The Two Orgasm a Day Diet




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 needor 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.

Being on Fire Ignites ALL the Rooms in Your Lifehouse (The Redux)




Mr. Anonymous: I am feeling slutty.
Kelly: Was it the porn shirt? I would totally LOVE to take credit for this.
Mr. Anonymous: Well I think it is the anticipation of wearing it.
Kelly: Excellent. It has magical powers!
Mr. Anonymous: Clearly. Though my head constantly flirting with me is boosting my ego no end.
Kelly: That is the best line ever. Hold on while I cut and paste and plagiarize it.
Mr. Anonymous: You know I mean my headteacher and not my physical head, yes?
Kelly: We don’t call headmasters head masters in Canada so it took me a moment.
Mr. Anonymous: He’s called the Headteacher.
Kelly: We call them “principals”.
Mr. Anonymous: Headmaster is very old fashioned and refers only to men.
Kelly: Are you going to have wild unruly sex with him?
Mr. Anonymous: No.
Kelly: Prude.
Mr. Anonymous: He has a bf…
Kelly: Ah. Morals. Pesky things, those.
Mr. Anonymous: …who is also a friend of mine.
Kelly: Yep, you are in the no-sexing zone.
Mr. Anonymous: Which is fine and the harmless flirting is great fun: “Doing a good job of looking hot in those jeans, Mr. Anonymous”.
Kelly: Oh. Again. Stealing that. Taking out the “Mr.” and “Anonymous” and inserting “Kelly”. It is now mine. He IS promiscuous. He’s flirting with ME too.
Mr. Anonymous: He called me into his office one day because someone told him off for flirting and he said “Do I really flirt with you?” and I said “yes”. And he said “well it must be unconcious but you are so my type”.
Kelly: I think we’re all too ramped up and cautious about workplace flirting. Flirting is not the same thing as sexual harassment. Flirting is no big deal. It is human. ‘Course that’s only as long as it is welcome and not creepy.
Mr. Anonymous: It is very flattering.
Kelly: YES!
Mr. Anonymous: It’s his way of saying he likes me.
Kelly: Yes! Me, too. I would flirt with a rock and often do.
Mr. Anonymous: And he’s so charming. you just get sucked in.
Kelly: See, this just sounds delicious! Yay, happy workplace. That’s just good for morale.
Mr. Anonymous: He’s one of those very sexy types – not attractive – but the sexiness you get from someone who knows what they are doing and are absolutely passionate about.
Kelly: I love that. That’s deeply hot.
Mr. Anonymous: And it’s very easy to be in his company.
Kelly: And so…you feel slutty? Or is that unrelated?
Mr. Anonymous: They are related. Deeply and truly. Like twins. He’s made me feel hot.
Kelly: mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm…that cannot be appreciated enough. That’s gratifying.
Mr. Anonymous: Yes it is.
Mr. Anonymous: Which is why I love my new boss and the wonderful school he has created.
Kelly: Yes! Passion transcends and transforms all arenas of our lives. If you’re passionate in one area it leaks over into all of the others. Ever since I embraced my writerliness I am a man-magnet. It is related. being on fire is HOT.
Mr. Anonymous: And I am on fire.
Kelly: Yes you are baby!
Mr. Anonymous: It’s amazing.
Kelly: Amazing and juicy and generative. So good for the soul. Now take that I-feel-hottishness and sally forth. In your porn shirt.

_____________________

*This is piece is, shall we say, a redux. (Or a re-post). I read Danielle LaPorte’s piece today and thought YES. EXACTLY. Being fulfilled and creatively on fire IS the fuel for getting shiz done. And so this re-post is an affirmation and a reminder. We don’t have to be time-management contortionists and slaves to systems. We just have to connect with the things that light us up…and the fire will spread.

**Some names have been changed to protect the morally suspect.

*** Nobody else’s boyfriend or relationship was harmed or sexed in the making of this post.

****The porn shirt is mostly a joke unless of course you want to buy it.

On Bad Girls and Good Girls and Violence. Or: No More Pimp and Ho Language, Please.




I get off on being the bad girl because I’m accorded the privilege of being good. And so because I’m safe, I like sexually charged language, curse words and brazen confession. I like to be the change I want to see the world and I want women to own it. Own their sexualities. Own their power. Own their voices. Own themselves.

I want women to be badasses rather than bad – ‘cuz fuck the good girl/bad girl madonna/whore dichotomy. I’m not either. I’m both.  

And so sometimes I delight in the shiver of appropriating pimp-and-ho language for my suburban biz. It’s kind of sexy-shocking-funny for a seemingly whitebread mama to describe the sacrifices she makes to pay the bills while growing her gig as “whoring”.

Except it’s not, really.

For a while I’ve worried about pimp-and-ho analogies and language. We use the metaphor casually, comedically - but it seems that the only people (like moi) who do that are those far removed from the exploitation and violence inherent in the pimp/ho dynamic.

And so…suburban mamas, bootstrapping entrepeneurs, emerging artists and privileged peeps: let’s think about what it means before we say it.

Think about the woman getting stomped by a man for not handing over the money she made on her back being used by another man.

Think about the girls and women in captivity. Not just far away in other countries but a few streets over.

Think about what it means for a violent man to instruct “his” woman not to look him in the eye. And what happens if she does.

Think deeply and carefully before comparing your freely chosen sacrifice and hustle to pimping or being pimped.

The Unsexy Stories




Ta da!

Usually there’s a build up to that. Magicians know about foreplay.

But sometimes we want to get right to it.

So here it is.

Today is the start of my new short story series, The Unsexy Stories.

They’re ‘the unsexy stories’ because they contain graphic sex – a little or a lot – but they aren’t about getting off. They’re about life. They’re windows into hearts and loves and marriages and maybe even our confused culture that strips sex of its transformative powers and reduces it to titillation and transaction.

These stories are too porn0graphic – that’s not really the right word, because again, they contain sex but they’re not necessarily hawt - for regular Cleavage reading so I’ve located them just beyond the red velvet rope. If you want to come inside, there’s a nominal, variable cover charge. I want you to be sure you want to be there, doing this, reading this. Consent, baby, consent.

But again: these stories are un-erotica. They probably won’t make you want to get some. But they might make you want to give some. Love.

————-

With These Rings (excerpt)

I stood there and didn’t choose anything. There were watches, chains, rings. He was new to the country and his gold was an emblem of the privilege of his previous life.

He came up behind me, put an arm around me and picked things out. This necklace. This bracelet. This ring. He wanted me to shine. So I did.

And at the end of the night, when I was undressing, I started to take off the jewelry and return it to the tray on the dresser, and he said no, you’re keeping all of it. I turned to look at him and I saw him. I saw his face and his desire to share. To give. I saw how much he wanted to give me the only things he carried with him, on him, from his life when his wealth made him someone – someone few people could see, now, here.

Read more…

———

Love is a Greater Danger (excerpt)

I’m thinking of him. I’m thinking of the first night we were together. He was above me, kissing me. Leaning in to kiss me, leaning out to look at me, leaning in to kiss me, kissing me. The light in the other room was on and shining behind his head like a halo. That’s what I saw: his face, looking at me, the light behind him, leaning in to kiss me, leaning back to look at me, the light.

Read more…

—–

Buy The Unsexy Stories

So…whaddya think? Want some more? Here’s how to get it allllll:

With these Rings: Three Rings, Three Marriages, Several Ends, One Beginning. 2687 words, two sentences of sex.

Love is a Greater Danger: We think casual sex is destructive, but only love – and love-sex – can break your heart. 365 words, almost all of it graphic. And sad.

Cover Charge for both stories: $5Add to Cart

———

And thank you.

xoxo

Big Girls Don’t Bang. Oh Wait, They DO! Just Ask CJ Wright. (I Did.)




Quick note: this another long  piece – so long that there are three parts to this post – and it contains lots of bad words and NSFW links. It’s about porn. Enjoy responsibly. xoxxxo

 1. My earnest and conflicted disclosure: I’m not universally comfortable with all forms of porn.

2. My whoo-hoo disclosure + story about CJ Wright: I dig some porn.

3. A note about ladyporn day and my PORN t-shirt.

——————

1. Shadows and Light and Porn: I’m not Universally (Or Historically) Okay with It

I grew up schooled in second-wave feminism so when I thought about porn, I thought about it as an instrument of female oppression. I thought it was degrading. I thought it contributed to created unrealistic sexual fantasies (!) and stifling expectations of women (and girls). I thought it was all Playboy, peroxide and pneumatic breasts all the time.

That was before the internet. Or at least before I discovered the internet.

Often Teh Internets are blamed for the erosion of community and is conceived of as an isolating, fracturing device. And sure, it can be that. But it also allows tiny communities to coalesce around ideas and inclinations.

And that means it can be a community-building device and a salve to people with specific and particular interests – interests that might not be shared by many, or any, people in their physical communities.

As an example, we could be talking about afficionados of sculpture created by the Mpong people. In any given place, there might be one or two passionate wannabe patrons; worldwide there could be thousands. Teh Internets can connect those collectors, and, in so doing, provide a way for twelve artisans in a remote village to continue to survive and thrive and make their art.

Happy sigh.

Or we could be talking about people who’ve got a unique sexual kink. Maybe they already feel ostracized or in the closet; maybe finding out that there is porn for their thing and other people into it makes them feel less alone. And gets them off.

Happy sigh.

Still, my thinking about porn – especially mainstream porn – is tangled. Even though women usually make more money in porn than men, I can see how the porn industry benefits from, and contributes to, the systematic marginalization of women. I can see how it might warp the way young straight men think about sex and women. I can see how porn might be where young people learn about sex without realizing that what they’re really watching is a version of sex organized around camera angles and showing the goods.

And at the same time I’m a fiercely sexual creature who decries the limitations other people place on our personal expressions of sexuality.

Still, until recently, I’d never actually watched a full-length porn movie.

That changed about a year ago when I told my Gentleman Caller at the time that I’d never watched porn. He asked me what I thought I would like to see. I thought about it and said, I think I’d like to see people who look like us.

He knew just the thing, and brought me a bunch of DVDs – all made by the same company and featuring the same male performer – he thought I’d like.

He was right. I liked them.

I liked them so much that I called the guy who made them – who just so happened to be the guy performing in them - and asked him for an interview. We chatted for nearly two hours.

Right after we hung up, my then-man called me and asked me what I was up to. I said, oh, I just got off the phone with CJ Wright.

He said, CJ Wright?! As in the guy in the porn I just gave you?

I said, Yes.

He said, Only you, Kelly Diels. Only you watch porn for the the first time at the age of 36 and then call the porn star up.

And below is the story of what happened when – and after – I called CJ Wright.

——————

2. Big Girls Don’t Bang. Oh Wait, They Do! Just Ask CJ Wright (I Did)

 CJ Wright is a liar. He’s got to be, because despite my personal experiences – which, unfortunately, I often assume are the exception rather than the norm –  nothing in our North American culture or mainstream media has prepared me for his romantic and sexual preferences.

He’s ridiculously hot. He’s got abs that that look like a river rock bed after the water has fled, an ass as taut two soccer balls and a mischievious, meant-to-seduce smile. And I suspect he’s got a few dollars in his pocket, too. His Van Nuys-based business is doing well.

So CJ’s young, good looking and very likely earns more than six figures. In Los Angeles. This is significant. David Spade once exclaimed that in LA (or anywhere) any guy – young, old, ugly, handsome, awkward, smooth – who earns more than a hundred grand can have a honey or a wannabe bunny on his arm.

But the blue-eyed blondes weighing in at 120 lbs or less, with 14 of those pounds in silicon implants? Those California girls from everywhere except California?

Not for him, CJ says. He likes ‘em big.

Or so he says. He may be young (he’s in his late twenties but asked me not to name the number) but he’s built a thriving, profitable and unique business in less than a year. He’s a savvy business man. He knows a hot ‘n heavy niche market when he sees it.

CJ, you see, is a pornographer. After years of performing in mainstream straight porn, he started his own company producing, directing, and performing in porn flicks featuring fat chicks (definitely NOT SAFE FOR WORK). And in an industry widely acknowledged to be in a bit of downturn – soft – right now, he’s going hard at it.

So of course he says he likes to pull fat women. They’re his business, after all, as are the men who like to fuck them. Best not to alienate your suppliers or your customers.

“No, really,” he insists. “Big girls have always been my thing. When I turned nineteen and was finally allowed into the Adult Video Store, that’s what I was looking for. Big girl porn. And even when I was working in mainstream porn, what I wanted to watch, myself, was big girl porn. And when I took a look at what was out there, it didn’t do much for me. The production values were wack.”

“I know!” I exclaim. “Whenever I watch low-budget or amateur porn, for example, I’m so turned off by the bad decor – the horrible hotel rooms, the messy bedrooms, the filthy carpet – that I can’t get off at all.”

CJ knows exactly what I’m talking about because offering better than that is his angle. “Yeah,” he says, “the sets are bad and the guys in most BBW porn…well they don’t really look like they like what they’re doing. They aren’t really into big girls. And, let’s be honest, not many of those guys look like me. I work out, and I take care of my body, I’m not out clubbing and partying, I don’t drink or smoke…”

“What about sex?” I ask. “This is something I wonder about porn performers – what is sex like in your personal life, when you do it for a job? Are there days you come home from work, and your woman is all hot ‘n bothered, and you’re like, baby I did that all day. No thanks.”

“Well,” he says, “I only fuck on camera.”

“What?!”

“Yes. I want my movies to be intense…I want people to feel what I’m feeling. So I wait until I find a chick I really want to bang, and I make her my girlfriend for the day. Hair, nails, clothes, shoes, makeup – I take care of all of that. So what you see in my movies, it’s real. I only fuck chicks I’m really into. And then when we fuck, we’re both really feeling it.

“And  my audience notices,” he continues. “I hear things  like CJ, you and _____ must really be a couple. You must be fucking off-screen. The  chemistry between the two of you is HOT.”

That’s his goal, CJ tells me, to make personal porn and make porn personal.

And he’s doing that.

His movies really are him and he’s a young, straight male on the rise. Sometimes the clothes who chooses for the female performers seem more about his vision of ‘hot’ than about what makes the women look hot. (But they’re waaaaaaay better than most BBW porn.) The sex is still porn sex, more about docking more than fucking. And the movies that have preambles involving acting are all about him – his dominance, desirability and business acumen. They’re about the money, baby.  He’s getting his shoes polished, or interviewing a woman who wants to be his personal assistant…and then fucking the shit out of his supplicants. (Yes, please!) The threesomes between women seem robotic – none of them seem over-the-top into each other, and the threesomes with two men and a woman are more about plowing the chick than they are about getting her off. Most heterosexual porn is like that, really.

But here’s the thing: he’s having  fun in his films, and it shows.

CJ is something not a lot of porn performers are: he’s likeable. During our interview I came to like him lots and wow, do I like watching him fuck. His fucking is an athletic event. His films contain unguarded, un-pornified moments that liquefy me. Moments when he grins at the woman he’s fucking, or they laugh, or he kisses her so real it makes her smile with satisfaction. Most porn is serious, so those lighter, sweeter moments are truly…sexy. I watch some immediately after getting off the phone. I get off. It is good.

Later, I write him something nice about how great it has been to talk to him and how much I appreciated his time. We text back and forth about my upcoming trip to Vegas. He implies he’d be willing to drive from Van Nuys to Las Vegas to meet me. And then I get a text from him. “Any time you’re ready.”

I’m giddy like the geeky girl asked to prom by The Hot Guy. After all, the whole reason I interviewed CJ Wright in the first place is because I like pretty-fat-girl-banging-hot-black-guy porn. He’s the hot black guy. I’m the pretty fat girl. We should totally fuck.

Alas, it is not to be. There’s an insurmountable obstacle between us and The Fucking: he only fucks ON camera, and I only fuck OFF…camera, that is.

But I was tempted (what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!) and sometimes I still think about how much I’d like to sex CJ Wright, who says he likes fat chicks (and has a whole bunch of films to prove it) only fucks women he really likes, and apparently wanted to fuck me. True story.

—————————–

3. LadyPorn Day and My PORN t-shirt

Perhaps this is not how every woman’s introduction to porn ends, but that’s how it ended (and started) for me – with much unfilmable love for CJ Wright.

And, by the way, this piece is part of #ladyporn day instigated by sex journalist Rachel RabbitWhite. Provocateurs like Betty Dodson and Cindy Gallop are participating. And me. Pinch me, I’m dreaming.

PS I wouldn’t mind at all if you bought my PORN t-shirt. You can do that here.

——

The Previously Undisclosed Secret to Parallel Parking (and, quite possibly, lasting love)




Parallel parking is my super-sexy-secret power.

Using only my wits, a manual transmission and a steering wheel, I can maneuver a thousand pounds of metal in and out of spaces so small they should require a can opener.

And I can do it consistently. With crowds of people watching and cheering. With the guy I want (always) to impress (always) in the car.

True story.

We were going to breakfast at my favourite joint in Fort Langley - ohhhh, the evil omelettes, ohhhhh the wicked weekend line-ups – and parking in that ‘hood is almost always a challenge. But lo! there was a spot. A very tiny spot, and a very long line of traffic behind me.

I lined up my passenger door with the driver door of the car ahead of my spot, backed in until the curb was in the middle of my rear view mirror, continued reversing while rolling the steering wheel the other way…and I was in, and tight to the curb too.

It was spectacular. I was spectacular.

And my newish man smiled at me and said Wow.

That was seven months ago and I don’t remember if we had sex that morning (of course we did), and it’s probably inappropriate to say if we had sex this morning (of course we did!), but let’s assume this driving lesson does indeed instruct.

The ability to parallel park can get you laid.

And maybe even loved.

First Comes Love, Then Comes…a (Possible) Capitulation. Let me know if you see a white flag.




Chapter 1

Dave:  I think you are a very old-fashioned girl at heart.

Kelly: You and I have come to a very, very similar conclusion. I had an epiphany on Saturday about that…I went to a steamy, sexalicious party and although everyone was hot – really hot, gorgeous in fact – it left me cold. I looked smokin’, I was happy to prance around looking cute, but I didn’t want to touch or be touched. I was utterly unapproachable. I should have gone to a regular ol’ night club and posed. Instead, I fucking scampered out of there early because I was eager to keep chatting/phoning/emailing/sweet-talking my Church boy. And just seeing his face on video – God Bless Skype, for real – made me wetter than watching people fuck in front of me. And I realized: oh hell, desire is a love thing for me.

Kelly: So I surrender. I am what I am.

Dave: Maybe you can let your hair grow back to that beautiful brown color?

Kelly: That could happen. I’m contemplating red right now, however. So tell me what you mean by “old fashioned girl”?

Dave: Monogamous and faithful.

Kelly: Yep. We are totally on the same page.

Dave: Commit to who you are, the right men will show up. They will even become attractive.

Kelly: This is why I keep fucking up: because I’m not honest ‘bout who I am. I want love or nothing.

Chapter 2.

Dave: What about all the feminist theory?  Can you fit it in?

Kelly: Ms. Hidary nailed it: “My pussy burns in the feminist hall of shame because I want to be someone’s girl“.

Dave: I figured that was the line you’re going to highlight.

Kelly: It’s fucken brilliant. And “the last goddamn kaiser roll in the bodega” is so much rarer and more precious than diamonds and jewels…I’m giving up recreational sex.

Dave: Good.

Kelly: I can’t handle it.

Dave: Most people can’t, neither men nor women. Some people, both men and women, can handle it just fine.

Chapter 3.

Kelly: I have no frame of reference or experience with not sleeping with someone right away. Every single significant relationship I ever had started with a bang. Literally.

Dave: Try just hanging out instead.

Kelly: Yeah. Old school.

Dave: Go floral.

Kelly: What? Floral?

Dave: I believe you mean “Whut!?”

Kelly: Are you recommending I wear floral prints?

Dave: Yep. Wear a dress.

Kelly: I almost always wear dresses.

Dave: Nothing says “Lady” like floral.

Kelly: Gack.

Dave: Even Paris looks like a lady in floral.

Kelly: Dude. I have no doubt that I present myself as a motherfucken lady. I only hooch it up for special occasions. I am just built in such a way that no matter what I wear, I’m kabang!

Dave: High neck. No v-neck.

Kelly: The problem isn’t my clothes. It is me. I’m competitive. If I want someone, I must have him. And he will capitulate pretty easily in the beginning.

Dave: Whether he is worth wanting or not?

Kelly: Exactly.

Chapter 4.

Dave: How are you going to protect yourself and your man from your natural, feminine destructiveness?  Your inner Kali?

Kelly: I think I need a pretty strong man.

Dave: Oh I know that.

Kelly: Yes. But I don’t tend to date them. I’m attracted to them. But I date the pretty boys.

Dave: But even a strong man who truly loves you is going to be helpless at some point.

Kelly: True. And I have destructive tendencies.

Dave: Yes you do.

Kelly: It is the inner Kali and the artist.

Dave: And insecurity.

Kelly: Artists have to burn shit down or they can’t create anew, but it is a colossal waste of energy, frustrates momentum…I’m kinda hoping maturity is the answer.  We simply tend not to divorce the older we get. That’s why our national divorce rate is actually declining right now: because our population is aging. So I’m hoping age will work in my favour – by the time I get married again, I won’t have the energy to incinerate it. That, and I’ve already burned and been burned so often that if I do manage to be in the kind of relationship I desire, I’ll treasure it – and him – enough to take care. I’ll protect it.

Kelly: It isn’t a coherent strategy, but it could work.

Dave: It could. I hope so.

Chapter 5.

Dave: See, I’m in an interesting position here. I don’t want to see you get hurt, again. But I also want to see you find That Man.

Kelly: Oh honey, that’s my favourite position.

God, Sex, and Dazzling Sentences




“I’m fucking for God.”

I didn’t say it. Martin Luther King Jr did.

(IF possibly imaginary CIA wiretaps-and-transcripts and biographers Taylor Branch, Marshall Frady and “friend” Ralph Abernathy are to be believed.)

I read that line twenty-two years ago and never forgot it.

I was fifteen. I’d just seen MLK’s “I have a dream” speech. Water was in my eyes and fire was in my loins. I was moved by his passion. I wanted more of him. I wanted him.

Alas, he was dead.

And so the biography aisle at the local library would have to do. I was ready to be inspired by his larger-than-life excellence, righteousness and heroics: Time Magazine Man of the Year (1963). The Nobel Peace Prize (1964). The Civil Rights Movement. Loving husband. Devoted family man. Divinely-inspired poet/preacher. Martyr.

Oh yes, I wanted lots of that hot stuff.

Greedy, I started with the biggest, thickest book (that’s the way I like most things).

I was looking for the story behind those soul-stirring speeches and unflagging commitment to justice. I was looking for a manual of how I too could become that extraordinary and selfless. I was looking to worship a hero.

Instead, I read pageafterpageafterpageafterpageafterpage (you get the idea) detailing my beloved MLK’s affairs, orgies, and just plain lewd talk.

Now, that wouldn’t phase me. Some might even say I like that sort of thing. But then…

Then I was fifteen, idealistic, and a virgin. Then it was all very simple – and confusing.

And so I’m still mad at the writer of that biography. I was convinced he was lying. I suspected he was a sheet-wearing racist who wanted to discredit a great man – because you’re either a great man or a cheater. I hadn’t yet expanded my morality to include both/and. It was either/or. And so MLK had to be one or the other: how could he be a man of God and a man fucking for God?

I can’t remember the name of that writer or the title of that book but I still remember that sentence.

‘Course, the biographer can’t really take credit for it – that’s (allegedly) allllll MLK, baby – but it has stayed with me and formed the basis for two of my pet theories:

For connection. For communion. For ecstasy. For transcendence. For rapture. For redemption.

And maybe for some holy words.

Like: I love you.

Or: Love each other.

Because in the beginning was The Word.

————-

Sunday School for Sentences will be a sixteen-part series. Missed one? Here they are:

  • Prologue: God, Sex and Dazzling Sentences
    1. Sunday School for Sentences #1: Explain the Expected in Unexpected Ways
    2. Sunday School for Sentences #2: The (Textual) Reverse Cowgirl
    3. Sunday School for Sentences #3: Object Lessons (from Kanye West and JD Salinger)
    4. Sunday School for Sentences #4: How to Give Good Quote
    5. Sunday School For Sentences #5: Why You Should Write Bad Poetry
    6. Sunday School for Sentences #6: Two Damn Fine Writing Tips
    7. Sunday School for Sentences #7: There Are No Magic Words
    8. Sunday School for Sentences #8: How To Execute a Climax or Series of Climaxes. I’m talking About Writing. Mostly.
    9. Sunday School for Sentences #9: Thread the Grommets, Lace the Corset, Feed the Rabbits
    10. Sunday School For Sentences #10 – Work It
    11. Sunday School for Sentences #11: The Pigs In Space Edition
    12. Sunday School for Sentences #12: Screw SEO. I Write (Wackadoo Titles) for PEOPLE, Not Search Engines. And So Should You.
    13. Sunday School for Sentences #13: How to Write an Intimate Cosmology of Cheesecake, Cheesecake Shots (or not) and Shoplifting
    14. Sunday School for Sentences #14: What Picasso And Dave Chappelle Know about Writing. For Realz. 
  • our touch-phobic, sex-obsessed culture. We’re sublimating, kids.




    Sure, I’m obsessed with sex. I’m also obsessed with food, status, security and avoiding pain and I’m willing to bet it is historic hard-wiring. It is my reptile brain. My mammal brain. My humanity. My femininity.

    And, I suspect, my culture too.

    Because other than my lovers, and my children are the only people who kiss and hug and touch me.

    If I didn’t have two small, non-profit distributors of kisses and cuddles, my life would be bereft of skin-to-skin, lip-to-lip, chest-to-chest, and heart-to-heart contact.

    And so in the sex dance the moments that most deeply thrill me have nothing to do with getting off. They’re about getting close. About skin and human heat and intimacy and together.

    Like: the sweet shock of a suddenly bare chest-to-chest embrace.

    Like: voluptuous, extravagant kissing that tells stories.

    Like: permission to touch someone.

    So I understand all the hullaballoo “adults” in the media are raising about pre-mature sexualization and teen hook-up culture (as if it is strictly a teen phenomena):

    oh my god it will be The Death of Intimacy.

    It is soul-less, mercenary, predatory, and if they keep it up, Those Kids Today won’t develop the interpersonal skills necessary to support lasting, loving, intimate relationships.

    And the dyad is the cornerstone of North American culture, y’all! How will we fight about what marriage means and who gets to be allowed to do it if Those Damn Kids are too busy hooking up to settle down?

    Those Kids Today are going to break society.

    As if it isn’t already broken.

    We worry, too, about the broken souls of promiscuous girls – when we’re not ogling them and eating them up – who use sex to feel loved. Who are lacking the love, affection, commitment and validation they (and all human folk) need, and so seek it in sex. Who shortcircuit love and emotional intimacy for carnal electricity.

    Well, hell, don’t only point the finger at sad and lonely fifteen year old girls.

    They’re not the only ones sexting. Trust. They’re not the only lonely ones aching for touch. Believe.

    When I was eighteen, a young man knocked on my dorm room door and invited me for a motorcycle ride. It was night. It was cold. We went back to his house and he offered me hot chocolate. He stood at the counter, mixing the cocoa, with his back to me, and I felt an overwhelming desire to hug him. So I did.  I walked up behind him and slipped and tightened my arms around him. I leaned into him. I held him.

    He stiffened.

    Then he grabbed and held my arms and hands that were holding him and melted into me. I can’t even put into words what happened in that hug. There was a fierceness and a hunger in that surrender. That connection is forever carved into me.

    He told me that he couldn’t remember the last time someone hugged him. And when he worked at remembering he realized that his last hug happened when he was seven years old.

    Four years later, I married that guy. That was probably a mistake.

    But emotion-free, intimacy-lite hook ups are probably less of a psyche-eating danger to Those Kids Today than is untrammelled, soul-scarring, love ‘n unprepared early marriage.

    And we’re all hungry. For touch, intimacy, sex, cuddling, communion.

    honeypots, fairy tales and the myth of commitment phobic men




    me, to Dave, two days ago:
    Kelly:…I’m so much more nefarious and strategic than anyone gives me credit for
    Kelly: ‘cept you.
    Kelly: and my ex.
    Kelly: He’s convinced our entire marriage was a conspiracy.

    ————-

    And he’s probably not entirely wrong.

    ————-

    Wondering: maybe, sometimes, this is what The Dudes think?

    That this relationship business is a honeypot -

    - a bait-and-switch almost too seductive to resist?

    Because the truth is…sometimes it is a honeypot.

    Sometimes we (and by “we” I mean “I”) want The Relationship more than we want the man in front of us.

    But he’d look so nice painting that white picket fence.

    And so he’ll do.

    —————–

    My ex is A Good Guy and I did him wrong.

    In the aftermath of our split, here’s the score:

    I have a beautiful house, two devilish/angelic kids (depending who you ask), a career, and pretty much everything I ever wanted.

    (‘Cept a partner. But these things happen when they happen. And a vehicle with German engineering. But again, will happen eventually.)

    He lives alone with the BMW,  rottweiler and leather sofa.

    I can see why he thinks he got screwed.

    I can see why he thinks that one of us had an agenda all along.

    I can see why some of us are hesitant to jump in and swim again.

    —————

    At dinner a couple of months ago, my friend Lianne Raymond (teacher, life coach but she prefers the term “life poet”) told us that the young men she teaches are amazing. They’re sensitive, emotionally expressive, tender, affectionate and they have great communication skills.

    And these sixteen and seventeen year old soon-to-be men come to her with broken hearts. They’re distraught when their relationships dissolve. They take it so much harder than do the young women.

    Her theory? Heterosexual men aren’t allowed to express their emotions in other venues of their lives, so they often make their girlfriends their emotional centres. Their partners are their most trusted confidantes and sometimes their only source of emotional support. And so when they lose that relationship, they suffer intensely. They’ve lost the relationship, the friendship, and the emotional solidarity.

    Women, on the other hand, are terrific at spreading their emotional needs across a network of friends and sisters. When a relationship breaks up, they’ve still got sources of emotional support.

    And that’s why lots of women love Sex and The City. For the friendship. Because it is true.

    ———-

    The connections?

    I’m wrestling with the eternal issue of commitment phobia.

    And here’s what I think: heterosexual men and women are equally emotional. We all have emotions, we just express them and the needs that drive them, differently.

    Men need partners just as much as women do. Men aren’t inherently afraid to commit.

    But I think the fairy tale that women decry as restrictive and delusional is just as narrow and confining for men.

    I had lunch with a colleague and he told me that The Fairy Tale seduces and betrays men, too. He has two gay friends who married women and had families – and then had to leave them – because they desperately wanted to be let into the dream.

    This dream needs to be re-dreamed so that love and family is at the centre rather than heterosexuality and rules that pinch us more than they protect us.

    My point…I do have one,  you know.

    In the fairy tale, where is the prince? Who is the prince? What does he do?

    Not much, actually. He just shows up and satisfies female yearning.

    Now I’m sure there are times when that is a great gig.

    But do we care about the Prince’s character development? Do we care who he is? Do we even see him?

    He’s Prince Charming. He’s tall, dark and handsome and his kisses break spells. He looks good on a white horse. He shows up to be married at the appropriate moment.

    Basically, he’s marriageable.

    Now, if I described a woman like that (marriageable) I think we’d all agree that I didn’t really say a damn thing about her. We’d have no idea who she is.

    And so I’m wondering if “commitment phobic” men – and I don’t believe that men are truly commitment phobic – fear, deeply, that the women in their lives value them for their roles rather than their selves?

    Do men fear being valued for their husband-ability rather than their intrinsic and individual worth?

    And…if they do fear that, no wonder they hesitate to jump in and commit. Because if they do commit and it all goes to hell they’ll be sleeping on the leather sofa. Alone.

    (Maybe with the dog but only if the dog commits the grievous error of peeing on bare female feet and so Must Go, too.)

    And he’ll be gazing at the ceiling, suffering, wondering what the hell happened and what he’s going to do and who he can talk to while his ex convenes with her girlfriends, sisters and goddesses who eternally and unconditionally have her back, heart and soul.

    If I was him I’d be scared too.

    Wouldn’t you?