Thursday, March 11, 2010 You Are Here: sexuality  | 
The Regulars
 
Underwear (to the tune of Fleetwood Mac's Everywhere)
 
Didn’t expect you to
Be home yet
I guess I understand
How this would make you upset

Turns out I love you more
Than words can express
That’s why you see me
Dancing around in your dress

Oh I...
I want to be in your underwear
Oh I...
I want to be in your underwear
(wanna be in your underwear)

Something’s happening
Happening to me
You might say I’m acting peculiarly

C’mon baby
There’s no reason to cry
Help me unhook this bra
And I will explain why

Oh I...
I want to be in your underwear
Oh I...
I want to be in your underwear
(wanna be in your underwear)

Don’t need to freak out and
Make a scene
Just like the feel of silk
Up against my in between

Give it time baby
You’ll see it’s not so wrong
Oh, and just so you know
You’ll want to wash that thong

Oh I...
I want to be in your underwear
Oh I...
I want to be in your underwear
Oh I...
I want to be in your underwear
Oh I...

I want to be in your underwear
(wanna be in your underwear)

 
Kai means ocean.
 
 
 I was 15 years old when the daunting “first kiss” finally came my way. I remember the exact instant that it happened—fleeting as it was—as a defining moment in the transformation into womanhood. It wasn’t that I was completely un-kissable before that moment, or so I thought, it was just that I wasn’t “ready.” 
 
Let’s be realistic, however. Until age 14 or so, I was a scrawny 90 pound semi-anorexic looking, deer-like tomboy with freckles that rivaled a spotted egg and braces that could keep a metal shop in business. I was never one for “attracting the boys” or playing flirtatious games in middle school like spin the bottle or seven minutes in heaven.  In fact, I shied away from these games the same way I avoided singing in public places and eating caramel apples (the braces conundrum). Today, I look back blaming social awkwardness, but at the time, being 12, 13, or 14, I would have probably used Jesus as my scapegoat for not participating in such activities. Who needs such juvenile attention when they are secure in knowing that God loves them? I would say proudly (beneath the pimples). 
 
Kai was in my gym class freshman year. I noticed him right away: strong arms, dark hair, brown eyes, and a keen knack for penalty kicks in 3rd period PE soccer. Not only did he play the game well, but he understood the importance of team work. A quick one-two was often more effective than the selfish dribble of the average high school boy. More importantly, he knew how to utilize his team to their full potential, including aggressive girls on his team, like me. Kai was different. He came from a tight knit family of four, lived on a commune outside of town, and was always game for inappropriate internet chatting (or so I had heard). From the time we met, I had been intrigued by his name. I remember one long daydream where I had touched his arm. He held my hand in return. 
 
About halfway through my freshman year, word got out about my “Kai-Crush.” It spread quickly from the girls’ soccer team to the boys, and before I knew what was happening, Kai (and the rest of the freshmen boys) were staring at me when I walked by the fields on my way to practice. The same thing happened when I passed by Kai’s green locker in the halls during passing period after lunch. He just looked at me, and I looked back. It was a blessing that I got my braces off in September of freshman year. Seven years of braces had paid off; I was finally able to show off my pearly whites. So I did, to the best of my ability. I didn’t have much to show for breasts or hips at that point, still barely making the 100 pound mark, but my hair did bob in its soccer-style ponytail and having a boy smile back at me (he did smile back) made me feel somehow grown-up, somehow feminine for the first time. 
 
One day in PE Kai scratched me during an intense game of basketball. The scratch wasn’t deep but left a long scar just below my wrist. I played it up: the blood, the pain, the possibility of infection. I was just seeking attention and it worked. He felt horrible, and we finally had something to talk about. The next day he asked about my wrist, and I asked him about his name. Kai means ocean, he said. Valerie means strong, I replied. From there talking was soccer and mountains and books. Surprisingly, I still have that scar. 
 
After some plotting and maybe a little high school blackmail, I finally got Sarah Dewkoski to give me Kai’s AOL screen name. It is sad now, to admit, that my first true romance began in cyberspace, especially considering the amount of comments I’ve made mocking the cyber dating world.   Nevertheless, there is something to be said for the freedom which comes from flirting from behind a computer screen. I mean, without my amythestrain16 alias, I may never have learned that Kai masturbated in the shower and grew to 7 ½ inches when aroused! Despite how foreign these concepts were to me at the time, I played the chatting game until early in the morning on numerous occasions for the thrill of learning more. I am 90% positive that Kai was chatting with other girls at the same time (Sarah Dewkoski?), but I knew that he liked me best. After all, we had the soccer connection and he had given me a scar. 
 
Around the end of freshman year, one of my best friends, Jessica Hones-Jughes was throwing a huge party, her fifteenth birthday bash to be exact. The event was carefully planned, including massive oversight from her slightly overbearing mother who insisted that they rent a port-o-potty for the high schoolers to use instead of going to the bathroom in the house. The party was also carefully planned from a high school “coupling” perspective. Bruce Smith was going to make a move on Jessica (he’d been wanting to ask her out for a while). Mike Dahey had his eye on Linda, and Ryan McWermood was after Nicola. It was also common knowledge that Kai and I were going to “make it happen.”   I remember talking a big talk, at least around Sarah, trying to sound confident, experienced, and sexual when it came to the physical side the boy girl relationship. Kai and I were certainly soccer friends and professional late-night chatters, but honestly, our face-to-face interaction had been limited. I believe he had passed me a note in Spanish class asking me to be his girlfriend (check YES, NO, or MAYBE), and I had checked MAYBE.
 
To Jessica’s chagrin, the port-o-potty was delivered on time, and served as her birthday present from her mother. Most of us, of course, rebelled and still went to the bathroom inside the house, but I was happy to use the port-o-potty as a discussion point whenever I needed to change the topic away from me and Kai. Everyone was talking about it. So are you going to do it? Stacy had asked me a few days before and again the night of the party. I just laughed. Andrew LeBousky’s voice was loud from Jessica’s driveway, Just wait and see what Kai has to GIVE you!. Gross, I thought.
 
Most of my girlfriends were very supportive. The first kiss is very important, they would
say. Don’t open your mouth too much…you don’t want to seem easy. Make him make
the first move…lean in but don’t push too hard. I was terrified.
 
The night of the party, I wore a pink button up over a black tank top. I’d heard that black is sexy. I even curled my hair, conscious of every strand and the unbecoming freckle on my lip. Kai was late, per usual, and I avoided him for the majority of the party. There were chips and sodas, music and awkward high school dancing. Somewhere someone set up a game of horseshoes, and Jessica’s mom was trying to guard the house from pesky bathroom users. We set up a bonfire and a rousing game of volleyball staged in the arena. Most people were sitting on bales of hay looking bored, or plotting a way to sneak vodka into the punch. 
 
As night began to descend, people began to disperse. Apparently the thrill of outdoor activities was replaced by the draw of movie theaters and videogames as parents came to pick up their sons and daughters. This was the curse of 15 year-old parties when parents were required as chauffeurs. I saw Kai lingering by the bonfire, prodding a stick into the flame. Jessica was off near the big tree flirting with Bruce, and Sarah was glaring at me from across the fence. At some point, Nicola nudged me when she walked by and I could hear giggling. It felt like people were dissolving around me and suddenly I found myself next to him on a bale of hay. The voice in my head was walking me through it. Sit next to him…not too close… don’t be nervous… lean in, but let him kiss you… Hi, I said. He smiled. Someone took a photograph. We looked at each other, knowing what we were both there for, knowing that this was it. Everyone expected it. I pulled my hair back, noticing and not noticing the crowd of onlookers that had accumulated behind the fence. He seemed stiff, digging his knuckles into the rough hay. Feeling brave, I scooted closer, looking him in the eye. I wanted to explore the ocean in his mouth. And I wanted to prove that I could. I leaned in … I kissed… I pulled back. We looked at each other. Shit, I had kissed him. It was quiet for a few minutes. And he was leaving; the honk of the horn from his mother was calling him home. I watched his back as he walked to the car, squeezing my hands together. Just like that, and it was over.
 
Everyone had seen it, they knew how fast it was… I didn’t want to talk about it, but they insisted. Was it wet? Was there tongue, no it was too short. And more. I didn’t say much. I said, something like, it was fine. And made my way home avoiding questions from my mother as well. 
 
The next day, my family flew to Costa Rica for a family vacation. On the plane, we passed over plenty of ocean. I paced my hand to my wrist where my Kai-scab was still evident, feeling the beat of my heart through the skin. I felt the ocean in my mouth and wanted to do it all over again. When we got back to the USA, Kai asked me to be his girlfriend again. I checked the NO box. I guess I still wasn’t “ready.” 

 
Let’s Give the Boy a Hand
by Syd Pimmins
 
I was a junior in high school when it happened. A girl that I was sort of dating and I found ourselves alone in her parent’s RV which happened to be parked behind her house. Our relationship had made it beyond the awkward “hey maybe we should like hang out or something” phase but not quite to where she was trying out my last name in her signature. I guess you could say we were going steady – that is if you were from the cast of Happy Days and said that sort of thing. However you want to classify our attempt at mature monogamy, that day in the RV was apparently the appropriate time for my first hand job. I’m not sure if there is a more romantic term for the act as hand job seems so junior year in high school. Perhaps I could refer to it as “priming the love pump” but that seems a little too classy for what actually transpired. 
 
I’m not sure that my female counterpart had actually ever administered one of these acts of service prior to that fateful day, and I wasn’t really interested in asking her out of fear that she would reveal that I was but one member in a club of many. How we even got to this hallowed point of our relationship is a hazy memory at best. I know we were making out, followed by a fair amount of anatomical fumbling about, and then it was Billy Squier time. Truth be told, this was the first time in my post pubescent existence that someone other than myself had been this familiar with me. Normally this sort of activity was reserved for a more private dose of “me time.” I felt like I was having an affair by including someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I was pretty jazzed about the whole ordeal, though I confess that I was not as excited as I had anticipated. You see, I know my comfort level and preferred methodology when it comes to self gratification. There is an organic synergy when I am yanking my own crank and in the RV I was uncomfortable, but reluctant to offer advice. I did not want to micromanage my first hand job, even if I left more chafed than satisfied. Had I known that our little rendezvous was going to build to this particular crescendo, I would have brought along a little travel sized conditioner for the occasion. A little Pantene goes a long way.
 
Overall the experience was bittersweet. On the positive side I had something to “accidentally” reveal to my buddies when hanging out as I pretend it was no big deal while secretly hoping to be hoisted upon their envious shoulders and paraded around as some sort of Sultan of Swingers.  On the negative side, there was a fair amount of conflicted emotions that permeated the event. I felt out of control – out of touch if you will – with myself and seemed to find the experience of having someone else pleasure me less pleasurable than when I took matters into my own hands. I was concerned that I might actually prefer masturbation. I feared that maybe I was gay for myself. I wondered if women (more specifically the idea of women) had become an arbitrary vehicle for my primal need for release. Once, I tried masturbating to an episode of The Golden Girls just to see if I could. I was wildly successful. Not because Rue McClanahan was a GILF, but because I could will myself to arousal anytime, anywhere. I was all that I needed. In the RV, there was someone else. An intruder. A second wheel to my unicycle of love. 
 
We would eventually break up and go our separate ways. I like to think that both of us matured in our sexuality. I even learned to enjoy the company of others in a way that I had never known possible. The RV experience was a valuable lesson for me as I discovered that I was a selfish lover and needed to put the needs of others before my own. It was a valuable lesson and well worth the damage done to that pillow case.

 
 
Is God a Hermaphrodite?
I am by no means a theologian, but I do consider myself a religious thinker and recently got into a heated debate with my roommate about “the gender of God.” Despite my best attempts, there was no convincing her that God is not our Father, but rather that God is just “God.”
This topic makes most people uncomfortable from the get go. No one likes to put the words sex or gender in the same sentence as God, because they are afraid of stirring up an anti-religion or man-hating debate. But hold onto your Bibles folks, because maybe the atheists and feminists shouldn’t be the only ones paying attention. We (monotheistic westerners, by default) have been raised using masculine pronouns to describe God (faith aside) since childhood. “He” is steadfast in colloquial language and masculine pronouns—along with patriarchy in general—are running rampant in both the Catholic and Protestant churches. A scholarly essay could easily address the thick patriarchy and sexism of Christianity with bullet points of rebuttal. Christian feminists have strong arguments against a gendered view of God, and perhaps more importantly, strong arguments against the call for subservience in women relate to this patriarchy. However, the primary argument against gendering God, in my opinion, should be the fact that God – perfect, omnipotent, ubiquitous, divine, supreme, and amaranthine—is NOT human. Humans are human. Humans are dichotomized by gender (well, excluding hermaphrodites); God is just God.
Personifying or anthropomorphizing God is simply an attempt to understand God. Without a “face to the name,” so to speak, we have trouble understanding God and God’s nature. It is by no means wrong of humanity to seek to understand a greater power. Obviously, all cultures have sought to do so in numerous ways. From Christianity, to Islam, to the Aztecs, to goddess religions, the pursuit of God (or gods) has lead to deep philosophical pondering about the nature of God. Hence, humans have come up with countless explanations for the origin of humanity and the origin of God. Despite the myths, stories, or biblical context, God as a creator has often been given a “human face” by monotheists as the father of humanity. Take the Apostles’ Creed for example: I believe in God, the Father Almighty,
 the Maker of heaven and earth…  
If God is the creator of all things, the power and thought behind the universe and the world as many religions believe, then God is inherently above or outside of the concept of gender/sex. God, having existed, before the creation of earth, life, and sex as we know it, is bigger than any concept that exists on this earth. God is therefore no more a man than God is a dog, a tree, or an ocean (things that God also created). Furthermore, if God were a “He”, wouldn't this keep God from being a “She,” and consequently expose an imperfection?  If God is thought to be perfect in every way, wouldn’t God have to be both male and female? Doesn't this make applying any mutually exclusive dichotomy to characterize God absurd from the beginning? Perhaps, using the term “She” for God isn’t any more correct than the term “He” (despite my feminist drive to do so).  
Based on the very system that God created on earth, reproduction or creation inherently relies on both a male and female, at least in humans. Similarly, there is a common Biblical argument made for the personification of God stating that humans are made in the “image” of God. If we take the word image literally, then God must be both male and female.   Hence, if God created without the presence of another God, is God a therefore hermaphrodite?
This explanation seems far from rational, and I’d be chased out of any church for calling God a hermaphrodite out loud. However, isn’t the idea of God as exclusively male (or female)equally as absurd? 
The problem with the “genderizing” of God is what is left in the wake of terminology. Just like unfortunate ramifications of racist terms such as “black sheep” and sexist terms like “ho” (versus the positive connotation of “pimp”), discussing God as masculine can alienate females from a relationship with the divine. Perhaps this is where the “Da Vinci Code” controversy stems from. If the Christian Trinity is truly Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, two of which are overtly masculine, there is little room in the righteousness of heaven, divinity, of holiness for the feminine. It is possible that the use of masculine pronouns for God has perpetuated sexism and misogyny for centuries.
Who are we (small mere mortal humans), to put GOD into a gender box? 
 
Dr. Pitsfield has responded to the above article:
As someone who wades in technical theological jargon, rhetoric, and me-smarter-than-you language, I found Searing’s concise essay extremely refreshing. Thousands of feminist hermeneuticians worldwide nuance this topic daily, spend millions of dollars for professional guidance, and agonize over potential publishers. In contrast, Searing cuts to the heart of the issue plainly and correctly.
 
Searing is correct that God’s transcendence includes the transcending of gender categories.  The God(s) of the Western religions tend to be ‘Hes’ and ‘Hims’ because of the ubiquitous patriarchy of the cultures which produced these religious systems. In fact, we can and ought to go further. To paraphrase a rabbi I have been reading of late, whenever we speak of God, we speak in metaphor. God does not ‘listen to us’ in a literal sense due to God’s lack of human ears. God does not literally ‘touch our hearts’ due to God’s lack of surgical tools. God is not literally ‘the Man Upstairs’ due to God’s lack of a flying saucer.  God does not literally ‘anger’ due to God’s lack of brain chemistry and neurological synapses.  In the same way, God is not literally ‘Our Father.’
           
But don’t we miss something beautiful about God when we parse out metaphors? Isn’t there something wonderfully mysterious about a transcendent Creator who reveals himself as a parent? Sure, God’s transcendence is absolutely essential to the Western view of God. And by using gender language, some of that transcendence is lost. Worse, many fatherless/gender aware folks are marginalized in the process. But by calling God ‘the One’ or ‘the Parent’ or “It” is a necessarily depersonalizing move. I don’t know how to relate to an ‘It’ in the same way that I do to a He or a She. So let’s call God ‘He’ or ‘She’ and continue to argue until we work out our own theoretical and emotional deficits.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Summer in the City, Means Cleavage, Cleavage, Cleavage...
 
 
In this song, Regina Spektor captures the essence of summer, in the city, where women are goddesses. 
 
Last summer, I made a CD, which my beloved entitled "Summer Sunburn," and the last track is, you guessed it, Spektor's masterpiece. All last summer I listened to it while driving through the city, and during winter I played it even louder when caught up in wistful and nostalgic moods. 
 
Cleavage got me thinking about how intellectuals like to expose, deconstruct, and explore the interstice between every binary (woman/man, gay/straight, nature/culture, light/dark, up/down, order/disorder, etcetera). Often, the most fascinating discoveries are made in the boundary created by the tension of the two poles of the binary, and if there is one binary worth talking about, it is nudeness/clothedness. Ah, cleavage hovers in the shadowy boundary where the breasts are neither naked, nor clothed, but provocatively both, leaving one to dream. Indeed, there is something about cleavage, cleavage, cleavage that is ever-so-much-more tantalizing than full-blown nudity.
 
It was sometime this spring that I realized what Spektor's song is really about. (Yes, it took me the better part of a year to move beyond the first line of the song.) It tells a story of a lover, alive in the city, distant from her beloved, surrounded by cleavage, which makes her long for her lover. 
 
And that's what struck me, being a man-loving-a-woman and sometimes falling into the erroneous assumption that every love song out there is for heterosexuals. "Summer in the City" is about a woman yearning for her goddess:
 
Summer in the city, I'm so lonely lonely lonely
I've been hallucinating you, babe, at the backs of other women
And I tap on their shoulder and they turn around smiling
But there's no recognition in their eyes.
 
Oh, summer in the city, is cleavage, cleavage, cleavage...
 
We don't want to commit the autobiographical fallacy and assume that the "I" of the song is Spektor or even that the "I" is a woman. Eddie Vedder, in "Elderly Woman behind the Counter in a Small Town," sings in the first person, but the "I" is the Elderly Woman. Concerning Spektor, she writes other love songs where the lovers are heterosexuals ("Samson"), but there is something about the tone, manner, and mystique of "Summer in the City" that makes me believe the speaker of the song is a woman in a deeply committed relationship with another woman.   
 
And I can identify with her yearning for her lover. If I was in the city, and if my beloved was distant, no amount of drinking, strangers, late night establishments, protests, or cleavage could eclipse my loneliness, which is what makes the song ache so beautifully. 
 
Sadly, many anti-lesbian and anti-gay people fail to recognize that when a person loves someone, the quality, devotion, and desire of the love transcends sexual and gender categories (straight/gay, male/female) and all the sexual orientations and gender expressions that comprise the creative space of the interstice between the two poles of the binary. Love is love.
 
The love that Spektor sings about resonates with anyone who has found and cultivated love. Should that love be condemned or written off when it is a gay or lesbian love? Too often, American society says and votes, "Yes." 
 
More people need to realize that the essence of love, and the heart in which love is cultivated, does not change based on the descriptors. The adjectives do not (or should not) affect the essence of the noun: gay love, lesbian love, hetero love. It was Carl Sandburg who said (and I paraphrase), "The older I get the more I distrust adjectives." In the case of love, the adjectives have usurped their place, overshadowing the depth and breadth of the noun.   
 
And nothing is more powerful in life than when the noun becomes a verb, regardless of orientation.     

 
 
Not an Orgy Guy
by William McCoy
 
It’s not that I don’t want sex.  I do. But to say that I want it as much as the next guy would be incorrect. Said “next guy” seems to want it more often than I do. Said “next guy” seems to lament his deficit, however small it might be. He wants it with strangers, with gadgets, with food products, with ever increasing frequency. Would he like it in the rain?  Would he like on a train? Yes and yes.  Would he like it in a box?  Would he like it with a fox? Again, yes and yes. 
 
I’m not the next guy and I wonder how many men really are.
 
According to public opinion, men are sexually insatiable by nature. I suppose that this must be true on some level. The male sex drive is among the more basic instincts of human survival. But I wonder whether there is a self-fulfilling stereotype here. Perhaps what was called “locker room talk” in the 1950’s has become social normalcy in the 2000’s. Perhaps men have bought into a notion of masculinity that revolves around sexual adventure. But my guess is that most men, deep down, have a greater desire for sexual intimacy. For example, take the coveted menage a trois.
 
The threesome seems to be among the highest boons for the horny male. And, in case some clarification is needed, the desired arrangement for most men is: man (1) and women (2). Reversing the plurality of genders seems to throw most men into a tailspin. 
 
Ladies, try this one on your boyfriend sometime. Say, “I think I’d like to try a menage a trois,” and watch his face move from suspicion to amazement to excitement in less than two seconds. Then explain that you have this handsome fellow in mind who you’d like to invite into the bedroom. Before exhibiting a look of disgust and anger, you will most definitely witness a moment of genuine bewilderment. In a million years, that paradigm shift would never have occurred to him.
 
The underlying issue here is imagination. Fantasies tend to follow neurologically stable formats. As long as these imagined scenarios remain in the fantasy world, our established formats can remain harmlessly unaltered. But fantasies rarely translate well to the real world. This is why I’m convinced that a threesome would only bring me awkward misery.
 
First of all, there is the problem of having that extra set of eyes in the room. It seems to me that, more often than not, the threesome creates an intermittently participating spectator. No thanks. Excuse me ma’am, I’ll be right with you. In the meantime, will you kindly look away? I’m not privy to three-way etiquette, but I’m pretty sure that this request would be off putting. Look, there are very few of us that can have sex and entertain a live studio audience at the same time. I’m perfectly happy to leave this sort of objectification to the professionals.
 
Second, I have enough trouble anticipating the desires of one woman. Everyone imagines sex differently. Everyone has different expectations. What is fulfilling to one person might easily offend another. Something as simple as giggling can make or break the entire experience. What if the other person is a weeper? Adding another set of expectations to this equation is way too complicated for me. Adding a giggler to my bedroom doesn’t interest me in the slightest. This isn’t the Cosby Show! I’m not wearing a colorful sweater and eating hoagies! It’s just me and my tan lines here.
 
Finally and most importantly, I’m not a full service station.  My services are available for a limited time only.  In other words, I’m quite certain that the anticipation of the event would be quite too much for me.  Uh, look miss, you’re very attractive and I’m flattered.  Believe me, I’d like to help you.  But I’m pretty much done now.  You see there is this other woman here, and uh, well it was all very exciting… perhaps a raincheck?  Yeah, I think I’ll forego that conversation.
 
I think that, though they’re reluctant to admit it, most men want that fantasy to remain a fantasy.  Hey, maybe I’m wrong.  Maybe I’m the one Woody Allen in an ocean of Tom Joneses.  But I’m willing to bet that even the great Tom Jones wants intimacy more than adventure.  I’ll bet Mr. Jones is a weeper.  It’s not unusual to see him cry.  Actually, that might be worth giggling at.
 
 
 

Mr. Gartrell has responded to this article:  I've been in a three way and it was a colossal disaster.  It started out promising enough but then I started overthinking the whole thing.  The fact is, when I see Bob Dylan play guitar AND play harmonica I think, I could probably do that.  But in a three way, you don't have the luxury of one of the metal strappy things that holds the harmonica up to your mouth.  Perhaps if they made one for such an occasion it wouldn't have been so bad.  After a few minutes of my fumbling about they started texting each other.  I got mad and accidentally farted.  They both started laughing and one of the girls ended up farting.  Then the cameraman farted.  Then the other girl shit the bed. 

 By the way, Tom Jones shouts and fist pumps during sex.  He only cries if someone dies. 

 Don't ask me how I know this.

 

McCoy has offered the following rejoinder: See, this is what I'm talking about. The very topic of a threesome brings out the stereotypical locker room humor.  I'm not surprised that Mr. Gartrell chose to bring levity rather than speaking to the problem of adventure vs. intimacy.  It's my fault for setting that precedent, but I can't help but think that he missed the point of my essay.

The only other option is that he recognized that my title was an homage to Seinfeld's "The Room Mate Switch" episode and is playing the part of George to my Jerry.  Perhaps he deserves the benefit of the doubt.

 

 
 
Sex, Lies, and Falling Prices
 
Not so very long ago, I found myself roaming the aisles of our local Wal-Mart. I cannot recall why I was in such a predicament; I can only assume that my wife had drawn the longer straw. Whatever the reason, I was there and, as is customary when I am in the belly of the megastore beast, I found myself fascinated by the natives. People of all kinds are scattered throughout the land of shopping convenience, yet there seems to be agreed upon social codes:
 
Do not watch your children.
You must wear stretch pants.
Be currently on or recently recovering from meth addiction.
Must love dogs (in a weird way).
 
I realize that I am exaggerating a bit in my last digression (not everyone wears stretch pants), but I think we can all agree that one thing that Wal-Mart will never run out of is deodorant. And maybe floss. And Summer’s Eve. 
 
OK, I realize that I’m doing it again. Normally I’m not this much of an elitist, it’s just that I have a hard time being a liberal when I’m in Wal-Mart.
 
As I was making my way through the Land of the Lost Chromosome I noticed a gentleman that inspired me. His facial features appeared to be a hybrid of human and some Secret of Nimh character, only minus the human. He was dressed in black jeans and black t-shirt and carried himself with the kind of lack of self awareness that would have almost been sweet if it weren’t so creepy. As I approached him I noticed that his shirt had a message on it. In bold white letters it advertised:
 
 
The arrow was clearly indicating that the source of the pony ride experience would originate from this young man’s reproductive organs. You see, I don’t believe he was an actual purveyor of recreational equine transportation, I think he was trying to convey that for a mere pittance you could enjoy the luxurious motion of his metaphorical syphilitic pony.
 
This shirt was very intriguing to me. I couldn’t help but think that this fellow woke up this morning (or more accurately this early afternoon) and took a mental note of his day’s agenda and figured this was a pony ride day. Clearly he required the subtlety that only this particular outfit could offer him. I can only hypothesize that, in addition to his Wal-Mart obligations, he was on his way to a job interview. 
 
At one point, he had to actually purchase this shirt. He saw it on a rack and came to the conclusion that this was something that communicated to the world that which he may not have been able to adequately express verbally. I imagine the thought process thusly:
           
“Pony rides 25 cents? Why, that arrow would direct one's attention toward my genitalia. God be praised, this is exactly what I’ve been trying to say for all these years. This is the best of all possible worlds. With this shirt I would no longer have to struggle for just the right ice breaker, any woman would know that it is the cry of my heart that she mount me and enjoy the pleasure that only I can offer. Plus, I might make two bits in the process.”
 
Either that or he picked it up, turned to his buddy, and said, “The arrow points to my pecker.  Giddyup!”
 
I began to contemplate further. Before this shirt was purchased it would have had to have been designed. Somewhere in God’s vast universe, someone came up with this idea, another more important someone approved of it, and then an unknown child laborer in Malaysia had to make it. If only the young tike could read English, then he could know the richness of American culture. On an even more depressing note, the boy could work an entire week in the t-shirt factory and still not be able to afford even one pony ride.
 
It wasn’t long after I walked by this human petting zoo, that I made my exit into the seemingly brighter outside world. I will never know if the t-shirt brought him the love he was looking for. I can only thank him for introducing me to yet another part of world that I thought only existed on day time talk shows. Whoever you are good sir, you’ve inspired me. Stay gold Ponyboy, stay gold.
 
 
It’s a purple headed bronco
                        With a crazy, curly mane
Those ain’t saddlebags partner
                        But they’ll drive your girl insane
 
There’s a new kind of rodeo taking place in my jeans
 
Flesh pony rides, if you know what I mean.

 
The Gift of Gender in a Sex-Selling World
 
I am the father of an amazing six year old girl. Her name is Gwen Elizabeth. She is creative, intelligent, radiant and totally screwed. My wife and I do our best, but we have resigned ourselves to the fact that she will see herself and her world through cracked glasses.
 
One of my most formative college classes required me to watch a documentary based on Naomi Wolf’s book, The Beauty Myth (now Naomi Klein). What stayed with me all these years (and into fatherhood) was the case made against corporate advertising. In short, our ideal of beauty has been cooked, packaged and force-fed to us by the giants of consumerism. Our ideal of female beauty comes to us from those selling perfume, hair products and skin cream. It is perpetuated by producers of beer, car insurance, music and everything else that needs selling.
 
Try as we might to limit our daughter’s media exposure, it is simply impossible to keep her from comparing herself (and the women in her life) with computer-generated ideals of beauty and worth. Gwen will grow up with an aesthetic given to her by Ball Park Franks©, Duracell©, and Gorilla Glue©.
 
Early on, I was adamant that Barbie was not a part of my daughter’s imaginative space. I let this be known to friends and family who would buy her gifts. But grandparents are grandparents and what are you going to do? Last year Gwen was given a three-foot high Barbie by her grandma. Three goddamned feet of plastic legs and nippleless tits! A hobbit could have used the thing for self-pleasuring!
 
[Excursus: Barbie’s breasts are metaphorical for (a) those of you who dig metaphors or (b) those of you who dig breasts. They are proportionally unlikely, never sagging and without purpose. Barbie needs no bra. Barbie cannot nurse. Barbie’s bust might serve to attract Ken, but Ken will be mightily disappointed if Ken ever gets to second base. Barbie’s breasts are good for selling, but not for satisfying.]
 
Gwen’s grandmother is a wonderful woman and we need as much of her as we can get. We want her to be a part of Gwen’s life. Gwen will become a better person having known her grandmother. But, good God in heaven, woman! The thing was three fucking feet of eventual self-loathing!
 
My daughter, of course, loved the monstrosity.
 
The Barbie problem is worth mentioning because it was blatantly absurd. But the more vexing problems are much more subtle. Take the most recent Disney animation, Tinkerbell. My wife and I were quite impressed with this movie. (It is the back story of Tinkerbell; there is no Peter Pan.) It is a worthwhile plot even though there is no violent climax. There is no scary villain. And best of all, the heroine doesn’t find her resolution or redemption through a male love-interest. All told, it is the rare example of a respectable Disney production. But, as you might expect, all the little fairies have anorexic waists, perfect hair and long eyelashes—they all could be thimble-sized supermodels.
 
Supermodel. I think there is no word that is more repugnant. The very word supposes an aspiration to have just the right amount of flesh to hang clothing upon. Son, if you want to be “super,” you must be strong and defeat evil geniuses while maintaining human compassion and integrity. Daughter, if you want to be “super,” act like a mannequin.
 
So my daughter and I play superheroes together. She often chooses Storm, the Phoenix or Wonder Woman. All strong women who must choose to use their powers unselfishly. And aside from a youtube montage of Linda Carter and her freakish rack, Gwen has no mental image of these women. In other words, when my daughter pretends to be Storm, she isn’t imagining Halle Berry.
 
But someday she will. It is only a matter of time before Gwen sees X-Men at a friend’s house. She is destined to associate strength, worth and confidence with fake beauty. We already see it happening as she critiques the mommies of her classmates.
 
We won’t pull her out of school. We won’t isolate her from her media saturated friends. We won’t snub her grandmother’s generosity. What should we do?
 
Should we say, “Gwen, honey, some day you’ll be too fat. Or, your boobs will be uneven. Or, your pimples will take over. Or, you’ll have cold sores on your mouth. And these will be the good years, before you get too old.” Is that too honest?
 
Should we say, “Gwen, none of the above really matters because people will love and respect you no matter how your body is shaped.” Is that too dishonest?
 
The sad truth of the matter is that Gwen’s career, marriage and friendships will be, in many ways, tied to her (and her associates’) notion of fake beauty. As all parents hope, we would have Gwen overcome such superficiality to demand respect and pursue intimacy. But she will also buy hair products. And she will support the beauty industry. And perception will become reality again.
 
But by God, when I am a grandfather, I will not buy Barbie dolls for my granddaughters! Or, if I do, I will draw nipples on them with a sharpie.