Going Solo

Oprah October 2015 CoverMenopause was the best thing that could have happened to me. It’s been nine years since I’ve had sex with anyone other than me, but at 57, I don’t think of myself as celibate or sexless. I’m simply clear-headed.

A promiscuous child of the free-love ’70s and a hard-partier until the ’90s, sex was my currency. If I wasn’t desirable, I felt invisible, and by my early 30s, I was using a color-coded spreadsheet to keep track of all the names, dates, photos, and details. But, I gave up the booze, my estrogen began to ebb, and without them, I lost my sexual appetite. Sex wasn’t making me feel good or important anymore; it left me empty. I started forgetting to be that girl who slept around. Then one night I slid into bed and realized it had been years since anyone else had slid in there with me.

The vodka haze & hormone fog had lifted, and I was left to figure out who, if not that hyper-sexual being, I was. I had to redefine myself. I did stand-up to a room full of twenty-somethings who stared back silently, I got my motorcycle license, jumped out of a plane. Started to love my body for all the other things I could do with it. I chucked my high heels, danced all night in cowboy boots, and went home alone to a new queen-sized bed, sleeping diagonally, corner to corner along with that delightful cliché, a cadre of cats. I posed naked for painters, photographers, and sculptors. I laughed louder, and more often. I spoke my mind. Conversations about life, pain, the world, and hope replaced faceless seductions. The quality of the men in my life changed, from one-night stands to friends and companions. I was free.

Maybe there’s a Venn diagram with my name on it where sex and companionship overlap, but I’m in no rush. I still have sexual desires. But I also have the Wahl All-Body Massager—with two speeds and seven attachments.

 

Previously published in the October 2015 issue of O, The Oprah Magazine.

On editing porn

words-cant-describe
image source: toothpastefordinner.com

I love editing and proofreading other people’s work for many reasons. I love finding mistakes—correction: other people’s mistakes. I love being right, and having someone acknowledge that fact. I love putting things “in order.” And I love answering questions like:

Q: When does a gang bang start? Two is regular, three is airtight, and four is foursome, so does five put you in gangbang territory? 

A: Actually, it all depends on who is catching. For a woman, three is a regular threesome and your need four to go airtight (with one penis or penis-like substitute for every hole, at the same time). With a male catcher, three makes it airtight because there’s one less hole. A gangbang (also known as a train as in “we ran a train on her”), on the other hand, is one willing catcher (male or female), and multiple pitchers—usually three or more. When the catcher is unwilling, this becomes gang rape.

Q: If twin brothers ravage the same ass at the same time is that incest?

A: No. That’s plain old double penetration, or DP. Unless of course we’re talking about the ass of a sibling.  Or cousin. Second cousins once removed are okay, though.

Q: Where are all the transgender hookers working these days now the old West Side Highway is basically gone?

A: Since the West Side Highway has gone all Javitz Center and the Christopher Street piers have gone all bike paths, public parks, family-friendly, most of the street-based working girls of the trans-type can be found on Roosevelt Avenue in Jackson Heights, Queens. And, many of them have come off the street and work in the comfort and relative safety of 900 numbers,  Al Gore’s internet, and places like Backpage or Transgays.com.

Q: What did they call vaginas and penises in the old days, back when there were wenches and m’ladies?

A: Here’s a whole list for the vaginas and their assorted parts, on a historical time line. And another for the penis and its entourage. You won’t be surprised that the lady parts are mostly cozy and cute (mossy treasure, poontang), and the boy parts are mostly ego-driven and aggressive (skyscraper, arse-opener). Personally, I like a nice flap-doodle in my jampot now and then.

 

meteorological foreplay

photo courtesy of Nick Brandt @ nickbrandt.com

Keep your sun-drenched days and well-oiled bodies.

When the wind rips limbs off trees.
Pushes cars across the highway.
Topples small buildings.
When the air is soft. warm. heavy. moist.
When wind can kill.
My body becomes slick, ripe, and tender.
My every breath charged with electricity.

When every breath holds bits of lightening and promises of chaos.
When the sky darkens. the clouds hang low. heavy. full,
with potential destruction.
and the possibility…
of
annihilation.
I wait,
breathless,
for the howl,
the scream,
the cry.
The hoursminutesmoments before the storm.
Meteorological foreplay.

Keep your sun-drenched days.
Screw your rainbows.
Fuck your flowery words. your soft music. your tender touch.
I wait for the storm.

Note: Please check out Nick Brandt’s photos. They are some of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.

funny, you don’t look jewess

jodi sh doff  : onlythejodi : jewess : trucker cap

I keep getting confused between Rachel Shukert and Jillian Lauren.

Both of them have hot books out now.

Both books employ colons : in their titles.

Both of them are pretty. Really pretty. Really pretty rock n’ roll girls who are now happily married hot moms. With hit books.

Both are dark-haired Jewesses who wrote memoirs about going overseas and having sex with foreigners.

I’m reading Shukert‘s book, Everything is Going Great : An Underfunded and Overexposed European Grand Tour. I heard all about her hilarious Amsterdammed sexcapades while I was there recently, having my own less-than-hilarious depresscapades. Then, I heard her read an excerpt at a recent Literary Death Match . Which, by the way, I helped her win, even though I’d actually gone to support another writer. (Apologies to Melissa Petro . I can’t help it, I’m really competitive and the team assignments were random. You were Wonderful. But, not Jewish. Or brunette. So, more about you some other time). The New York Times loves Shukert.

I have Jillian Lauren’s book, Some Girls: My Life in a Harem, on the top of the pile called “Next”. I saw her read at a Sex Worker Literati event this past May. Wait, that’s a lie. I left before she read, but that is where I bought the book. And this morning I listened to a Rumpus Radio podcast interview with her where Stephen Elliott spends the first five or ten minutes talking about how smoking hot she is. She hadn’t even gotten to the studio yet. She is, apparently, so hot that her hotness precedes her like an entourage, announcing her imminent arrival. Impressive. And apparently a little intimidating to the ladies of the View.

By the time I got home today my brain had mashed up Rachel Shukert and Jillian Lauren to one over-the-top gorgeous, literary, funny, sexy Jewess.

Rather than figure out which I was reading and which I was about to read, which one was funny & hot and which one was hot & funny, I took the easy way out. I Netflixed Yentl. One more Jewess, yes, but after all, it is almost Rosh Hashanah. And I never confuse Streisand with anyone else. Well, almost never.

thirty years later…

I had to take a little time off from the “other” blog, from writing in general. I’d written about the rape. Again. It’s hard. I was going to say You don’t know what you take from us when you rape us. But, I’d be speaking to people who either don’t care – those who rape on uncontrollable instinct, who feel entitled; or to those who do care – those who rape with the intent of breaking our soul – pimps, mercenaries, warriors.

The rape I wrote about was almost thirty years ago. I think I should be over it already. But, apparently, I’m not.

It was not my first. I was in a blackout the first time and only put the pieces together afterwards. It probably wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been drunk enough to black out. But I was. It did. And I don’t remember the details. Blackouts are a mixed blessing that way.

And truthfully, the blackout is only the first time I can bear to think about. What came before are scattered puzzle pieces, each belonging to a different puzzle picture.

The rape I wrote about wasn’t even the last time I was attacked. Statistics show that once a person is raped, molested, assaulted, the chance of it happening again, rises. Here are some statistics.

Every 2 minutes, someone in the U.S. is sexually assaulted.

  • 1 in 3 American women will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime.
  • 1 in 4 college women have either been raped or suffered attempted rape.
  • 1 in 7 women will be raped by her husband.
  • 1 in 12 males students surveyed had committed acts that met the legal definition of rape. 84% said what they’d done was definitely not rape.
  • Only 16% of rapes are reported to the police.
  • Only 6% of rapists will spend a day in jail.

FAIL: The United States has the world’s highest rape rate of the countries that publish such statistics. It’s 4 times higher than Germany, 13 times higher than England, and 20 times higher than Japan.

Survivors of sexual assault are:

Stop it, okay? Just fucking stop it.

Statistics from: RAINN.org and Coalition Educating About Sexual Endangerment (CEASE)