us to set aside our work and routines -- to give ourselves permission to put away, for the moment, our problems, and burdens. They are a time for joining with others in the celebration of life. However, this is not an easy thing to do. Maybe together we can learn from each other how to do it.

Perhaps our holidays are clouded by sad and painful memories of the past. We miss loved ones who have passed on, or with whom we have cut ties or have lost contact. For me, the holidays are a mixed bag because they are reminders of my past excesses. I have come to understand that, if anything, the holidays are more about excesses rather than a celebration of life. There is the excess of consumption, of giving in to attachments whether in the form of food or material things.

This emphasis -- this obsession on getting and giving -- can become quite stressful: our lives are invaded by a mob mentality that can be, well... literally murderous. And, of course, mindlessness is encouraged everywhere, threatening to destroy all that we hold precious. In addition, the essential message of Christianity (at least as I see it, and I don't consider myself a "Christian") is somehow lost in the shuffle of commercialism. It’s not about peace and goodwill; it’s really about -- well, at this point in time who really knows? The holidays can present an even greater sadness for those of us who may be experiencing financial difficulties, adding to the holiday stress. Fact is that the glitter of the holidays is oftentimes an elaborate ornamental disguise for quiet despair.

It’s almost obscene.

What to do? Well, I have long ago learned that the holidays don’t have to be perfect. Sure, there is all this commercial crap diluting what is in a beautiful message, but I can create my own meaning. Perhaps together we can make that effort to turn within and share, not so much what can be measured materially, but the piece of ourselves that connects. A small gesture, a smile, an attempt to reach out, even a small acknowledgment can be ten times more powerful than the latest gadget. It’s all within our grasp. At work, for example, a colleague and I are leaving anonymous notes and simple gifts of candies in the mailboxes. Nothing extravagant, merely gentle reminders that people are valued for who they are. Imagine if you found the following note on your windshield one cold morning:

You're receiving this note simply because you're beautiful as you are, and while I don't know you, I believe that as human beings we all have the potential to commit acts of kindness, works of beauty, and that we all have the potential to change lives for the better. This note is a reminder of the beauty and power you possess.

Yeah, I realize that the carefully cultivated, been-there-done-that coolness would immediately makes us ridicule it and maybe it wouldn't make much of a difference, but don't tell me such a note wouldn't touch in a way your hard-won cynicism forces you to deny. Somewhere inside of you, there's a place that would appreciate the note, corny as it might seem. Try it some day: leave such a message for a stranger, friend, or colleague, watch their reactions...

The real message is that a man -- really an ordinary man, a mere carpenter -- who never owned his own home, who never wrote a book, or invented anything -- a poor man born of a single homeless mother, in fact, was able to change the world with a message of love. Now, that’s some shit right there.

Love,

Eddie

Saturday, December 18, 2010

I will be Your Main Man...

¡Hola! Everybody...
Here's hoping everyone is enjoying the holidays. When you get a chance, check out one of my Christmas stories over at the online magazine, Subversify (click here). I will be spending time with mother dear and my sister today.

Today is Saturday which usually means the aesthetic here at the [un]Common sense Blog...


* * *


Nows [no. 28]



I will be your main man
if you will be my leading lady.

The curtain will part
to reveal a shower,
rehearsal for the opening
of our tiny cabaret.

I will be a thief,
a Pirate,
a Rogue,
wearing only my sword
and a blue bandana
around my neck.

You'll enter exploding.
Sexing your way
into my improvised tent
wearing only your black beret
and those bad-assed boots.

Never a game.
This is not a fantasy.
This is truth.

We will act out
who we really are.
And reach back in time
to what we must
once had been.



Friday, December 17, 2010

The Friday Sex Blog (The Holidays and Sex)

¡Hola! Everybody...
It really is all about the sex! LOL!

* * *

-=[ Holidays on Sex ]=-

Reminds me of my safari in Africa. Somebody forgot the corkscrew and for several days we had nothing to live on but food and water.

-- W. C. Fields


Back in my “radioactive” days, when I drugged and drank, The Christmas/ Holiday season was also the high season for drunkenness, getting drugged up, and, of course, getting as much sex as possible. And be honest ladies, many of you were ready, willing, and able to give it up at the office Christmas party! ::grin::

I actually used to “train” for the holiday season. The intensive training began during Thanksgiving, but I really stepped up my game during Halloween, pagan that I am at heart. In fact, my whole year was dedicated to getting myself in “shape” for the holiday debaucheries. Many of you can identify. Of course, the married folk with kids are quite boring, so please just leave now, I really don’t give a fuck what you’re getting for your brats or the Christmas tree or any boring shit like that. In fact, I will stand up for single people everywhere and just say it:

Christmas is for fucking strange people!

Real training began in May, right after my sister’s birthday. The weather gets warmer and three birthdays on consecutive weeks, with mine being the last set me off on a summer romp. Summer is also all about pussy -- at least it is for single people (you married people still reading this?!! LOL). I would spend the summer blasted out of my mind, usually involved in a profoundly dysfunctional relationship which usually ended up in some measure of heartbreak (hers or mine, didn’t matter. What mattered was the heartbreak). Unless, of course, if it was a really good summer and I was getting strange pussy* on a regular. Getting fucked up and fucked was what summer was all about. Then September would roll around and I would have to do some kind of work or sober up enough to take stock of where I was and what year, geographical location, etc. But no sooner Halloween rolled around, with the Village Parade than it would begin again: sex, drugs, new wave music, and more sex. By Thanksgiving, my threshold for alcohol and drugs was once again reaching precarious levels, hopefully peaking during the Christmas season. Sometimes I would overdo it, peak too soon and just burn myself out right before Christmas (but that’s why the baby Jesus invented speed!).

Then the office parties would start and it would be a matter of knowing which office party had the horniest secretaries. I worked in the Wall St. area and the horniest girls all came from nearby New Jersey. The big hair, snapping-the-gum stereotypes would get really drunk, really fuck the taste out of my mouth, and then cuss me out when I didn’t return their phone calls. Everybody’s talkin’ about shoe throwing, but let me tell you that shit ain’t nuthin’ new, I’ve had some of the best shoes thrown at me!

After Christmas came New Years and that was definitely all about the pussy.

Man!

If you can’t get laid on New Years Eve, then you should just cut your dick off and give it to science, where it would be put to better use.

My New Year’s specialty was what I called “Blackout Sex.” Getting so blasted, I would wake up next to a total stranger whose name I didn’t even know. Now that was some good shit right there!

It did present some problems, though. One year I woke up after several days and I didn’t even know where I was or what day it was (a couple of days after New Years). All I know is that I woke up in a strange home in someone’s bathtub next to a woman I had never seen before in my life. I thought I was in Brooklyn, but I was wrong... (I was in Connecticut)

Anyway... aside from massive impairment of cognitive functioning resulting from huge loss of brain cells, the holidays were often a lot of fun for me in my younger days. And I don’t care how much you want to deny it, you know you want some strange dick/ pussy for Christmas. Moreover, I’m not talking about the same-o/ same-o boring pussy/ dick you’ve been getting all year (married people!). I mean, c’mon, y’all got the routine down pat: lick ‘em, stick ‘em, and cum. Naw, I’m talking about that juicy strange dick/ pussy shit! And let me tell you: I loved -- absolutely loved -- each and every strange woman that I fucked/ fucked me. Especially memorable was each and every time I slipped into a woman’s velvety pussy. Once connected, I loved every woman I ever had, even those I don’t remember.

So, let’s hear for strange Christmas/ Holiday pussy, there’s no better pussy in the world!

Love,

Eddie

*The term strange pussy was a term a good friend used to describe my predilection to go to bed with women I hardly knew or just met. I guess he was using the qualifier strange to mean new or unknown, not in the sense of weird (though I think it applied LOL).

Monday, December 13, 2010

Suicide and the Holidays

¡Hola! Everybody...
It’s Monday and Friday I get to take a few days off the plantation...

* * *

-=[ The Myth of Suicide and Christmas ]=-


For some time, I was under the impression that suicide rates increased during the holidays. I mean, it fit well with my contention that the widespread (often-faked) merriment of the holidays contrasted markedly with the internal state of depressed people, in the process sending them over the edge.

But, as I as is my tendency, I investigated this belief and discovered I was... wrong .

Apparently, I am not alone in my misconception, it seems that hauling out the discussions of holiday depressions has became as traditional as hauling out the Christmas decorations, singing, Christmas carols, and getting drunk at office parties. However, the idea that more people kill themselves during the holidays is as true as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer -- it is simply false.

For starters, statistical data make it quite clear that April, not December, is the cruelest month. Daily suicide reports analyzed over a period of decades by a range of researchers show that suicide rates peak in the spring. In some years, there is a second, less significant, rise in late summer and early fall. However, year after year, people are least likely to commit suicide in December or January.

Even if we look at all the major holidays throughout the year, we find none is associated with an increase in suicide rates. In fact, regardless of sex, race, or method of suicide. One researcher reviewing data from the 1970s showed that the suicide rate actually declines markedly a few days before most major holidays and stays low until they are over. In some cases, there’s been post-holiday rise, but I don’t see it as statistically significant -- it doesn’t offset the drop. In addition, most studies haven’t confirmed the post holiday rebound effect. However, every investigation has found that the holidays themselves either lower the suicide rate, or at worst, has co-relationship to it at all.

I realize there’s also the issue that just because someone doesn’t get to the point of suicide doesn’t mean he or she is happy. But even on less dramatic measures, there is evidence to challenge the conventional wisdom that people become sadder during the holidays. The number of admissions to psychiatric hospitals, and visits to emergency rooms typically decline during December. This also ties in to the notion that there is a winter component to depression, or the “blues.” There are some individuals with a specific depressive disorder called seasonal affective disorder (SAD) who experience highest times during the winter. But it affects very small numbers compared to depressions generally. There are multiple reasons for that, and what I’m addressing here is suicide, depression, and seasonality.

The more I thought about it, the more it makes sense that the holidays can serve to lift spirits. For example, some positives of the holidays that often go unnoticed or taken for granted include: the gathering friends and relatives that serves to protect vulnerable people; Christmas celebrations often evoke sweet memories, hopefulness, and a renewed outlook; there is an increased awareness of and sensitivity to social safety nets.

And yes, sometimes the pressure of the holidays (often self-inflicted) can stress us out beyond the breaking point, but if you take the time to address the feelings you have about Christmas, plan ahead, and maintain a realistic perspective about what you can afford, you can make your holidays special.

Finally, if you make sure to surround yourself with loved ones who are supportive and positive, and let go of your expectations to make time for what truly matters, you’ll be able to create memories that will carry you in the future.

Love,

Eddie

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Poetry Mash: Thomas vs. Dickinson

¡Hola! Everybody…
When you get a chance, check my submission to the online magazine, Subversify. This week I tackle depression (click here). Leave a comment.

I found the following while going through some old files. It’s a report I did early in my undergraduate studies. I was somewhat surprised in that I liked it -- and I hardly ever like anything I write! LOL I’m posting as is with no edits (as much as it pains me). On a personal note, a couple of years after writing this, I dedicated the Dylan Thomas poem to my father, who at the time was suffering from a liver disease he would eventually succumb to…

* * *

-=[ Thomas and Dickinson: A Comparison ]=-


The two poems, Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night, by Dylan Thomas and, Because I Could Not Wait for Death, by Emily Dickinson, we find two distinct treatments on the same theme: death. In the former, Thomas uses an elaborate form and rhyme scheme along with radiant imagery and metaphor to present us with a passionate plea to cling to life; while in the latter poem, Ms. Dickinson composes, with the use of four quatrains written in a predictable, almost laid back rhythm, a kinder, gentler look at death.

The two couldn’t be more different. For example, Thomas employs an elaborate verse form known as the villanelle that a careless first reading may find excessively ornamental. However, upon reading this piece aloud, this writer finds that the form serves to create a grand dramatic effect. For example, lines one and three are repeated alternately in the following tercet’s third lines, rhyming with the respective first lines. In this way it has the same effect of a classical music composition: especially a composition that returns repeatedly to a motif. Consequently, Thomas creates an intensely lyrical, almost musical pathos that adds to the dramatic aura to the theme of this poem, which is: “hang on to life, man!”

By contrast, Emily Dickinson employs a structure and rhythm that could not be any more different in tone and temperament. Missing here is the elaborate rhyme and scheme of the Thomas villanelle. Instead, we find a seemingly spartan six quatrains that do not rhyme. This writer finds that there is a more subtle approach here, for Dickinson does not want to portray the more grim aspects normally associated with death. The first quatrain contains an eight syllable first line, a six syllable second line, an eight syllable third line, with the fourth line composed of eight syllables. The poem proceeds in this fashion for the next two quatrains, almost lulling us with a steady, secure rhythm, somewhat like the rhythm one may experience riding in a horse-drawn carriage like the one mentioned in line three. When we come upon the fourth quatrain (line 13), we discern a change in structure and mood. The change in rhythm is pronounced, while the change in mood is more subtle:

Or rather - He passed us-

The Dews drew quivering and chill-

For only Gossamer - my Gown-

My Tippet - only Tulle

For the first time in the Dickinson piece we encounter (if briefly and ever so subtly) symbols of the more harrowing aspects of death: the burial gown and shawl. But even this look at our transience is given a soft treatment, the “gossamer” gown and “tulle” shawl imagery being supple in nature: perhaps Death has a gentle touch, Dickinson seems to imply. The change in rhythm accompanying this subtle introduction to our mortality is a treated like a pause -- a momentary reflection. Continuing, the last two quatrains of the poem go on in the same fashion as the first three, adding to the effect that one has been riding in a carriage, paused for a moment, only to proceed on one’s journey.

Another significant difference between the two poems is in the contrasting use of rhetorical devices that the respective authors implement to state their primary messages. Dylan Thomas, whose overarching message is about the preciousness of the gift of life, implements rich imagery and metaphor to execute his goal. He uses the night and the “dying of the light,” as a metaphor for death. Radiant imagery such as, “Old age should burn and rave at close of day,” and “wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,” vividly convey the anger and impotence one feels at the powerlessness one experiences when confronted with death. When Thomas tells his father curse and, “bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray / Do not go gentle into that good night” (lines 17,18), you get a sense of the passion this man feels for life and how he wanted desperately to transmit this powerful emotion to his father.

Dickinson, on the other hand, whose message is that inevitability of death requires that we all eventually must accept our fate, uses personification to portray death as a man of “civility” (line 8) who “knew no haste” (line 5). Through Dickinson’s deft use of symbolism such as carriage (line 3), immortality (line 4), the setting sun (line 12), and eternity we take a ride and come upon the patient, “kindly” face of death.

Here we have two poems and two entirely different treatments of the same theme. One poem is elaborate in structure, passionate in its desperation and message. The other is sedate, subtle, almost too kind. It is enlightening to note that the Thomas piece was, in actuality, written for his dying father. It is a poem with which I can truly identify. Having had the opportunity of hearing this piece read by a professional actor and understanding its structure, I will risk over dramatization by stating that sometimes I can hear the wind howl when I read this poem. Dickinson, diametrically opposed, beckons us on a ride that gently brings us towards the inevitability of death, “towards eternity” (line 24). She teaches us about acceptance and peace; a stark contrast to Thomas’ angry, desperate rail against the injustice of fate.

… Eddie

* * *

Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Because I Could Not Wait for Death

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

Friday, December 10, 2010

The Friday Sex Blog [Sexual Peaks]

¡Hola! Everybody…
It’s Friday! Yaaay! Enjoy your birthday party, Marisol!

* * *

-=[ Sexual Peaks: Men and Women ]=-


Today’s post has to be a quickie (pun intended)!

I think that by now most of us have the heard the cliché that knowledge is power. Clichés are clichés because for the most part they are true. But I would like to add a qualifier to this particular cliché and add that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. What I mean by that is that incomplete knowledge is dangerous because it leads to erroneous assumptions.

The folk wisdom that women reach their sexual peak after age thirty; men in their teens is one of those assumptions.

Mind you, after extensively researching this area -- the published literature, reading through piles of “experts,” Masters and Johnson, etc. -- I can’t say I have come to a definitive conclusion. However, that doesn't mean that we shouldn’t question this assumption. In fact, there are more reasons than not to be suspicious about this often-cited “fact.”

I started where everyone should start: I asked myself the question where did this claim have its origin. I was able to trace it to the famous Kinsey surveys of more than a half century ago. Kinsey came about to his conclusion by simply polling people on the frequency of various sexual behaviors. Based on the number of times the interviewees said they had masturbated or had intercourse or erotic dreams, Kinsey’s crew figured that women reached their peaks in their mid-to-late thirties -- long after men.

Sexual peak is not a clear-cut term, however. For example, the number of sexual experiences per year may be different from how much one enjoys them, and this may be different from how often one thinks about sex or how much enjoyment one brings to one’s partner. Who’s to say which one these is most relevant to the idea of a sexual peak period?

Even if we were to decide to limit this discussion to one of mere frequency, the problem with using the Kinsey-style method is that it’s unclear whether women are said to peak later in life for physiological, psychological, or social reasons. One possible reason, according to one study on human sexuality, is that giving birth may help women to become more sexually responsive because they develop more capillaries in the genital area. However, the same researcher notes that a crying baby in the next room may do far more to cool sexual desire than a few more blood vessels could do to stoke it. In fact, a good number of women report a loss of sexual desire immediately after giving birth.

One of the better-known researchers into sexual hormones and their effect on behavior is John Money (and with whom I disagree with in other areas). He insists that how we are raised to think about sex is more relevant than how much estrogen or testosterone we secrete. He observes that while we need a little amount of hormone to get the system going, additional hormone doesn’t do anything. If women enjoy sex more, or simply do it more, at forty than at twenty, this is probably more a reflection of the time required to break free from early social conditioning about sexual desire. According to Money, much of what we see as biological in women is intertwined with the concepts of how girls are educated or socially conditioned sexually.

Women are conditioned to think that if they’re horny that they’re sluts. Women peaking later may be a consequence of the time it takes to get over the more than twenty years of socialization before they can learn sex can be fun. An even better case against a biological reason for a later sexual peak is that from an evolutionary point of view it makes no sense for women to become interested in sex just as they’re nearing the end of their childbearing years.

If the issue is socialization, then the gap between men's and women’s sexual peak should narrow (become more alike) as the sexual double standards disappear. Sure enough, studies since the Kinsey report are consistently showing that “women are reaching high levels of sexual arousal at earlier ages.” There seems to be a leveling out between the sexes these days in terms of enjoyability and frequency of sex. On the other hand, women are less likely to report a physical motive (“I was horny”) until they are in their late thirties. What all this means is that there is a great need for a large national study, but politicians are naturally nervous about such a project and are resistant. In fact, there are very few studies on human sexuality taking pace these days (a recent sex study was published recently and I will post on that soon enough).

There is a more important question with the claim that women reach their sexual peak at thirty-five or whenever: a peak implies that something drops off after that year. The opposite seems to be true. Women tend to develop a greater ease and frequency of orgasm with more sexual experience. There is no evidence of a decline after the so-called peak.

Physiological changes in men are easier to predict than in women. Most forty year-olds ejaculate less than fifteen-year-olds, for example. However, the context in which the arousal takes place counts for a lot here. How can one speak meaningfully about levels of sexual excitement without knowing who is on the other side of the bed?

More importantly, the idea that men have passed their sexual peak before their 20s should raise the question whether a state of a perpetual erection means someone is at their sexual “peak” in any real sense. The middle-aged man may win the race in terms of the sexual satisfaction he gives and receives. In fact, a study of healthy middle-aged to elderly men indicated that while sexual arousal and activity were lower for older men, sexual enjoyment and satisfaction did not show a decline with increasing age. Furthermore, masturbation accounts for the majority of the huge surge early in life. That led Kinsey to talk about men reaching their sexual peak in late adolescence. Is that the measure of the kind of peak we’re really interested in?

This much is clear from my academic explorations and from personal experience: most men and women can enjoy sex at any time from puberty until death. Some researchers have found that some people don’t reach their peak until they’re in their late 80s! It would appear to me that there is no evidence suggesting that biology is dominant over social conditioning, psychological conditions, and individual situations. Which to me means there are no fixed sexual prime years or peak.

Yes, sometimes a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

SEX IS GOOD FOR YOU!

Love,

Eddie


Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Redefining Your Life

¡Hola! Everybody...
First, my Jets were humiliated last night. That's ok... this will show whether the team has the spirit to bounce back, to play, to redefine itself. I owe you all a post on the third term of the Bush administration, also known as Obama. Perhaps I'll finish it later today or tomorrow. I'm trying for a vacation and I need to tie a bunch of loose ends here at my real job (the one that pays the rent -- I only play a blogger on the internet).

Today, I was reminded of this story by my son, who is a guitar player for a rock band...

* * *

-=[ Making it Happen ]=-
Don’t play what’s there, play what’s not there.

-- Miles Davis


I want to tell you a story. A story I love -- perhaps you have heard it before?

Years ago, the great violinist Itzhak Perlman was giving a concert at Carnegie Hall, or some prestigious venue like that, and the house was packed...

He hobbles onstage, puts aside his crutches, and takes his seat. The orchestra begins, and then fades for his entrance, he begins to play, and when he hits the second or third note, a string breaks.

Goes off like a shot.

And everyone’s thinking, Well this is it. Instead, very quietly Perlman signals to the conductor to begin again. Perlman then proceeds to play the entire concerto on three strings. According to the individual who told me this story, you could all but see him rethinking, recreating, the part in his head as he was playing, rearranging it, recasting it, remaking it passionately. And he does this faultlessly, impeccably. He gives the performance of his life, in the process driving the audience to musical heights.

Afterwards he says, “You know, sometimes it is the artist’s task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left.”

What a powerful example! Isn’t that what life is all about? To make a beautiful, sublime work of art with what we are given in this life? If you’re waiting for the right time and place, the right job, or the right lover in order to sing the song of yourself, then yours is a wasted life.

Love,

Eddie

Friday, December 3, 2010

The Friday Sex Blog [Ode to a Woman's Behind]


In Praise of the Female Ass
A woman's behind, that most unorthodox of altars meant to be worshiperd on ones knees.

video

The female ass, that most unorthodox of altars, to be worshiped on one’s knees.
Indeed, the ancient Greeks revered the buttocks as being an aspect of the divine and portrayed them enthusiastically in exquisitely sculpted marble. With the coming of the centuries-long Christian war on Eros, however, the depiction of the nude figure became a crime, thrown into the shadows (along with anything having to do with evolved human activities) of the repressive Dark Ages.


Then, in the fifteenth century, Renaissance artists once more raised the bottom to loftier heights only to have it once again banished by the prudish Victorians, who found the body so revolting, they considered even bathing immodest.


Today, the bottom has once again been salvaged from the repressive excesses of religiosity with dress designers now decreeing that the ass should once again be the focus of attention, and no dedicated fashionista can afford to neglect the view from the rear -- or this newfound, well-rounded appraisal of it.


Buttocks date from time immemorial. They appeared when humankind conceived the idea of standing up on their hind legs and remaining there -- one of the most crucial moments in our evolution since the buttock muscles then underwent considerable development. More importantly, this act resulted in the freeing of our ancestor’s hands and the engagement of the skull on the spinal column was modified, which in turn allowed the brain (specifically the prefrontal cortex) to develop. Therefore, it would not be wrong to point out that our buttocks were at least partially responsible for the early emergence of the brain and certainly influenced its evolution. Our asses, it follows, freed our minds.


Of all the existing primates only the human species possesses hemispherical buttocks which project prominently from the body. Other primates have been described as “apes with flat buttocks.” Which is to make a mockery of the ass. Therefore, the emergence of the buttocks coincides with the erect stance and walking on two legs which, according to anthropologists, goes back three or four million years.


The fact remains, of course, that our ancestor’s buttocks did not resemble ours simply because they stood upright. Much time and evolution would have to transpire before hairy and not so noticeable buttocks would’ve evolved into the naked, smooth, and soft buttocks that we love so much today.


When a female ape wanted to send a “sexual signal” to a mate, she showed him her hind quarters. This is an interesting note for many of the female of the species of ape possess bottoms which light up, becoming bright red and swollen as the time of ovulation approaches. And rutting generally occurs when the females display their organs in the state of maximum dilation. With the human female it is quite different. Her bottom does not swell with the menstrual cycle: it remains permanently protuberant (swollen). And therein lies just one of the many beauties of the female behind: she is always ready for the male and can mate even when she cannot concieve. This last fact has been a thorn in the side of Christians for a very long time.


From an aesthetic perspective, there is probably no more pleasing architecture than a woman’s behind in all its glory. The convex/ concave contrast between the subtle flaring of an impossibly slim waist flaring into the well-rounded twin orbs of female posterior flesh cannot be found elsewhere. Then there is the cleft -- mysterious, dark, the gateway to sin itself. And if one were to explore more closely, one could grasp a glimpse of the fleshy lips of a moist and receptive vagina. It is no wonder why a woman’s ass -- thrown upwards into the air, naked and vulnerable -- is one of the most erotic and subversive of human acts.


My name is Eddie and I'm in recovery from civilization...

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