Week 14 (29)
Return
from downtime.
Saturday, 05:57
We’re back. Miss us?
Then go nominate “Giggling” for the March Silver Clitoris for best story, would you? Or “Curtains.” Or “Home Safe.” Or Victim/Victorian . Or any of the other stories that are currently up for nomination, or any smut you’ve read that was posted somewhere to the internet in the month of March.
What am I doing up at not quite six on a Saturday morning? —Don’t ask, okay?
I am informed by the folks at the alt.sex.stories Text Repository that, because some intangible assets were traded from one ISP to another in return for some glowing digits on a bank’s computer screen somewhere, the very tangible servers on which this journal resides (as well as many other gigabytes of smut) will be unplugged at some point tonight and schlepped to another room in the building they call home. So we’ll be down and out for several hours, at least, barring unforseen complications (quick, knock wood).
So go watch Farscape or something. New episodes (finally) begin tonight, over to the SciFi channel. (A good fan-based episode guide lies hereabouts.)
(Weird, isn’t it. How easy it is to switch gears and stop fretting about the all-too-phenomenal, and look forward to slipping oh-so-swiftly into the sublime... Damn that opiate of the masses.)
Y’all
did realize that when I said “theocracy,” I wasn’t
being hyperbolic, right?
Friday, 07:03
More reasons to fuck ’em. (I hadn’t heard about the red heifer before; old news, but still.) Discussion hereabouts. (By the way: can we get, like, a global spell-check to change “Isreal” to “Israel”? It’s really starting to get on my nerves. —And the John of Revelations fame did a lot of amanita, or maybe ergot, and Robert Graves already solved the Number of the Beast to the satisfaction of most: DCLXVI, or DOMITIUS CÆSAR LEGATOS XTI VIOLENTER INTERFECIT. Old friggin’ news.)
I’m starting to understand why, exactly, Momus scarpered to Japan. I mean, aside from the whole schoolgirl-and-sailor-suit thing.
Fuck
tha theocracy.
Thursday, 06:41
We must hear from this book and this author for precisely the reasons that so many people don’t want to. Take a moment and hail the courage of the University of Minnesota Press for remembering what it’s all about: the freedom to think and debate and speak out against abusive nonsense and cry “Bullshit!” when you smell it. (Imagine not publishing a book solely because of its content. In this day and age...) And then borrow a cup of vitriol from Christopher Hitchens to dash in the collective face of the Concerned Women for America’s Culture and Family Institute and all their ilk. —Metaphorically, of course.
Some of the participants in the International Labia Blog-a-thon—
Kythryne Aisling, Hanne Blank, Heather Corrina, Bruin Dan, Sabrina Dent, the Kitten Goddess, Brianna Pearson, and whoever it is that runs Unsuccessfully Cynical.
Go, read, learn, network. Do something nice for a nice pair of lips.
(Labile?)
Vogue,
on the other hand, does not have back.
Tuesday, 22:27
“What size do you wear?”
The Spouse looks at me.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “I’m just curious. Give me some perspective.”
“A ten,” she says. “Only now really it’s more like a twelve.”
“Well, we are both coming off the winter, you know.”
“Yeah,” she says. Pointedly. “Both of us.”
“What?” I say. Okay, okay. Yes. Though I haven’t bought a 36-inch waist in a while, I’m not back down to 32, either, and I’d much rather be at the weight it says on my driver’s license. But still. Not too bad for a hair over or under six feet, depending on what time of day it is.
The Spouse? The Spouse is—little. Short, and her hands are small in mine (and usually cold. “Cold hands,” she says, “warm heart.” “So what does that say about me?” I counter, swallowing hers in mine like oven mitts), and even if she’s thicker about the belly than she used to be (“Peasant stock,” she says, her mouth twisting sourly), I mean, she’s still—well within the norm, I guess. Solidly in the middle of the Great American Bell Curve. A ten, sometimes a twelve.
Vogue, of course, in the “Shape Issue” (on sale now!), topped out at a size eight. Ten sometimes. That would be Sophie Dahl. All hail their courage in defying convention and busting taboos, eh?
Yes, yes. It’s the fashion industry, which is a running gag so old it’s—well, it’s really old, and it’s a weirdly fucked-up hyperreality; it’s like the television shows we watch where everyone can afford spiffy West Village apartments without ever spending much time at all at the office, which is almost always a trendy converted warehouse space stocked with Macs. The fashion industry has always been a lovely test case of the idiocy of the idea that the free market is composed of rational actors acting in their own best interests; whether it’s Jockey For Her killing the best-selling line of women’s underwear ever (because they weren’t girly enough; no link, just go read Backlash if for whatever reason you never did back when it was au courant) or ZoZa’s brilliant idea to make all their dresses two sizes smaller than labelled (it’s no. 3 on the list), the fashionistas have no shortage of head-scratching idiocies in dealing with women and bodies and the imagery thereof—their very bread and butter, their meat and drink, one would think. The only good news is we’re getting more equitable: men are starting to get treated the same way.
So what I’m saying is, it’s an easy target. Not hard at all to shake a finger and waggle an eyebrow and get off a good dudgeon at their expense. Feels almost like the low road.
Still: it’s so fuckin’ big. And pervasive. And influential. And unreal. So it must needs be done, all the same, nonetheless.
Labium, labia; labial; labile. Not that I have any myself—lips, I got, but you know what I mean, lips—
Spread them with your tongue. Muscle it in there. Learn the feel of it, the geography, by taste: the outer lips, like licking skin, but creamier, a tang. As they swell and sigh a little open you can worry at them with your teeth, your lips, gently, but they can take a little rough-and-tumble. It’s Zen: chewing without chewing. Taking a bite without biting. Like kissing, but. That heated slick that spreads along them, smears your cheek and chin, and if you have a mustache some hours later you can sniff ostentatiously when no one else but her is looking, and smile, and she will get it and blush prettily. The moment when they spread enough so—it’s like, some say, licking a penny, but not so much; still, as bad an analogy as it is, it will do. It is like what it is: the simple fact that your tongue is inside her, tasting her other throat, deep between her lips—
She hisses. “Ow,” she says. “Not so much,” she says. “Maybe—” You look up. She smiles. “C’mere,” she says.
Later, after, rest your hand there, your fingertip lightly on those lips as they fold in on themselves again. Still warm and wet.
—Anyway. Hanne Blank writes:
Basically, the point is to celebrate labia, your own or someone else’s, to get the word out that labia are actually rather pleasant things....and thus help combat some of the really screwed up messages that are apparently out there and circulating among young (preteen and teen) women that labia, vulvæ, and pussies generally are ugly, disgusting, etc. At Scarleteen lately there have been a lot of very young women posting who seem convinced that they need plastic surgery or even amputation of their labia to make themselves look good and sexy.
If you will be so good as to write me back with a few choice words or sentences about labia and/or vulvae—yours, someone else’s, or just in general—and why they’re cool and lovely and sexy and wonderful, I will post them in my blog, and they will be shared with lots and lots of young women who need food for thought and reassurance so that they don’t go around thinking their genitals are somehow hideous and disgusting for being normal female genitals.
Here’s the format I’d like you to use:
Under the header “Labia Love!”, type in whatever you’ve got to say about labia/vulvae that you’d like me to paste in my blog.
Follow it with a signature of some kind that identifies who you are, like “Kathy, 28, hairstylist” or “Sydney, 34, editor.” First names only are fine, full name if you want.
Send it back to me by midnight Tuesday, 4/2! I will post your comments in my blog for all the world to enjoy!
You heard the woman, people. Get crackin’.
George
got back.
Monday, 21:23
Mostly notable for the assortment of Thos. Rowlandson illustrations, tiny but vivaciously colored. The commentary is singularly uninspired: “Rowlandson’s pictures are far more enjoyable to look at than most 18th-century erotic art—the French, too precious, and the Japanese, too beautiful. That’s to say nothing of what passes for erotica today—a catalog of fetishes modeled by bodies that seem too hard to harbor any real lust.” Sigh. —But I’ll probably browse around the website anyway, see what’s there.
An added bonus link: dildoes.
nicholas urfé
indigo • the
james sisters • fripperies
links • about
• ftp
archives
•
