Category Archives: sex

Kavanaugh – party time predator?

Watching the story unfold about Brett Kavanaugh’s alleged sexual attack on a young girl while he was in high school has been distressing, right? I’ll say up front that I believe his accuser, Dr. Christine Blasey Ford. This is an intelligent, reputable woman who knew full well that she was putting herself and her family in jeopardy by stepping forward. She has nothing to gain but heartache, aggravation and yes, even fear by going public with the story of this assault.

But what I also believe is that there’s a good chance Kavanaugh doesn’t think he did it. He doesn’t remember because he was totally blotto. It was over quickly. He didn’t “score” (which he would NOT have forgotten). His buddy was likely egging him on, then jumped on him – who knows why; they were drunk – and the next thing you know, they’re stumbling down the stairs belching and listening to some jerk belt out the lyrics to “Roxanne.” Hey! Somebody change that lame music and where’s the keg?

Either he doesn’t remember, or he’s too cowardly to admit that he screwed up. If he does remember, he missed his opportunity to say he’s sorry, he was drunk and immature, and then to apologize as sincerely as he’d demand any idiot who tried to pull that with one of his daughters would be expected to do. Maybe he’d even have the guts to offer to step down, like Al Franken (whose questionable sense of humor wasn’t nearly as offensive as this shit show).

Regardless, chances are that Brett and his prep school buds preyed on girls at every weekend party. That weekend was likely just one of dozens – hundreds? – of weekends in his high school and college years where excessive drinking contributed to varying degrees of aggression toward young women.

I’m not saying it’s okay. I am saying it happens. Plenty. I can’t speak for how that age group interacts today, but I doubt it’s much different from when I was growing up. Kavanaugh’s crowd followed about ten years after mine, so I can picture the scenario pretty clearly. Again, it wasn’t right – but it wasn’t uncommon.

Here’s where I’m going with this essay. I’m going to blame this in part on . . .

Private school ain’t the real world

Brett Kavanaugh is the only child of very successful parents. Right off the bat, I have to wonder if he would have been quite as predatory if he had had sisters. Strike one.

Then, at the cusp of puberty, he was sent to an all-boys Catholic school. Strike two. His parents’ intent surely was to give their son the best education they could afford. Plus, parents who put their kids in same-sex schools generally believe that without the distraction of girls/boys, their child will find it easier to concentrate on studies and, hopefully, excel academically minus all the hormonal drama.

There’s some logic to that. Scholastically, same-sex education can offer an academic edge to many students. However. And this is a big “however.” When young people are segregated from the opposite sex during an activity (school) that demands most of their time and focus during their teenage years, they lose the opportunity to interact with both sexes in a relatively safe, non-threatening environment.

Your lab partner could be the football quarterback, or the quiet girl who also sits behind you in Spanish. In class, at lunch, in clubs, in sports, these young people become more than just “other.” A guy learns that the curvy girl he’d like to know better is an ace in geometry and has a wicked sense of humor. She’s more than boobs and butt and big brown eyes. Her name is Allison and she has a Golden Retriever that looks a lot like his.

But if they go to different schools, and are both smashed at a weekend party, guess what? She becomes boobs-butt-big brown eyes because he’s a teenager and that’s all he sees. It’s human nature. Not knowing who she is or having had practice interacting every day with girls like her, is a recipe for trouble. He’s been hearing guys openly bragging at his testosterone-soaked prep school and doesn’t know what’s fact and what’s fantasy. I don’t care what his IQ is; he’s young, dumb, immature, and horny. Alcohol adds fuel to a fire primed to burst into flame.

It goes back to the whole concept of “other” that everyone’s talking about today in regard to intolerance and fear of immigrants, LGBTQ folks, and people of color (stay with me here). Mankind has a nasty inclination to treat unfamiliar people as being a little less human than ourselves. Empathy is a muscle we need to develop and consciously employ when we find ourselves not quite able to relate to another person’s humanity.

And it can be hard. It takes a consciousness and willingness to make that effort to recognize that you’re viewing someone as “other,” then to stop and try to imagine that moment from another human being’s perspective.

Which brings me back to Brett Kavanaugh and “boys being boys” and the mess that most teenagers are, at least during some period of their adolescence. Empathy and maturity are a lot to expect from the average 17 year old kid – even when he’s sober.

But it’s not impossible.

Allowing young people to get to know each other growing up is every bit as important as focusing on classwork. We need to be educated AND know how to get along with others, right? Familiarity doesn’t breed contempt when we’re talking about teenagers; it’s more likely to breed comfort. Distractions become, well, less distracting when encountered on a daily basis.

I suspect that the many people who have come forward to say how great Brett Kavanaugh is could be mostly right. Being an asshole in high school or college does not mean someone can’t grow up and turn into a decent human being. Heaven help us if that weren’t the truth.

Don’t shoot me, but I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t think a very stupid and mean act committed at age 17 while he was drunk out of his gourd should be the reason why Kavanaugh loses this appointment.

Having said that, I do believe that Brett Kavanaugh should be denied a seat on the Supreme Court because of his disturbing statement to the effect that nothing should be done about gun control because so many people own guns. Huh? I also believe that he should not be on the Supreme Court because he thinks birth control is a form of abortion. Huh? This man has a wife and two daughters and needs to get a clue. I also think that Donald Trump is already a lame duck, and if that’s what stopped President Obama’s proposed nominee from being named to the Supreme Court, well, quid pro quo. Let’s vote in a Democratic Congress this fall and start Making America Sane Again.

There are any number of really good reasons why Brett Kavanaugh shouldn’t be on the Supreme Court. I think being an asshole at 17 may not be in the top ten.

Oh. And please consider the pros and cons before sending your kids to same-sex schools. People can get creepy there. Your tax dollars are dealing with it right now.

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Today there was yet another mass shooting, this time at a Rite Aid distribution center in Maryland. Rite Aid was my client for nearly twenty years and my heart goes out to the family, friends, and coworkers of the victims.

We need judges open to new, fair legislation to restrict gun ownership in our dear country.  (Hey! How about outlawing BULLETS?) Brett Kavanaugh has made it clear that he’s not willing to consider gun control laws that may help curtail the senseless murder of innocent people in the US.

 

 

 

Why I’m not sad about sex

Do you have Facebook friends you’ve never met? I do. Mostly they’re friends of friends I’ve met through writing, specifically at Erma Bombeck Humor Writers workshops. Usually I read something funny, laugh and comment, connect, and there you go. I also have some “friends” who I honestly don’t remember at all. It may be time to weed out the list, I’m thinking.

If I were a better writer, or one trying to sell this essay, I would know better than to start out writing about something that seems irrelevant to the headline. You’re supposed to go in strong, not wimp along for several paragraphs until you get to the point. I’ll get there eventually, I promise. While many bloggers have moved on to other media, like Twitter and Instagram, I’m still here. I kind of think of it as exercising my writing muscles now and then. Or keyboard masturbation for the mind.

Anyway, one Erma acquaintance suggested I might have something in common with a friend of hers and due to the sensitive nature of this post, I’ll try to be vague enough that no one will figure out who I’m talking about.

So I “friended” the woman, who I’m going to guess is in her mid 50’s, had split from her husband, moved overseas, and is having what seems to be a pretty steamy romance with a lovely-looking man. Lovely-looking, as in, someone an oldster like myself would consider attractive.

It’s clear that they are having sex. Not that there’s anything salacious being posted, mind you. It’s all very tasteful and kind of sweet. They are positively beaming in the selfies she shares. Her friends (presumably women who, unlike me, actually know her) comment that they’re so happy for her and oo-la-la and “you deserve it,” etc.

I’ve become a kind of hanger-onner (I know that’s not a word – zip it) who was supposed to have something in common with this lady totally unrelated to her new middle-age-to-elderly sex and semi-geriatric love. I think I need to unfriend her because I’m beginning to feel like a voyeur. If she notices my name at all (I occasionally “like” a post – but not the ones about her dating life), she’s probably wondering how I ended up following her and why.

But here’s the thing – every once in a while, when I read or hear about someone in my generation starting a brand new love affair, I can’t help but wonder if that’s something I should consider, too. Should I admit that I’ve finally called it quits FOREVER? Do I care?

The fact is, for every December love affair I hear of, there are a few dozen long-married friends who say, who needs it? They haven’t had sex in nearly as long as my own lengthy period of circumstantial celibacy – and they have a partner sprawled next to them in the California King every night. They may humor their husbands a couple of times a year, but to hear them tell it, it’s with a yawn and the desire to get it over with and go to sleep or at least back to watching whatever movie’s on the Hallmark Channel.

Now, I am NOT writing this to instigate an informal online poll. Spare me if you and your husband are still “active” and think Viagra is the best thing since the creation of floppy discs. You go, girl. Yay. But there is no need to weigh in here for or against old people sex. Please.

I’m going to get very honest with you here and admit that I’ve been celibate for 26 years. I think some people may wonder if I’ve decided to play for the other team, but that’s not the case. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, as the Seinfeld crew would say.

No, I decided to stop dating – to halt my quest for Mr. Right – to give up kissing frogs in the vain search for my prince – at age 41. At the time, it was not my intent to never date or have sex again. My son was about 15 and at an age where the mere thought of his mother being kissed (forget the rest of it) was alternately enraging, disgusting, and ultimately embarrassing. It seemed wise to go on hiatus. It’s hard enough raising a teenager without throwing that mess into the mix.

I certainly don’t miss being in a relationship (see previous post outing myself as an introvert). After living alone for so many years, I honestly can no more imagine someone living in my house – let alone hogging the covers on my bed – than me putting on a tutu and fright wig to launch a new career as a rodeo clown.

It’s not that I miss sex, especially. If you do without it long enough, the urge does pass. Maybe menopause played a big role in that, as well. And on the odd occasion, I can be the queen of my domain. I do miss Seinfeld.

Here’s one more thing  about my generation that doesn’t get much air play, but I’m going to say it anyway:  who wants to fuck an old person? I guess if that old person is someone you knew when he/she was young and pliable, perhaps the wrinkles, sagging, pouching, etc., comes on gradually enough that you don’t notice too much (especially in the dark). But taking off your clothes in front of some old guy who also is going to get nekkid with you and you’ve pretty much only just met? Man. That takes guts, IMO.

Me 1992

Me, circa 1992. Shoulder pads were great to show off my tiny waist. Yeah.

The plus side of giving up sex at a relatively young age is that the last man I slept with was gorgeous. Big, strong, handsome, old enough to know exactly what he was doing – and still able to do so for an extended period of time. He eventually broke my heart, but thank you, T, wherever you are. Nice job!

And why wouldn’t he do a good job? I looked like this!

So, good luck and best wishes to the Facebook lady with the white-haired honey. May he make your toes curl, even yet. But as I reflect on the fact that I am 99% certain I’ll never be in love or have sex again, at least I find comfort in knowing that my memories are pretty ones. And hot. Smooth-skinned, pretty, and hot indeed.

But how will they enforce it?

I’ve been thinking about the whole transgender bathroom issue. I have to admit, I’m confused.

If a fella is dressing as a woman and identifies as a woman and goes into the Ladies and into a stall and does his business . . . who’s going to know? And if a woman is dressed as a man and strolls past the urinals to do her business in one of the stalls . . . who’s going to know? And who’s going to care?

I’m much more concerned about whether someone is carrying a gun (open or concealed) in a public place than I am in where that person decides to take a tinkle. And yet, I am going to guess that the majority of the people whose panties are in a knot over the restroom dilemma are the same ones who think it’s their right to shop for Cheetos and doughnuts with an assault rifle slung over one shoulder.

Can this country get any crazier?

looking up skirt

You’re good to go, ma’am. Ladies is on your right.

So, if we stick to the status quo of one facility for the Ladies and another for the Gents, how are we going to know if someone is trying to do a switcheroo? Will Wal-Mart and Target have to hire Gender Checkers? Would you look down people’s pants for minimum wage? Would there be spot checks, or would the Gender Checker have the authority to pull aside anyone who looks suspicious?

“Excuse me, ma’am, but is that an Adam’s Apple or a goiter?” 

And let’s consider the idea of shared bathrooms. Unless you were raised by wolves, didn’t you share the family bathroom with members of the opposite sex? Yeah, I know they’re family, but nobody wants to go in the bathroom after Dad has finished the paper and unloaded or Little Brother has sprayed everywhere and left the seat up. I would say keep men in the Men’s room simply because so many of them are gross. Forget about sexual imposition.

Every time I have to fly anywhere and am forced to use the unisex bathrooms on the plane I know I’m taking my chances and that acceptable standards of sanitation are just one unfortunate visit away from being compromised. And yet, with a couple hundred people on a plane and two or three potties, everyone manages.

How annoying is it, though, when a flight attendants snarls, “You can’t stand here,” and all you’re doing is waiting to use the john. It’s not for FUN, lady. It’s not an experience I’m looking forward to, ma’am. Do you know what awaits me inside? No. Nor do I, and yet, I have no choice but to face it. And if I return to my seat? Well, then I’ll have to come back in a few minutes and stand behind more people to wait my turn and, oh, just SHUT UP.

Anyway. With nutjobs running for President and more garden-variety nutjobs packing heat on college campuses and at the Dollar Tree and Dunkin Donuts, who the hell cares if the dude who looks like a lady piddles in the women’s restroom?

The chances of a transgender person approaching a little girl in the Ladies are about as likely as a dingo eating  your baby. Now, can we please get back to worrying about real things, like how that poor Mr. Trump’s skin turned orange?

 

Facebook is messing with my juju

How is it that five minutes after I check out hotels on www.hotels.com, Facebook posts it on my news feed to give me another chance to book that room? Mind you, I do not follow www.hotels.com. However, my friend Fred does. So it shows up as “Fred likes . . . “ and then there’s a post showing the hotel in Auckland I’m thinking about booking for my son in August.

What the hell, Facebook? I’m sure someone could explain to me how this works – not that I’d 100% get it, mind you – but I still think it’s creepy. And this happens to me all the time, as I suspect it must to you and everybody else on Facebook. Looking at refrigerators at Lowe’s? Well, son of a gun. There’s an ad for Lowe’s refrigerators on your Facebook page the next time you check in hoping for another cats-scared-by-cucumbers video.

On the right of the Facebook news feed is a column called “Trending.” Now, I’m under the impression, though perhaps incorrectly, that what you see and what I see in that column may differ, as well. Is that true? Anybody? Anybody? Bueller?

If it is true, then I have no idea why Facebook would share that particular batch of “trending” informational links with me. I have given them no reason to believe I care about how Britney Spears looks in her bikini while on vacation somewhere or other. I don’t care. Swear to God. Stephen Colbert making fun of Sarah Palin? Maybe. I’ll give them that. But Britney or Real Housewives or the Kardashians (are they all related somehow?)? Nope. I will not be clicking on those links. Never. How can Facebook be so right about Lowe’s and so very wrong about “news?”

However, there was one piece of “trending” information I wanted to share today. Did you know that R. Kelly questions the veracity of testimonies of the legion of women who accused Bill Cosby of sexually assaulting them?

I have several problems with this trending news, Facebook.

First, who is R. Kelly?

Okay. So I looked him up and the GQ article called him “a singer who catapulted to fame in the 90’s and 2000’s with songs like Bump and Grind and Ignition.” I’m going to go out on a limb here and say those songs may not survive the test of time. I didn’t know about R. Kelly or his music, but then, I’m old and hip hop and rap just don’t appeal to me. I do, however, like the Black Keys and Arctic Monkeys, to name a few, so I’m not totally trapped in a 60’s time warp, if I do say so.

Second, why is R. Kelly considered any kind of expert on the Cosby allegations and why would GQ even ask him?

Well, I discovered that it came up in the interview because R. Kelly himself has been accused of child pornography and other sexual mishaps, shall we say. At the big trial addressing whether or not he had sex with a 14-year-old girl in one of his music videos, Kelly was found not guilty when the main witness refused to testify. In fact, Kelly settled a number of other charges of alleged sexual relations with minors out of court, but not surprisingly, he claims that they all were lying.

Okay. Fine. Not my story today.

Kelly

R in deep thought

What is interesting – and amusing – to me is what Kelly reportedly said, in reference to the Cosby horror show, “When I look on TV and see the 70-, 80-, 90-year-old ladies talking about what happened when they were 17, 18, or 19, there’s something strange about it.” He also stated, “If God showed me they were telling the truth, I would say that’s wrong.”

I’m not sure I saw anyone on TV in her 80s or 90s, since Cosby did prefer them young, but what our friend R seems unable to grasp is that one day the little hotties he’s chasing today will be, God willing, in their 70s, 80s and 90s, too. There have been hotties since the world began. Just the outfits and hair styles have changed. Well, and morals may flex from one decade to another.

As for God communicating directly with R. Kelly – no comment.

While I don’t understand how they do it, I do understand why Facebook wants to show me hotel rooms and refrigerators and such. What I don’t understand is why Facebook or any other entity in the free world, for that matter, would be interested in whether or not R. Kelly thinks Bill Cosby was a dickwad who drugged and raped a bunch of women. Is it somehow relevant that one dickwad is expressing solidarity with another one? Now, if Pope Francis thinks Bill couldn’t have done it, I might be willing to reconsider.

I don’t CARE what R. Kelly thinks, Facebook. Nor do I care what Britney Spears wore to the beach or who Khloe Kardashian is dating. If you are in any way tailoring your trending news to my tastes, you are way off the mark. Just wanted to let you know.

And while I’m at it, would Yahoo! please stop calling that crap on its home page “news?” Vicki What’s-her-face from the “Real Housewives of Orange County” is usually the lead story. Seriously?

And I’ll stop here before I’m tempted to take a crack at Fox News.

My theory about first born children, sex, and the inability to appreciate delayed gratification

The other night I was eating cookies when I started having deep thoughts about my lack of self-control. I’m confident there’s no need to point out the obvious connection. Let’s just say I find it hard to stop at a cookie or two and leave it at that for now, okay?

I started to wonder, why do I DO that? I know plenty of people who can walk away from a cookie. I know people who will have a sliver of cake for dessert and be satisfied. I know kids who can haul in a pillowcase full of candy on Halloween, and have it last until Christmas without their parents wrapping them into straitjackets as soon as they get home from school each day.

cookie monster

What made me and Cookie Monster the way we are and, better yet, is there anything or anybody else I can blame for it?

cookie home town buffet

You know skinny people just don’t eat here, right?

Is it genetic? I know there can be a tendency within families to be fat or thin, so there is likely some element of genetics in the picture. Is excessive eating learned behavior? Again, if the whole family is waddling down the line at the Home Town Buffet a couple times a week, it’s hard to be the odd one out opting for the salad bar.

Then I wondered if birth order could have anything to do with it. I am the eldest in a family with three children. While they have their battles with the scale, too, my younger brother and sister are far more successful at controlling themselves than I am. And growing up, I was the rebel, paving the way so their later escapades were viewed by my parents with far less alarm.

I was the wild child who liked sex, drugs, and rock and roll. And now I like cookies.

So here’s what I think happened, genetically. See if this makes sense to you, too.

wedding

My adorable parents on their wedding day. They were 21 years old. And they were hot. It’s only logical.

Back in the olden days when I was conceived, there was no reliable birth control. The Pill had not yet been invented and young women and girls everywhere were keeping their knees together if they didn’t want to start a family before the trip down the altar. This may come as a surprise to any younger readers, but single motherhood was much frowned upon in those days. And not only was there no daycare, but there were lots of places of business that wouldn’t even hire a pregnant woman. In some jobs, even a really great worker would be forced to leave as soon as she was visibly pregnant. Anyone who does not want to call herself a feminist today would do well to read a little history of what life was like for women as recently as 50 or 60 years ago. Seriously.

Anyhoo, my theory goes on to suggest that first born children born prior to the advent of The Pill were conceived in a virtual firestorm of NEW SEX by two young people who had almost exclusively kept it in their pants up to that point. These early attempts at sex were akin to trying to serve a decent spaghetti dinner without letting the sauce simmer for a few hours. Like getting heartburn after gobbling down a plate of rigatoni with raw sauce, this screwed with the genetic makeup of the baby. Imagine this:

cookie egg

Guess which egg’s going down the chute first?

From Mommy’s point of view:  It’s the big night. The cake was cut, the garter tossed, she’s in her bridal negligee and ready to find out what all the fuss is about. There’s been some serious fooling around up to this point, so Mommy is definitely up for it, though a little scared, too. Consequently, the egg supply is getting mixed signals. On the one hand, everyone’s saying, FINALLY. And on the other hand, the more sedate, cautious, and dare we say, intelligent eggs are holding back a little. “Let’s see how this one goes before we commit to any big changes,” they agree.

However, there is always one adventurous, slutty little egg. The one that’s been waiting for this moment and is wiggling her round little bottom and saying, “Come and get me, Big Boy!” Naturally, that’s the one that will be in the line of fire.

From Daddy’s point of view:  The swimmers are young, strong, profuse, and ready for action. And when things get going, there’s a lot of excitement discovering that there’s something that feels even better than a hand out there. Everybody’s excited, but it’s the most boisterous boys that dash to the front and, you guessed it, it’s the most reckless, rapid tadpole in the bunch who finds his mark on the bravest little egg.

And bingo! We have lift off and the first born is in the oven before you can light a Lucky and say, “Was that good for you?”

cookie clooneys

Oh, dear God. Who WOULDN’T rip off George’s tux? I mean, really.

Is it any surprise that the result of early, possibly inept, but exceedingly enthusiastic sex results in a child with excessive tendencies? I’m not saying that later babies are the result of duty sex, but let’s face it, chances are the early days of wild monkey copulation have cooled down at least a little bit. I mean, even Brad and Angelina probably have comfortable sex by now. George isn’t likely to tear off Amal’s designer duds (or vice versa). After the birth of North West, do Kanye and Kim still perform sexual stunts on motorcycles? I doubt it.

So my theory, as you can see, is that first born children, like me, have a genetic reason for having trouble with relating to delayed gratification. I want what I want NOW. Back in the day, I was a girl who didn’t even want to say no. I was a girl who was up for one more drink before we closed down the bar (and then went off on the back of someone’s motorcycle to continue the party at someone’s place). I was the girl who graduated from college and took a job teaching in Australia a month later because I wanted to have an adventure.

I am thinking not only of myself but of numerous firstborn friends of my generation who were right there with me closing the bar and riding on motorcycles in our youth. I’m not saying only the firstborns were recklessly opting for crazy fun over caution, but – you know who you are, my buddies. Oh, yeah.

cookie duggar

Okay, this is mean. I know. I feel sorry for his wife. What a douche bag.

What will happen to all the wild firstborns now that couples are mostly having all their early sexcapades long before they think about making babies? Will we have to watch out for the babies born to super conservative religious cults? Oh, my gosh! Is that the explanation for Muslim extremists? And what about that molesting, sex-crazy Duggar guy? Isn’t he his parent’s oldest child? Those Duggar grandchildren may turn out to be hell on wheels, too, if my theory holds true.

Once I was a wild child. Now I can’t stop eating cookies. If the Pill had been available a generation earlier, I’d probably be wearing a size eight. It’s only logical.