The instant I see his wiry frame turn the corner, a smile splits my face and I launch myself in his direction, hurtling into a bear hug.
“Codyyyy!” It’s been way too long. He drops his arms around my waist and asks, grinning, if I’m ready for a beer or seven.
“Yeah, dude. How was your summer? Any crazy stories? How were the chicks? Oh man, I have so many stories!”
Cody opens the door and I follow him under the red neon signs and into the Thursday evening crowd. This pub has never failed us; we’ve been getting drunk together here since we turned legal three years ago and it’s the first place I go every time I’m back in Calgary. He swings his jacket onto the wooden back of one of the small chairs to the side of the room. Jesus, his shoulders are benefiting from all that fight training. I follow suit and sit across from him, smacking my palm on the solid table and demanding he begin at the start.
“Of my trip? Or of my women?” he asks, raising a slim eyebrow and I smile; he knows me disgustingly well. I can’t help but think like the men I’m so in love with. I’ll clink beer glasses to a well-executed tackle and take a punch in the shoulder for making a crack at the size of a buddy’s manhood. I’ll weasel out weekend blow job stories and throw darts with the best of the boys; hell, I might even be the fucking champ when it comes to being goddamn vulgar. But I love good gossip.
Cody’s chosen a great spot; the guy facing me from the table behind him is rocking a faux-hawk and a wicked jaw-line – almost like Mike’s, actually. Cody leans in, head narrowly missing the low, dusty lamp, and tells me about this one time at a beach in Puerto Vallarta and this other, after a bad case of food poisoning.
“So there I was, making out with this hot Australian at four or five in the morning and she’s got one hand down my pants when suddenly I realized, ‘Shit! Gotta go!’” he laughs. “Hah, yes, I know: terrible pun. I knew you’d like it. I tried to make it happen after that, but every few minutes I had to run, and there was no way I could explain that gracefully.”
The waiter butts in and I order a jug of honey brown, tilting my head slightly in his direction and sliding a hand up my neck. If only every man I knew could fill a shirt that admirably, thought I’m pretty sure I would get a lot less done were that the case.
“Did I ever tell you about my boss in Spain?” I ask after the waiter‘s left with our request, and Cody shakes his head, leaning back like he’s apt to, waiting for me to rattle off another story.
“Well, Paco – how typically Spanish is that? – Paco just loved women. He was the kind of guy that would forget we were talking the instant one walked by our bar. Granted, I learned a lot of different ways to say ‘tits’ in Spanish.”
Naturally, this provokes a brief vocabulary lesson and we sit there throwing dirty foreign words at each other loud enough to hear an offended gasp come from the couple in a booth across the room. Sneaking a look, I wonder what kind of tablette de chocolat the jaw-line guy one table over might be sporting. Last time we got together, Mike wasted no time throwing his shirt down to show his own off.
“Anyway, Paco. He was so bad that whenever I bent over to pick something up he would stop to watch and then ask me whether I‘d be inclined to help him do inventory later.”
“Did you?” Cody asks; the sort of question implying he’d already assumed so.
“Nah, too old. He was pretty good looking, though. And Spanish, awesomely Spanish.”
Cody smirks, hand waiting on top of the empty green coaster.
“Did I mention I love Hispanic women? They made me want to stay in Ecuador forever. Maybe I can find one to polish my door knobs and handle my broom stick, if you know what I mean. Anyone else in Spain?”
“A couple - oh, thanks.” The waiter’s back with our beer and filling glasses. He has the most steely pipes I’ve seen in a long time; I can just imagine his phonebook-ripping skills.
“Did you just lick your lips?” Cody asks once our server is gone.
“Pff, no.” Yes, definitely. “But there was this one guy… Crazy motherfucker knew a girl he wanted to marry. At 21. Marry. How ridiculous is that?”
“Ridiculous. I can’t even find a woman I don’t want to strangle after hearing her babble for two hours.”
“Hey! Some of us know how to converse!”
“You’re not a woman, you don’t count,” Cody tells me, placing a hand on mine and attempting to rub in some sort of comfort. “No one interesting on your end? It must be hard for you, considering your ineptitude as a woman.”
It really is. I get bored of men faster than a sugar-hyped six-year-old in a university lecture hall, and it doesn’t help that I spend more time hanging with my guy friends than I do painting my nails. Finding someone that is both man enough to carry me home when I’ve pulled a muscle and keep my sexual attention past Tuesday is really fucking difficult. Although, Mike did do a bang up job of squashing that spider for me last week.
“Asshole.”
His eyes crinkle and he raises a glass. The pub has become a clinking whirl of pre-weekend celebrations and we’re no longer the only ones that are catching up at the top of our voices. People have started to crowd around the table behind Cody and it’s a shame, since I no longer have a clear view of any of the god-like examples I saw milling the pub before. I look around for the waiter; the jug’s empty and I wouldn’t mind a reason to bring him around again.
“What ever happened to that tall guy?” Cody asks, remarkably focused for someone who just helped me finish a jug.
“Which one?” I say, scanning the crowd for scruffy faces and broad shoulders; maybe he’s here.
“The one who took you out?”
Oh, Mike. His eyes do the cutest little scrunch when he laughs.
“Eh. I don’t know. I mean, he’s kind of funny. And he’s sort of interesting, I suppose.” And I guess I really like him. I swig the dregs of my beer and shrug. Like hell it‘s ever going to work out; I’ll probably be unable to let him hold my hand on the couch and he’ll likely find a petite blonde to bake him cookies. “But I don’t know if he’s anyone I want to see with clothes on.”
Snorting, Cody picks the jug up and waves it at the waiter from across the room, who nods and hurries towards the bar.
“You’re just afraid of commitment. You can‘t even say the word ‘boyfriend.’”
“No!” It‘s a problem. I’d rather be single than bend to any sort of restrictions, regardless of how much I might like the reason behind them. “You know I’m just fucking picky. Besides, variety is the spice of life. Why would I settle for one ride when I have so many different models to choose from?”
Cody laughs and I smile. This is exactly what guy friends are for – never mind boyfriends and cuddling. The waiter works his way through the crowd and, smiling, stops by to switch the empty jug for a gloriously full one. His smile doesn’t have a thing on Mike’s. Cody refills both of our glasses.
“Here’s to you,” he says, raising his beer to meet mine above our wooden table. “May you be awesome forever.”
I down glass. I can really only be awesome on my own.
Showing posts with label On Conquests. Show all posts
Showing posts with label On Conquests. Show all posts
Wednesday, 24 March 2010
Friday, 15 January 2010
Silly Woman
The other day I was munching on my lunch and flipping through the Martlet when I came across a read so compelling, I nearly walked into a truck, two people, and summarily ended up falling into a pond (I’d say puddle, but no one calls something two feet deep a puddle). I am, of course, referring to “La femme de la revolution.”
Upon reading that women aught to “rise up against oppression, reject society’s definition of beauty and revolutionize how we view ourselves,” I snorted. Then, I made it to the line in which I’m told females need “to stop being objectified, sexualized and judged” and I gagged a little. By the time I reached the part where I’m told that I “must drastically alter the misconception that females are subordinate and powerless” and that I, in fact, “hold all the power to define [my] fate” I could taste the banana bile. At this point, I was so absorbed by the informative properties of the article that I had completely forgotten that my feet were still swimming.
I don’t know who the author is, but Jesus, does she ever have her cotton panties in a bunch. Though I must commend her thorough research (who knew that Ariel Levy believes women have become “chauvinistic pigs?”) and ability to avoid broad, sweeping generalizations, I simply can’t imagine why on earth someone would go through the trouble of dating themselves by comparing Playboy to genital mutilation. After all, I came into the article believing I was about to learn to which point “female dignity, pride and respect” is vanishing, but ended it with a vague feeling that I had just completed last centuries Intro to Women’s Studies.
Although I wouldn’t dare suggest that perhaps the author aught to untangle her panties, I do wonder what exactly she suggest I do. Should I begin ignoring the critique my “chauvinistic” female professors have for my work? (Though I’m not sure I’ve got the balls, ironically.) In the name of condemning “unrealistic societal ideals,” should I stop applying makeup post kickboxing class and throw out my revealing dresses? My high heels? What about my bras? Society has been pretty hard on chicks that don’t wear them lately. Hell, maybe I aught to give up showering completely. I’m fit enough, why should I listen to the rest of what society has to say?
Though I do appreciate the nod made to women in positions of power (think Hillary Clinton and Michaëlle Jean), I fail to see why other women should not wear fitting dresses or dance naked. I myself have been known to wear my rugby spandex underneath short skirts while going shot for shot with my guy friends and scream at spiders I find lifting couches. I have to wonder if the feminists of the last century meant not to create a society in which men can become strippers or women can vie for presidency, but rather to establish one in which my fellow females are required to forgo feeling “womanly” and men must ignore the assets we were born with.
In retrospect, I applaud the Martlet for continuing to publish such exquisitely informative articles. The past couple of years have really shown me just what types of individual expression and freedoms my fore“mothers” fought for in the ‘60s and ‘70s. It’s liberating to know that I can count on the women of UVic to be just as outraged as I am upon being checked out. How dare men appreciate my fashion sense or styled hair?
Upon reading that women aught to “rise up against oppression, reject society’s definition of beauty and revolutionize how we view ourselves,” I snorted. Then, I made it to the line in which I’m told females need “to stop being objectified, sexualized and judged” and I gagged a little. By the time I reached the part where I’m told that I “must drastically alter the misconception that females are subordinate and powerless” and that I, in fact, “hold all the power to define [my] fate” I could taste the banana bile. At this point, I was so absorbed by the informative properties of the article that I had completely forgotten that my feet were still swimming.
I don’t know who the author is, but Jesus, does she ever have her cotton panties in a bunch. Though I must commend her thorough research (who knew that Ariel Levy believes women have become “chauvinistic pigs?”) and ability to avoid broad, sweeping generalizations, I simply can’t imagine why on earth someone would go through the trouble of dating themselves by comparing Playboy to genital mutilation. After all, I came into the article believing I was about to learn to which point “female dignity, pride and respect” is vanishing, but ended it with a vague feeling that I had just completed last centuries Intro to Women’s Studies.
Although I wouldn’t dare suggest that perhaps the author aught to untangle her panties, I do wonder what exactly she suggest I do. Should I begin ignoring the critique my “chauvinistic” female professors have for my work? (Though I’m not sure I’ve got the balls, ironically.) In the name of condemning “unrealistic societal ideals,” should I stop applying makeup post kickboxing class and throw out my revealing dresses? My high heels? What about my bras? Society has been pretty hard on chicks that don’t wear them lately. Hell, maybe I aught to give up showering completely. I’m fit enough, why should I listen to the rest of what society has to say?
Though I do appreciate the nod made to women in positions of power (think Hillary Clinton and Michaëlle Jean), I fail to see why other women should not wear fitting dresses or dance naked. I myself have been known to wear my rugby spandex underneath short skirts while going shot for shot with my guy friends and scream at spiders I find lifting couches. I have to wonder if the feminists of the last century meant not to create a society in which men can become strippers or women can vie for presidency, but rather to establish one in which my fellow females are required to forgo feeling “womanly” and men must ignore the assets we were born with.
In retrospect, I applaud the Martlet for continuing to publish such exquisitely informative articles. The past couple of years have really shown me just what types of individual expression and freedoms my fore“mothers” fought for in the ‘60s and ‘70s. It’s liberating to know that I can count on the women of UVic to be just as outraged as I am upon being checked out. How dare men appreciate my fashion sense or styled hair?
Sunday, 11 October 2009
Spoken Sex
Earlier that evening I’d thought that straddling him would somehow quash his desire to speak with me in broken Spanish. But no, the fact that his English was better and my German outweighed both made no difference to him; by the time we got to my apartment he’d convinced himself that the best method of communication would be the language he was worst at. So he continued by yelling “si, guapa, si!” thinking that I’d either be unable to hear his thick accent or that I’d admire his drunken efforts to practice Spanish with an English speaker.
I let him get away with a couple kisses the next time I ran into him, but spent the better part of the evening introducing him as my perrito tonto (or stupid puppy) while he grinned and nodded, proving my point. I hadn’t even thought about his intellect or linguistic skills the first time around. He could have spoken Mandarin for all it mattered, and I still would have taken the idiot home. There had been something about the way he’d swaggered, the way he’d grabbed my waist that had me wanting to humour his Spanish all night long – at least, until I got bored of it. It’s not like it made a difference what language he had chosen to digress my love of mushrooms in, anyway.
Having spent most of my adult life hitting on English speakers, I never fully realized just how easy it is to get the message across; though, it’s not like a “come-hither” look can really get lost in translation. One evening I didn’t even speak to the guy until we’d stepped outside together after more than a few sideways glances and an over-the-crowd cheers.
“You don’t speak English. Español? Aucun français? Aber Deutsch?” Ja doch, but he knew just enough to get me bee-lining it past the last couple bars in the opposite direction.
A Moroccan boxer eventually talked me home, making me dry off after a shower before he threw me into bed and checking Africa off my To-Do list of continents. A couple weeks later, while I lay on his covers, drunk and pointing out that my Spanish was probably better than his, he grinned and told me he didn’t speak any anyways. Then, of course, he proceeded to admit that his favourite part of sleeping with me was the way I’d mumble in English, imitating what I presume was supposed to be my very own “Oh God.” And there I was thinking it was my dashing good looks that had gotten me laid.
I could have been saying “green country cheese!” for all it mattered; I was female, naked and lying in his bed. Not that sex was ever a conversation-based past-time anyhow; why should I care if I can’t discuss the possibility of the ice caps melting while humping in the back seat of a car? After all, it’s almost sexier when the only thing you understand is what you’re both after.
I let him get away with a couple kisses the next time I ran into him, but spent the better part of the evening introducing him as my perrito tonto (or stupid puppy) while he grinned and nodded, proving my point. I hadn’t even thought about his intellect or linguistic skills the first time around. He could have spoken Mandarin for all it mattered, and I still would have taken the idiot home. There had been something about the way he’d swaggered, the way he’d grabbed my waist that had me wanting to humour his Spanish all night long – at least, until I got bored of it. It’s not like it made a difference what language he had chosen to digress my love of mushrooms in, anyway.
Having spent most of my adult life hitting on English speakers, I never fully realized just how easy it is to get the message across; though, it’s not like a “come-hither” look can really get lost in translation. One evening I didn’t even speak to the guy until we’d stepped outside together after more than a few sideways glances and an over-the-crowd cheers.
“You don’t speak English. Español? Aucun français? Aber Deutsch?” Ja doch, but he knew just enough to get me bee-lining it past the last couple bars in the opposite direction.
A Moroccan boxer eventually talked me home, making me dry off after a shower before he threw me into bed and checking Africa off my To-Do list of continents. A couple weeks later, while I lay on his covers, drunk and pointing out that my Spanish was probably better than his, he grinned and told me he didn’t speak any anyways. Then, of course, he proceeded to admit that his favourite part of sleeping with me was the way I’d mumble in English, imitating what I presume was supposed to be my very own “Oh God.” And there I was thinking it was my dashing good looks that had gotten me laid.
I could have been saying “green country cheese!” for all it mattered; I was female, naked and lying in his bed. Not that sex was ever a conversation-based past-time anyhow; why should I care if I can’t discuss the possibility of the ice caps melting while humping in the back seat of a car? After all, it’s almost sexier when the only thing you understand is what you’re both after.
Saturday, 26 September 2009
Ten Reasons to Date a Writer
Because this has been done for every sport known to man and I have a serious case of writer's block.
1. We’re always looking for ways to make things more interesting.
2. We can spend weeks figuring out the best way to get things started.
3. We know how to evoke a response.
4. We devote hours to working on just one piece.
5. Once we’re focused we won’t let something drop.
6. We always end things with a bang.
7. We will keep reworking things until we get them just right.
8. We always go at something from all angles.
9. We’re not afraid to try something new for a better reaction.
10. We’re not afraid to shock and appal
1. We’re always looking for ways to make things more interesting.
2. We can spend weeks figuring out the best way to get things started.
3. We know how to evoke a response.
4. We devote hours to working on just one piece.
5. Once we’re focused we won’t let something drop.
6. We always end things with a bang.
7. We will keep reworking things until we get them just right.
8. We always go at something from all angles.
9. We’re not afraid to try something new for a better reaction.
10. We’re not afraid to shock and appal
Saturday, 7 February 2009
Do Me Financially
I had never really thought about it before. Money, that is. At least not until last Christmas, when I received what I tacked up to be a second rate gift from parents out of ideas. Unwrapping a thin, rectangular object that I was secretly hoping would turn into my own personal Cabana Boy (or other such entertainment), I pulled out a book entitled “Making More Dough”. Great. Thanks ‘rents. It’s not likely I would ever be raking in much cash at any rate with a Bachelor of Fine Arts, so what was there to increase?
Still, curiosity finally pushed me to crack the book and suddenly I was nose deep in a chapter explaining how to cut bank fees and loving every word. Had I actually been spending at least three whole dollars every time I withdrew from a street corner ATM? Appalling! Could I really make ten bucks a month in interest on my savings account? Certainly! Revelling in what was sure to be new found affluence; I would walk into the mall, coffee shop, or the local grocery store with just that much more confidence. I would buy that half price tomato sauce and be able to afford it, goddamn it!
Turns out my new book was just as satisfying as the Cabana boy I had been dreaming of in the end (not that I’m about to let any willing candidates know that). Hell, I was even feeling hotter at the bar; money is sexy, after all. I could keep myself well hydrated without having to rely on the guys that sidle my way and offer to buy me whatever I was feeling that night — not that this was generally an issue, considering how long I’ve been perfecting my approach to pre-drinking and normally had a bottle of wine safely emptied at home. Being able to strut around in thriftily acquired designer jeans, brand new heels and picking up not the ten dollar, but the sixteen dollar wine left me feeling self-reliant, in control and with more assurance than is healthy for someone who already makes a career out of her confidence.
Nonetheless, when I accepted a tequila shot from a rather nondescript young man a few weeks into my new fiscal plan, I couldn’t help but wonder why there was something about his swank that had piqued my interest and had me suddenly giving him the once-over. I remembered, though, an encounter I’d had with a guy who I’d chalked up as my type only to have him spend three quarters of our (very brief) chat drunkenly boasting about how he had barely been able to afford cover that night, when it came to me that it was their show of financial security (or lack thereof) that had caught my attention.
Dad the ecologist would explain this away as my biological inclinations to find a well established man, but I’m sure it can be broken down to the simple fact that money is hot. Hell, if I feel like the meagre dollar or two I’ll be putting into my savings makes me powerful enough to control my fiscal future, what kind of statement are the shots bought for me and my four girlfriends making? After all, if he’s financially comfortable enough to drop some of his hard earned cash on me, instincts tell me he’s in control and has it together (no matter how disastrous he might turn out to be), and that’s fucking sexy – despite my book’s enthralling money saving tips.
Wednesday, 15 October 2008
Saturday, 13 September 2008
Smack That!
What better way to say “I miss you” than to leave an impression that results in a week of soft cursing whenever you sit your sore behind down? Ask this of the average, female, humanities student and all you will get are several raised eyebrows and a few outraged gasps. According to a group of women in one of my English classes (whose collective refusal to admit make up may be a good idea and razors a fantastic one negates any desire to associate with them outside class discussions), a firm smack to the ass is not the way to win a girl’s heart.
“That’s supposed to be endearing?” she says, tugging at her calf length, burlap skirt.
Well, obviously. How else would a long-lost friend reaffirm his love for me than to assert how fantastically bootilicious my behind is? Truth be told, I like knowing that what my mama gave me is thoroughly appreciated, be it by friends or otherwise. It is those moments of feminist outrage that I (as unlikely as it may sound) feel the pangs of pity for the “oppressed sex,” although, coincidentally, considering how oppressed I’ve been feeling of late, I’ve begun to believe that there is quite possibly a third gender previously unknown to science- the otherwise labelled women’s studies major.
Between the extensive collection of bruises gathered during gameplay that may have one day been limited to me and the assortment of free drinks gleaned by lounging over the bar, I would be betraying myself were I to even nod in the direction of those who cry for female justice. Even with tits I could make a fortune (were my career ever to become one), I could buy and drink as much alcohol as the next guy, and I could uphold laws should I ever desire to; granted, the fight for feminine equality could still make some advancements were the access to male changing rooms remains limited. For that, I might consider not crumpling the petition sheet.
“But how do you justify the objectifying?” they might cry. Perhaps, biology may have something to do with it; our very own ogling of male muscles during sports games, the enthusiasm over the hard angle of a jaw, or for the less aggressive madames, the way the male lips curve over the words “make love to me!” I was once told that humans have been biologically designed for reproductive purposes, but that would be as ridiculous as believing in the existence of evolution. Astoundingly enough, science also states that an entire one hundred percent of the population is devised of males and females (although, should my earlier hypothesis be proven true, I will have to admit the aforementioned fact should no longer be considered as such) and therefore an equivalent percentage of human interaction is based on the genders of the involved persons. Thus, the demand for the cessation of both ogling and objectifying is not only a doomed battle, but one that would leave me without the wolf whistles, ass grabs and free drinks that not only add spice to my evenings, but flavour to my subsequent stories.
The feminist crusade to see a world of complete and utter equality is one that is about as completely and utterly useless as the laundry basket in my room. What kind of fun are we expected to have if we are forced to pretend that there are no subtle imbalances in the game play between dudes and broads? That I couldn’t swing my hips to get a door opened or cook dinner for the spell of solid biceps simply because we are all supposedly equal is just fucking ridiculous. I am about as equal as I ever want to be, being the “good looking broad” that I am and about as uninsulted by that statement as the next girl, and I could not possibly bring myself to sympathize with a chick who believes her breasts to be in the way of her future or who finds insult in a cat call. So they want all up on that hemp-covered ass; where’s the offence in that?
“That’s supposed to be endearing?” she says, tugging at her calf length, burlap skirt.
Well, obviously. How else would a long-lost friend reaffirm his love for me than to assert how fantastically bootilicious my behind is? Truth be told, I like knowing that what my mama gave me is thoroughly appreciated, be it by friends or otherwise. It is those moments of feminist outrage that I (as unlikely as it may sound) feel the pangs of pity for the “oppressed sex,” although, coincidentally, considering how oppressed I’ve been feeling of late, I’ve begun to believe that there is quite possibly a third gender previously unknown to science- the otherwise labelled women’s studies major.
Between the extensive collection of bruises gathered during gameplay that may have one day been limited to me and the assortment of free drinks gleaned by lounging over the bar, I would be betraying myself were I to even nod in the direction of those who cry for female justice. Even with tits I could make a fortune (were my career ever to become one), I could buy and drink as much alcohol as the next guy, and I could uphold laws should I ever desire to; granted, the fight for feminine equality could still make some advancements were the access to male changing rooms remains limited. For that, I might consider not crumpling the petition sheet.
“But how do you justify the objectifying?” they might cry. Perhaps, biology may have something to do with it; our very own ogling of male muscles during sports games, the enthusiasm over the hard angle of a jaw, or for the less aggressive madames, the way the male lips curve over the words “make love to me!” I was once told that humans have been biologically designed for reproductive purposes, but that would be as ridiculous as believing in the existence of evolution. Astoundingly enough, science also states that an entire one hundred percent of the population is devised of males and females (although, should my earlier hypothesis be proven true, I will have to admit the aforementioned fact should no longer be considered as such) and therefore an equivalent percentage of human interaction is based on the genders of the involved persons. Thus, the demand for the cessation of both ogling and objectifying is not only a doomed battle, but one that would leave me without the wolf whistles, ass grabs and free drinks that not only add spice to my evenings, but flavour to my subsequent stories.
The feminist crusade to see a world of complete and utter equality is one that is about as completely and utterly useless as the laundry basket in my room. What kind of fun are we expected to have if we are forced to pretend that there are no subtle imbalances in the game play between dudes and broads? That I couldn’t swing my hips to get a door opened or cook dinner for the spell of solid biceps simply because we are all supposedly equal is just fucking ridiculous. I am about as equal as I ever want to be, being the “good looking broad” that I am and about as uninsulted by that statement as the next girl, and I could not possibly bring myself to sympathize with a chick who believes her breasts to be in the way of her future or who finds insult in a cat call. So they want all up on that hemp-covered ass; where’s the offence in that?
Sunday, 31 August 2008
Cattles and Wives
Over the course of a trip to Kenya, it came about that I wasn’t only there to crisp my pallid complexion or ooh and ah appreciatively over animals whose names and forms I wasn’t familiar with. It turned out that all along I had been wearing a For Sale sign.
Being female, nubile and whiter than I would like to admit became my own personal advertisement that simply begged the locals to make extravagant offers to the family patriarch. Our first day in the country decidedly lay out the course of the next few weeks for me; one bold shopkeep took it upon himself to bid the entirety of the Masai Mara, animals included. Thankfully, despite his affinity for the bush and the potential for a prime piece of property, my dad declined.
Several days afterwards, a discussion with two younger Masai warriors brought about the question of the going rate for your average wife and I discovered that not only is the concept of a “free” wife baffling to them, but that a man would need to be at least ten cattle rich to even think of asking a girl from her father’s care (further confirmation that I am worth a hell of a lot more than one steak dinner). The conversation finally ended with a declarative offering of fifty cattle for my hand in marriage, much to the delight of my younger, growing and protein voracious brother. Needless to say, my dad spent most of the vacation giggling.
Eventually, Dad even took it upon himself to offer me to the locals we happened to engage in conversation. A particular group of the Masai tribe acting public relations several kilometres and tens of species later ended up, much to their misfortune, conversing with my rather spirited family. After a thorough discussion of Dad’s appreciation of the local birdlife, he began animated, and Tusker beer enthusiastic, gesticulation in my direction while seeking out a proposal in exchange for my hand in marraige. Unfortunately for my pride, partway through some light-hearted negotiations, my mother let slip that I was incapable of cattle milking. My brideprice instantly dropped to the entirety of one chicken. Brilliant.
To this day, my parents claim that our tour through Kenya was not intended as one to settle me with a paying husband; all proposals were, apparently, spontaneous. Whether or not I can believe my parent’s denial that this was premeditated is still up for debate, however. They must be holding out for a better deal with an oil-rich Arab; why else would they have put up with my shit for this long?
Wednesday, 2 April 2008
A Guide to Playing and Laying
Edited October 2008; pre-Martlet.
Being the class act that I am, I chose the very delicate topic of rugby and sex for my main feature. Writing class is definately fun as fuck.
Mud, blood and glory has only taken me so far, really. It can usually get me that tackle, the team’s respect and about as much as a high five from the guy that I would have hoped to secure by the night’s end. While the glory may be all well and good for potential conquests, it’s the mud, blood and rugby that tend to off my evening game. Try as I might, it seems to be quite impossible to score off the field when that sexy skirt only serves to highlight the bruises and rake marks left by my female competition on the pitch.
Don’t get me wrong; being seen as more than an average woman with a waist and a pair of melons can be more gratifying than the game-saving hit, but it leaves an impression that doesn’t lend itself towards the femininity needed in certain male-female interactions. Sure being introduced as a rugby player may instantly win me eye-to-eye respect, but when shaking hands with a man of exemplary muscle, I can’t be confident I wouldn’t rather be faced eye-to-chest instead. Unfortunately, it appears that being seen as one of the guys often puts me in a category that pretty firmly supersedes sex; if anything, shouldn’t my ability to keep up with the guys generally apply to my libido too? One gentleman I had been chatting up at a party heard that I played the game and punched me in the arm, saying “Shit son, that’s cool.” Not necessarily the reaction I had been hoping for.
Convinced I couldn’t be the only one whose sex life was compromised thanks to the game I play, I seized the opportunity to reassure my ego at one of my UVic team’s pre-practice stretch circles. Flopping down on an edge of the grassy ring, I mentioned my ongoing lack of action to Sarah, one of the many girls who contended regularly with bruise patterns and had long since forgone the preposterous idea of wearing skirts. After first trying to tell me that she had not, in fact, had any sort of trouble, she finally conceded to having primarily dated other rugby players. Her small town home Port Alberni has all of one rugby club with mixed genders; a cocktail of players who love the game and don’t mind having to watch out for the accumulation of bruises and scrapes while in the midst of action.
Hearing our conversation, a couple of the other girls piped up and, much to the relief of my sensitive pride, informed me that playing rugby and getting laid are polar opposites for estrogen endowed players. “Leave the lights off!” shouted Thalia, one of our forwards, shaking her head at my apparent ignorance. “Can’t show off your bruises ‘till later, T.” Apparently there were rules to the late night game and my beloved war wounds were a trademark no-no; after all, why wouldn’t I have shown off the trophies I collect on the pitch?
“Bruises aren’t sexy,” confessed my friend Neil, cringing like he had just been forced to tell me that Santa isn’t real. And according to the guys I had gathered for the sake of explaining away my recent failures, neither are biceps or ripped legs, which is something they just know would be overdeveloped in a female rugby player. Damn it. In the name of thorough research, though, I decided to even out the playing field by getting my eager volunteers to choose between two equally sexy women- one of which played my sport. Ultimately, the five or six guys who wandered in and out of the room unanimously snuck in their votes for the one who didn’t play; a choice most of them couldn’t explain. The exception, mind you, was left to my classiest gentleman friend who, upon throwing in his two cents, shrugged and explained that the rugby player was probably gay, leaving the choice obvious. It seems our reputation as players precedes us.
Despite the decided unattractiveness of trained muscles, however, it was determined that a rugby girl could still make for a good evening; a good “Vegas story.” There is apparently a little something in that swagger we get as we walk off the field that announces not only our arrival, but our inherent dominance. It has to be the right sort of evening, though, for one of the guys to be interested in submitting themselves; being out-muscled by their female partner is generally not something that makes them feel appropriately effective where it counts. Consequently, Jeff, an ex-player himself, declared that “rugby girls scare the shit out of me.”
None of this was very surprising according to my loving father and sexual selection expert, the good doctor Petr. After having survived the usual string of questions about laundry and grades when I called home, my mom ventured into “when are you bringing home a boyfriend?” territory and I mentioned my recent attempt to unravel the mysteries of my sex life. Hastily avoiding the correlation to my ability to score, I began by relating some of the reactions I had gotten from my male friends around campus and was answered by the scholarly, but unfortunate, response of “That actually sounds about right.” Leave it to dad to shut down my plans on winning the female game.
According to my father and the bearer of bad news, sexual selection dictates that the most attractive attributes of either sex are signs of vitality and vigour; clear skin, a straight walk, shiny hair- cleat rakes and fingerprint bruises excluded. Mammalian males, he says, are on average larger than their female counterparts and biologically designed for combat and protection, leaving a man with a beefy woman feeling about as useful as a deflated rugby ball. While we, the women of rugby, may pride ourselves in our ability to outflex the competition and come off covered in the glory of a fair fight, it’s, them, the men of our affections, that aren’t falling for the looming threat of being beaten by their fair maidens. And although it may sting the ego to discover, it does explain why I’ve never managed to score on evenings when I’ve had to explain why only one eye is shadowed purple.
Being introduced as a rugby player also serves to mark me as an aggressive woman which, for a man who (despite what he thinks) is innately seeking a partner to raise his young, is a key sign that I would not focus all my attention on the survival of our young; even if I would gladly focus on the production of them. “Why do you think some cultures keep their women at home?” dad says, explaining that the male is instinctively seeking out a female who will not be distracted by competition or be able to undermine their status in male social circles. I suppose it might be time I stopped showing off my biceps and my capacity to drink rum like water. On second thought, it might also help if I didn’t spend most of my night out dancing on speakers with all limbs flailing.
As enlightening as my dad’s biological insight was, it only served to further confirm that the best way to win the game is to pretend you don’t play it. The trick, it appears, is to maintain an un-muddied, un-bloodied female image until after the guy has been assured that he is not hooking up with a “ham beast.” It might be time I reconnected with my femininity. Then again, what determines that a passion for playing the game, any game, isn’t sexy in itself?
Don’t get me wrong; being seen as more than an average woman with a waist and a pair of melons can be more gratifying than the game-saving hit, but it leaves an impression that doesn’t lend itself towards the femininity needed in certain male-female interactions. Sure being introduced as a rugby player may instantly win me eye-to-eye respect, but when shaking hands with a man of exemplary muscle, I can’t be confident I wouldn’t rather be faced eye-to-chest instead. Unfortunately, it appears that being seen as one of the guys often puts me in a category that pretty firmly supersedes sex; if anything, shouldn’t my ability to keep up with the guys generally apply to my libido too? One gentleman I had been chatting up at a party heard that I played the game and punched me in the arm, saying “Shit son, that’s cool.” Not necessarily the reaction I had been hoping for.
Convinced I couldn’t be the only one whose sex life was compromised thanks to the game I play, I seized the opportunity to reassure my ego at one of my UVic team’s pre-practice stretch circles. Flopping down on an edge of the grassy ring, I mentioned my ongoing lack of action to Sarah, one of the many girls who contended regularly with bruise patterns and had long since forgone the preposterous idea of wearing skirts. After first trying to tell me that she had not, in fact, had any sort of trouble, she finally conceded to having primarily dated other rugby players. Her small town home Port Alberni has all of one rugby club with mixed genders; a cocktail of players who love the game and don’t mind having to watch out for the accumulation of bruises and scrapes while in the midst of action.
Hearing our conversation, a couple of the other girls piped up and, much to the relief of my sensitive pride, informed me that playing rugby and getting laid are polar opposites for estrogen endowed players. “Leave the lights off!” shouted Thalia, one of our forwards, shaking her head at my apparent ignorance. “Can’t show off your bruises ‘till later, T.” Apparently there were rules to the late night game and my beloved war wounds were a trademark no-no; after all, why wouldn’t I have shown off the trophies I collect on the pitch?
“Bruises aren’t sexy,” confessed my friend Neil, cringing like he had just been forced to tell me that Santa isn’t real. And according to the guys I had gathered for the sake of explaining away my recent failures, neither are biceps or ripped legs, which is something they just know would be overdeveloped in a female rugby player. Damn it. In the name of thorough research, though, I decided to even out the playing field by getting my eager volunteers to choose between two equally sexy women- one of which played my sport. Ultimately, the five or six guys who wandered in and out of the room unanimously snuck in their votes for the one who didn’t play; a choice most of them couldn’t explain. The exception, mind you, was left to my classiest gentleman friend who, upon throwing in his two cents, shrugged and explained that the rugby player was probably gay, leaving the choice obvious. It seems our reputation as players precedes us.
Despite the decided unattractiveness of trained muscles, however, it was determined that a rugby girl could still make for a good evening; a good “Vegas story.” There is apparently a little something in that swagger we get as we walk off the field that announces not only our arrival, but our inherent dominance. It has to be the right sort of evening, though, for one of the guys to be interested in submitting themselves; being out-muscled by their female partner is generally not something that makes them feel appropriately effective where it counts. Consequently, Jeff, an ex-player himself, declared that “rugby girls scare the shit out of me.”
None of this was very surprising according to my loving father and sexual selection expert, the good doctor Petr. After having survived the usual string of questions about laundry and grades when I called home, my mom ventured into “when are you bringing home a boyfriend?” territory and I mentioned my recent attempt to unravel the mysteries of my sex life. Hastily avoiding the correlation to my ability to score, I began by relating some of the reactions I had gotten from my male friends around campus and was answered by the scholarly, but unfortunate, response of “That actually sounds about right.” Leave it to dad to shut down my plans on winning the female game.
According to my father and the bearer of bad news, sexual selection dictates that the most attractive attributes of either sex are signs of vitality and vigour; clear skin, a straight walk, shiny hair- cleat rakes and fingerprint bruises excluded. Mammalian males, he says, are on average larger than their female counterparts and biologically designed for combat and protection, leaving a man with a beefy woman feeling about as useful as a deflated rugby ball. While we, the women of rugby, may pride ourselves in our ability to outflex the competition and come off covered in the glory of a fair fight, it’s, them, the men of our affections, that aren’t falling for the looming threat of being beaten by their fair maidens. And although it may sting the ego to discover, it does explain why I’ve never managed to score on evenings when I’ve had to explain why only one eye is shadowed purple.
Being introduced as a rugby player also serves to mark me as an aggressive woman which, for a man who (despite what he thinks) is innately seeking a partner to raise his young, is a key sign that I would not focus all my attention on the survival of our young; even if I would gladly focus on the production of them. “Why do you think some cultures keep their women at home?” dad says, explaining that the male is instinctively seeking out a female who will not be distracted by competition or be able to undermine their status in male social circles. I suppose it might be time I stopped showing off my biceps and my capacity to drink rum like water. On second thought, it might also help if I didn’t spend most of my night out dancing on speakers with all limbs flailing.
As enlightening as my dad’s biological insight was, it only served to further confirm that the best way to win the game is to pretend you don’t play it. The trick, it appears, is to maintain an un-muddied, un-bloodied female image until after the guy has been assured that he is not hooking up with a “ham beast.” It might be time I reconnected with my femininity. Then again, what determines that a passion for playing the game, any game, isn’t sexy in itself?
Tuesday, 22 January 2008
The Don'ts of Doing Me
Time and experience have taught me several lessons on what I will and will not accept… mostly on what I won’t. The oddities that men seem to think are sexy and the various things that they will bring up in the midst of a romp session are sometimes so damned amusing, that I have decided to document them.
1. Don’t ask me to say, scream, or moan your name as, chances are, I have no idea what it is and I generally don’t want you to feel too terribly about yourself if I am not quite done yet.
2. Don’t deny me the opportunity to take a shower with you. What are you; gay?
3. Don’t swing yourself in front of my face whilst wishing me “Merry Christmas.” I thoroughly chew the meat I find in my gifts.
4. Don’t call me up to help you heal your friend’s bleeding and broken heart with sex. As much of an experience and story as it may make in the future; the delicate way in which you drag me by the belt loops towards the big bed in the middle of the room with him watching is not the way to get my blood pumping.
5. Don’t threaten me with handcuffs if you do not plan on delivering. There is a reason that I am around you at all and without the handcuffs, that reason is very hard to remember.
1. Don’t ask me to say, scream, or moan your name as, chances are, I have no idea what it is and I generally don’t want you to feel too terribly about yourself if I am not quite done yet.
2. Don’t deny me the opportunity to take a shower with you. What are you; gay?
3. Don’t swing yourself in front of my face whilst wishing me “Merry Christmas.” I thoroughly chew the meat I find in my gifts.
4. Don’t call me up to help you heal your friend’s bleeding and broken heart with sex. As much of an experience and story as it may make in the future; the delicate way in which you drag me by the belt loops towards the big bed in the middle of the room with him watching is not the way to get my blood pumping.
5. Don’t threaten me with handcuffs if you do not plan on delivering. There is a reason that I am around you at all and without the handcuffs, that reason is very hard to remember.
6. Don’t insist that I compensate for your inability to keep a condom full. Get used to it or go home; I like to sleep with dirty men but that does not make me willing to ditch my clean record.
7. Don’t ask to keep my panties. Not only is that weird and brings to mind the Swim-Fan type, but I paid for those panties and I damn well intend on impressing more than just you with them.
8. Don’t try to lay me on your parents’ bed. That is the bed where they most likely conceived you and/or recreate the events of your conception regularly. I want nothing to do with your parents anyway, so don’t find a way to somehow include me in their sex lives.
9. Don’t dry hump me like you would your favourite space between the pillows; I have a dog and he can do that just as well as you can.
10. Don’t ask me to go out while I am straddling you. And please don’t correct my belief that you want to go outside to finish up in January. I would rather think your mind is on the sex than on possibly seeing me outside of the bedroom.
11. Don’t tell me that I look just like your girlfriend during our threesome. The reason I was invited to join in is because I am obviously hotter than she is.
12. Don’t blame me if your grandmother sees the scratches on your back; it means that you were at least doing something right.
13. Don’t tell me about the seven year old daughter you found out you had three months earlier. While her pictures might be endearing and the story may be quite cute, I do not plan on engaging in reproductive behaviours with someone who has already proven to be unexpectedly fertile.
14. Don’t make it a competition. I will win.
15. Don’t comment on the bruises left behind by the last guy; you know damned well that I just heard your phone call to one of your other call girls.
16. Don’t sweep me off the sidewalk for an aggressive kiss and then tell me not expect it of you in the future. That is like opening the door of the chocolate factory to Charlie, slamming it in his face and later anticipating a return visit.
17. Don’t ask me if the sex means anything to me. This is generally a good rule of thumb, but, for your sake, specifically refrain from asking me this after having met the day before.
18. Don’t hope to get anything out of me after telling me I belong to you. Don’t hope to get away alive, either.
19. Don’t bite my arm. Biting may be sexy, but the arm is generally not one of the erotic female zones and the fist sized bruise you leave behind evokes more sympathetic looks than my ego can handle.
21. Don’t try to hold my hand after sex. Unless I like you (and I probably do not) or plan on laying you again within the next five minutes, I do not want to be touched or cuddled by you.
22. Don’t invite your roommate into the room for a toke while I am still naked under your sheets.
23. Don’t cover my neck in so many hickeys that I look like I have a severe case of melanoma. I am not one of those women who enjoy wearing scarves inside.
24. Don’t hang yourself out the front of your jeans at the beach as the shock the tour group of septuagenarians may experience could only lead to several fatal heart attacks. You would not want that on your conscience, would you?
None of these "Dont's" are fictitious; I do fully intend to make fun of every man I’ve ever slept with... they deserve it, after all.
Thursday, 10 January 2008
The Pool-Boy I Call Rugby
There are some days that come around when I sit at my desk, massaging sore legs and wonder how normal people do it. Not “it”, the very subtle allusion to secretive human (and surprisingly enough, the natural biological form of reproduction) S.E.X., but actually the “it” of not having any. Granted, it would be a slight exaggeration of the truth were I to claim that I got some on a regular basis from a wide variety of victims, I mean, attractive volunteers, but if I’m somehow lacking at least I get worked over frequently by the Pool-Boy I like to call Rugby.
The moments when I come home covered in mud, bruises, or scratches and babbling happily to my roommates are, oddly enough, the times when I find myself favoured with more blank looks and raised eyebrows than usual. Is there something wrong with enjoying a little blood and dirty work? Undoubtedly, despite what your mother or pastor would tell you, it’s the sweat and the resulting ache that land and keep survival of the species on everyone’s mind. So why wouldn’t I spend eighty minutes rolling through the mud with a ball? The women I play with may not be exactly my idea of a good tumble, but the balls and adrenaline that my Pool-Boy brings to the field are more than worth forfeiting my ability to walk the next day (which is something that gets left at the door before decent playing time in the bedroom anyways).
While I’m sure that knitting the sex drive away may be some people’s visionary answer, I personally feel it lacks a certain sense of rush, of excitement, of… While I may not be expressing myself clearly, generally, other options could only result in boredom. Subject yourself to some mud and bruises first, and then tell me that your preferred Pool-Boy is stamp collecting.
The moments when I come home covered in mud, bruises, or scratches and babbling happily to my roommates are, oddly enough, the times when I find myself favoured with more blank looks and raised eyebrows than usual. Is there something wrong with enjoying a little blood and dirty work? Undoubtedly, despite what your mother or pastor would tell you, it’s the sweat and the resulting ache that land and keep survival of the species on everyone’s mind. So why wouldn’t I spend eighty minutes rolling through the mud with a ball? The women I play with may not be exactly my idea of a good tumble, but the balls and adrenaline that my Pool-Boy brings to the field are more than worth forfeiting my ability to walk the next day (which is something that gets left at the door before decent playing time in the bedroom anyways).
While I’m sure that knitting the sex drive away may be some people’s visionary answer, I personally feel it lacks a certain sense of rush, of excitement, of… While I may not be expressing myself clearly, generally, other options could only result in boredom. Subject yourself to some mud and bruises first, and then tell me that your preferred Pool-Boy is stamp collecting.
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