The [Return of the] Friday Sex Blog [Sqeaky Vajayjays]

Hola Everybody,

I've been gone -- invisible. 

The following post is somewhat of a tradition here at the [un]Common Sense Blog. Along with spring comes the startling discovery...  

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Facebook this motherfuckers

The Odd Case of the Squeaking Vaginas

The most perverse form of sexual deviancy is abstinence.

I love the promise of Spring!

True, I become less focused, more prone to indulgence, and all other forms of ho’ing, but this time of year, with its connection to rebirth and beginnings, holds so much attraction for me. With the exception of Yvette, the third on the list of Rosarios, we were all born in the Spring. In fact, my mother actually gave birth to three Gemini men, and Darlene, the second oldest (I’m the oldest), barely missed it, her birthday falling yesterday (May 17^th). In our youth, our combined birthdays became an excuse for constant partying, since our birthdays fall on consecutive weeks, culminating with mine on June 6^th (hint: please don’t buy gifts, but anonymous, edgy sex is always welcome... females need only apply, thank you!).

This brings me to my topic today, but before I get there, I must digress just a little longer. As much as I love to complain about winter, there is something to be said about the luxury of living in a temperate zone and bearing witness to the ritual changing of the seasons. You see, as hedonistic as I’m prone to be in warm and hot weather, I probably would not live long in a tropical zone, where I would most likely try to literally fuck my brains out. Shit, all there has to be here is a hint of warm weather and the women come out in full force, showcasing their “assets” after a long hard winter.

Sheeesh! Youse guys are mean!

Whatever… things have gotten so hectic and the clothing so scarce these days, that I swear I can almost smell the shaving cream as scantily clad wenches pass me by, the hint of a grin on their smug and pretty faces. Yeah, you know how to hurt a guy. And yes I’m single, but you know how that goes: I could be starving to death and not one maiden would pay me any mind – more than likely she would step over, or around, my body on their way to work without giving more than a cursory look. Of course, let me get a girlfriend and they’ll be all over me like the proverbial white on rice. Shoot, I should revert to wearing a wedding ring, that always works. ::snicker::

Which really brings me to my topic today: sexual abstinence and its consequences. First, I have to give some props to some of the ladies here in that they have developed the resolve not to give in to the erotic impulse (at great cost, of course). Well, at least that’s what women like to say, you never know the real deal, but I’ve observed the women I know taking a more assertive stance on the sex issue and I applaud you all for that (yeah, right).

I think we’ve all heard by now of the seven-year government study that actually showed that teens who pledge abstinence (or who take abstinence-only sex courses) not only get the same amount of STDs as other teens, but are six times more likely to engage in oral sex, and the boys are four times more likely to get anal action from the girls.

Dang!

I guess, depending from what perspective one looks at it, this is either a great argument for or against abstinence-only sex education. I mean, I wish the Christian zealots who campaign for such programs would’ve been more effective when I was in school! I wasn’t getting any anal action from the girls while in high school.

Great idea, by the way: tell teens not to fuck! LMAO! I will tell you this, while I was in my 20s I dated a young lady who claimed to be a virgin and she was really OK with oral sex and eventually anal sex with me. She wanted to keep her hymen intact for her wedding night, she would proudly beam. I stayed with her for a lonnnnng time…

On another note, there is an unintended consequence for adult women practicing sexual abstinence: a huge spike in a little known disease that affects only adult women: vaginal atrophy. Yes, you read correctly: vaginal atrophy. This is a degenerative affliction in which womens’ genitalia atrophy from prolonged lack of proper use. 

Dr. Hughes Jourdaedy, lead investigator for a top government research arm says, “It’s unfortunate, but one of the consequences of prolonged sexual abstinence for adult women is that they lose vital functioning in their vagina which has led to what could be a very embarrassing symptom: vaginal squeaking.”

Another authority in the field, Dr. Yah EsTah-Oosa, a researcher from Taiwan, explains, “It’s the age-old truism: if you don’t use it, you lose it.” She explains further, “The reason why vaginal squeaking has become more prevalent today, is that women mistake the use erotic toys as an adequate substitute for penile intromission when in fact, our research shows that masturbation actually exacerbates the squeaking.” [emphasis added]

Fuck! Squeaking vaginas?!! ::blank stare::

On second thought, I think I’ve actually heard vaginas squeak, but thought I was experiencing auditory hallucinations. The other day, a woman was hurrying by me and she was squeaking like a rusty tire and when I stared at her, she tried to affect an indignant look, trying to place the blame on my shoes, but my shoes don’t squeak, thank you very much.

A good friend called me the other day despondent over her squeaking. She was a little embarrassed at first, but since she knows I keep up to date on cutting edge medical journals, she confided: “It’s gotten to the point where it’s becoming unmanageable,” she told me between sobs. “Just the other day, a group of high school kids followed me half way down the block yelling ‘Squeaky.’”

Another friend related her tragedy: her new boyfriend left her because he was totally turned off by the sound her legs made when he attempted to spread-eagle her, “He said I sounded like a rusty gate!” she cried. Sadly, I just didn’t have any words of consolation for her.

Well, boys and girls, I guess the moral of the story (if there’s any moral to be had here at all) is that perhaps God is getting even with us for denying and repressing something that is part of our essence, part of our human legacy: being sexual creatures.

Have a great weekend and please (!!) do something about that squeaking!

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

Motherhood and "El Lay Away"

¡Hola! Everybody...

Today, I want to wish all women a Happy Mother’s Day. I realize that for many, Mother’s Day may seem something of a relic, or a reinforcement of forced gender roles. For me, the archetype of The Mother isn’t a merely a downward segue into an extended rap on identity politics (justified or not). For me, the archetype has much to teach all of us, regardless of our location on the power dynamic.

And to further clarify, at least from my perspective, motherhood has less to do with biology than many of us assume. Some of the most powerful mothers I have ever known never had children of their own. My aunt, Fefi, who would’ve celebrated a birthday this past week (May 8th), was everyone’s mother. She raised more children than you can shake a stick at and if she were alive today and met you, she’d be your mother too. But she never had a child of her own, biologically speaking.

I had an aunt in Puerto Rico who received recognition from that Island’s governor – some kind of lifetime achievement award. She literally raised hundreds of children.

The woman my son calls mother is not the fruit of her womb. But she is as close to a mother he will ever know.

My sister Darlene never had a child but her instinct for nurturing and compassion is present in everything she does.

So it’s not just about biology, though I’m sure that’s an aspect of it. I think the Mother Archetype is instructive to all people in that it shows us the heart of the heart of compassion. A role model I certainly needed when I my then seven-year-old son and I were thrust together and I had to be a “mother” to him.

My own mother wouldn’t allow us to have pets, but she would welcome fragmented people into her home the way other mothers collected stray animals. The exiled, the unforgiven, the broken, the traumatized  -- they were the cast of characters that populated my childhood. And as much as my mother helped these poor souls, a few would turn on her and I would shake my head and ask my mother why she bothered, and she would look at me and say, “There’s a God and He sees everything, it’s not for me to judge. You help because that’s what you are supposed to do. And if you can help someone but refuse, then you have wasted your life.”

It took me almost a lifetime to understand that wisdom…

Basically my moms led a hilarious life with her children in tow -- here's a story I always remember...

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 My mother as a young woman with my sister Darlene

We were all crying because they were going to take the TV away.

There was little else in that living room, I don’t think there was even a couch. We would sit on the plastic covered kitchen chairs to watch TV. And that’s what we were doing when these two strange men came into the room and started packing the TV away. I couldn’t have been more than five-years-old and my two sisters Darlene and Yvette were 3 and 2 respectively.

We were crying. These two big bad men were taking the TV away.

There were two things I remember most about that Lower East Side five-story walk-up apartment. One was that the bathtub was in the kitchen which made for funny situations during dinner time. The other was that it had this long, narrow hallway. So long, in fact, that I used it to ride a tricycle up and down its length. My mother was obsessively clean and the worn linoleum would gleam with floor wax and we would take a running start in our socks and slide across that long hallway.

But most of my memories of that apartment weren’t so good because it was the first time I would remember my father not being around. And when my father wasn’t around, things were hard for my mother and we had less to eat, less furniture.

But we had this nice, new TV and these strange men were getting ready to take it away, so I cried, and my sisters followed suit. And my mother was standing there, not knowing what to do.

My mother ran into the room and asked these men to leave. They had come in when one of my younger sisters inadvertently opened the door while my mother was in the bathroom. I remember the way they looked at my mother, which wasn’t really nice. They called her “Maria” and made salacious comments and ogled her openly.

My mother started arguing with these men. At first it was more of a plea. She was actually begging these men not to take the TV away. You see, the TV was bought on the ghetto “lay-away” plan which was actually a scam to rip off those who had nothing to rip off in the first place. You would put an item on “lay-away” and that would allow you to take it home. You paid for the item in weekly installments. The thing was that the weekly installments often added up to more than twice the sticker price or some ridiculous mark up. In fact, most of what you got on “lay-away” was used -- items that were taken away from other families who had failed to make the weekly installment.

Aside from the long, narrow hallway, it was the only form of entertainment we had.

Soon, my mother was engaged in an all-out confrontation with the men, who seemed to care less and, aside from leering, weren’t even paying attention to my mother. You have to understand my mother is a petite woman who barely measures five feet tall -- not an imposing physical presence. So the men were ignoring my mother which made her more pissed off, which made us cry more.

“You can’t do this!” My mother yelled.

And everything stopped. We stopped crying because we knew that tone of voice. We had heard that tone many, many times before and it usually meant someone was going to get their ass kicked. So we stopped crying, perhaps hoping it wasn’t one of us. The men stopped because it was a defiant, authoritative voice. I guess these were men whose station in life made them used to taking orders and my mother had just barked one out that would’ve made a marine drill sergeant proud.

The pause lasted a split second and the men continued preparing to take the TV and we got back to crying, knowing that it wasn’t one of us who was in danger.

I remember my mother tried pleading one more time to no avail and then I got really scared because when I glanced over to her, she had The Look. I can’t ever sufficiently describe The Look. It was the look of death and it actually made my mother look taller, more powerful, but these guys just weren’t getting it, but we knew. We knew some shit was about to jump off. I felt so bad, I almost warned the men, but, having learned even at that tender and early age that discretion is the better part of valor, I chose to stay quiet.

My mother, seemingly defeated and frustrated, left the room...

And when she came back, she had the largest knife she owned in her hands. It was the same knife used for special occasions for cutting pernil (roast suckling) or something like that, and she had this wild-eyed look in her eyes. I swear her hair was standing up!

“YOU’RE NOT TAKING THAT TV!!!” She roared. “You will take that TV over my dead body! My children are not going to suffer.”

And with that, she yelled her Klingon death yell and made her charge, apparently willing to die.

Now, I was really scared because I feared for my mother’s safety. My mother was small and petite and she was a woman. Surely she wasn’t a match for these two big idiots who didn’t even know better to recognize The Look and when to leave. The men, who had until then been ignoring my mother, freaked out when they saw my mother charging them with this huge knife in her hand. They tried to calm her down, but it was too late (I could’ve told them that). She went after them and the funniest thing happened: The men started to run!

Or rather, they tried to run, but my mother had them pinned down, slashing at them with her knife and she meant to cut them. Through some miracle, they managed to elude my mother’s slashes and make it out of the living room into that long hallway, whereupon they slipped and slid through the length of that recently waxed and gleaming long expanse. Somehow they managed to make it out of the apartment, though my mother almost managed to stab the unfortunate one who slipped and fell.

But that wasn’t enough for her. My mother chased those men down five flights of stairs and down the street where they had their truck parked. They almost didn’t make it. By then my mother had ripped open her blouse and was yelling, “Rape! Rape!” at the top of her lungs which caused all the unemployed Puerto Ricans who happened to be hanging out on the street corner that fine summer day to join in on the chase of these two men. I know this because I was running behind my mother the whole time. I’m her oldest, after all.

They jumped in the truck making their narrow escape in a squeal of tires and a cloud of dust, never to be seen again, a mob of oppressed and frustrated Puerto Ricans on their tail.

There we were in the middle of the street, my mother with a knife in her hand, clutching her blouse closed. She looked at me and said, “C’mon, let’s go home.” Somewhow, I remember my mother still managed to look regal, her head held high. If the lyrics to the Paul Simon song, “diamonds on the soles of her shoes” had any meaning, my mother embodied it at that moment. She never allowed her circumstances to define her. As we walked back home, no one dared say a word to her...

And that’s what we did; we went home up five flights to that sad almost empty apartment. She put the TV back where it belonged, plugged it in and told us that we could watch as much TV as we wanted and that no one would ever take our TV away. She left and got some overpriced, stale meat and other things on credit from the corner bodega. It is said that Cuba, the proprietor notorious for once refusing credit to his own mother, took one look at my mother and decided that was not best time to mention her credit was stretched too far. Later she cooked us dinner, with a Blackout Special as a treat.

And we, my two sisters and I, we were so happy.

That was the kind of mother she was: ferocious, fiercely protective of her children. Later in life, it was her power of example that maintained me and served to teach me never to give up when the odds seemed insurmountable. It was also her fierce compassion that nurtured me, serving as beacon to a path for becoming a better man. I believe that if I were to carry my mother on my back for the rest of her life, I still could never repay her…

I love you Moms

Awakening

Hola Everybody…

I’ve been sick. Today is the first time since Thursday night that I could actually get out of bed for a significant amount of time. I think I had a nasty flu. My whole body hurt. Thankfully, I seem to have turn the corner. 

Gawd, I haven’t blogged in so long… 

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Nows [no. 32]

Your sleep:

I have watched you wake --

a spectacle,

an immediate vision of honesty.

Your long legs

yawn open

and your arms reach out

for a missing star.

You are reluctant,

deserting your dream,

surrendering to the pink wound

of a new day.

And you reach out for me,

silently, without a plan,

and it is enough.

Your touching me

will always be enough.

It says what no poem

will ever say,

what no words could ever tell me.

 -- Edward-Yemíl Rosario

 From: Full-Frontal Angry Love Poems