Some really adorable cartoons to enjoy! Click Read More to see another two.
“Kiss me or fuck me, I can’t take it anymore.”
I did neither.
I watch my reflection in the windows of the bank as the bus drives away; I see a girl in a blue shirt, dark hair tied up. We hit the second street corner and an announcement for tickets to this summer’s big event comes on the speaker, as usual.
“You go all the way around the state before you get to the point,” I remember my friend telling me. She was laughing but, still, it hurt a little.
[Long pause in journaling]
“How do you know I’m ready?”
“Your body’s ready.”
“I’m almost twenty-three, my body better be ready.”
Thank you, Saturday Morning Breakfast Cereal, for another good one!
Read: “I want an Arranged Marriage”.
No, you don’t.
No, you don’t want an arranged marriage.
(I understand it’s an emotional argument to make. I also understand that I can’t make blanket statements. I am going to violate every cardinal rule of argument or political correctness — you know, that convention that prevents us social anthropologists from saying that one tradition is inherently better than the other.)
The writer has chosen not to reveal her name. This is smart. She is clearly confused and her thoughts are badly organized. If she gave her real name, she would have been pilloried across the internet.
This story was a mishmash of disjointed orientalist stereotypes, and it should not have been run. I love the Frisky’s GirlTalk segments as a rule, but this is awful. I hope against hope that this doesn’t turn into a farce of Gilbert-style proportions.
He looks away from the screen, “What?”
“What about me do you want? You keep saying it, all the time, but, what about me do you want?” I’m sitting on his bed, a few feet away from him. It’s evening, or late at night. We’ve taken a brake to recharge. We’re not in any hurry to get anywhere.
“That’s a strange question.” His lips curl a bit at one side, that quirky smile of What’s this now? Is this game going to be fun? “I’m not even sure I know how to answer that.” He gets out of his chair and takes a slow step, then another, towards me. “I want your body, of course. But that’s not the answer you’re looking for, is it? I want that sound you make,” he crawls onto the bed, follows as I lower my back to the mattress, “the way you sigh when I kiss you here… Right there, that sound; that’s what I want. I want the way you sound when I touch you. I want your orgasm.”
“I think that’s the one I was hoping to hear,” I lie, as much to myself as to him, because my inability so far to achieve orgasm is easier to face.
“I want to be your first.”
“I want you to be my first,” I whisper, and then, to make sure he’d heard me, “I want you to be my first.”
Fear of my bodily hair consumes me— and rudely interrupts my sexual fantasies: I slide off my panties, and the sexy, shirtless guy lounging on the bed says in Antonio Banderas’s husky accent: “That’s not a pussy, that’s a Persian cat!”
Most men will never know why their girlfriends aren’t up for sex: shaving. Yes, shaving— female shaving: a time-consuming ritual which includes scraping hair off the armpits, crotch, butt, and vaginal regions. Although some women enjoy shaving, just as some men enjoy plucking their eyebrows, most of us shave for one key reason: Fear. Specifically, fear of rejection… that we won’t land that job, that guy, or worse, the acceptance of our friends and family. Although fear of rejection is about as old as mankind, and fundamentally human, the fear which compels women to shave their bodies is a recent one, encroached in disturbing double-standards and prejudice that dehumanize us.
We showered together, the last time I was at his house. Monday? Yes, Monday. We showered together and then fooled around some more. I felt a little overwhelmed in there–so close, so private, so… naked. But he’s good to me, he makes me feel good. He stops when I ask him to. I’ve been wanting him; I want to be good to him, to take care of him. The way he says my name… like he’s surprised, and grateful, that I try so hard, and yet so effortlessly, to be good to him. I’ve never been so good to anyone before. I’ve never wanted to be good to anyone. Not like this.
The reader adds:
I know that women do not put too much thought into their politics, and being liberal in this age is a reflection of practically nothing. I’d be much more concerned if, say, she were an avid user of Twitter, or ever wears sweatpants. An artful courtier eludes discussion of politics with women.
One girl would affectionately put her hand over my mouth when I’d muse about politics, and tell how she liked me less when I would say, criticize homosexuals. I would smirk, and go on to something else. It’s a little needy to want a woman to agree with you on every point, and frankly unnecessary.
I recommend the book Way of the Superior Man by David Deida. Aside from some coverage of Tantric sex methods, it has a very good discussion of the sexes, and of how a man is to behave in a relationship and in life.
This reader’s ignorance shines through from the first sentence. Women don’t put much thought into their politics? You mean to tell me that he has met every single woman in the world, or even just a majority of them, and come to this conclusion? He has simply decided that women are intellectually inferior and flighty beings by nature. Therefore, it would stand to reason that they don’t put much thought into anything, including their politics.