Either way, I'm poor. Let's review: Jessie had a good job, Jessie lost her job, Jessie became a nomad for a while, and then Jessie landed back in Austin, TX - quite a ways away from where she began, in Charlotte, NC.
So, now all my worldly dreams have come true: I'm poor as hell and waiting tables at the very same restaurant where I used to work before I left Texas in order to finish my Bachelor's degree. Hmm, now there's a full circle.
To be continued . . .
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Reference sites
I got so wrapped up that I forgot to add my websites. Whew! All this sex talk and I've got the vapors! Anyway, here are some links just in case you would like to begin a sexual revolution of your own. This is by no means comprehensive, but a good start.
http://www.netdoctor.co.uk/sex_relationships/facts/orgasmtrouble.htm
http://dodsonandross.com/
http://dodsonandross.com/blogs/eric-amaranth (This is a blogger, Eric Amaranth, who explores the male perspective of sex, and he does it in a very fun way! You'd be surprised.)
http://dodsonandross.com/sexfeature/bitches-bisexual-dykes (No, this isn't just about bisexuality - it's about a woman's sexual power)
http://www.netdoctor.co.uk/sex_relationships/facts/orgasmtrouble.htm
http://dodsonandross.com/
http://dodsonandross.com/blogs/eric-amaranth (This is a blogger, Eric Amaranth, who explores the male perspective of sex, and he does it in a very fun way! You'd be surprised.)
http://dodsonandross.com/sexfeature/bitches-bisexual-dykes (No, this isn't just about bisexuality - it's about a woman's sexual power)
Whore, Party of One?
I am a whore.
Okay, I'm a reformed whore. (?) What the hell kind of sense does that make?
WARNING: This is a graphic blog entry, sexual and raw in nature, and is not intended for the faint of heart, or those plagued with random cases of the 'vapors'. Of course, if you already read my blog, this is nothing new. Please, continue.
The funny thing about the term 'whore' is that it usually carries a negative connotation; I look at things a little bit differently, and it has served me interestingly, if not well. In high school, I looked at sex through pure, innocent eyes. I wanted to wait until I was married, or in a secure relationship before I gave myself away. My parents didn't talk about sex.
Do you remember the sex talk you had with your parents? Here's mine:
Mom: Have you had sex?
Jess: Umm, no. (With nobody except my right hand, that is. Of course, I omitted this.)
Mom: Do you know about sex?
Jess: I think so?
Mom: DON'T EVER LET ANYONE STICK ANYTHING IN YOU.
Jess: Good talk, Mom.
Dad: Scratches head, turns red and runs.
That night, I flipped my bedcovers back to find a couple of circa 1962 sexual education pamphlets tucked under my pillow. I read them, and getting excited by the 'anatomical diagrams', got off to my very first porn. Thank you, sexual education pamphlets.
From then on, I was more than a little confused about sex, so I secretly consulted with my dad's "hidden stash" of Hustler and Playboy magazines. My first honest thought: So every woman is a lesbian? My second thought: Penises are intriguing.
Then came Kurt. Aah, the first real boyfriend, the one I wanted to make sweet, beautiful, perfect love with. I envisioned a picnic on a warm June day; flowers, wine, assorted luncheon meats (it WAS a picnic), and of course, Kurt dressed like the cover of a Harlequin romance novel, his long hair ruffled by the breeze . . . Instead, I got a basement at 4 a.m., and the bemused thought of: Really? That's what all the fuss is about? Clearly I did it all wrong!
The natural next step was to consult Cosmo, which of course, had all the answers. Oh dear God, what a mistake. Suddenly, I was trying to pose like a supermodel while in the throes; desperately trying to remember all the tips in the 'touch him this way, and he'll BEG for more' section. All the while, and this has carried on up until very recently, I didn't enjoy sex.
(WAIT. Let me be clear. I almost always have enjoyed my sexual experiences, but have never mentally and emotionally let myself go enough for a man to get me off. That has happened by accident, of course, but I always closed the most intimate and wonderful part of myself off. Which, I believe, is why I used to go through sex partners like underpants. The other explanation, of course, is that I really enjoyed a sexual buffet.)
The thing is, I am 28, and in the middle of a sexual/sensual revolution. Since the only person I want to have sex with is a few states away, I have plenty of time on my hands (giggity) to figure out what makes me happy - and more importantly, how I can convey these things to him. You may ask, 'Why Jess, is this important now? Why not years ago when you were just a junior whore?' The answer is that in my life, I continue to evolve. And now that sex is being denied me, I can do nothing but explore my sexuality. And frankly, this is the best gift I could give myself.
I used to have sex with different men, with the thought that one will magically know and understand my body with zero prompting from me. And HE would be 'the one'. Silly, yes, but every little girl has her fantasy (some girls dream about their wedding day - I dream of orgasms and fast cars; books, and well-read, articulate men). Regardless, I had an AHA! moment about a month ago.
The problem wasn't with these men; the problem lay with me and my unwillingness to explore, and to let my guard down. My personality requires that I read about something before I understand it, and absorb it into my life, so I checked out a few web sites (links to follow) for some education. I think the best advice I got from these sites wasn't advice at all; it was the knowledge that sex "is like a dance; it's about giving and taking, and the partnership of two people". I had lived so many years thinking that I was a second-class citizen in the bedroom, and that my sole purpose was to blow his mind, and if I got off, all the better. But that's a bit of nonsense now, isn't it?
Now, really, think of it. Sex is like a dance. It's about giving, and taking. It's about exploration, and learning about one another in a safe, open way. I guess that instead of eating from the man buffet (i.e. being a traditional 'whore'), it's more satisfying to open up to one repeatedly, explore and enjoy the dance.
John, come dip me ;)
Okay, I'm a reformed whore. (?) What the hell kind of sense does that make?
WARNING: This is a graphic blog entry, sexual and raw in nature, and is not intended for the faint of heart, or those plagued with random cases of the 'vapors'. Of course, if you already read my blog, this is nothing new. Please, continue.
The funny thing about the term 'whore' is that it usually carries a negative connotation; I look at things a little bit differently, and it has served me interestingly, if not well. In high school, I looked at sex through pure, innocent eyes. I wanted to wait until I was married, or in a secure relationship before I gave myself away. My parents didn't talk about sex.
Do you remember the sex talk you had with your parents? Here's mine:
Mom: Have you had sex?
Jess: Umm, no. (With nobody except my right hand, that is. Of course, I omitted this.)
Mom: Do you know about sex?
Jess: I think so?
Mom: DON'T EVER LET ANYONE STICK ANYTHING IN YOU.
Jess: Good talk, Mom.
Dad: Scratches head, turns red and runs.
That night, I flipped my bedcovers back to find a couple of circa 1962 sexual education pamphlets tucked under my pillow. I read them, and getting excited by the 'anatomical diagrams', got off to my very first porn. Thank you, sexual education pamphlets.
From then on, I was more than a little confused about sex, so I secretly consulted with my dad's "hidden stash" of Hustler and Playboy magazines. My first honest thought: So every woman is a lesbian? My second thought: Penises are intriguing.
Then came Kurt. Aah, the first real boyfriend, the one I wanted to make sweet, beautiful, perfect love with. I envisioned a picnic on a warm June day; flowers, wine, assorted luncheon meats (it WAS a picnic), and of course, Kurt dressed like the cover of a Harlequin romance novel, his long hair ruffled by the breeze . . . Instead, I got a basement at 4 a.m., and the bemused thought of: Really? That's what all the fuss is about? Clearly I did it all wrong!
The natural next step was to consult Cosmo, which of course, had all the answers. Oh dear God, what a mistake. Suddenly, I was trying to pose like a supermodel while in the throes; desperately trying to remember all the tips in the 'touch him this way, and he'll BEG for more' section. All the while, and this has carried on up until very recently, I didn't enjoy sex.
(WAIT. Let me be clear. I almost always have enjoyed my sexual experiences, but have never mentally and emotionally let myself go enough for a man to get me off. That has happened by accident, of course, but I always closed the most intimate and wonderful part of myself off. Which, I believe, is why I used to go through sex partners like underpants. The other explanation, of course, is that I really enjoyed a sexual buffet.)
The thing is, I am 28, and in the middle of a sexual/sensual revolution. Since the only person I want to have sex with is a few states away, I have plenty of time on my hands (giggity) to figure out what makes me happy - and more importantly, how I can convey these things to him. You may ask, 'Why Jess, is this important now? Why not years ago when you were just a junior whore?' The answer is that in my life, I continue to evolve. And now that sex is being denied me, I can do nothing but explore my sexuality. And frankly, this is the best gift I could give myself.
I used to have sex with different men, with the thought that one will magically know and understand my body with zero prompting from me. And HE would be 'the one'. Silly, yes, but every little girl has her fantasy (some girls dream about their wedding day - I dream of orgasms and fast cars; books, and well-read, articulate men). Regardless, I had an AHA! moment about a month ago.
The problem wasn't with these men; the problem lay with me and my unwillingness to explore, and to let my guard down. My personality requires that I read about something before I understand it, and absorb it into my life, so I checked out a few web sites (links to follow) for some education. I think the best advice I got from these sites wasn't advice at all; it was the knowledge that sex "is like a dance; it's about giving and taking, and the partnership of two people". I had lived so many years thinking that I was a second-class citizen in the bedroom, and that my sole purpose was to blow his mind, and if I got off, all the better. But that's a bit of nonsense now, isn't it?
Now, really, think of it. Sex is like a dance. It's about giving, and taking. It's about exploration, and learning about one another in a safe, open way. I guess that instead of eating from the man buffet (i.e. being a traditional 'whore'), it's more satisfying to open up to one repeatedly, explore and enjoy the dance.
John, come dip me ;)
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Playful Mind . . . Playful Body
Today is the last day of having short hair. That’s right, I said it. Actually I said it last night, and a girl said, “Umm, how is that possible?” I smirked and said, “Girl, I’m getting my first weave!” One of the perks of having a best friend who’s also a hair stylist. And being playful with my mind and body.
I don’t understand people who say tattoos, piercings, and hair dye (among other modifications) are so bad for you. You know who you are! Let’s face it; if women in the stone ages had the options we do now, they would be walking around with different hair or their caveman’s name tattooed on their foreheads. Think about it for a second. It’s a basic trait of the sexes: we want to improve ourselves to fit either our own version of ourselves, or what we think will attract the hottest mates.
But for the moment, let’s examine my weave. It’s really just an example of the transformation I’ve been going through for the past few months – or arguably, for my whole life. Ever since I was old enough to buy hair dye or get tattoos and piercings, I have played with my self-image. The first time I dyed my hair black, my sister’s best friend Lucas was sitting in the kitchen.
“You look like a vampire, Jess. Wash it out.” I didn’t. I proudly wore it, even though people teased me mercilessly. The most odd part of my first hair dyeing experience is that my hair is naturally almost black anyway. What was the difference? Since that time, I have had my hair dyed red, purple, and even bleached blonde. Why not?
There is a song lyric that mentions having ‘fake hair, fake eyes, fake nails – what on you is real?’ To which, I argue, the person underneath is real. That is the version of a woman that works for her, so get over it. That’s my theory.
Now, let’s move onto tattoos. Emali and I used to say we never wanted tattoos that could be seen under our wedding dresses. Well, the older I get, the more I realize that I don’t need to look like someone else’s version of perfect: I do however, need to be my version of perfect. (There is also body makeup, but we won’t get into that right now.)
UPDATE: This weave thing is not for the faint of heart. This is PAINFUL! The hair is actually braided and sewn into my scalp, and for those who have tattoos, it feels like the gun is stuck in my scalp. Chew on that. I’m drinking a Corona in hopes that the pain will be numbed. Anyone have a flask of whiskey?
To be continued . . . .
I don’t understand people who say tattoos, piercings, and hair dye (among other modifications) are so bad for you. You know who you are! Let’s face it; if women in the stone ages had the options we do now, they would be walking around with different hair or their caveman’s name tattooed on their foreheads. Think about it for a second. It’s a basic trait of the sexes: we want to improve ourselves to fit either our own version of ourselves, or what we think will attract the hottest mates.
But for the moment, let’s examine my weave. It’s really just an example of the transformation I’ve been going through for the past few months – or arguably, for my whole life. Ever since I was old enough to buy hair dye or get tattoos and piercings, I have played with my self-image. The first time I dyed my hair black, my sister’s best friend Lucas was sitting in the kitchen.
“You look like a vampire, Jess. Wash it out.” I didn’t. I proudly wore it, even though people teased me mercilessly. The most odd part of my first hair dyeing experience is that my hair is naturally almost black anyway. What was the difference? Since that time, I have had my hair dyed red, purple, and even bleached blonde. Why not?
There is a song lyric that mentions having ‘fake hair, fake eyes, fake nails – what on you is real?’ To which, I argue, the person underneath is real. That is the version of a woman that works for her, so get over it. That’s my theory.
Now, let’s move onto tattoos. Emali and I used to say we never wanted tattoos that could be seen under our wedding dresses. Well, the older I get, the more I realize that I don’t need to look like someone else’s version of perfect: I do however, need to be my version of perfect. (There is also body makeup, but we won’t get into that right now.)
UPDATE: This weave thing is not for the faint of heart. This is PAINFUL! The hair is actually braided and sewn into my scalp, and for those who have tattoos, it feels like the gun is stuck in my scalp. Chew on that. I’m drinking a Corona in hopes that the pain will be numbed. Anyone have a flask of whiskey?
To be continued . . . .
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Falling
Aah, Sleep, you wiley thing. I am awake, wide awake, and Kendall Payne's 'Scratch' speaks so much truth in my ears. And Johnny Lang's 'Breakin' Me' does the same. I can't turn the music off, because usually it lulls me to sleep. Not tonight! Damn!
Regardless, I decided to do something useful with my past-midnight time. I'm looking through my old blogs, and two themes keep throwing themselves in front of me like teens in a suicide pact jumping in front of a train: searching and the opposite sex. Not necessarily in that order, I guess. I can't believe it, but they actually seem to be tethered together by a common underlying theme.
I want a soft place to land.
Regardless, I decided to do something useful with my past-midnight time. I'm looking through my old blogs, and two themes keep throwing themselves in front of me like teens in a suicide pact jumping in front of a train: searching and the opposite sex. Not necessarily in that order, I guess. I can't believe it, but they actually seem to be tethered together by a common underlying theme.
I want a soft place to land.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Strength and The Sweetest Thing . . .
. . . is a pineapple, according to me. I'm not sure if I've written about my Pineapple Philosophy, but it goes like this: I am a pineapple. I have a lot of defensive prickles, but if someone takes the time to push past those, they'll find a lot of real sweetness inside. So, I'm lying here on Emali's couch crying a little, evaluating things, listening to ridiculously painful music (the likes of Destiny's Child's 'Emotion' and Des'ree's 'Kissing You') thinking of someone's lips, desperately trying to keep my heart above water. You see, painful waves of feeling (fucking 'f' word) keep washing into my heart, relentlessly peeling back layers of prickles. These waves, these waves, they keep me off balance.
I have the feeling that I shouldn't allow myself to feel these things, it's my instinct to keep them at arm's length, hand outstretched, palm sternly on the chest of the heart of all this bittersweetness. It's probably not the smartest thing, says my head. The same head that holds the eyes that keep leaking warm, salty tears which stream down my cheeks, landing on my chest. Odd, I think, that the tears keep landing on the chest that hold my heart, thus feeding the waves. It's a time worn feeling, but crash go the waves, unfailing, lapping at my defenses.
Half of the time I don't realize that they're there, those walls. But it's nights like these, when it's pointed out to me that I - what am I? What do I write to describe myself? I'm a witty literatus, endlessly cowering behind clever banter and quick, verbose returns - am afraid, like a child hiding behind stone, brick, and mortar, all carefully placed and meticulously stacked in order to save myself - from what? From looking like a fool - that fool who lunges for something, opening up, showing the pineapple innards, only to be denied it and hurt. What does it really cost, though, should I be hurt again? Failure (or heartbreak) is just another spade full of mortar, smudged onto a brick and stragetically placed, plugging the potential hole that I have already decided will end up there. Aah, cynicism, my old friend. Hello.
I don't know how to show how I feel. I almost wrote that I don't know how to feel, but that's not true. The tears and open, raw sensation in my chest can attest to that. My heart hurts, my head is clouded, and I am frustrated. When I worked at the hospital, I used to watch recovering stroke victims struggle and strain, desperately trying to open up and tell me what they wanted, what they needed, and I pitied them. Now I pity me. I am the same. Worse, actually, because it's a self imposed prison.
Luckily I have Emali's help. She is so strong, and she patiently teaches me how to feel, and to express myself. She is patient and kind, like love. The way she is with her Angel amazes me. I would have shut down and walked away time and time again, when it got too hard. Express yourself or walk away? Emali takes fear and love (intertwined) by the hand, shows it what she is, and breathes life back into it. Jessie, however, drops the hand and steps away, like feelings are the business end of a gun and the safety is off. I would dance away from the peril time and time again, but Emali, in her gentle manner, taps her forehead to the barrel and says, 'I can handle this, and so can you'.
It would appear that I have a lot to learn in the ways of feeling and strength and bravery.
I have the feeling that I shouldn't allow myself to feel these things, it's my instinct to keep them at arm's length, hand outstretched, palm sternly on the chest of the heart of all this bittersweetness. It's probably not the smartest thing, says my head. The same head that holds the eyes that keep leaking warm, salty tears which stream down my cheeks, landing on my chest. Odd, I think, that the tears keep landing on the chest that hold my heart, thus feeding the waves. It's a time worn feeling, but crash go the waves, unfailing, lapping at my defenses.
Half of the time I don't realize that they're there, those walls. But it's nights like these, when it's pointed out to me that I - what am I? What do I write to describe myself? I'm a witty literatus, endlessly cowering behind clever banter and quick, verbose returns - am afraid, like a child hiding behind stone, brick, and mortar, all carefully placed and meticulously stacked in order to save myself - from what? From looking like a fool - that fool who lunges for something, opening up, showing the pineapple innards, only to be denied it and hurt. What does it really cost, though, should I be hurt again? Failure (or heartbreak) is just another spade full of mortar, smudged onto a brick and stragetically placed, plugging the potential hole that I have already decided will end up there. Aah, cynicism, my old friend. Hello.
I don't know how to show how I feel. I almost wrote that I don't know how to feel, but that's not true. The tears and open, raw sensation in my chest can attest to that. My heart hurts, my head is clouded, and I am frustrated. When I worked at the hospital, I used to watch recovering stroke victims struggle and strain, desperately trying to open up and tell me what they wanted, what they needed, and I pitied them. Now I pity me. I am the same. Worse, actually, because it's a self imposed prison.
Luckily I have Emali's help. She is so strong, and she patiently teaches me how to feel, and to express myself. She is patient and kind, like love. The way she is with her Angel amazes me. I would have shut down and walked away time and time again, when it got too hard. Express yourself or walk away? Emali takes fear and love (intertwined) by the hand, shows it what she is, and breathes life back into it. Jessie, however, drops the hand and steps away, like feelings are the business end of a gun and the safety is off. I would dance away from the peril time and time again, but Emali, in her gentle manner, taps her forehead to the barrel and says, 'I can handle this, and so can you'.
It would appear that I have a lot to learn in the ways of feeling and strength and bravery.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
After the fall from grace?
Life has a tendency to grow and develop just in time to crumble and leave one feeling more desolate than ever. The higher you climb, the harder you fall, I guess.
But what then? What happens after the fall, after your butt hits the ground and your are bruised and covered in dust and disappointment? Do you lie there and wallow in self pity, rolling in the dusty earth, crying about how you fell? Or do you get your ass up, dust your pants off, look around and say "What now?" I would love to say that I just jumped up off the dusty ground and looked for the next best opportunity.
I didn't.
I wallowed, and I cried, and I acted like a big, silly baby. I went home to Mommy, to be held in the arms of my family until I could get my mind back together again. Never before this recent set of struggles had I even believed that my bubble could burst. I always thought I would land softly and spring back immediately.
Just last night, as I lie awake on my best friend's couch, I thought to myself, Have I hit my knees enough yet? Is this the bottom? Have I fallen far enough? When again will I have the strength to get up and stand up proudly and with purpose? I can safely say that after three months of feeling lost, that I am just now beginning to get my ass up off of the ground, and am taking stock of my dusty rump, and the bumps and bruises which resulted from my fall.
But I wonder, when will I stand tall again?
But what then? What happens after the fall, after your butt hits the ground and your are bruised and covered in dust and disappointment? Do you lie there and wallow in self pity, rolling in the dusty earth, crying about how you fell? Or do you get your ass up, dust your pants off, look around and say "What now?" I would love to say that I just jumped up off the dusty ground and looked for the next best opportunity.
I didn't.
I wallowed, and I cried, and I acted like a big, silly baby. I went home to Mommy, to be held in the arms of my family until I could get my mind back together again. Never before this recent set of struggles had I even believed that my bubble could burst. I always thought I would land softly and spring back immediately.
Just last night, as I lie awake on my best friend's couch, I thought to myself, Have I hit my knees enough yet? Is this the bottom? Have I fallen far enough? When again will I have the strength to get up and stand up proudly and with purpose? I can safely say that after three months of feeling lost, that I am just now beginning to get my ass up off of the ground, and am taking stock of my dusty rump, and the bumps and bruises which resulted from my fall.
But I wonder, when will I stand tall again?
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