Women's Anger in September 2018

**Trigger warning: Assault is discussed in this post

I used to say about myself, "I am not a person who gets angry".

I used to be able to count on one hand the times in my life in which I had felt really really mad.

I used to say, "I'm just not an angry person".

I mean, an angry woman is NOT an attractive woman. Women should go with the flow, learn to take a joke, be cool. We are socialized to believe that if we express anger we are undesirable. Some of us are socialized to believe that if we express anger we will be harmed. After growing up in a house where annoyance could turn quickly to violence, I learned as an adult to be the person who could calm down a fight while somehow holding on to that part of me that needed to stand up for what I felt was right. I channeled that into being an advocate for those who needed it most, working in non-profit the beginning of my career and partnering with them since.

Over the past couple of years a number of things have made me feel something that could only be defined as anger, and that I have yet to successfully transfer to anything else.


My mother's sickness and death was likely an early starting point, but at that point I channeled everything into hurt - as I always had. Angry at your Mom for not handling things better? Nope - that's sadness that she's gone. Angry with the people who weren't there for you? Nope - that's empowerment to move forward on your own. Angry with the world for all the ways life hurts people? Nope - that's just grief. I never thought of it as anger.

Then came Trump. All of a sudden, so many of the things I was feeling were shared with many people around me. The world was outraged and it was safe to acknowledge that my sadness wasn't just sadness - it was rage. Experiencing collective fury with so many people who could express it so well allowed me to admit what I was really feeling.

The challenge with starting to feel comfortable acknowledging your anger is that you notice it more. You let it grow. If you're smart, you find ways to navigate it, like my previous attempts at calming it down or turning it into fuel for something good. But suddenly, I wasn't able to do that anymore. Now that I knew this was anger, I could no longer convert into something else. The tears that have always popped up for me when I'm mad could no longer be dismissed as sadness or being overly emotional. I stopped being able to pretend my feelings were something they weren't. And that alone was probably the hardest step for me. The feeling of actually sitting with any kind of resentment at all is so uncomfortable to me that I find myself in a panic. I need a way to resolve it.

A number of personal challenges have forced me to acknowledge that I do have anger that hasn't been resolved with my subconscious attempts to convert it to hurt anxiety, or empowerment. I, like everyone, work to deal with these things - through forgiveness, venting, focusing on the good - whatever I can. But now....

Now it's different.

Everything is different.

The women of the US are outraged. People all over the world are outraged. Yes, there are some things we can do, but is it enough to dissipate our anger? Does a rally make that much injustice go away? Even if I could quit my job and dedicate my entire life to helping, would the rage decrease? How do we sit with the anger we feel right now? I'm writing this because I don't know how to deal with how LIVID I am in this moment.

Last week I posted on #WhyIDidn'tReport in support of Dr. Blasey Ford. In response to that post, 9 people I know and love reached out to me privately to share their experiences of rape. I'd love to believe that's all of them, but we know better. As I watched a group of old white men question Dr. Ford, I scrolled through twitter to read people's comments. What I found reignited a rage in me that I don't know will ever dissipate.

A long time ago I was very close to a man who now has quite a few followers on social media due to his polarizing sports commentary. When I was raped at 17, this was the man who made me understand that it was rape. This was the man that threatened the life of my attacker. This was the man who encouraged me to report (which I didn't) and supported me through the times when I questioned my memory or my value or felt shame at what had happened. This was a good man. I know he's a good man.

We don't agree politically, and at some point during one of the campaigns I could no longer subject myself to things he was saying, but I honestly believed most of it was for show. When we talked, actually talked, we could always find SOME middle ground - even if unstable. Maybe I should have blocked him long ago, but I don't believe in only exposing yourself to one side. I believe it's good to have friends who challenge your beliefs.

During the testimony, though, my old friend's twitter was filled with hateful tweets about Dr. Ford. They ranged from calling her a lying manipulative person who was just trying to get famous to make money to blaming one of the other accusers for not coming forward about the drunken parties earlier. I thought I could talk to him. I told him how I remembered him being there for me, and how after that he could be so adamant that she's lying. His response was that I couldn't be objective because I was a woman who had been assaulted. He said the fact that I wasn't skeptical of Ford demonstrates that I'm not objective. He didn't care what I had to say.

Look - I understand his point. I understand that he's concerned that a woman can make a claim that could destroy a man's life. I really do get it.

But he was there with me. Telling me to report. Hearing all the reasons I couldn't, wouldn't. He KNOWS how hard it is for women. How could this man of all men believe what he believes?

And then I got to thinking. The guy who assaulted me was pretty high up in his company. What would I do if he ran for office? What would I do if I were in Dr. Ford's position? I don't know that I'd be as brave as she has been, but I did look him up. He has a facebook page. It's crazy to think that's surprising, but it is. The man who raped me has a facebook page, and I can look at it. The man who held me down and left bruises on my face, neck, and wrists has pictures of him with his big happy family. His boys are just a little younger than me. I wonder if they know? I wonder if they're like him? I'm angry that he gets to have a family and a facebook page. I'm angry at his smiling face.

Two weeks ago a man I worked with grabbed my thigh above my knee repeatedly in a meeting. I am 99% certain there was nothing sexual behind it - I think he was being parental - but it wasn't appropriate in a work setting. He did it multiple times, he left his hand there, and even after I turned away he adjusted his chair to do it again. To me, it felt condescending. To me, it felt like he was clearly telling me who was in power here. I brought it up to some coworkers so we could demonstrate to the men in the room how women have crazy choices to make and think about ALL THE TIME. Asking him not to do that would have repercussions. He'd already demonstrated that in other meetings after I'd challenged him. So I kept it in.

Today, after the hearings, after the bullshit my old friend said, I just wasn't up for handling anymore. After weeks of asking this person I work with to spell my name correctly (it's in my email address for goodness sake) and having him ignore it. After weeks of telling him the teams he's trying to align are not aligned and giving him information about it. After weeks of doing a big chunk of his job for him while he takes all the credit. He sends me an email end of day Friday saying, "all you've done is confuse things...we are not aligned". No solution, no options, just the accusation. And he spelled my name wrong.

I probably shouldn't have, but I called him immediately. He didn't answer, so I responded, and copied someone higher up on the chain I trust. I probably shouldn't have done that, either. But I'm tired of should haves. I was very diplomatic, told him I thought it would be more helpful to have a meeting to discuss where folks are not aligned rather than making a blanket statement that I've confused things. And I made the most drastic effort I could in this setting to show him I need him to hear me, to see me, to respect me:

He likes to call me Monica. My name is not Monica.

I signed my email just like this: MoniKa

So that's how I'm dealing with my anger. And writing to you lovely folks. Anyone have any better ideas? Because shit just got real. 

Why I Didn't Report

Inspired by a very strong friend - I'm making a decision to stand with Dr. Ford:

#WhyIDidntReport

I didn’t report because I was 17 and confused about what happened. I only had vague moments of memories, and the idea that I could have been drugged didn't occur to me. The reality of what had actually happened didn't hit me until I had to find ways to cover up the hand-shaped bruises on my face, neck, and wrists.

I didn't report because the man was someone I knew and thought I could trust, and afterward he did nice things for me. I've since learned this is common. A rape victim will question whether it was rape because her attacker brushed leaves off her back after forcing her into them. I was confused by him bringing me food and changing the sheets.

I didn't report because he told me I wanted it. I had enjoyed his initial attention. He was older, he must be right. What did I know at 17?

I didn't report because it happened on Christmas Eve, and all I wanted to was to spend a happy Christmas Day with people I loved.

I didn't report because when I first told my boyfriend what happened, I said I cheated. When I told him the truth a few hours later, he didn't believe me. His anger never left me.

I didn't report because when I told several people I trust in my church, including two pastors, I was told it was my fault for being alone with a man. I was to blame. I was shameful in the eyes of God and to be judged for what I had done.

I didn't report because I was a strong 6'4" athlete. How could a man overpower me?

I didn't report because I was not emotionally capable of processing what had happened to me. As a friend said, "Rape is not the kind of thing the human brain easily recognizes as fact. Eventually, adrenaline and shock gave way to a numb, cold certainty I could no longer explain away." Months later, as a freshman in college, my attacker contacted me. My incredible basketball team heard me and supported me. It was only then that I was able to start to deal with what had happened. After what I now consider a minor mental breakdown, I faced what happened and started (STARTED!!!!) to rebuild. I considered reporting then, but at what cost? With what evidence?

And in following years, when other assaults happened that I've now learned were non-consensual, I didn't report because I didn't even consider them assault compared to that life-changing moment at 17.

I'm quoting my friend directly here because I can't say this next part better than she did:

"Not reporting is my reality. It’s the reality of thousands upon thousands of women, men, non-binary/trans folx, and children who’ve been raped and sexually assaulted or abused. It’s a reality for survivors far more often than it isn’t. The statistics are absolutely staggering. The vast majority of these crimes are never reported, and that’s NOT because they don’t happen. False reports are so very, very rare."

I believe and stand with Dr. Ford.

Told You I'm Not the Only One

Even SF Weekly thinks SF is a tough city for women looking to date men.

This week they featured an article about a pick-up artist who tried to teach SF women how to pick up men in the city...and found it more difficult than he expected.

Read for yourself: Girl Game

Some favorite excerpts:

...being a single, straight woman in this city can be an exercise in frustration and humiliation. All around the city, successful single women complain about not being able to find quality partners.

Although there's no hard data to prove it, anecdotal evidence abounds.

One possible explanation is that in San Francisco, men who aren't gay, married, or damaged by a previous owner are decidedly cagey when it comes to dating and relationships. "Men are more timid here to ask women out," says Emily Morse, a local radio show host who regularly discusses sex and relationships. "They also seem to think dating just isn't cool."

------------

"I've never had as much trouble finding people to date as I have here," a woman wrote. It was the first response to an SF Weekly tweet calling for women fed up with the dating scene in San Francisco and willing to subject themselves to a pickup artist's workshop. "I moved to the city after a nasty breakup, expecting to casually date people," she continued. "I couldn't even get laid at first."

Plenty of other responses zoomed in, many including pointed complaints about male-female relations. "I've never seen so much dating down in my life," a woman wrote, referring to how many couples she knows that seem to include a smart, attractive woman and an average, barely tolerable guy.

------------

In San Francisco, though, women have to deal with a lot of ambiguity. "We don't even know what it is," Valencia said of some men she has encountered around the city. "Is it gay? Is it straight? Is it a friend Is it a foe? Is it looking for a job? Is it looking for a place to crash?"

Another contributing factor to the dating doldrums: "There's no pressure to grow up here," she says. "The way I act now is pretty much the same way I acted when I was 24. It's culturally reinforced here. Nobody cares that you're in your late 30s and have roommates."

------------

But as someone who has lived in New York City, she has noticed that in San Francisco, men are not very bold in approaching women.

"Here, there are all these group get-togethers," she says. "Men prefer to see women a few times before asking them out." And, as in any other city full of young, ambitious people, San Franciscans seem less interested in settling down than in exploring their options.

------------

Maybe it was because we were out on a Wednesday. Maybe we had chosen the wrong bar. But that particular scenario — having just a couple of attractive men to fight over, finding out they're gay, then hitting on them anyway — seemed a perfect representation of what it's like for a single woman in San Francisco.

------------ 

Valencia said her mother has a theory about men. "A good guy is like a good bra," she used to say. "He should uplift and make you look beautiful. He should fit really well. He should flatter you and never poke you in the wrong place or make you uncomfortable."

------------ 

Dating's hard! (said in an incredibly whiny voice, of course)

No Pretty Boys

You would think the news that most women prefer pretty boys would make my life easier.



Give me a strong jaw line and a bit of ruggedness any day.

From the Mouths of SF Men

Continuing the conversation about nice guys and/or SF passive guys...

I was recently out with a friend who moved here last year from the East Coast and his roommate, who was born and bred in the Bay Area. My friend is the epitome of what I think it means to be a man. (Well, almost...Marlboro Man of Pioneer Woman is the true epitome, but I'm so never gonna meet that type out here.) He pays - even for friends when he can. He makes decisions, he open doors, he carries heavy things, he takes risks, he displays confidence, he walks girls home or hails their cab...as I'd say it back home, his mama done him good. So, knowing my friend's answer already, I asked the roommate if he always paid on the first date. Without hesitation he said no. We delved a little further and he emphasized that he behaves out of a belief in equality, not out of being a cheapskate. He said that he does usually offer to pay, but that the girls frequently argue with him and he's not going to let that go on all night. It seems like maybe the women are the cause of confusion rather than the guys not manning up. Unfortunately, I'm starting to think neither the men nor the women of SF were properly taught the rules (or they let go of their training in the confusion of SF liberalness). To do my part for my humanity, I decided to clarify the rules of paying for dates, as learned in southern Missouri and followed thus far by every man I've ever dated except SF boys.

First Date:

Bill comes, I take out my card in an offer to pay for my half.
He argues and says he has it.
I say thank you and put my card away.

If he actually lets me pay my half, there will be no second date.
I don't care how poor/broke you are. I don't need much. But if I'm not worth you making that gesture the first time we meet, it's not a date, and you therefore won't be getting a second one.

Second Date:

Now, this one is slightly more tricky.
If the first date was fairly expensive, I'm likely to ask if I can take him out this time and insist that I pay, but it will be for a less expensive thing than he did. I will also let him pitch in for drinks or pay half the bill for the date if he insists (and this would earn points and increase likelihood of 3rd date).

If the first date was normal, I'll again offer to pay my half, but I won't be offended if he accepts my offer.
I would expect him to then do something extra, though, like pay for a cab or purchase an after dinner drink. It wouldn't be points against him if he didn't, but it sets it up for a weird dynamic in which we're already discussing who pays for what a little soon in the dating scheme.

If he pays for the second date in full, I will be sure to pay for after dinner drinks or a cab or something small. I will also insist that I get to treat him next time, but again, he'll earn bonus points if on that next time he picks up some small thing like a drink or cab.

And so it goes until it evens out with him paying about 3:2 or so.

I like this plan. I have no problem feeling like he is taking care of me financially in regard to those dates, because it will even out. I'll keep my fridge stocked with his favorite beer or keep his whiskey at my bar. I'll buy the groceries when I make him dinner. I'll spend money on pretty underwear for his benefit. It just works.

The problem with the SF man not paying for the dates in the same way means the other stuff no longer evens out. So I spend money on make-up and hair and cute shoes and facials and yoga classes and sexy underwear - all so he gets what he wants. And now I ALSO have to share the burden of half the dates? As if men spend nearly as much as we do on these things. And honestly, if I trust him to pick up the alcohol, it's gonna be all beer all the time, and sometimes I need to go pick out that fancy bottle of wine. Am I supposed to ask him to repay me for half? Or groceries - I will always go for the local organic cut of beef, so if I expect that I have to buy it...which means I'm paying for it then, too.

These men who are trying to be more equal are forgetting about the natural dynamic that has worked for decades.
YES, I make money. I may even make as much as you. But women still don't make as much as men, even in the exact same positions at the same company. And men sure as hell don't shell out $150 to keep their skin clear and soft, their hair shiny and touchable, their hairy regions waxed, and everything else perfect just for us.

Boys, if you want to date a girl who doesn't wear make-up, shows up in the same clothes you wear, never wears sexy lingerie, has hairy legs and armpits, has wrinkles and/or major zits, and smells like discount soap - fine. Then you can let her pay. And yeah, you may think that beautiful chick across the bar is just that girl, but that's only because you don't know what goes into creating that "natural" look. You know how long we fuss just to make sure that one tousled lock of hair falls just so? And yes, we do it for us. But we also do it for you. So when you go around deciding to treat us equally by choosing not to pay for that first date, you throw off the balance. All of a sudden we're paying equally, but we're putting far more effort into our appearance. Then we start to think maybe we're better than you. Then we start looking for the guy who will pay. OR, we stop giving a shit, stop shaving, and start wearing ratty old grandma undies with holes and frayed waistbands. Up to you boys, make your choice.

ANYWAY, this all came up again because I was reading Why There Are No Girls in SF and Sam posted a guy's perspective of the city's unaggressive men. Sam points out that men are unaggressive here, in this case in approaching women, because the women are too damn scary.

SF women seem to have this hybrid sensibility of hill-billy southern gallantry, where prescribed gender roles dictate who should aggressively pursue whom, and a regionally specific 70s-style extremist feminism, where there is hyper sensitivity to being hit on. According to San Francisco magazine, “Bay Area women have been known to react to innocent flirting as if they'd been groped ...

That’s the paradox. SF women get sort of annoyed when guys attempt to seduce them. Not bemused or bored, annoyed. The fact that the average SF guy has the charm of a yard rake doesn't matter. SF women want men to make advances on them but without them knowing that the advance is being made, which requires not just Code speak but pretending to be gay.

This creates what anthropologists call a double bind dilemma. A successful response to one message implicates a failed response to the other, so that the person will be automatically wrong regardless of response. It's pretty much the kind of thing that broke the Union in 1861 and makes the Middle East a total mess. So if you’re a guy in San Francisco and there's a pretty girl sitting next to you, what’s the right move? You keep quiet, keep your head down and hope no one starts yelling.

And you know what? I think maybe he's right. We are an independent sort here in SF, and it is frequently the case when we are out that we don't want to be bothered. Sometimes a guy interupting girl time is intrusive, and perhaps SF girls are a little more vocal about that. Maybe that leads to exactly what Sam posits about men just keeping their heads down and waiting for the girls to come to them.

Now, I was taught that if you aren't interested you always say thank you with a big smile and simply decline the opportunity for an introduction or a free drink. This encourages men to keep trying with other woman. Having seen other women out here react harshly to come-ons, I have to wonder if this isn't all our fault. Have too many of us women rejected vocally and meanly to the point where all the SF balls are now shriveled and tucked up inside never to be seen again? Honestly? It almost makes me feel more sorry for the guys here than disgusted with them. Good thing I'm way past my pity sex days.

Ladies, we need to understand our job. The men need to understand theirs.

We get pretty, we smell nice, we buy nice underwear and bat our eyelashes. Men pay (at least at first and usually slightly more overall), open doors, carry heavy things. Not because we can't do those things, but because they want to do them for us.

We can be equals, we can share power, but come on...there's a nice balance to how things work (one I find particularly sexy), and we're seeing the evidence of f*cking with that as plain as day.

Bad Sex in Fiction Awards

oh. my.

The Literary Review's Bad Sex in Fiction Awards are out, and they are certainly worth reading.

This year's winner is Jonathan Littell, for The Kindly Ones.

The winning passage:

Her vulva was opposite my face. The small lips protruded slightly from the pale, domed flesh. This sex was watching at me, spying on me, like a Gorgon's head, like a motionless Cyclops whose single eye never blinks. Little by little this silent gaze penetrated me to the marrow. My breath sped up and I stretched out my hand to hide it: I no longer saw it, but it still saw me and stripped me bare (whereas I was already naked). If only I could still get hard, I thought, I could use my prick like a stake hardened in the fire, and blind this Polyphemus who made me Nobody. But my cock remained inert, I seemed turned to stone. I stretched out my arm and buried my middle finger into this boundless eye. The hips moved slightly, but that was all. Far from piercing it, I had on the contrary opened it wide, freeing the gaze of the eye still hiding behind it. Then I had an idea: I took out my finger and, dragging myself forward on my forearms, I pushed my forehead against this vulva, pressing my scar against the hole. Now I was the one looking inside, searching the depths of this body with my radiant third eye, as her own single eye irradiated me and we blinded each other mutually: without moving, I came in an immense splash of white light, as she cried out: 'What are you doing, what are you doing?' and I laughed out loud, sperm still gushing in huge spurts from my penis, jubilant, I bit deep into her vulva to swallow it whole, and my eyes finally opened, cleared, and saw everything.

2005's Winner was pretty good, too. Winkler by Giles Coren:

And he came hard in her mouth and his dick jumped around and rattled on her teeth and he blacked out and she took his dick out of her mouth and lifted herself from his face and whipped the pillow away and he gasped and glugged at the air, and he came again so hard that his dick wrenched out of her hand and a shot of it hit him straight in the eye and stung like nothing he'd ever had in there, and he yelled with the pain, but the yell could have been anything, and as she grabbed at his dick, which was leaping around like a shower dropped in an empty bath, she scratched his back deeply with the nails of both hands and he shot three more times, in thick stripes on her chest. Like Zorro.

And a Runner Up from this year, A Dead Hand by Paul Theroux:

'Baby.' She took my head in both hands and guided it downward, between her fragrant thighs. 'Yoni puja - pray, pray at my portal.'
She was holding my head, murmuring 'Pray,' and I did so, beseeching her with my mouth and tongue, my licking a primitive form of language in a simple prayer. It had always worked before, a language she had taught me herself, the warm muffled tongue.

I don't know that I could write anything quite that amusing with any area of seriousness. 

The Nice Guy

My friends and I have been talking more and more about the Nice Guy lately. I think it started with the Feathery Stroker excerpt and the night with Period Boy.

Period Boy was a very sexy, very fun guy my girlfriends and I met at a club in Vegas. He became known as Period Boy because after spending an hour or two dancing with us and his friends, he started pouting anytime he wasn't getting enough attention. He got all sulky and needed to be attended to. Obviously, we got bored of this very quickly. Cuteness does not make up for the need for a babysitter in a grown man.

And then I came across the ad about a man's job, and it all started coming to a head. Coincidentally, it's also been coming up more in my blogroll, and I've been feeling inclined to say something about it. Amanda over at Dating is Miserable recently even had a slew of guest bloggers write about the issue. I'm not sure I'm talented enough to accurately capture everything that's rolling around in my head, but I'll try for the essence here.

Having pretty much always ended up with the self-defined Nice Guy, but having had enough experience with his opposite to feel expertly qualified, I think I can diagnose this issue as a problem of semantics.

The Nice Guy we root for in movies is nice, but he's still the Man in the relationship. He still knows how to handle his woman, and hot sex is not automatically thrown out the window just because he brings the female protagonist a cup of soup when she's sick.

So what makes him more appealing than the Nice Guy we meet in real life?

Well, for starters, it isn't about Nice vs. Not Nice.

The original Nice Guy debate sees to have stemmed from the difference between the bad boy that's fun and exciting versus the nice guy that will always be there and is thoughtful and, well, nice. In this face-off, bad boy gets the dates and nice guy gets the wife and 2.5 kids.

Side note: this doesn't even begin to address the problem of Nice Guys learning to affect Bad Boy characteristics and Bad Boys pretending to be Nice Guys, which Amanda deals with in her follow up to her guest week.

But that's not what we're dealing with in dating anymore. That's an oversimplified version of the real issue. Rather than having 2 men: the Bad Boy versus the Nice Guy, I'd argue, that there are really more like 4 archetypes, with dots on the spectrum all across the way. I propose using 2 variables (I'll leave incorporating other planes to someone out there who has far more time than I do): Nice and Sexy.

I propose The Nice Guy Graph:


It just so happens that many of the qualities that make a man seem Nice (sensitivity, friendliness, openness, approachability, humility) negatively correlate with the qualities that make a man seem Sexy (confidence, experience, edginess, mystery, toughness). This means the the upper left and lower right quadrants contain a significantly large percentage of the population. Thus the typical Nice Guy versus Bad Boy debate.

Being the complicated and never satisfied woman that I seem to be, however, I simply can't settle for one or the other. I want Nice and Sexy. I believe this is what most women want (although I can't really speak for all of us, now can I?).

The problem for me is that most of the nice guys I meet are too passive (asking me for the first kiss, not making a move at all), too sensitive (they want to talk about their feelings more than I do), too open and available (they lose all mystery, which is fun), too inexperienced (they have had less experience because they don't just take what they want, so they just aren't as good in bed), too humble (confidence is key!), too complimentary (if you worship me so much, maybe I'm out of your league), too...well, feminine. But most of the truly sexy men I meet are too mysterious (you've gotta open up a little), too arrogant (c'mon...you've got to have some weaknesses), too insensitive (I don't want to cry at home b/c you were a douche...this is when Nice Guy gets called), and too assholeish.

There's got to a balance. The aggressive man who takes what he wants but is happy to work to get you to want it, too. The guy who is open and honest without divulging all of his insecurities. The guy who makes you feel sexy without making you feel like he's not good enough for you. The guy who is confident without arrogance, rough with tenderness, and has the answers but doesn't mind asking questions.

I think the key factor for me is capability. That upper right quadrant is a capable man.

He is capable of love, romance, commitment, conversation, emotional sharing. But he is also capable of turning you into goo with a look from across the room, kissing you in a way that makes you think you never need to breathe again, getting what he wants in life, keeping you interested and excited, getting into trouble, getting out of trouble, fixing things. He is capable of handling me in all of my complexity. (On this - Amy Brown wrote an interesting post on how she doesn't like Nice Guys because she's not a Nice Girl. She poses that Nice Guys just don't want her because she's too complicated and restless. This seems right on for me. You can read more Nice Guy posts over at the Heartless Bitches archive.)

He can party you under the table, but will get you home safe and get you that awesome bowl of chicken tortilla soup for brunch the next day. After a night out he'll have you up against the wall before the door is closed, but the second time around, he'll take his time and be sweet and slow. He'll have his own life, his own friends, his own dreams, but he'll be there for you and support yours. He'll make you dinner, but he won't feed it to you unless it's leading right into dessert. He'll feed your cat when you're out of town, but he won't coo at it in baby talk. He'll fix your internet and your broken lock; your emotional drama and your sexual frustration. He is capable in many ways on many levels.

My favorite image of the Upper Right Quadrant Guy?

Peter DeWolf's guest "word doodle" on the Dating is Miserable blog:

i chuckle sometimes
i really do
i chuckle when you mistake
kindness for weakness
not malicious
i know
your warm dark eyes twinkle
lips turn up just a little
still
the smugness
irks
i'm nice
it's true
and i like being good to you
but
if i thought for a minute
a second
that you took it
for granted
you'd miss
popsicles and west wing dvds
when you are sick
and wearing those thread-bare pjs
you got when you
were sixteen
penguins!
you'd miss
me sensing the need
for a back rub
a foot rub
a soft but sturdy shoulder
when your boss
doesn't realize
everything you do
and are
and can be
you better
appreciate
because
well
i guess
what i'm saying is
baby
i will remember
our anniversary
and cook you a romantic dinner
but you better believe
when we're done eating
i'll be bending your ass over that table

And with that perfect thought, I'll leave it to you all to add your thoughts.


Oh...and you can read more of Peter's stuff on his blog.

A Man's Job

I ran across an ad on Craigslist recently that I found all too amusing. I had to share. The first part of his ad is a description of his job, which is incredibly detailed and accurate.

I know my job and I own up to it, I learned the hard way - but I own up to it now. My job is to be decisive when you say "what do you want to do tonight?" My job is NOT to say, "I dunno, what do you want to do?" It is my job to say, "I would like to [verb here] to [insert place] and [activity here]. Yet, I must also know when you have your own idea and actually want me to say, "I don't know, what about you?" How should I know? That's my job as a man. I must know. I do know.

My job is to be ambitious in my career and make enough money that if we live together and your career takes a turn for the worse - I would have the money to afford to keep you fed and healthy AND sexy.

My job is make you feel safe with me. I know when to be cool and aloof most of the time when you are just engaged in friendly flirting. I have to NOT feel threatened when guys stare at you, not be jealous when they flirt, not be insecure when you flirt back, just relax and enjoy your happiness. Ok? I figured it out. I know. I am not jealous by nature so this job is easy. But the moment a guy mistakes one of your signals (which happens because you don't quite realize all the signals you give off) and starts trying to do something to you against your will, I need to be ready to be incarcerated after I make him sorry. That's fine. Hopefully it will never get that far and my sharp tongue will scare him off.

I agree to it every day when I put my pants on, or when we take a photo and you have to lean into me (we know who is who). I don't lean into you. We don't have photos of me sitting in your lap.

My job is to intuit, using my sexual psychic powers, when you need to be objectified and fucked like an animal (yet still ensuring your orgasm) or spanked or hair pulled, or more, and when you need gentle love like what you saw in that romantic movie you watched. I need to also magically know when you want it quick and urgent and when you want it to take all night. And when you scream the very painful words "fuck me harder," even whilst I am fucking as hard as I can and running out of breath, it is my job to find a way to do it harder. Yes, it is tough, but it is my job, I accept it.

All the hours I spend at the gym will help me fuck harder when I am supposed to. I work hard for you. And somehow, most of the time, I have to figure all this out without anything but your body language and your subtle female hints and the infamous girl code. Fine, it may not be easy, but I accept it and I do my best because this is how it works.

It is also my job to be funny and entertaining yet a little dark and mysterious at times. Don't ask me how either. But, I can do it. You can't teach that by the way. God forbid you should be able to figure me out entirely. Your boredom means the end of good sex, orgasm and eventually the relationship. Or it just means the beginning of the nagging and bitching, which neither of us want.

I realize that. I accept that. I have to be your clown, yet keep your respect. Get you to laugh at me, but not reduce my prowess in your eyes. It is a fine line. It is my job to walk it and know how to keep mystery alive, maintain your respect and awe of me as a man and at the same time make you smile when you need it and keep things light when you get too lost in your intensity.

It is also my job to make you feel comfortable to express yourself to me, to listen, to show you I care (without ever caring too much). I have to care for you and show love without ever making you feel that I am more sensitive than you, more emotional, more emotionally intelligent, sweeter or more romantic. If I cross those lines, you will run from me and say I am too nice - or just not feel complete because I am walking in your territory as a woman. Again, that's fine with me. I know the line, I will walk on the right side of it and I will accept responsibility when I screw up. I will be your listener and still ignore you at the right time, or fuck you like a bar room whore when I need to. I can figure out what to do when, or at least accept that it is my job to figure that out. Call me a multi-tasker. I recognize that sometimes you need to be told to shut up and put in your place or sent to your room, but still left to feel like you can express yourself freely to the guy (me) who loves you. No one taught me that. I had to figure it out.

And when you get into a car accident, and the guy you hit is yelling at you and you call me on the cell phone, I need to be able to drop what I am doing and effectively manage whatever tragedy has occurred. Sure, you can do it yourself - you might even resent girls who are helpless in such situations - I am not criticizing your skill set here at all. I am just saying that when tragedy goes down, and [if] you are in need of help, I need to take care of it. The relationship requires that I be able to stay calm and solve problems when you can't. And you know you can smell fear in a man. If you catch the slightest hint that I am just as intimidated by the tragedy as you are, forget it, I will sit in your lap for the next photo. Of course there are tragedies where you need to take charge - I will cover that in a few
minutes.

Now in exchange for me doing my job well and keeping our relationship alive and well, you will have to do your part as well. If one of us fails to perform his/her role, the arrangement crumbles and I become an asshole and/or you become a nagging bitch. I know. I have seen it on TV, in the grocery store on a Saturday morning, in restaurants etc... It's all around us. All the couples fighting - where you can just feel their bitter energy and you know they are doomed - that's why. One of them did not step up and the relationship is crumbling. And you say, "no, maybe it was something else." Perhaps. But most likely it is what I am talking about here.

Now you: There are many jobs for you. Your first and last job are the same. The rest of the list is important too, but they don't work if you don't do your first job first. Your first job is to be sexy in the way that you can be. It is your job to discover your own natural sexiness, manifest it, AND your job to figure out what I think is sexy. How do you normally attract men? If you think it is by wearing your thong above your jeans so that everyone can see it - then you are a moron. If you think it is getting wasted at some club and making out with your best girl-friend while guys cheer - you are an idiot. I have met you already, you bore me. I think you need to pull your pants up, drink less, bathe more and try to be more original than the Girls Gone Wild video that your former boyfriends got boners watching.

I have heard girls get upset about this. They say, "it is not my job to be sexy all the time," or "It is not my job to meet your definitions of sexy." And I say, bullshit. Have you never stepped outside? Who raised you? It IS your job. It may not be your job to be sexy ALL the time, but you better believe it is your job to be sexy when you are around me, my friends, our friends, and the neighbors. I am not saying you have to dress up, I am only saying you need to figure out where/what and how to create your sexiness and make sure I agree with it. Sure you can have your off-days where you don't change your underwear until noon the following day, or you are bloated and gassy and you just can not be sexy.

That's ok - I like girls who are real - I will still love you. I know you fart and get acne in strange places sometimes and have all kinds of biological processes that are esoteric to me - those things don't turn me off either, afterall I like real girls. I just ask that you manage and control the things that are in your control. But don't let me catch you eating pork sticks everyday and then complain that your stomach hurts and you have the runs for weeks.

You be sexy. Eat right, wear sexy underwear (which I will gladly buy for you), comb your hair and as you dress in the morning DON'T ask yourself, "will this outfit make guys at the county fair want to jerk off on me? If yes, then change and stop wearing shirts with your name airbrushed on them. Ask something like, "Would this look turn my man off if I were giving him head and he were looking at me." or "would my man be proud to walk with me in this outfit?" This question will keep you from dressing like your grandmother, a nun and the lonely lady you work with that, when she shows up in the morning you look at her clothes or hair and murmur, "what is she thinking? And she wonders why no men are attracted to her?" Don't be that woman. You be sexy. Ask the right questions when dressing in the morning.

I want to love the sexy girl who will occasionally be ugly. Not the girl with no taste who once in a while gets lucky and looks nice. Now, I don't want to discourage girls who feel unsexy most of the time. In cases like that - I just ask you to not book me on those days - lets have some away
time.

And you need to be able to figure out when not to be sexy, like: when I am sick in a hospital bed, incapacitated and unable to move, but only able to see that some male interns and you are talking about my condition. At that moment you need to be clinical and NOT sexy; when you are at the dentists
office and he is about to put you under (wear ugly stuff), when I am feeling down on life and we go to a party - don't be hot, you are only going to get me to sink lower. Just be nice looking or better yet, suggest that we cancel and have some "us" time.

I can not tell you how to locate your inner sexiness - but I can offer you some advice on how to avoid being unsexy.

Unsexy: always wearing a seamless sports bra, especially girls who dont play any sports and have no athletic ability (unless complaing and nagging count. I dont count them). Fine for sporting times or gym time, very sexy when sweaty - I may grab you and want to get animalistic on you. But to wear them on a day to day basis because they are comfy is to completely give up on life, or to say "I have a boyfriend now, nothing matters anymore." You do your job and stay sexy and I promise to work-out regularly, keep my cholesterol low, dress well, pluck my ear hairs, get laser hair removal whereever else, not leave you hanging when it is your turn to orgasm and not to wear my dirty sweat pants. Just you keep your sports bra for work-out time.

Unsexy: Bras with big thick (wide) straps in the back or over the shoulders. That's just weird. Ok, at times it is necessary, like when you are all swollen up from breast feeding and you need more strap-strength to hold your product in place. Or if you have a very large chest. But outside of that, what is wrong with you? Under what assumption are you operating where you concluded that the "nursing" look was sexy? Unless you want men to suckle you in a child-rearing kind of way, wear something else - lace is nice.

Unsexy: photos of yourself cramming food in your mouth, or cookies or an alcoholic beverage. Or photos with your mouth gaping open as if you are wasted and screaming at a party. I am out here working out, staying in shape and taking care of myself - for what? For you to cram cookies and beer into your mouth, run around drunk with your jaw hanging open? and take photos? No. We will not date.

Unsexy: Your growing gut. Pooch like Maya Rudolph - very hot. Gut like post high school ex-jock? It is diet time.

Unsexy: yellow underwear. You wear it, you sleep on the couch. I don't want to see it and I don't want it touching my laundry.

Unsexy: panties with little cutesy polka dots on them or any pattern that looks like something a 4 yr old girl would wear at her pajama party. Save those for when you feel puffy and bloated and want to snuggle with your stuffed animals and eat chocolate ice cream.

Unsexy: Girls who are nutso about shaving and plucking. I know you don't want your eyebrows to look like Santa's - but why remove them entirely and then draw a line with a pencil? Are you my grandma? And your pubic hair is not your enemy - starchy food is your enemy. Unless it actually makes you physically uncomfortable - it is ok to have some pubic hair. Yes, porn has become mainstream now - and all those chicks are shaved - but I don't want the trash porn girl who fakes her orgasm or the Pamela Anderson wench, I want you. And Pamela Anderson is ugly anyhow - why doesn't the whole world know that? You be you.

Sexy: girls who take care of themselves physically and emotionally. Girls who manage aspects of themselves that are in their control. Meaning, I don't care if you are short, tall or medium, have huge breasts or no breasts, brown hair or red hair, enormous feet or a funny nose - you have little control over what you were given. So I don't judge those things. I just ask you to take care of what is yours to take care of. Don't tell me that your ass is fat because that is your body type - and then shovel lasagna down your throat 3 days a week. We have a deal. I will do my part. You do yours. Stay thin - meaning if you are 130 pounds - you need to stay around 125 to 135. I like slender girls or muscular or thin or thinner than average. Slender does not equal thick. If you look like Minnie Driver or Kate Winslet
- then your excess weight is hot and I love it.

Your other jobs are very important as well. It is your job to nurture. If I am down and not feeling so great, you need to be building me back up. You need to be reading self-help books once in a while and see to it that we are both emotionally balanced. You need to make sure that we both communicate what is bothering us and all that stuff that you women want us to talk about in relationships. I need that. Do your job, I respect it. And when I am not feeling like such a man, you need to find it in yourself, even if you have to fake it, to build me right back into the alpha male that I should be(I believe a woman tests a man until his last day(lol), so you don't have to worry about me being a Beta/wuss..World is full of wussbags..I AM not one)

Your job is to find it in yourself to want to do things that the last 3 decades told you were not women's work. You know - the huge double standard - how you were taught that it isn't your job to do anything that your dad expected your mom to do, yet you still expect me to open doors for you, fuck you like the world is ending, be strong, buy you nice things when I can, make money, jump in front of a bullet for you, provide security for you, take initiative and make you feel safe. Well you don't get it both ways. I
told you I would do my job. You must do yours. Personally, I like to cook and clean, do my own laundry and wash dishes and I am not asking you to do ANYTHING for me. But if I need help in that area - you better put on an apron and cook some food, or make the bed, or offer to make sandwiches on
rare occasions when my friends are over, or do some laundry or fold something, sweep - whatever because you WANT to do it. Again, I am not asking you to do those things, I wil l do them myself when they need doing. Your job is not to be my maid at all, your job is to WANT to care for me in those ways and/or offer or just jump in and help when I am doing it myself. I will help you too - but don't refuse to do stuff because you feel offended because you learned in your college class that men oppress women. Personally, I only know oppressed men and frustrated women. Men afraid to be men and women who are frustrated with them.

But its harder than that. And you can blame your feminist aunt. You have to figure out how to be all that while also being modern and knowing how to hang with the guys. Don't ask me to explain that - I would not know how to pull it off. But I have some touch jobs to do that I cant explain either.

You do that, and when the guy is shooting at us I will take the bullet. When the bad man is attacking you, I will make him sorry. When you break your leg, I will carry you to the hospital. When the heater doesn't work, I will chop wood. But believe me, if you refuse to do your part you can walk yourself to the hospital with a broken leg and bullet in your chest while fleeing the bad guy - because I will have left you.

Your job is to be in charge of our morality. If we are at a dinner party and I say something a little mean to someone and you notice it. It is your job to pull me aside and say, "that was wrong - you go and apologize because you hurt that persons feelings." I won't like it - but I will obey. You are doing your job and I respect it. I will somehow find a way to go apologize.

You are in charge of our emotional health. Even if I say I am fine. When you notice that I have some unresolved issue that I need to work on, I have to listen and do whatever it takes - even if it means seeing a therapist or counseling or reading some stupid book. You are in charge and you must find a way to do this without ever being bossy or over-critical. How do you do that? I don't know. It's a tough job and only you can do it. My job is not easy either.

When we are having friends over for dinner and I say that it doesn't matter if everyone has matching napkins and you say it does matter. You better believe we will have matching napkins.

When I feel like not going to the new stupid shit museum and you think that it is better than me sitting around the house on Saturday playing with my computer - you better believe my ass will be going with you to the museum and with a smile on my face.

You will also select my clothing when we shop. And I will obey, pay and wear it - whether I like it or not. You will pick out my cologne, my soap, my whatever, to meet your tastes.

Your job is to rule all of the things you can rule, by using my love for you against me, by teaching me shame for wrong-doing, by communicating what is in your heart - and whatever, without ever nagging, being a non-sexy bitch, emasculating me or smothering me. It's a fine line - but you must walk it.

I will enforce my power by giving you verbal commands to which you will obey. You will enforce your power by giving me the guilt/shame stare or the silent resolute, refuse to look at me stance - both of which usually will trump all my power. I respect your power, you respect mine.

Feathery Strokers

Now that I'm back at a point in my life where I'm meeting men here and there again, my friends and I talk quite a bit about men, and of course the quality of men, in the dating pool.

One thing that many of us have agreed upon is that men in San Francisco are, in general, not as aggressive as we would like. They tend to be soft and passive in a way that just doesn't work me, personally.

Well, I just read Anybody Out There? by Marian Keyes, and there's a fantastic notion about a "feathery stroker". I would like to point out that Keyes is NOT a local author.

An excerpt:

Jacqui's Feathery Stroker test is a horribly cruel assessment that she brings to bear on all men. It originated with some man she slept with years ago. All night long he'd run his hands upa nd down her body in the lightest, feathery way, up her back, along her thighs, across her stomach, and before they had sex he asked her gently if she was sure. Lots of women would have loved this: he was gentle, attentive, and respectful. But for Jacqui it was the greatest turnoff of her life. She would have much prefrred it if he'd flung her across a hard table, torn her clothes, and taken her without explicit permission. "He kept stroking me," she said afterward, wincing with revulsion. "In this awful feathery way, like he'd read a book about how to give women what they want. Bloody Feathery Stroker, I wanted to rip my skin off."

And so the phrase came about. It suggested an effeminate quality that instantly stripped a man o all sex appeal. It was a damning way to be categorized and far better, in Jacqui's opinion, to be a drunken wife beater in a dirty vest than a Feathery Stroker.

Her criteria were wide and merciless--and distresingtly random. There was no definitive list but here are some examples. Men who didn't eat red meat were Feathery Strokers. Men who used postshave balm instead of slapping stinging aftershave onto their tender skin were Feathery Strokers. Men who noticed your shoes and handbags were Feathery Strokers. (Or Jolly Boys.) Men who said pornography was exploitation of women were Feathery Strokers. (Or liars.) Men who said pornography was exploitation of men as much as women were off the scale. All straight men from San Francisco were Feathery Strokers. All academics with bears were Feather Strokers. Men who stayed friends with their ex-girlfriends were Feathery Strokers. Especially if they called their ex-girlfriend their "ex-partner." Men who did pilates were Feathery Strokers. Men who said, "I have to take care of myself right now" were screaming Feathery Strokers.

The Feathery Stroker rules had complex variations and subsections: men who gave up their seat on the subway were Feathery Strokers--if they smiled at you. But if they grunted "Seat," in a macho, n0-eye-contact way, they were in the clear.

Book Report: Secret Diary of a Call Girl

A friend mentioned this to me, and then another happened to have it on her shelf. Just read it during a trip to Vegas.

Very graphic, very sexy, very funny book. Not for the prude. I enjoyed it immensely.

A few tidbits of incredible insight:

Dictionary Entry: in love - a momentary instance of being almost as interested in someone else as in oneself

"You know the feeling where all the pent-up energy goes straight to your legs, and you just want to run and run until you jump off a cliff? ... I'd fallen hard and had to see the man."

"My eyes followed Dr. C's lithe form around the room--eyeing the table, setting up a shot, the confident swing of the arm below the elbow on the follow-through. Competence so turns me on."

"Sexiness is not a square-yards-of-cloth to exposed-skin ratio. Sexy is not the inevitable result of being blonde, tan, and thin. Sexy is the result of being pulled together and comfortable in your skin. Holding your stomach in when your clothes are off is not fuckable. Slapping your ample behind and inviting him to ride the wobble is."

Buy the book.

In Prison With Nothing to Do? Don't Do THAT!

The South Florida Sun-Sentinel Reports:

"A Broward County jail inmate accused of masturbating in his cell while a female deputy saw him from another room was convicted of indecent exposure Wednesday."

Okay, if the guy was being a jerk and going at it intentionally in front of the female deputy, I could maybe see this as a reasonable charge. But the man was in his cell...in his private home. Granted, he doesn't have the same privacy rights, but would deputy complain if he was peeing? Same idea, right? And honestly, I'd rather the guy be masturbating than assaulting another prisoner. Seriously. This is ridic.

The Opposite of West Virginia

Need another reason to avoid leaving a child alone with your dog? How about to keep them from suffering the most humiliating kind of post traumatic stress disorder possible:

Pit Bull Sodomizes Two-Year Old

Ewww.

Sliding Scale of Virginity

But local groom Plamen Baldescu, 27, said: 'The priest heard that sometimes I was allowed to stay over at my girlfriend's parents' house and suddenly he is demanding large amounts of money from us as my fiancee supposedly “does not deserve to wear white”. Weddings are so expensive already - this is just too much.'

What on earth could he be talking about? Check out this article about fines for women who are not virgins on their wedding day at Metro UK.

C'mon, Priesty-Priest...if you're going to uphold Christian values with ridiculous fines, shouldn't you make the men pay, too?