I want you to get off. More.
In your bedroom. In the living room. In the boardroom. In all the rooms of your life.
This can be a metaphor - seek pleasure, find fulfillment, it’s the only sustainable way to work, nurture, and live – or it can be literal:
Have More Orgasms.
Women Are Hungry
Nicole Daedone thinks women are hungry. We’re not satisfied. We’re craving. We’re studying and working and mothering (our kids or the world) and continually operating with a pleasure deficit.
It’s true. We are.
But I don’t think it’s only women. I think The Pleasure Deficit explains unsatisfying consumerism and mindless materialism and even the outlines of our macro-economic woes. I think that most of us don’t know how to take care of ourselves and we’re attempting self-care with false luxury rather than conscious satisfaction and intentional indulgence.
In the last few months, I’ve peeked through a window into a manly-man world where men work intensely physical jobs far away from home for long periods of time. They live in camps or out of generic hotels, and when they’re not working they indulge in steak dinners, drinks, women, toys, trucks. In old-boy speak, they work hard and play hard. And while most of them get into it with the idea that they’ll do it for one or two or three years and then get out with a nest egg or capital to do That Thing They’re Dreaming Of…
…many are still working in the camps nine, ten, twenty-five years later.
With no money in the bank.
Because when they get out of the camp they blow the money on hookers and blow, and, if they’re one of the lucky ones, child support for kids they adore from afar.
It’s easy to gaze at this from a distance and say, well that’s just dumb and undisciplined. But I think that cycle is an attempt at self-care. It’s the dark side of self-care. These men put out all day long, seven days a week, for months at a time without a break, without having anything enriching coming in to balance the expenditure. They’re away from friends, family, and community, and the very nature and logistics of the industry shears off those attachments – and sources of care. They can’t pursue hobbies or artistic endeavours because they’re working-eating-sleeping. Work camps are not designed for other-care (and the opportunity for other-care is important because it’s an antidote to depletion, depression, and electric, predatory need) or self-care.
And so when the project ends, they emerge from the camps like bears blinking in the spring sunlight. They’re hungry. Summer will be short. And they can buy some pleasure.
Collect ye berries where ye may. (To the virgins: make much of time.)
And so the consumptive habits and indulgences and cycles of work-camp-life are an attempt at self-care, an attempt to replenish depleted reserves, provide pleasure to an exhausted, emaciated, unsatisfied soul.
They’re hungry. We’re hungry.
So that’s soul-stifling life in an oilfield, mineral exploration, or a work camp.
But how much of ‘regular’ life and feminine experience is set up like a work camp? We produce and produce and produce: babies, books, spotless kitchens, spot-on meetings, spotty marriages.
Nicole Daedone is right. Women are hungry. We all are. Our whole world contains a whole lot of hungry ghosts. And when she – we – say “hungry”, we don’t (only) mean for food. We’re constantly craving creation, sustenance, pleasure, fulfillment, meaning. We want to feel good in our skins, in our homes, in our workplaces, in our classrooms, in our bedrooms, in our camps, in our communities, in our world.
That doesn’t mean we want (only) to be stroked. We want to stroke. To contribute. To create. To connect. To care. To please and be pleased. To ameliorate the pleasure deficit.
But. Gratification isn’t entirely the answer. Quick-fixes and instant gratification can lure you into a spiral of compulsion and remediation wherein you’re constantly compensating for the enduring lack in your life.
(You know this is your life if you’re living for the weekends, vacations, the 5′oclock glass of wine, NBC, chocolate, hook-ups, daydreaming about decorating the imaginary condo you’ll live in when you finally summon the courage to leave his ass.)
When the bright spots in your life sunless life are exhaustible resources, consumed then finished, it’s time to seek meaning and invest in sustainable self-care.
BUT. Instant gratification gets a bad rap. When you’re pursuing a goal where the pay-off is distant – like building that nest egg, publishing that book, realizing that dream – daily or at least regular doses of reward are essential. Pleasure pay-offs wed you to your divine purpose.
Sustenance is the answer. Sustainability is the answer. Orgasms are the answer: you can always have more, with a partner if you’re so blessed and choose, or with yourself.
Masturbation is more effective than medication. (My sweetie would have me introduce a caveat here: sometimes the effects of depression prevent you from getting off, in which case, my two-orgasms-per-day prescription won’t work, so please do see a doctor.) I swear vigourous and frequent self-pleasure was how I survived this summer’s long and dark depressive episode.
And it’s not just a coping mechanism in times of trouble. Orgasms in gorgeous times have gorgeous results, too.
Get on The Two Orgasm a Day Diet. Please.
But the Two Orgasm a Day Diet is not a program of deprivation calculated to starve your body into size-two submission. Instead, I’m using ’diet’ as a way of being, what you feed yourself, in all senses of the word. And I’m using ‘orgasm’ to represent gratification, bliss, blossoming, fulfillment.
Because that’s what has happened for me. Two and a half years ago I wrote a mortifying first blog post:
This blog is a personal and social experiment. What happens when an overweight, broke, semi-lost but pretty smart single mom decides to rewrite her life in 18 months or less?
In short, my plan is to write, reflect and act my way into a life of purpose and passion. I’d love it if you would join me on the journey.
And then, after I set it down, I set about doing IT every day. Writing -
- about sex, money and meaning.
Trying to get more of all of ‘em. Trying to write and and love my way into my dream life.
And I did it. Because I did it every day. I wrote. I published. I asked. I lived. I made mistakes. I stopped collecting mistakes. I took risks. I experimented. I admitted my desires – an impassioned life and sex life, a writing career conducted from the comfort of my living room, a man, a baby, adoration – and I indulged them.
I followed the tracks laid by my unrelenting desires. Desire is powerful. It won’t be denied.
And so it is sustainable. Feed it.
This is why I write about sex and why I say sex is my yoga. Ecstatic, authentic sexuality is a place of transcendental learning, indulgence, communion, commitment.
And that’s powerful. That’s power. That’s the mofo fountain of life, baby.
And so, to really step into your glory in every aspect of your life, feed yourself some delight. Every day. At least twice a day. Get on the Two Orgasm a Day Diet.
You can do it metaphorically (‘delight’) or graphically (get thee many cataclysmic orgasms). Either way gratifies me. Deeply.
Just please send me your stories to include in this new series.
Try The Two Orgasm a Day Diet for a week, two weeks, a month, a lifetime. Then tell me – no, tell all of us - how you fucked and loved and cared and created and came your way into a life that satisfies rather than satisfices.
I was the worst waitress ever. Fortunately, I was equipped with two traits that universally guarantee good tips: great tits and even greater gift for gab. I once dropped an entire bottle of Corona down the shirt of a customer…the same customer who’d had to ask for that beer four times before I fetched it. He ought to have spoke to me sternly. Instead he tipped me $20.
I forgot side orders, substitutions, wine, how to properly pour wine. I forgot my place.
And I was always rewarded – and remembered – for it.
*******
My friend Heather and I remember a bag boy from our grocery store. I remember him because he’s a cousin of my daughters…and because he pissed Heather off. Heather is an enviable creature who can birth a baby on Monday and on Tuesday look like a taut nineteen year old goddess. (She’ll deny this and blame it on the Spanx, but whatever. I’ve seen her in a bikini. It’s a treat.) A week or so after a c-section, she was shopping. Cousin E was bagging groceries and Heather asked for a lil’ over-and-above customer service.
Heather: “Can you help me out to the car with my groceries? I’ve just had surgery.”
Cousin E, surveying her lithe, lean, luscious frame and manner, skeptically inquired: “On your arms?”
We both remember this story. And E. He didn’t bag groceries for long.
The barista at my local Starbucks won’t make coffee for long, either, which is unfortunate for me because he is a delight. I once asked him how he was doing. In response, he made an extravagant show of smoothing his hair and his smock and said, “Oh you know, just living the dream.”
Another time, when I hemmed and hawed about how I’d like my cappuccino – and changed my order twice, oh god, I’m that woman – he said, “You’ve made an excellent decision today, ma’am.”
My point? Station and occupation are bullshit. I despise deference. You don’t have to be obnoxious (E, Imma talkin’ to you) but don’t kowtow to me just because you made my coffee. I’ve slung more than a few cups, myself. And when I made the leap from a job to self-employment, I held onto something another aspiring – and now established – writer told me. When she was leaping into the fray, she told herself, “I can always sling beer.”
That’s what I thought then and thought now: I can always sling beer. (Even down their shirts.)
And so deference icks me out. So does self-deprecation. Don’t disparage yourself and your abilities, especially when you’re just starting out. You know your talents and offer better than anyone else so don’t obscure them. (Exception: admit when you’re a crap server; compensate with your gifts, such as charm and cleavage; and then get another gig.) The only person who can rock humility is Richard Branson.
And I’d think less of him for it.
I was awoken this morning by a fantastic aroma
If rhymes could kill I would put you in a coma
da da ding ding rrr rrr ring a mobile phone-a
It’s the guy named Drew and he wants to come on ova’
- Kay
Writing bad poetry and listening or creating cheesy hip-pop can unlock your creative flow. I recommend it. Privately. As in, do it but do not share it with us.
Because publicly following up a bombastic poetic claim – ‘if rhymes could kill, I would put you in a coma’ – with the scatting of a string of phonetics is NOT proof of concept.
I could forgive that crap in the midst of a freestyle battle because that verse is getting composed on the spot. But releasing it as a single? That’s the height of your craft?
I despair.
Rappers who are artists craft their rhymes – and not just the ones they record and release. Like poets who perform at poetry slams – and hip hop battles and poetry slams aren’t a whole lot different – rappers prepare for battle. They prepare one-two line combos and even quatrains combining consonance, alliteration, association and rhymes and near-rhymes. In writerly terms, they prepare a swipe file.
The lesson: prose writers (and bloggers, dearest Red Shoe peeps) should create swipe files of words and phrases and insights and descriptions and killed darlings to drop into new works.
Let’s say you’re trying for humour. Transitional phrases can be a way to interject unexpected wit. You transform a pretty standard sentence with an interesting transition and voila! a giggle.
In other news, __________ .
In a related development, ______________.
Not to be outdone, _________________.
Hold on to the furniture, _____________.
So, to create a swipe file of unexpected transitory phrases, what do you do? You read other people’s stuff and when you see a clever intro, you swipe it. You copy and paste it into a document or jot it down in a notebook.
Better yet…you jot down those tidbits and your mental hamster starts a-spinnin’ her wheel. She’ll run up a few inventive phrases that are indisputably yours. And you’ll record those in your swipe file, too, and feel more like a pioneering rodent and less like a copy cat. Though of course, good artists copy. Great artists steal.
(I stole that, too. Picasso said it. But I bet someone else said it to him first.)
You can do this with transitory phrases, descriptions, and even verbs, adjectives and adverbs. Instead of “manipulated”, use “weaseled” or even better, “ferreted”. Put together one-two combos uniting sacred and street language or words with disparate associations and connotations, like “ferocious faith” (Danielle LaPorte) or “frivolous fury” (Rob Brezny).
Caution: really wild and woo word-combinations and metaphors should be be used sparingly. Think of a lone pansy in the middle of a lawn. You see it. But in a meadow of wild flowers and weeds, it disappears. Use your glitterbombs at the dock rather than the disco.
So. Back to rap battles. ‘Cuz that’s how this suburban mama rolls.
(I stole that, too. I asked my five year old if she truly thought that a silk taffeta dress with crinoline, headband with devil’s horns, and knee high rubber boots was an appropriate outfit for school, and she looked me dead in the eye and said, “That’s how I roll”.)
The rappers and freestylers who surprise and delight you by rhyming Italy with diddily and pulling together an unending echo of homophones don’t pull those rhymes out of the air or their asses. They prepare them. The entire battle might not have been pre-scripted – that’s one of the joys of battles, the responsiveness of the two artists to and with each other – but elements of the verses were crafted and practiced in front of the family cat before being presented to all the cool cats in the audience.
And that’s what distinguishes a rapper, performer, poet, writer – you, darling, you – from the dude rhyming “gate” with “late”.
————————
No man wants to be sand.
I looked at him and I saw him. I saw us. Clearly. Then I sighed and said, “I’ve been building my castle on sand.”
And even though he didn’t want to be my rock – twelve years after that life and love ended, he’d call and tell me that he had loved me but hadn’t been ready for me – he was wounded. Offended. Because no man wants to be sand. Sand is shifty. Sand is uncertain. Sand isn’t manly.
Then, this long, sandy summer, I was uncertain – not about loving each other, but about the ‘forever’ bit – about a different man. Ambivalent.
Ambivalence, I’m comfortable with. I’m drawn to emotional tension and mixed emotions. It’s why I studied pluralism, feminism, intersectional politics. It’s why I decorate in black and white. It’s why I like sweet ‘n spicy dishes. It’s why I like cocky but funny men; vulnerable, powerful women; and disconcertingly sentimental gangsta rap. It’s why I like dirty, fraught, flawed love letters (and lovers). Cleavage isn’t only creamy curves, it’s the dark shadow between them. It’s the lines that shape us. It’s why I quote William Butler Yeats over and over again:
It is one of the great troubles of life that we cannot have any unmixed emotions. There is always something in our enemy that we like, and something in our sweetheart that we dislike.
Ambivalence – mixed emotions – is like change. Inevitable. A fact of life.
And fertile ground for growth, imagination, art.
Ambivalence: I accept it. I embrace it. I see it. I seek it.
But uncertainty…
I seek security so I can take risks. So uncertainty – sand beneath my feet when I’m craving concrete – unmoors me. Makes me shaky.
I was ambivalent about this pregnancy. Happy, sad, reluctant, excited. That was hard, but I understood it. I knew it was a tunnel I’d get through. I could even see the light, and I knew that when I emerged into it, life – and my new baby – would be golden.
But I wondered if I was standing on sand. Our commitment to each other only preceded our unexpected pregnancy by mere months. Sometimes it felt like minutes. It definitely didn’t feel like we were ready.
(And this was what I was working through – and my way to - when I wrote “Not Ready but Willing“.)
Which is why this summer I was obsessed with sand and castles. It didn’t help that when I thought about my loverloverman/babydaddy, I thought about one of his favourite songs: Castles in the Air.
And so I thought about airy dreams and sandy illusions and the shaky ground beneath my feet and in front of me. I thought about it all summer. I thought about relationships, love, commitment, castles, marriage, security. I tried to comfort myself with the thought that security is always an illusion.
(When a security-seeker seeks comfort in the notion that security doesn’t exist, you know you’re in existentially-trying times.)
I thought about the average length of a marriage: 10 years. I thought about all the women I’ve comforted at kitchen tables as the foundations of their lives and their futures dissolved in the acid of discovery…of secrets. Infidelity. Betrayal. I thought about all the ways I’ve tried to extract pledges of security while knowing such promises held no promise.
And I thought about all the people I know who profess absolute faith in their relationships and in their partners and even as I envied them, I knew that no relationship starts that way. Every history starts in the present. Every relationship starts out with wondering: is she into me? Does he want me? Does she still want me? Will he want me tomorrow?
Uncertainty. It’s the beginning. It doesn’t have to mean anything except that we’re still new. It doesn’t have to be an indicator of a sandy future or a shifty character.
Shift.
In thinking. Jonathan Fields and Danielle LaPorte see uncertainty as a necessary precondition of innovation. When you’re doing something no one’s ever done before, you don’t know how it will turn out. You’re uncertain and that’s gorgeously uncomfortable. It means you’re doing something incredible.
The way they see uncertainty is how I see ambivalence: as rich and rewarding. A source of generation and creation.
Ambivalence, uncertainty, innovation, generation, creation. It’s almost linear. It’s certainly relational.
Which is why I’m entranced by their thinking about uncertainty (Jonathan has a brand-new book about it)…and by two newly launched projects by coaches Tanya Geisler and Randi Buckley.
Tanya’s thing is the question, What’s My Thing? and Randi’s work is an answer: Maybe, Baby.
And both are processes designed to reveal your possibilities. Your values. Your truth. Because your truth is your compass.
I know that’s true because in the last two years I’ve decided my direction. I’m living My Thing. I’m making a living at writing. And I just lived through Maybe, Baby.
Except the answer isn’t ‘maybe’. It’s yes, yes, YES.
To my lovechild and my loverloverman and all of our castles wherever we build them.
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