Bad Vibrations

Earlier this week, my friends and I got into a heated discussion about the acceptance of sex toys. This is a topic far too sticky for a single blog post, so I will attempt a hard and fast condensed version in a mere 1,000 words. I’m sorry in advance for the heteronormativity of this post; I’m even sorrier if you don’t know what heteronormativity means. But our main debate, and thus the focus of this post, centered around the following: is it okay, we wondered, for a girl to use a vibrator, if her boyfriend does not have access to an equivalent sex toy?

Before I get all Carrie Bradshaw on you, let’s take a few steps back. I’m going to go out on a limb here and make a bold claim: our generation is generally accepting of vibrators. When I say “accepting”, I’m not talking about the Michelle Bachmans of the world, who probably think dildos make you go retarded. I’m talking about most well-adjusted, sex-positive young adults who grew up on a diet of Britney, Bachlorette, and MTV Spring Break.

Vibrators and dildos seem almost mainstream these days. (The keyword being almost. I sometimes forget that the liberal arts environment in which I am so deeply entrenched is not the real world.) But even pro-vibrator people still have reservations about the sex toy’s male-oriented counterpart, the fleshlight. For those of you not familiar with this fine product, it’s essentially a masturbation sleeve named for its flesh-like feel. Looks like a flashlight (get it?), feels like a vagina.

The inner-sleeve textures come in Original, Super Tight, Wonder Wave, and the one above, Speed Bump. Or, as I like to refer to it, “Genital Warts”.

I first heard about the world’s number one male sex toy in the news. After the Seal Team 6 succeeded in the Bin Laden mission, the Fleshlight company extended their thanks to the soldiers by sending them each a complimentary pocket pussy. Not only was this a great publicity stunt for the company, it is also interesting because, while porn is forbidden on American military bases (aka. Operation “Don’t Ask, Don’t Swell”, anyone? Nope? Ok.), there are no restrictions on gadgetry. Even terrorist-bashing heroes have to wank off every once in a while.

Initially, the idea of the fleshlight made me a little uneasy. It just seemed so…dirty. Not like perverted-dirty, but like straight-up-problematic-hygiene-dirty. Upon further research, it is now exceedingly obvious that the manufacturers had these concerns in mind when they built the thing. This “pink torpedo of fun” is relatively easy to clean, and just as hygienic as many other sex toys on the market. The how-to video instructs the viewer how to prepare the fleshlight for use. To warm it up, you place the sleeve in a bowl of warm water. According to fleshlight enthusiasts, this process is known as “heating up dinner”.

Popular versions start at $55 and escalate quickly from there. They can be purchased in a variety of orifices (vulva, anus, or mouth) and in an array of flesh-like colors. The fleshlight does not discriminate. Yay diversity! Even for that special somebody who got just a little too into the Avatar sex scene, there is a special-edition Na’vi blue. Yay diversity?

Do aliens masturbate? James Cameron would say yes.

Even though the two toys essentially perform the exact same function, the fleshlight is far more stigmatized than the vibrator. This could stem from the fact that technology is simply lagging behind. Dildos have been around for centuries; in fact, the oldest one is thought to be an object carved out of antler bone (um, ouch?!) from the Stone Age. By contrast, the fleshlight creator was granted a patent for his product, a “device for discreet semen collection”, in 1998. Technology has finally caught up, where it is now possible to produce a realistic (fake) cooter. In Japan, they have taken it a step further with the disposable canned vagina, which is all kinds of problematic. Not to mention just plain wasteful.

I would like to note that it is fascinating (-ly predictable) that the phallic-shaped sex toys are so well received, while the vagina-shaped ones aren’t. Most likely, vibrators are more fully accepted because our society loves associating everything with the phallic. Skyscrapers! Rocketships! Popsicles! Pencils! Guns! The list goes on and on. But what is vagina-shaped, aside from the sexually suggestive flowers in Georgia O’Keeffe paintings? Clams, oysters and tacos aren’t nearly as prominent or distinguished as skyscrapers and the lot. Sigh.

Gatorade’s not fooling anyone with their tagline: “Is It In You?”

Another source of stigma comes from the fact that many people fear that the fleshlight can promote unrealistic sexual expectations among men. The idea of a guy shoving themselves into a prosthetic vagina—one that is hairless, odorless, and bodyless—makes many women fear that they might end up preferring fake vag to the real thing. Quotes from the website only exacerbate these worries:

• “The Fleshlight will last you a lifetime. If only it were that easy with real sexual partners.”
• “Some say it’s even better than the real thing!”
• “The ‘shoe method’ is a style of hands-free Fleshlighting. Stick the narrow end of the Fleshlight into a shoe, on a flat surface…[for] the missionary position.”
• And from (countless) testimonials: “It was way better than the real thing…”

Nobody seems to be worried that women run the exact same risk with a vibrator. For some reason, we have it engrained in our thick little heads that women and men masturbate for different reasons (they don’t), and therefore vibrators pose less of a threat. I am sure there are women who also prefer toys to boys–but when a woman uses a vibrator, she is commended for embracing her sexually empowerment. When a guy uses a fleshlight, he is often depicted as a sleazy hornball. Its deeply unfair, but its one of the few gendered double-standards that actually troubles patriarchy.

At its worst, the Fleshlight seems like a cheap, fantasy replacement for the real thing, made for guys who can’t get real women. At its best, its actually just the inverse of a vibrator, essentially performing the same function. Perhaps the fleshlight will become more normalized with time.

The ideas here have not been fully penetrated, but my self-imposed word limit just came too quickly. I could go on and on about the ins-and-outs of this topic; maybe next time I’ll get a firmer, more well-rounded grasp on the base of the problem. For now, it’s time to wrap it up. In conclusion, we should all take a long, hard look at the way we think about sex toys and the …okay dammit, no more sexual innuendos, it’s time to retire my cunning linguist skills. I’m finished.

Mobile Uploading Muppets

It’s official. I am the last twenty-something in the first world without a smartphone. Woe is me.

Isn’t stock photography just the best?

This means I am lame. This means my walkie-talkie phone shakes violently when receiving data text messages, only to discover that it’s too moronic to retrieve the data anyways. This means I’m still playing Snake, when everyone else is beasting the umpteenth level of Angry Birds. Most importantly, this means I cannot mupload.

Muploading is, to the modern world, what owning a large flock of cattle was to the Middle Ages. Thirteenth century dudes with a mad flock of cows were all, “Prithee, dost thou pay morrow to mine stock”—which is basically today’s equivalent of “Check me out, I’m the freaking shit!”

Smartphoners love to mupload. It’s like a status update, except more obnoxious, because you can see it. A casual night out with the girls? Mup it up! A funny sign at a trendy eatery? Mupalicious! Somebody made a hilarious face? Mup is whasSUP!

Unfortunately for me, my inability to “tag” myself at local bars/restaurants/parties is really hampering my social life. There are times when I’d love to post a simple group pic with liquor drinks in hand and appropriately tipsy expressions, but nooooo, my phone is too dumb. How am I supposed to remind all my Facebook friends that I have IRL friends too? HOW. HOW, I ASK YOU!??!? IHAVEFRIENDSTOOISWEAR.

It’s a real problem, as you can see.

But if I had the power to mupload, I would choose a picture like the one below. It’s almost totally perfect, in that it really gets across a point that all muploads strive to achieve: “LOOK AT ME RAGING! I am having a bitchin’ time, while you’re at home alone on Facebook. HAHA.”

Let me tell you a story. It’s Friday night; you go out. You feel the need to let others know you are out. You are too cool to make entire Facebook albums; it’s better to let less fortunate souls catch a fleeting glimpse of your glamorous outing. Before the pic is even taken, you’ve already thought of a caption (eg. “Margarita niiiiight!”). You post the pic.

You get the necessary self-esteem boost, while other persons viewing the mupload immediately feel bad about themselves—because they’re not out raging like you. Most likely, they have been sitting on the couch with a computer in their lap for two hours. Probably longer. In fact, they’ve been sitting like that for so long, the heat from the bottom of the laptop has roasted their scrotum/ovaries, so they won’t be able to have babies ever and will be forced to die alone. But YOU. You are the life of the party. And now they know it.

That is the tale of the mobile upload. Use the mup wisely, my friends.

Sidenote: If you’re not having a crazy night on the town, but still wanna get mup-tastic, don’t worry! You can simply opt for Hipstamatic, Instagram, or one of those other yuppie apps that turn even the most mundane photos “artsy”. These apps are more for taking photos of things rather than people: a stray Starbucks cup, an eerily-lit window or, hell, even your own frikin’ shadow. You might not have friends, but dammit, you’re one artsy sonofabitch.

I’m not sure what’s in the toilet, but it doesn’t matter cuz OMG look how grainy and retro it is!!!

Now, my tune may change soon, as I have recently inherited a CrackBerry. I’m going to activate it real soon too, post a whole slew of mups, and then all of my Facebook and Twitter friends will know just how cool I really am. I am about to be a mothermupping rockstar.

The Ultimate Showdown: Google+ versus Facebook

Google me this: How many fabulous status updates does it take to make it look like I’m a fun, popular person who leads an interesting and colorful life?

Because I just joined Google+, and it’s stressing me out. I already have to concoct witticisms for Facebook and Twitter and my blog for chrissake. That means I’m about one Foursquare login away from transforming into a massive social netdoucheing tool. The last guy who put his friends into circles was kind of a douche too:

So, what’s the deal with Google+? For those of you interweb illiterates, it’s the newest wannabe Facebook murderer. It’s just like ol’ Facey, but with Skype-, group SMS-, and Twitter-esque features (named “hangouts”, “huddles” and “streams”). CNN described this networking medley as the “combo-plate approach”, calling it “Taco-Bell-Meets-KFC”. Without the heartburn, I presume.

Early stats on the site show that there was a ginormous gender gap, with roughly 80% male membership. I always enjoy breaking up a good sausage fest, so I decided to join the party.

Google+ is a mere month old and there are already over 20 million members trolling about. To put this in perspective, Facebook has roughly 750 million. But 20 million is nothing to scoff at, since G+ is still technically in the testing phase. Previous Googleventures, like Google Wave and Buzz, have proved ill-fated—maybe third time’s a charm?

The real question is, are the G+ members actually using this new product? Because my “stream” is a total snooze cruise right now. If someone has anything really juicy to say, they’re almost definitely gonna post it elsewhere. Popular excuses include: (a) “But everybody’s on Facebook!”, (b) “But I spent three years trying to get Twitter followers!”, or (c) “But MySpace is gonna have a Second Coming, I just know it!” I swear someone recently said that last one to me, verbatim, so I had to bitchslap some sense into them.

G+ also has a strong emphasis on sharing news links (“sparks”), so all your well-read friends can make you feel like an uninformed bag of shit. Apparently, you can even earn “badges” for keeping up with various news sites. But “badges”? I mean, c’mon. What is this…Girl Scouts? I, for one, am not in the market for badges, as I retired my badge-boasting, cookie-prostituting days long ago.

The biggest draw of Google+, supposedly, is that you can categorize your friends into “Circles.” This allows you to easily share certain things with certain people. It’s true that you can do this on Facebook too, but it takes a lot more dicking around. So far I’ve made circles for friends and for non-friends (the latter includes groups like: People I Hid on Facebook, People Who Watch Fox News, People Who Enjoy Two and a Half Men, etc).

The circle-loving networking infant is giving the folks over at Facebook a run for their multi-billions. No doubt FB will keep rolling out innovations to try to one-up G+. Just this week, the site added an “I’m expecting” option to profiles (yep, not even fetuses can escape the ubiquity of the ‘net)—so now you know Zuckerberg & Co. are ready to declare war. They were certainly not amused when this sidebar advertisement ran for a few hours, before the Zuck’s minions noticed:

Honestly, I think Google+ is here to stay. Maybe that’s just because I’m so jaded with my current news feed, and I only use FB for virtual rubbernecking (stalking) old high school friends—who, by the way, need to start popping out babies or something (you guys are like so effing boring!).

Which reminds me, does anyone need an invite? ‘Cuz I can hook you up. But which Google+ circle you’ll be put into…well, that’s another matter. It will be directly related to how obnoxious I deem your Facebook etiquette.

This Is My Jam

Every so often, when the mood strikes us, my sister and I make embarrassing video parodies. At the moment, my personal favorites include a sloppy Ke$ha parody with our own homemade lyrics, a True Life episode about the horrors of denim-obsessed teens, and the Real World audition tape which scored me an MTV callback at a Hooter’s in Burbank.

Nevertheless, the video du jour contains the most WTF moments of them all. You’re welcome.

A Stern Sex-Ed

I first learned about sex in the 2nd grade. It was lunchtime at the girl’s table, and one girl had just dared another girl to go have sex with one of the boys. All the girls giggled furiously at this bold dare, and I was left dumbstruck.

Of course, I giggled, but I didn’t know what we were giggling at. What was this “sex” they spoke of? And why was it so funny?

After lunch, I turned to my friend Maggie, who was more knowledgeable than I on such matters. After giving me the “don’t you know?” look, she provided a horrifying but intriguing explanation. Something about the P in the V. Or was it P on the V? Either way, it was icky.

With no older siblings to educate me, this crude understanding of sex stayed with me for quite some time. My parents never gave me “the talk”, and I wasn’t really boy-crazy enough to figure it out for myself.

My naïveté continued well into the 7th grade, when my mother took my biffle Millie and I on a trip to San Francisco. All decked out in rhinestone and pleather, the Betsey Johnson store caught our eye. It was 2003, and t-shirts with first name initials prints were super in style (along with Hollister mini-skirts and Ugg boots, completing a skanky trio of pre-pubescent frocks).

So Millie and I were positively thrilled to find t-shirts with our initials on them.

“Look, Mom! S and M! It’s for Stephanie and Millie! This is sooo cool!” Millie and I clutched bright pink t-shirts, with a bold “S&M” written in curly font. I thought we had struck gold.

In retrospect, I wish I had paid more attention to my mother’s reaction. At the time, I truly thought the letters stood for the friendship between girls with ‘S’ and ‘M’ names. I was fuming when Mom wouldn’t let us buy them.

When I look back on my early understanding of sex and sexuality, I realize that there was one particular influence that taught me lots of inappropriate stuff—way more than I learned from any of my galpals or my Judy Blume books. My first true sexual education came primarily in the form of the…wait for it…The Howard Stern Show.

Ahhh, yes. The E! channel played re-runs of The Howard Stern Show on late-night TV. I had to be very sneaky about watching it. With one hand always lingering on the remote, I would quickly revert back to America’s Funniest Home Videos every time I thought the parental units were nearing.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the show, it’s pretty filthy. (I’m referring to the Stern show, of course…although AFHV gets a little wacky too sometimes! ROFLMBO, right?). “Shockjock” Stern, one of the highest paid radio personalities in the world, is known for conducting (often topless) interviews with strippers, Playmates, porn stars, and aspiring porn stars. Sometimes young women would come on the show and do humiliating things. The harsh judges’ panel would determine whether or not the women had embarrassed themselves well enough. If they had, Stern would pay for their boob jobs.

Watching the show was like rubbernecking peoples’ poor life decisions. For the obedient/conservative/Christian/good girl that I was, each Howard Stern episode held more surprises than an Oprah finale.

The first thing Howard Stern taught me was quite a revelation. I learned that if I was desperate for bigger boobs, I could simply go on national TV, swim in a pool of jello, make out with some other girls, and let some dudes gawk at/feel up my breasts in order to decide whether or not I “really needed a boob job”. The male judges would not be attractive. They would be the kind of guys who persist solely on a diet of freezer pizza, YouPorn, WoW, and Mountain Dew Code Red.

I learned that girls making out with other girls was hot. However, it was only “hot” if the girl wasn’t actually into girls. The girl had to like boys, but kiss girls, to make the boys like her more. Plus, she had to make it look like she liked girls, even though wasn’t supposed to, so the boys (who wouldn’t kiss other boys) would like her. It was all very confusing to a 13-year-old me—and frankly, it still is.

Next, I learned that if you have an intelligent, black woman on as your sidekick, it’s slightly easier to get away with being a tasteless pig. The Howard Stern Show‘s thinly veiled guise of “balance” came in the form of Robin Quivers. A co-host for over two decades, Quivers often backed up Stern’s offensive comments and cackled at some of his cruelest jokes. Although she was supposed to be the voice of reason, it is likely that she is either filled with self-hate or extremely high all of the time.

Howie Boy also taught me that the vag-gasm was not as important as the orgasm of the peen. It would take several years for me to un-learn this. Most women eventually figure out the truth one way or another. But it’s usually after irrevocable damage has been caused (i.e. several missed opportunities for orgasm), which pisses us off.

 Nevertheless, I thank Howard for introducing me to our crazy, messed-up world of sexuality. I will never forget that episode about the girl who stuck vegetables up her hoohoo. Never.

I’m still sending Mr. Stern the bill for my weekly therapy sessions.

Total GDI Move (Part II)

In the wake of Part I (which you should totally read if you haven’t yet), someone has been kind enough to point out that I don’t understand Croakies because I don’t have any sunglasses expensive enough to “get it”. Touché, douchemeister. This is probably true, considering I don’t own any shades over $10. However, I still maintain that Croakies are the fashion equivalent of cell phone holsters. Think about it.

Misguided fashion statements aside, I have something really serious to bring to your attention. There is a phenomenon sweeping the nation, and it desperately needs to be made fun of.

Behold, the Total Sorority Move:

What is a TSM, you ask? Well, allow me to rock your world: an action is deemed a “Total Sorority Move” (or TSM) whenever one sorority girl does something that would make other sorority girls proud. There also exists the Total Frat Move, whose website launched one year ago this week. But my brain cannot process such ludicrous levels of misogyny, so I’ll leave you to suss that one out for yourself.

Disclaimer: This post is about to dive into a swarm of Privileged People Problems. I spent two hours picking out some of the most incriminating TSMs. If you have a queasy stomach, you best discontinue reading now, or else you’re going to see nausea-bait like this:

Still with me? Haven’t gauged your eyeballs out yet? Great.

So now you’re probably all like, “Whoa Steph, maybe you should lay off the Greek Life people? When did you get so bitchy?” To which I say, I can’t help it…they just make it so easy.

No, but on the real though: I have quite a few friends who belong to sororities and fraternities, and they are some of the most kind, intelligent, fun-loving, generous, awesomesauce people I know. They are nothing like the TSM website would have you believe, which is exactly why it’s so disgruntling. The problem is that TSM inherently claims to speak for the entire sorority experience, but that is far from the case. Because this is not real life:

Whenever I see something like this, I can’t help but wonder, WHO ARE THESE MONSTERS??! Certainly none of the decent, intelligent Greek Life people I know would ever utter such idiocy. Granted, not all TSMs are bad. Some of them are “cute”—but cute like too much Lilly cute, not like actually cute.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I understand most of the inside jokes from the TSM world. I, too, consider shopping to be my cardio, own stacks of Norts, and can tell–with alarming accuracy–the difference between a glue-gun burn, a curling iron burn, a hair-straightener burn, and a plain ol’ hickey. So yeah, I get the appeal of TSM. Except it has gone way too far, to the extent that anyone who falls into the category of GDI (“God Damn Independent”; a non-Greek Life person) is considered sub-human:

I would love to see someone attempt to defend this. Really. Because it seems like pure evil. Sure, there are some message board commenters that try to speak out, like, “Hey, that’s not nice!”—only to be quickly shut down by another commenter saying something like, “Only ugly people have to be nice, DUUHH”. Umm, excuse you?

I have taken it upon myself to critically analyze some of my favorite TSMs, so please enjoy:

Alright, I get that pearls are “classy” and can be quite pretty…when worn sparingly. However, since one out of every four TSMs mentions pearls, I can’t help wonder about these seemingly obsessive pearl necklace references: does this remind anyone else of ejaculation?

…Nope? Just me? Okay.

Also, haven’t you heard? The higher the roman numeral, the worse the sex. Experience….I mean, Sex and the City taught me that.

It’s time to get psychoanalytical, because the frat daddy issue needs to be addressed. The Freudian implication of putting “daddy” in “frat daddy” makes me really uncomfortable. Because that is some serious Electra Complex bullshit right there.

In case I’m not making myself clear enough: D-a-d-d-y-I-s-s-u-e-s. This girl wants to sleep with her father, subconsciously or otherwise. In this situation, she conforms to the role of the daughter by “coloring”. Hence, she infantilizes herself for her frat “daddy”, who is studying Adult Things. She probably expects this new daddy to replace her old daddy, and take care of her someday—financially and sexually, at the very least. Sick, right?

Also not real life. “The cook”? This is one step up from another TSM I saw that said “the help”. You would be crucified at my school for saying something like this. Crucified. Actually, they would lobotomize you first—then program your brain so that you could only say things like, “Hegemony sucks!” and “Sustainability rules!” And then they would crucify you. As they should.

Okay, I can’t even make fun because now I just feel really bad for you. This sounds like the exact opposite of fun. Normal people do not do this. You make me sad. Insert sadface emoticons.

I could make a joke about my little republican dog, who got his name because he’s greedy and always yapping about something unintelligible, but I’ll refrain. Please note that this was submitted by “Confederette”. I, for one, am amazed she knows how to operate a computer, considering she’s stuck in the 1850s.

This is from the same page where someone wrote, “Texting Daddy to find out who I’m supposed to vote for. TSM.” Honey, you do not deserve democracy.

Methinks this a case of chronic constipation. Holy shit! Rather, holy lack thereof. It’s not her fault she mistook the TSM website for WebMD…the feces have probably made it to her brain. They’ve got nowhere else to go! Somebody get this bitch some laxatives before she explodes.

Trust me, they are not staring in jealousy. Even right-leaning GDIs are just flabbergasted as to why you still think Fox News is a legitimate news source.

Phew, now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, I feel better already. To reiterate, the reason I am all in a tizzy about TSM is because I do have sorority friends. And although they may be quite annoyed with me after this post, they are not remotely like the villainous caricatures presented on the TSM website. This obnoxious site showcases all the worst aspects of Greek Life, presents an unrealistic picture of the srat/frat sphere, and does little to redeem itself to the rest of the world. All of us GDIs are left scratching our heads, trying to figure out how the TSM/TFM creators live with themselves.

I’ll leave you with this little gem:

Well, “Blonde Bomshell” (hah), at least someone else thinks they’re awful! Mmkay, that’s all I can handle. Time to go wash my brain.

Total GDI Move (Part I)

For purposes of full disclosure, I must say this: my high school’s initials were S.C.D.S., but they might as well have been W.A.S.P.

If I recall correctly, I had 69 people in my graduating class. (Go ahead, giggle at the 69. Done now? Kay.) I estimate that 70% of them became involved with the Greek Life scene in college, which kind of leaves me in the dust when they talk about fratastic things.

For instance, while at home over Christmas break, I heard a conversation about a “sorostitute slampiece shacking with her fratdaddy”. According to the foreign language translation skills I have acquired, I believe this refers to a situation where a girl hooks up with a guy who owns a lot of salmon-colored polos and brings a cooler everywhere he goes, and she returns home with at least one item of his clothing.

Googling “Carolina Cup” makes for a pretty solid introduction to frat life.

I know what you’re thinking: I’m totes just jeal because my school doesn’t have a real Greek life scene. My high school friends laugh heartily when I tell them that my school has two fraternities and a “frarority”, a co-ed srat/frat hybrid (they decided to put fun before gender segregation—freakin’ weirdos, amirite?).

Au contraire, I love my GDI status. GDI, or Geed, means “God Damn Independent” and is a derogatory term for a non-Greek life person. As in, “Only GDIs shop at Wal-mart!” or “This Geed in my sociology class won’t stop talking about Nickleback!” or “All Geeds love Aeropostale and drive PT Cruisers!”

Now, I don’t wear Ed Hardy, nor do I show off my barbed-wire body art. But I am fully GDI in one major, major way: I think those sunglass-rope-eyeglass-retainer-thingys, Croakies, look seriously stupid.

Croakies are the hallmark of the southern fraternity, much like Longchamps or Vera Bradley bags are for the southern sorority. I can’t speak for their northern counterparts because I am BBBB (an acronym I made up just now that means “Bible Belt Born and Bred”).

Croakies occasionally serve a purpose—if you’re, say, on a boat (cue T-Pain) and you don’t want your Costa Del Mars to fall off. Most often, however, frat goggles are unnecessary and unattractive.

I apologize if I just offended every single male friend I made in high school. But, while I’m at it, let me just keep on rolling: Croakies are fugly, and Costa Del Mars look like bug eyes. I don’t know who told you the metallic-aqua-lens look was attractive, but I’m here to set the record straight: BUG EYES, people. I know they go with your boat shoes, but. Still.

                  

And honestly, do you need to wear your Croakies everywhere? Gameday is one thing…but in class? On cloudy days? In the rain? In a bar? At night? Really?

FrattingHard.net, a website that would be effing hilarious if it didn’t make me so sad for humanity, had this to say about the issue: “You may have seen fratdaddies in bars or restaurants with their sunglasses sitting on their neck after the sun has gone down. We are not here to require, nor condemn, this fashion statement…it is perfectly acceptable to flip your sunglasses around and put them on your neck when the sun has gone down.”

Well, there you have it. The preeminent authority on shatting—oops, I mean fratting!—has spoken. It seems we may just have to deal with this abomination forever.

More hot and heavy GDI issues to come, but for now I gotta run. I’m about to ride my Razor scooter to the mall; I hear Old Navy’s having a sale on cargo pants!

Slut Stampede: The Verdict

Despite my earlier skepticism (see GGW Comes to Melbz), SlutWalk Melbourne was wonderful. Over 3,000 people attended, and the event was a massive success because it was less about letting your cooter hang out and more about fighting against sexual assault. It was the perfect antidote to the vagina-hating Congressmen I’ve been reading so much about in recent months, and it made me proud to be surrounded by so many vagina-lovers. Enjoy the photos!

 

That last picture was my favorite sign of the day; it said, “I love riding my bike (coz she always says yes)”. So perfect.

Overall, the vibe at SlutWalk was electric and I’d be happy to see it continue making its way across the globe. It might be a few hundred centuries before we see SlutWalk Baghdad or SlutWalk Tehran, but at least we’re taking some small step in the right direction.

Guys and Dolls (and Pornos)

This week I went to an anti-porn talk. Fortunately, it was not a “Porn is sinful! Masturbation makes your clit fall off and rot in hell!”-kind of talk, because I do not have time for this Westboro Baptist Church-kind of shenanigan. For those concerned about sinning, your genitals should still be intact post-porn-viewing, or else you’ve been doing it wrong.

I found the talk to be a productive discussion about how porn is “bad” in the sense that it can be damaging to sexuality. Gail Dines, author of Pornland: How Porn Has Hijacked Our Sexuality, was a charming speaker who expressed her concerns about the tragically under-regulated porn industry, but without the uppity or prudishness one might expect. Dines feels that young heterosexual male sexuality is at risk because they are brought up thinking that “masculinity” means worshiping XXX sites like SizeDDDDDtitties.com, JizzInHerEye.net, GagOnMyFootlong.com…you get the idea.

Dines also spoke about her experience interviewing a dude who sold anatomically correct sex dolls, and asked him why dolls were so popular. He replied, “It’s a way for [men] to develop relationships with real women.” Um. What. I can’t even. He went on to say that, on the day that Lars and the Real Girl (2007) came out, his sex doll website crashed because “so many men got online to check them out”.

If you haven’t seen Lars and the Real Girl, it’s a delightful dramedy about a socially inept, psychologically deluded man (Ryan Gosling, who we should all love) who believes his mannequin girlfriend is real. In the movie, Lars’ doll ownership clearly isn’t a sex thing. In real life, sex doll users probably don’t have the same quirky-indie-movie-character thing going on as Gosling does, and the owners are probs a little creepier (…understatement?).

I am fully convinced that sex robots are just around the corner (rumor has it Apple already has an app for that!). Personally, I’m in the middle of working on my fanfic-screenplay, tentatively titled The SexBot Diaries or I, Sexbot. Maybe I’ll use Arnold Schwarzenegger as my lusty protagonist; I hear he’s trying to get back into acting, right?

But sex dolls are just one teensy niche of raunch culture. Internet forums are flooded with horror stories about the porn-obsessed man who can’t get off with his real-life girlfriend anymore, the girl obsessed with how her labia is “supposed to look” since porn is the only Sex-Ed she’s had, or the guy who was legitimately shocked to find out his hook-up partner had pubic hair. For those of you who haven’t seen a real vagina before, get this through your vadge-deprived little head: the bald eagle look does not come naturally.

I realize that this post reeks of hetero-normativity. I am by no means suggesting that porn problems are limited to young, heterosexual or male populations. It’s just that these are the same dudes who go on to dominate mainstream media production; therefore it’s especially visible when porn consumption so deeply informs their products. This is the kind of stuff they need to teach us in ninth grade health class. Sadly, the only thing I remembered about mine was the chorus of ewwws! following the talk on diaphragms and finger cots.

Ultimately, the problem with porn is that it makes some people have shockingly unrealistic assumptions about what sex is supposed to look like. Here’s a hint on what it’s not supposed to look like: there is no such thing as a 23-year-old, hairless “MILF” who deep throats her neighbors’ son. Got that? Oh, and you don’t have to have an awful soundtrack bumpin’ in the background either. Unless you’re into that sort of thing–in which case, to each his own.

But enough on this for now; I need to go clear my browser history STAT.

Girls Gone Wild Comes to Melbourne

So there’s this thing called SlutWalk happening in Melbourne tomorrow. Maybe you’ve heard of it. It all started in January when this d-bag police officer from Toronto told some university students that “women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimized”. Smooth move, Officer Misogynist. Since then, SlutWalk has swept the globe, from London to Ottawa to Reno, and most recently to the Sunburnt Country.

Melbourne’s self-proclaimed sluts will gather at the State Library tomorrow at 1pm. I realize there is potential for me to make a joke here about the irony of choosing the State Library as a starting place, like, “Baha! Sluts don’t read!” Notice how I am refraining. The irony will continue, however, as the sluts parade around the city circle, thereby simultaneously protesting against female objectification and presenting themselves to be objectified. Hmm.

Now, I am all for the womanly right to bare arms. Thighs and torsos too, for that matter. Women should be able to wear whatever they want (hello, Captain Obvi), without being “victimised” (this should be a Lieutenant Duh moment but, sadly, it’s not). This means there should be no “she was asking for it” kind of bullshittery when it comes to rape, regardless of how short her micro-mini is, how many Mai-Tais she’s skulled, or how times she has pointed her cleavage toward your face. No exceptions (I’m looking at you, Dominique Strauss-Kahn). For this reason, I support SlutWalk’s anti-victimization effort and all the sluts in their noble cause.

BUT! I still have, like, major issues with the event.

SlutWalk promoters want to reappropriate the S-word–but it just isn’t a redeemable word. There is a massive debate over whether or not “slut” could be transformed into a positive term, like “queer” has been for the LGTBQIA community (Srsly? This acronym is getting TOO long). Some advocates even argue that it could be the next N-word.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. First of all, no decent, God-fearing white person uses the N-word, because it would irreversibly compound our White Guilt. Occasionally you’ll hear some cracker-assed fratboys throwing around a playful “nigga” or two, which makes me want to, as my grandmother might say, “smack ’em upside the head”. Even if I’m singing a song that uses the word, I always skip over it because my own cracker-ass can’t even handle it. Using the word feels wronger than a priest at an orgy.

But that’s beside the point. Even if the N-word was used (hypothetically) in a completely positive, constructive way–in a world where morning breath smells like daisies and we all shit sunshine–there is still another crucial problem with comparing the N-word to the S-word. All black people are black; not all women are sluts.

Not all women are sex-positive. I know, I know, it bums me out too. But it’s the truth. Not all women have sex or like sex, the two biggest qualifiers of sluthood.

The moral of the story is this: we should get behind SlutWalk because it calls attention to a serious issue, but also politely request a change in terminology. I’ll be in attendance tomorrow, albeit sans fishnets and nipple tassels. I want to show my support–but don’t call me a slut, or I’ll cut your dick off.

Sincerely, Steph x