Valentine's Day is the Enemy of Real Love

I am not a big fan of Valentine’s Day.  It’s not because I hate love or hate commercialism.  One fuels our hearts, the other fuels our economy, and it’s hard to imagine our modern world without either of them.

I hate Valentine’s Day because it creates unrealistic expectations about what love looks like.  This unholiest of holidays perpetuates the myth that romantic love is forever sparkling with excitement.  Valentine’s love is polished and perfectly adorned.  Valentine’s love is all flowers, candy, jewelry, and the implied promise of passionate sex.

Chances are, if you’ve been with your romantic partner for more than a year or if you live with the love of your life, that’s just not what love looks like.  Sure, a romantic evening with fine food and flowers is nice, but that’s not what real love looks like.  Real love is going home at the end of that fancy dinner, going to bed with your lover, and being serenaded by the sounds of fancy-food flatulence as you both drift off into a food coma.  Real love is looking at your farting partner and not banishing him/her to the other room and resisting the urge to stab him/her in the eye for polluting the air of your love den.  Real love is holding your breath while spooning your partner amidst the methane cloud. 

Real love is accepting the mundaneness of a long-term relationship.  Real love is accepting that your partner is a gross, imperfect human being and loving him/her anyway.   

Card borrowed from theoatmeal.com

    

Genesis

            One evening during the late spring of 1977, Sherman, still covered in black dust from the mines, and Jackie, worn out from another day of chasing children and hanging clothes on the line, made their way to the barn, perhaps, and copulated under a sun-warmed tin roof.  This was their favorite pastime, most likely because neither were avid readers and they had not yet found Jesus.

            They married young, in 1963, when he was nearly 19 and she was three days shy of 17, already four and a half months pregnant with their first child.  The baby boy, whom they named Gregory, came screaming out of Jackie’s uterus on February 6, 1964, at 8:45 a.m.  She found wee Greg in his crib, lifeless, some six weeks later.  They lowered his tiny casket into the ground on the hill just above the barn, the barn where they found themselves years later stretched across carpet-cloaked bails of hay. 

            Neither of them really gave a second thought to the broken condom.  He climbed down from the loft, rigged up the horse, and finished plowing the garden.  She lit a cigarette, her 60^th of the day, and walked back to the house to cook supper.

            Weeks later, Jackie found her stomach rebelling against her nearly every day.  Her first thought was cancer, how she was too young to die and what would happen to the children.  She and Sherman had managed to produce three since the first:  Judy Ann in 1965, Michael Anthony in 1967, and Jody Arnold in 1973.  In a near panic at the thought of motherless children, she called her sister.  “Maybe you’re pregnant,” the sister conjectured.  Appropriate tests confirmed this suspicion.

Probable site of my unplanned conception

            Months later, swollen with my life, Jackie lopped off the very tip of her left index finger on a screen door.  The woven metal stood out from the edge, attacking her, catching her unaware.  She held her abdomen with her bleeding hand, wondering if I felt her pain.

            During the early hours of a snowy February morning, Jackie recognized the familiar pangs of labor.  Sherman’s father hoisted her into his Jeep Wrangler and drove her into town, population 488, to Mary Breckinridge Hospital.  At 8:35 a.m. on February 6, 1978, I made my way down the walk-worn path of my mother’s birth canal.  The nurse in the delivery room was the same one present 14 years earlier, when Jackie delivered her first child.  They shared knowing glances and awkward words.

This is the only baby picture I have of myself

            Before checking for the appropriate number of digits and without any thoughts about the impact 20,000 cigarettes had on my development, Jackie zoomed in to my left index finger, fearing (and perhaps hoping) that the screen somehow managed to get my finger too.   But I was unscathed and intact, and the screen door was gone when I left home as a teenager.   

Goblin Hands

I have a thing for hands.  They're one of the first features I notice on a person, which may be why I've recently noticed that Dolly Parton is trying hard to hide her goblin hands from public view.

What are goblin hands, you ask?  Our hands age.  As we get old, our hands get bigger, wrinkle and develop age spots.  For most folks, this normal hand aging is barely noticeable, as the aged hands match the person's aged face and body.  But, women who nip and tuck the age and wrinkles from the rest of their faces and bodies are often left with aged hands, that, in comparison to their otherwise surgically taut skin, look like goblin hands.  I assume it's difficult if not impossible to give hands a proper skin-tightening lift without leaving a person's hands completely immobile. 

So what's a heavily nipped and tucked gal, such as Dolly, to do?  The answer, apparently, is fingerless gloves and elongated sleeves to cover the goblin hands.  I first noticed the gloves when Dolly was on The Daily Show promoting Joyful Noise last week.  Then, when I saw Joyful Noise yesterday, I noticed that Dolly's hands were covered in every single scene in which you could see her hands.

Below you'll find several examples of Dolly's attempt to obscure her old hands:

Breakin' It Down with Butchy: Digital Penetration

I tend to have lots of unusual conversations with people, and I often get asked interesting questions.  I think this happens for three reasons. 

1)      No topic is taboo with me, so folks tend to feel comfortable asking me questions about anything and everything.

2)      Folks somehow get the perhaps misguided impression that I know lots of things. 

3)      I’m fairly good at breaking information down for people.

With that said, let me tell you about a recent conversation I had over lunch.  Consider this the inaugural issue of “Breakin’ It Down with Butchy.”

During lunch, ‘Abby’, who is a bit older than I am, started asking me questions about social media and networking.  Specifically, she had questions about Twitter, tweets, and hashtags.  I explained to the best of my ability, given that I’m actually not a huge fan of Twitter and rarely use my Twitter account.

“Ok,” she said, “That makes sense.  But now I have another question for you.” 

I waited for her question, anticipating another technology thread.

Abby continued, “I keep reading about this criminal trial, and the newspapers keep using the same phrase about another crime the alleged perpetrator committed.  They keep stating that he ‘digitally penetrated’ a baby in a diaper.”

At first, I thought she was commenting on the horror that someone would do such a thing to an infant, but then I realized she was interpreting ‘digitally’ as technology-related.

“Abby,” I began softly.  “That just means he……fingered a baby.”

“Oh my God!” Abby exclaimed.  “I kept seeing digitally and never connected it to digits.  I had no idea what he might have done.”

So, let’s review that break down --

Digital penetration is:

·         The act of inserting a finger (or toe) into something or someone

Digital penetration sounds like but is not:

·         Sticking your iPod into something or someone

·         Violating someone with a webcam

·         Forcing a baby to use technology against his or her will

·         Full-body scans at the airport



Digital penetration?



The Girl with the Feminist Tattoo

I watched the American version of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo today.  I had previously seen and been a big fan of the Swedish version, although I have not read the book.

I fell in love with the Swedish version because of the character of Lisbeth, a sort of feminist superhero in my eyes.  Lisbeth is a character who has been victimized by those who are supposed to be responsible for her care (her father, her state-appointed guardian) but refuses to be a victim.  She’s smart and cunning; a survivor.   In the American version, though, Lisbeth loses this appeal for me because of differences in just a few key scenes.  Let me explain the differences in Swedish Lisbeth and American Lisbeth in some of these scenes.

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The revenge scene

In the American version, Lisbeth places a pillow on her naked state-appointed guardian’s crotch, then straddles him to tattoo “I’m a rapist pig” on his chest.  This felt overly sexual to me, and she seemed to take a great deal of pleasure in this revenge.  We watch her plan for it by acquiring supplies, and we even see her getting a tattoo over the fresh bruises on her ankle after he has restrained and raped her (leading to the revenge scene).

In the Swedish version, the revenge scene seems more matter-of-fact.  It feels more like what Lisbeth must do in order to be free of this tyrant.  She does not seem to take any particular pleasure in the act.  When she tattoos his chest, she does so from the side, and only after he struggles and squirms does she pin down his pelvis with her knee (not her vagina).

When Lisbeth and Mikael meet for the first time

In the American version, Mikael gets permission from his employer’s attorney to hire an assistant.  His employer recommends Lisbeth, who had performed Mikael’s background check before being hired by Henrik Vanger.  Mikael shows up at Lisbeth’s apartment with the report she compiled on him.  Lisbeth seems frightened, but agrees to let him in.  Mikael had brought breakfast, and tells Lisbeth to send the woman in her bed on her way, which she proceeds to do.  The woman in her bed, seemingly sensing Lisbeth’s fear, asks Lisbeth if she needs her to say, but Lisbeth dismisses her.  Lisbeth them places the taser she had used on her state-appointed guardian in her back pocket before timidly approached Mikael in her own kitchen.  She trembles while he explains why he is there.  He then threatens to turn her into the police if she doesn’t cooperate with helping him solve his 40 year old murder mystery.  And that’s how their relationship begins.

In the Swedish version, Lisbeth continues to hack into Mikael’s computer even after completing the background check on him.  As such, she is aware that he is investigating a 40 year old murder.  She sees his files, which include a list of women’s names with numbers next to them.  She recognizes that the numbers corresponds with Biblical passages, and she chooses to send Mikael an email with this clue.  Mikael later shows up at her apartment with the background file she had created on him.  She tells him to back away from the door so she can unchain it, then she invites him in.  She then asks the woman in her bed to leave (with no prompting from Mikael).  She stands as if slightly irritated (not afraid) while Mikael explains to her that her message is the first new clue in the case.  He asks for her help with the case, and reminds her that as a professional computer hacker, he was only able to find her because she wanted to be found.  This Lisbeth sought out a case where she could help track down a murderer of women; she was not blackmailed into it.

When Lisbeth and Mikael have sex for the first time (and a couple of times thereafter)

In the American version, Lisbeth goes to Mikael’s bed after he has been shot and undresses before mounting him.  Shortly after mounting him, they flip positions and the scene ends with him on top.   Later in the film, they are in bed together, and Mikael places his hand under her shirt on her back then removes it; she then tells him to put his hand back under her shirt, seeking out his touch.

In the Swedish version, Lisbeth enters Mikael’s bedroom and mounts him.  She continues to ride him until she achieves orgasm.  She then dismounts and declares that she’s going back to her room.  Later, in a post-coital moment in her bed, she turns off the light and turns away from him, expecting him to get out of bed.  When he doesn’t leave, she turns the light back on to ask what he’s doing.  I want to be close to you, he says.  After a brief pause, she says, “Fine, but I want to sleep” then turns away from him again.

Martin’s death

In the American version, Lisbeth rescues Mikael from Martin just in the nick of time, smashing Martin’s face with a golf club before cutting Mikael down from his noose.  Martin flees, and before Lisbeth gives chase, she asks Mikael for permission to kill Martin.  That’s right, she asks for a man’s fucking permission to kill a man who has raped and murdered countless women since the 1960s.  She gives chase, and Martin skids off the highway, flipping his automobile.  As she approaches the wreckage, the automobile (and Martin) burst into flame.

In the Swedish version, Lisbeth arrives just in time to whack Martin in the face with a golf club and cut Martin down from his noose.  She then chases Martin until he crashes his automobile.  When she approaches the wreckage with fuel ominously dripping from the chassis, Martin is still alive inside, calling out to her that he is unable to move.  She stands by, listening to him, until the automobile explodes with Martin screaming inside.  Later, Mikael asks if she could have saved him, and she admits that she could have.  Mikael tells her he could not have done that, but he understands why she did.  He also tells her that she does not have to tell him all that she has been through, but he is glad she is there.  She only says “thanks” and places her hand on his.

The end of the movie

In the American version, the movie ends with Lisbeth purchasing and expensive leather jacket and attempting to surprise Mikael with it.  Instead, she sees him arm in arm with his long-time sexual partner, so she throws the present in the dumpsters and speeds off on her motorbike. 

In the Swedish version, Lisbeth takes money from bank accounts of the corrupt Wennerstrom and disappears.  No school girl crushes or pouting from this Lisbeth.

___________________________________________

Since I have not read the book, I cannot say which characterization of Lisbeth is more in keeping with the author’s original vision.  Regardless, I prefer Swedish Lisbeth.  She’s the sort of feminist avenger I can get behind.  Not so much with American Lisbeth. 

It’s also possible that David Fincher can’t direct a film with an unadulterated, strong female lead.  After all, this is the guy that ruined the Alien franchise for me.  In the first two Alien movies, Ripley is, in my view, a great feminist character.  She is a survivor.  She is a female lead who remains rational and focused on survival.  She does not make stupid decisions that create situations in which she must be saved or that unnecessarily put other characters at risk.  Also, in the first two movies, Ripley is too busy surviving to be engaged in romantic or sexual entanglements.    In Alien 3 (directed by Fincher), we see Ripley at her butchest, shaved head and all.  Oddly, this is also the film in which Ripley fucks another character for the first time in the franchise.  I suppose the audience had to be reminded that despite her strength, penchant for survival, and shaved head, Ripley still had a hole that needed to be filled.  Maybe that’s Fincher’s message is The Girl with a Dragon Tattoo, too – that no woman can be complete until her heart and vagina are aflutter for a good man.

What Kind of Sex Do YOU Have?

“So….. What kind of sex do you have?”

I get this question on a fairly regular basis.  I’m not sure if other lesbians get this question a lot, but I think the universal curiosity is there.  Maybe I get it more than most because I am so unashamed when it comes to discussing sexual matters.  Or maybe I get it a lot because people want to know how a fat lesbian has sex.  Either way, let’s talk about lesbian sex.

The sex question typically comes from two types of people:  the obnoxious straight guy, or the drunken straight girl.  For both, the question they really want to ask (and sometimes do) is this:  “So, which one of you wears the strap-on dick?” 

When I get the “What kind of sex do you have?” questions, I have two answers.  The first is the answer I say out loud, and the second is my real answer.  Let’s explore my spoken response first.

So, what kind of sex do you have?

Well, really, we lesbians have the same kinds of sex everyone else has, both penetrative and non-penetrative.  There’s manual stimulation (rubbing, with hands or other body parts), oral sex, vaginal sex, anal sex.

Here’s the problem.  Culturally, when someone says sex, we think penis-in-vagina (or, in the case of two men, penis-in-anus).  Although straight couples engage in penetrative vaginal (and anal) sex, this type of penetrative sex isn’t the only kind of sex they have.  Gay men, too, engage in penetrative anal sex, but not exclusively or even primarily.  Despite this reality, penis-in-something is considered the gold standard of sex, or real sex. 

Despite the fact that lesbians don’t have penises, we still manage to have sex.  Sometimes that involves inserting something into the vagina (or anus), but not exclusively or primarily.  The kind of sex lesbians have hinges largely on the likes and dislikes of the two unique lesbians engaging in coitus together, just as is the case with straight folks and gay men. 

I once had a straight guy concede that lesbians could have sex despite our lack of penis, but he was adamant that lesbians cannot fuck.  Fucking, in his mind, requires a dick and is something only a man can do.  This, of course, is utter bullshit.

Which brings me to my real response to the question….

So, what kind of sex do you have?

Better sex than you, most likely. 

Despite all of the myths and misconceptions about lesbian bed death, research has long supported that lesbians have better sex than straight women, though some studies suggest that sex happens less often among lesbians.  Research has shown that lesbians:

·         Are more likely to kiss during sex

·         Report greater satisfaction with sex

·         Engage in longer sexual encounters

·         Are more aroused during sex (measuring lubrication as a sign of arousal)

·         Report fewer sexual problems (related to orgasm, lubrication, and guilt)

·         Are 25-50% more likely to achieve orgasm during sex than heterosexual women

See, lesbians just do it better.

And this may explain why it’s obnoxious straight men and drunken straight women who always ask me details about lesbian sex.  It may just be that obnoxious straight men secretly fear that they can’t really please a woman, and drunken straight women secretly long for better sex.

So, here’s my advice.  Rather than focusing on what my people do sexually, focus on your own sex, and the pleasure of your own partner.  Then you won’t have to worry about what I’m doing (perhaps with your unsatisfied partner).

Personal Space & Spooning

I don't like people in my personal space.  I often remind people:  If I can extend my arm and touch you, you're too close.

As one might deduce, I'm not much of a hugger, either.  I try to be ever-vigilant with my anti-hugging body language, but it doesn't always work. 

I seem to be surrounded by huggers, both at home and work.  I have a co-worker who even likes to lurk outside my office door to ambush hug me when I least expect it.  No matter how bad-ass and unapproachable I try to be, I think I'm just too cute and cuddly for my own good.

Despite all of these issues I have with being stood near, touched, or hugged, there's nothing I love more than spooning.  I honestly don't understand how people sleep in the same bed without spooning.  I've spooned every partner I've had.  I'm always the big spoon (or, as I prefer to call it, the alpha spoon). 

Here's what some expert says about spooning:

Traditional spooning is the most common position adopted by couples during the first few years of their relationship or marriage. If the spooning is comfortable, is received with no tension in the limbs and seems balanced, it shows both a strong sexuality and feeling of security in the relationship. One partner is saying with their body, “I can turn my back on you and know I am safe—you have my back.” The other is saying, “I want to surround you and take you in.” This Spoon position has been shown to increase intimacy in couples and reduce the stress of both partners.

Kate and I have been sleeping together for over 6 years now, and we still spoon every night.  I think spooning helps keep us both feeling sane and connected in this cold, distant world.  We'll be that old couple in Titanic, spooning right til the end.  

Spooning is just good for the soul.  So spoon someone tonight (preferably with their consent).