Posts Tagged ‘sex’

Book Trailer for Also Known as DNA

 

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New Book Trailer for Armchair Detective

Finally got around to making a book trailer. This was first one.  Will post the others after this.

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Excerpt from Also Known as DNA

Book 2 of the AKA Investigations series

~ 1 ~

Ceremonial Tarp & Dangle

 

I’m hanging upside down, wrapped in tarp, like some retarded Houdini.

How did this happen? Well, it all started with me, on the way to my car after a close call. Back to minding my own business. I always mind my own business because I know there are plenty of other people out there who will mind it for me, if I let them, and I don’t feel they’re more qualified to fuck up my life than I am.

Only that morning, I was meeting with a client. Which was, in a way, minding someone else’s business. But that’s the business I’m in. So I can mind someone else’s business and be minding my own business.

Glad I got that cleared up.

Lila Dixon was what one might call a tall drink of water. I never knew what that meant until I met her. She towered over me, and if I weren’t female, I’d say she threatened my manhood. Lila was also regal, and a perfectly lovely woman, but with some unpleasant truths rooted in denial. For instance, she thought it was okay to drink a couple bottles of wine and then drive. Maybe because she was so tall. But I wasn’t on her payroll to play DUI hall monitor. I was there to help her get something useful on her husband, so that she could finally get away from him, legally.

The briefing complete, she signed the tab and left me to finish my short drink of water, going out the rear door to her car, which she had clandestinely parked a block away, just to assuage her paranoia that the dreaded churlish hubby might follow her. I pulled my eCig out of my coat pocket and refilled the mouthpiece with chocolate mint eJuice. I had discovered the wonderful world of electronic cigarettes a few years ago, while searching for a way to quit. Now, I continued to enjoy them, since all the negatives about tobacco cigarettes didn’t exist with the electronic ones. It was just vapor, with the flavoring of your choice. Mine, being chocolate mint.

Lila Dixon’s plan to avoid discovery by her husband had apparently failed, I realized, her paranoia justified, as I saw him come in the front door, hairy knuckles dragging the floor, and recognized him from the photos. It was indeed the churlish one: Lila Dixon’s husband. The way he was looking at me during his approach made me realize he was on to me. He must have waited for her to leave, so he could rough me up, before going home to do the same to her. I pictured him chasing her with one of those cartoony Flintstones clubs. No time now to worry about her future roughing, I had my own to worry about.

I got up and headed for the door, but couldn’t get there through the salad bar, so detoured. The ladies room was just around the corner and I palmed the door open and went inside. He wouldn’t dare follow me in here, in a public restaurant, I told myself. I’m always telling myself these things so I won’t come unglued in a crisis.

I noticed that this restroom smelled purple, like some do. Not sure what the smell of purple is, but I always thought that particular scent just smelled like purple. I stepped into the first stall, and slammed the crooked metal door closed behind me, forcing it into the position to accept the sliding latch, ramming the latch closed just as the restroom entry door burst open and slammed into the wall.

Coarse, meaty hands darted under the door of my stall, and I leapt onto the toilet seat, one foot slipping into the bowl. I pulled my sodden shoe out of the water, and regained my breath, searching frantically for a way out. He shook the door violently, cursing me, and my eyes ascended to the small window above the sink on the other side of the stall. When I looked down again, he was crawling under, shoving his huge shoulders between the door and the ugly yellow linoleum, still reaching for me, straining, pushing at the bottom of the door. The latch wouldn’t stand for that very long, I knew. Why didn’t he just kick the door in? I wondered inanely. Maybe he thought it would make too much noise. The window I spied was small, yet still an escape hatch. The only one to be found. My escape hatches had always been small, but I’d always been able to find them. I’d be damned if I’d break that tradition now.

I climbed the metal wall, boosting myself with the chrome plumbing that rose above the toilet, flushing it accidentally. I’ve escaped down the toilet! my mind screamed absurdly at him, feeling a little crazy with fear. My first question was answered when he wobbled out from under the door and began to fling himself against it. I guess he didn’t care about the noise after all.

Once at the top, I tried to scale the wall without alerting him to my whereabouts, climbed onto the sink at the other side of the second stall, and pulled the window lever down, pushing the single pane open. Thankfully, there was no screen. Or lock. I took hold of the metal sill, hoisting myself up, my sneakered feet scraping the cinderblock wall, as I alternately pushed myself upward and glanced back at him. He had still not figured out that I was out of the stall, but the door was caving in nicely.

I managed to get my hips onto the sill and flail for a handhold on the dirt and leaves outside the ground-level window. I heard the door crash in, and craned my neck to see him struggling to his feet and watching me, his face red, his brows pulled together like the laces of my shoes.

In what seemed a nanosecond later, I felt his big hand close around my left ankle. Instinctively, I kicked at him, feeling myself being dragged back in. The sill scraped painfully across my hip bones and onto my stomach, stopping just under my breasts, and I was suddenly glad I was not flat-chested. I swung my right leg, sodden sneaker and all, as hard as I could toward his head, making contact, but to no avail. I was reminded of my encounter with the Pit Bull in the Stacey Cartwright case, and wasn’t sure if this situation was any less frightening than having a mean dog dangling from my arm as I tried to climb a chain-link fence.

Outside, my hand fell on a broken red brick left over from the construction of the building, no doubt hidden for years behind the shrubbery lining the ground-level windows. When he jerked at me again, I twisted like a cat, felt myself falling. My feet hit the edge of the sink, and I landed with my behind in the bowl, the faucet grinding into my back.

I winced at the pain the awkward landing caused, and when he stepped closer, I lifted the brick, surprised I still clutched it, and brained him. He staggered back, holding the side of his head and I jumped down from the sink, and whacked him again before he could recover. He fell against the wall of the injured stall, and it creaked with his weight. I hurried over to get one more lick in, and when he slumped, I started to climb the sink again, but then stopped, rolling my eyes at myself. I backtracked and went out the door, pausing only long enough to throw the brick at him. It landed on his chest.

The parking lot was just around the building, and in it, my Escalade. The trip to freedom was interrupted by a powerful odor and the sensation of someone’s arms around me. It wasn’t a hug.

When I woke up in the abandoned factory, I was of course unaware that it was an abandoned factory because I couldn’t see through the tarp that had cocooned me, as I dangled in the air by my feet.

What would Jim Rockford do? I don’t think my fictional TV idol had ever been hung upside down with a tarp around him. So I had to just imagine what he would do. And first, he would wait until his captors took the tarp off. Then he would find a way to…to get away.

I am fucked.

But then I heard voices and knew that any escape would be something I figured out on my own without the aid of TV detectives and their clever screenwriters.

“Catch of the day,” one said.

I felt pressure near my chest and looked down, which was really up, due to my unfortunate inversion. I saw the blade poke through and rip an opening up over my head, as I leaned away from the sharp steel of the hunting knife. Blessed oxygen poured over my face and I sucked it in like a black hole.

Even upside down, I recognized Jimmy Dixon, his beefy countenance usually found only in livestock yards.

“How’s it hangin’, Sherlock?” he grinned.

With forced candor, I said, “I am not having a good day.”

They both laughed. Jimmy had some nasty contusions on his face from my recent bricklaying. The other one, I didn’t recognize, so I figured he was the one who did the chloroform honors in the parking lot earlier. “We haven’t met formally.” I said to the accomplice. “I was distracted by unconsciousness…” He just grinned but didn’t offer his name.

“What are we going to do with you?” Jimmy Dixon wondered, without sincerity.

I was willing to lend a hand. “I have a suggestion.”

They laughed again, Dixon saying, “I bet you do.”

“I’m not okay with endangering my life for a disgruntled housewife. She’s not paying me shit anyway. Cheap bitch.” He seemed to like where I was going with this. “In fact, I think she underestimates you, Mr. D. I should be working for you instead. Got any little jobs that need to be taken care of?”

My head was pounding from the blood pooling there, and I was having trouble hearing him as he answered, “Yeah, you could take care of my wife.”

I pretended hesitation. “Is there anything in it for me?”

“Sure. You get to be put back on your feet again. Breathing.”

“That seems fair.”

They laughed, and the Chloroform Guy went over to the wall and untied the rope, slowly lowering me to the ground.

Just like that. It was too easy, but I wasn’t prepared to complain just yet.

As Dixon cut my bindings, and I kicked the tarp away, I checked out my surroundings. Door at the other end, too far away. About as far away, I recalled, as the fence was in that tractor yard during my Cartwright case. The one where the Pit Bull made his home, and anticipated a warm lunch from the armchair detective who made a wrong turn in her escape from another angry husband.

My fetters gone, I sat up and waited for the blood to drain back to my torso. Dizzily, I hefted myself up to stand in front of him. “Everyone has their transgressions. So what did she do to you?”

He lit a cigar and blew the Captain Black smoke in my face. “She wouldn’t let me have a girlfriend.”

“That’s just selfish.”

He grinned, enjoying the repartee. “I want her out of my life. Can you handle that?”

“To save my own skin? Hell yes.”

They both laughed again. We were all having such a good time. The only thing missing was wine and cheese. He pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Here’s her schedule. All the places she goes to spend my money.”

“I’m on it,” I said, taking the paper. I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket, and punched up the recorder app, bold as neon, started recording and then switched to a contact list. “How do I reach you?” He stood there and watched while I touched in the number and saved it. “Now, Mr. Dixon, sir, when you say you want me to get rid of your wife…I don’t want any nasty misunderstandings later. You mean you want her—“

“Dead.”

“Well that’s clear enough.” I poked the iPhone back in my pocket. “I’ll be in touch.” Then I just headed for the door, as if I had a set of brass balls and knew how to shine them.

“Hey—“

I felt my renewed hope begin to dwindle. I stopped and turned to face him.

“Don’t fuck me over, or you’ll be back in that tarp, skiing behind my boat.”

I made a clicking sound and pointed a finger-gun at him. “Got it.” Then I turned and continued to the door. I actually made it all the way outside without a single piece of lead in my back. Perhaps I’ve underestimated the kindness of strangers.

As I walked, I pulled out my phone and stopped the recording, tapped play, and listened to him convict himself. Loved my iPhone.

I continued up Jason Street to Lipan, and called a cab, waiting in front of Stomp Them Grapes, a homebrew wine making supply place. After my recent tarping, a glass of wine sounded pretty good to me.

 

================

Also Known as DNA can be purchased at Smashwords or Amazon or at my website

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Excerpt from Also Known as DNA

~ 1 ~

Ceremonial Tarp & Dangle

 

I’m hanging upside down, wrapped in tarp, like some retarded Houdini.

How did this happen? Well, it all started with me, on the way to my car after a close call. Back to minding my own business. I always mind my own business because I know there are plenty of other people out there who will mind it for me, if I let them, and I don’t feel they’re more qualified to fuck up my life than I am.

Only that morning, I was meeting with a client. Which was, in a way, minding someone else’s business. But that’s the business I’m in. So I can mind someone else’s business and be minding my own business.

Glad I got that cleared up.

Lila Dixon was what one might call a tall drink of water. I never knew what that meant until I met her. She towered over me, and if I weren’t female, I’d say she threatened my manhood. Lila was also regal, and a perfectly lovely woman, but with some unpleasant truths rooted in denial. For instance, she thought it was okay to drink a couple bottles of wine and then drive. Maybe because she was so tall. But I wasn’t on her payroll to play DUI hall monitor. I was there to help her get something useful on her husband, so that she could finally get away from him, legally.

The briefing complete, she signed the tab and left me to finish my short drink of water, going out the rear door to her car, which she had clandestinely parked a block away, just to assuage her paranoia that the dreaded churlish hubby might follow her. I pulled my eCig out of my coat pocket and refilled the mouthpiece with chocolate mint eJuice. I had discovered the wonderful world of electronic cigarettes a few years ago, while searching for a way to quit. Now, I continued to enjoy them, since all the negatives about tobacco cigarettes didn’t exist with the electronic ones. It was just vapor, with the flavoring of your choice. Mine, being chocolate mint.

Lila Dixon’s plan to avoid discovery by her husband had apparently failed, I realized, her paranoia justified, as I saw him come in the front door, hairy knuckles dragging the floor, and recognized him from the photos. It was indeed the churlish one: Lila Dixon’s husband. The way he was looking at me during his approach made me realize he was on to me. He must have waited for her to leave, so he could rough me up, before going home to do the same to her. I pictured him chasing her with one of those cartoony Flintstones clubs. No time now to worry about her future roughing, I had my own to worry about.

I got up and headed for the door, but couldn’t get there through the salad bar, so detoured. The ladies room was just around the corner and I palmed the door open and went inside. He wouldn’t dare follow me in here, in a public restaurant, I told myself. I’m always telling myself these things so I won’t come unglued in a crisis.

I noticed that this restroom smelled purple, like some do. Not sure what the smell of purple is, but I always thought that particular scent just smelled like purple. I stepped into the first stall, and slammed the crooked metal door closed behind me, forcing it into the position to accept the sliding latch, ramming the latch closed just as the restroom entry door burst open and slammed into the wall.

Coarse, meaty hands darted under the door of my stall, and I leapt onto the toilet seat, one foot slipping into the bowl. I pulled my sodden shoe out of the water, and regained my breath, searching frantically for a way out. He shook the door violently, cursing me, and my eyes ascended to the small window above the sink on the other side of the stall. When I looked down again, he was crawling under, shoving his huge shoulders between the door and the ugly yellow linoleum, still reaching for me, straining, pushing at the bottom of the door. The latch wouldn’t stand for that very long, I knew. Why didn’t he just kick the door in? I wondered inanely. Maybe he thought it would make too much noise. The window I spied was small, yet still an escape hatch. The only one to be found. My escape hatches had always been small, but I’d always been able to find them. I’d be damned if I’d break that tradition now.

I climbed the metal wall, boosting myself with the chrome plumbing that rose above the toilet, flushing it accidentally. I’ve escaped down the toilet! my mind screamed absurdly at him, feeling a little crazy with fear. My first question was answered when he wobbled out from under the door and began to fling himself against it. I guess he didn’t care about the noise after all.

Once at the top, I tried to scale the wall without alerting him to my whereabouts, climbed onto the sink at the other side of the second stall, and pulled the window lever down, pushing the single pane open. Thankfully, there was no screen. Or lock. I took hold of the metal sill, hoisting myself up, my sneakered feet scraping the cinderblock wall, as I alternately pushed myself upward and glanced back at him. He had still not figured out that I was out of the stall, but the door was caving in nicely.

I managed to get my hips onto the sill and flail for a handhold on the dirt and leaves outside the ground-level window. I heard the door crash in, and craned my neck to see him struggling to his feet and watching me, his face red, his brows pulled together like the laces of my shoes.

In what seemed a nanosecond later, I felt his big hand close around my left ankle. Instinctively, I kicked at him, feeling myself being dragged back in. The sill scraped painfully across my hip bones and onto my stomach, stopping just under my breasts, and I was suddenly glad I was not flat-chested. I swung my right leg, sodden sneaker and all, as hard as I could toward his head, making contact, but to no avail. I was reminded of my encounter with the Pit Bull in the Stacey Cartwright case, and wasn’t sure if this situation was any less frightening than having a mean dog dangling from my arm as I tried to climb a chain-link fence.

Outside, my hand fell on a broken red brick left over from the construction of the building, no doubt hidden for years behind the shrubbery lining the ground-level windows. When he jerked at me again, I twisted like a cat, felt myself falling. My feet hit the edge of the sink, and I landed with my behind in the bowl, the faucet grinding into my back.

I winced at the pain the awkward landing caused, and when he stepped closer, I lifted the brick, surprised I still clutched it, and brained him. He staggered back, holding the side of his head and I jumped down from the sink, and whacked him again before he could recover. He fell against the wall of the injured stall, and it creaked with his weight. I hurried over to get one more lick in, and when he slumped, I started to climb the sink again, but then stopped, rolling my eyes at myself. I backtracked and went out the door, pausing only long enough to throw the brick at him. It landed on his chest.

The parking lot was just around the building, and in it, my Escalade. The trip to freedom was interrupted by a powerful odor and the sensation of someone’s arms around me. It wasn’t a hug.

 

 

When I woke up in the abandoned factory, I was of course unaware that it was an abandoned factory because I couldn’t see through the tarp that had cocooned me, as I dangled in the air by my feet.

What would Jim Rockford do? I don’t think my fictional TV idol had ever been hung upside down with a tarp around him. So I had to just imagine what he would do. And first, he would wait until his captors took the tarp off. Then he would find a way to…to get away.

I am fucked.

But then I heard voices and knew that any escape would be something I figured out on my own without the aid of TV detectives and their clever screenwriters.

“Catch of the day,” one said.

I felt pressure near my chest and looked down, which was really up, due to my unfortunate inversion. I saw the blade poke through and rip an opening up over my head, as I leaned away from the sharp steel of the hunting knife. Blessed oxygen poured over my face and I sucked it in like a black hole.

Even upside down, I recognized Jimmy Dixon, his beefy countenance usually found only in livestock yards.

“How’s it hangin’, Sherlock?” he grinned.

With forced candor, I said, “I am not having a good day.”

They both laughed. Jimmy had some nasty contusions on his face from my recent bricklaying. The other one, I didn’t recognize, so I figured he was the one who did the chloroform honors in the parking lot earlier. “We haven’t met formally.” I said to the accomplice. “I was distracted by unconsciousness…” He just grinned but didn’t offer his name.

“What are we going to do with you?” Jimmy Dixon wondered, without sincerity.

I was willing to lend a hand. “I have a suggestion.”

They laughed again, Dixon saying, “I bet you do.”

“I’m not okay with endangering my life for a disgruntled housewife. She’s not paying me shit anyway. Cheap bitch.” He seemed to like where I was going with this. “In fact, I think she underestimates you, Mr. D. I should be working for you instead. Got any little jobs that need to be taken care of?”

My head was pounding from the blood pooling there, and I was having trouble hearing him as he answered, “Yeah, you could take care of my wife.”

I pretended hesitation. “Is there anything in it for me?”

“Sure. You get to be put back on your feet again. Breathing.”

“That seems fair.”

They laughed, and the Chloroform Guy went over to the wall and untied the rope, slowly lowering me to the ground.

Just like that. It was too easy, but I wasn’t prepared to complain just yet.

As Dixon cut my bindings, and I kicked the tarp away, I checked out my surroundings. Door at the other end, too far away. About as far away, I recalled, as the fence was in that tractor yard during my Cartwright case. The one where the Pit Bull made his home, and anticipated a warm lunch from the armchair detective who made a wrong turn in her escape from another angry husband.

My fetters gone, I sat up and waited for the blood to drain back to my torso. Dizzily, I hefted myself up to stand in front of him. “Everyone has their transgressions. So what did she do to you?”

He lit a cigar and blew the Captain Black smoke in my face. “She wouldn’t let me have a girlfriend.”

“That’s just selfish.”

He grinned, enjoying the repartee. “I want her out of my life. Can you handle that?”

“To save my own skin? Hell yes.”

They both laughed again. We were all having such a good time. The only thing missing was wine and cheese. He pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Here’s her schedule. All the places she goes to spend my money.”

“I’m on it,” I said, taking the paper. I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket, and punched up the recorder app, bold as neon, started recording and then switched to a contact list. “How do I reach you?” He stood there and watched while I touched in the number and saved it. “Now, Mr. Dixon, sir, when you say you want me to get rid of your wife…I don’t want any nasty misunderstandings later. You mean you want her—“

“Dead.”

“Well that’s clear enough.” I poked the iPhone back in my pocket. “I’ll be in touch.” Then I just headed for the door, as if I had a set of brass balls and knew how to shine them.

“Hey—“

I felt my renewed hope begin to dwindle. I stopped and turned to face him.

“Don’t fuck me over, or you’ll be back in that tarp, skiing behind my boat.”

I made a clicking sound and pointed a finger-gun at him. “Got it.” Then I turned and continued to the door. I actually made it all the way outside without a single piece of lead in my back. Perhaps I’ve underestimated the kindness of strangers.

As I walked, I pulled out my phone and stopped the recording, tapped play, and listened to him convict himself. Loved my iPhone.

I continued up Jason Street to Lipan, and called a cab, waiting in front of Stomp Them Grapes, a homebrew wine making supply place. After my recent tarping, a glass of wine sounded pretty good to me.

 

================

Also Known as DNA can be purchased at Smashwords or Amazon or at my website

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Building Character- A Review of new novel by Kate Genet

Writing teachers will tell you that a novel should begin in medias res–in the middle of the action. While I do believe this is preferable, if the story allows it, I don’t believe it should be chiseled in stone–good writers know enough about the craft, to understand when the rules are meant to be broken. I’ve never been a big fan of formula fiction, unless an author can take that formula and do something new with it. And while I wouldn’t consider Building Character “formula fiction” per se, there are will be some formulas in every book; I am interested in the conventions that stray from it, as this is a good thing. Genet knows how to do that, and she does with her own personal flair and expertise.

In regard to the caveat of in medias res in Building Character, the whole story is in the middle of the action. From the first two paragraphs, I could tell that something delicious was building. And I appreciated the author for giving me a firm grasp on the main character, so that it would make perfect sense and still be delightful. The discerning reader will be able to sense that Genet is illuminating Fen Marshall in a particular way, and for a particular purpose, and the more we learn about Fen’s idiosyncrasies, the more intriguing and exciting the ensuing plot promises to be.

In a world permeated with the sensibility of instant gratification, and literary caveats that tell writers they must begin a book by grabbing the readers by the throat–I suspect because of the aforementioned instant gratification propensity–I must warn the reader that Building Character does not begin with a car chase or an arrow in the heart, nor any explosions, earthquakes or tsunamis, nor a character dangling from the ledge of a 10 story structure by her fingertips. It begins with a character. And it’s crucial to understand who she is in order to appreciate what happens, and how she evolves. Yet in doing this character development, Genet does not bore us with play-by-play or tedious details, but only with details that develop character, and move the story toward that first tipping point, and then pulls us along to each ensuing tipping point, until the end of every page is an irresistible invitation to continue to the page beyond.

The title of this novel is key to the many levels that exist inside the story. Genet builds a character for the reader, expertly, and with finesse. The main character, as an author herself, builds a character, who becomes a unique and intriguing antagonist. And the main character also builds her own character, as she maneuvers the obstacles presented by this vixen-cum-succubus, Ruby, which Genet (masquerading as Fen) brings to light.

While I could not identify personally with Fen on all levels, since she is an odd character with certain quirks, who does not enjoy the company of other people, nor seek love, I immediately loved her. I could relate to the often taxing nature of other people, and how they can suck the energy out of you. I also understood the need for time and space to create, and the almost holy nature of my home as sanctuary. I am not cut from the same cloth as Fen Marshall, but the cloth shares many of the same colors. I understood her, and was at once intrigued, enamored and entertained by her peculiarities and defenses.

The characters of Fen, Ruby, and Marissa were brilliant, and masterful manifestations of the darker elements of the human psyche, though the antagonists Ruby and Marissa were disturbing in two completely different ways. I have known quite a few people like Marissa, and like Ruby as well, except that I might not have seen the Rubys in this world as clearly as Genet sketches her, as I run screaming in the other direction before becoming entrenched with them. It’s this entrenchment on the part of Fen that gets her in so much trouble. By the time she realizes the untapped desires and blind spots that Ruby ignites, she has been sucked to the event horizon of that black hole, and is inches away from spiraling into the abyss of intrigue, lust, and the epiphany of awakened erotic hunger. This can be a force both ominous and all-encompassing.

Genet is well aware of her target audience–mostly lesbians and open-minded others who delight in a thought-provoking and entertaining read. I found Marissa’s behavior in the book very credible, and I immediately recognized her from my own personal experience with obsessive women. I can say that her abnormal ideation was spot-on. This assessment is supported by any psychologist you might care to contact, as well. If a reader has limited experience and knowledge of this psychological aspect of the subject matter, they might be surprised that these things really do happen (not manifesting a person out of sheer force of will, of course, but of how the human mind operates). The female psyche has its own nature, and I appreciated the subtle shading and color contrasts of the character-portraits Genet was painting, as well as the more specific subset of love and passion between two women, and the obsessional aspects inherent in each realm. This book is written by a highly intelligent author who deals with some profound subjects, and thus, to truly appreciate it on all its myriad levels, you must be able to appreciate nuance and understand a bit about human nature and psychology.

The classic conflicts in literature, which we all learn in school, is a character against an antagonist, a character against society, a character against nature, and a character against herself. Building Character embodies all of these conflicts, and is expertly rendered by Genet, woven into the story in such a seamless way, that (as an author myself) I was envious of her skill. Add the elements of the supernatural, psychological suspense, and of course the not-so-common lesbian erotica, well-wrought, and you have a book that can be enjoyed by those from many walks of life. For it speaks to us on our most fundamental level; reminds us that what we create does have a life of its own, and we should be mindful of the power it can have, the havoc it can wreak, and the lesson it can teach us about hubris and the corrupting nature of need, desire and loneliness. You can fall in love with the wrong person just like you can NOT fall in love with the right one. And it is in this precarious balance that Genet reveals the meat of the story. In good fiction, there must be conflict, an attempt to ease the conflict, or exacerbation of conflict, and resolution of conflict. Genet orchestrates these elements adroitly.

With titillating and absolutely carnal and scorching sexual encounters fraught with deeper meaning, clean, picturesque prose and realistic, interesting dialogue, along with clever and exciting plotlines, Building Character was like great food to me. Delicious, perfect texture and taste, pleasing presentation, and in the end, so satisfying that it takes a place in your mind as one of your all-time favorite meals. I encourage everyone who appreciates quality writing to imbibe this wonderful book like the literary white chocolate that it is.

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Kate Genet’s new book!

 

I encourage all my readers to please go buy a copy of Kate Genet’s new book, Building Character.

Here’s a link to the interview on her blog about it, and links to get it. It’s brilliant, truly.

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Plugging In (poem)

 

To my Angel.

I hear your voice

breathless and urgent

making your request.

I feel my heart,

thumping, jumping

dancing in my chest.

I cup your face,

pressing into you–

slow, slow–

You pull me in,

gasping,

your lips releasing endearments

into my ear.

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FWPB

Sometimes we forget the gray areas. The innocuous middle ground that is so often overlooked because it doesn’t scream at us like the extremes do. It’s why certain things are overlooked; like the independent voters, the agnostics, reputable, stable, feminine lesbians, and the middle class.

It had occurred to me that sexuality holds its own equidistant region. We have often heard of that relational designation of fuck-buddy (FB), and the other one of Friends with Benefits (FWB), but I contend there is another. The one in the gray area, which has remained undefined, and perhaps under-utilized…

FWPB.

Friends With Partial Benefits.

What if you meet someone who is, for one reason or another, unable or unwilling to partake in meaningless sex, or sex without feelings of love, nor are they willing to remain in a state of forced celibacy or isolation. Would it not be beneficial to enjoy that gray area of interaction that might include companionship, communication, cuddling and kissing? A FWPB could then address a shortfall of interaction, a cloying loneliness, and a deficit of affection.

I welcome any thoughts on this earth-shattering concept.

 

 

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Agnosco veteris vestigia flammae–I feel once more the scars of the old flame…

Most things for me, now, are in the context of being an HSP. My Sensory Processing Sensitivity is a brain architecture that will never change. It is part of me as much as DNA or eye color or ethnic origins.

I know that one of my main weaknesses in this life, is that i don’t do well as a single person, and by extension, I don’t do well sexless. Those needs get in the way of my common sense in evaluating the character of some women. So I have been so bold as to place ads on adult sites, seeking only casual (safe) sex, hoping that if those needs are met, I won’t be so quick to jump into a relationship, just because I want to have some intimacy.

I have had, in the last 10 years, some forced-celibacy, and realized a few things. One was that for a three year period, right before i moved to Colorado, I had sex three times, once per year. (So there were lots of communions with my vibrator). And those annual encounters were each with a FWB (Friend With Benefits). And during Xmas holiday time too–like it was my one special gift each year. pfft.

Debaucherous, though the encounters were, I was still aware that the “love” thing was missing, and it was really just carnal, and not lovemaking. We would have wild, passionate sex and then land in the living room with beer and pizza and a movie, and laugh it up and have a good time like friends. It was uncomplicated and enjoyable, and helped solve at least part of the problem. I just wasn’t in an environment where I could also date women I was interested in romantically, which is why I moved. But–I much prefer lovemaking. It’s just so hard to find, because you have to feel LOVE in order to have that. I ACHE for that sensation of connecting to a woman on some rapturous, surreal level, where you feel you want to unzip her and climb inside…

This is not to say I want to lead with my sex organs/sex drive, however, which is part of the point of doing it this way. When and if I meet that woman I fall for (hopefully it will be mutual) I will not be in a state of deprivation, will not be thinking with my brain chemicals or my “little head.” I will make a decision based on who she is–the whole person, how she treats me, and my response to her, in a more authentic way.

Now one of my friends stated

“I disagree with your theory and I would be very disappointed to know my potential wife had been sleeping around…safe or otherwise via means of the internet. Of course, that goes with my theory of a full disclosure w/ lovers and you may not operate that way. I just think you’re going down the wrong road. Medicating with women never solves anything and it really just isolates you more. No one is going to die w/o sex. We are also mature women and cannot be led around by our ‘balls’ when it comes to sex. It’s not a healthy approach and could well be exactly why you are at this crossroads. Friendships…start cultivating friendships. Sex and love will work itself out when you stop trying to force it. We aren’t animals who function on drive alone….P.S. forced sex deprivation and a decision are different..”

Well, first,  it’s not a theory….so maybe I wasn’t clear, but I’ll get to that part in a second…but– I only practice safe sex. And if I met someone I was romantically interested in, the sex with the FWB/fuckbuddy would STOP. That’s part of the agreement. So really, that’s no different than meeting someone after you’ve had a previous relationship. I won’t date anyone if I know they’re sleeping with someone else, either. I also date one woman exclusively at a time. And I do provide full disclosure. I have a list of every woman I’ve ever had sex with, along with details of what we did, and will provide that, along with my regular blood panel, upon request.

Second, I’m not medicating, per se. I’m recognizing that I don’t function well when I feel deprived of affection and sex. I am, among other things, an HSP. It involves Sensory Processing Sensitivity, as I mentioned, and this is a neurological architecture I was born with, as are at least 20% of the population–and that’s why this isn’t a simple issue for me. (Important to say this is NOT a disorder. It’s a biological fact, and about the same percentage of other species have it). Few people understand this about me, unless they are a close friend. My brain is wired a bit differently, and if I don’t keep myself in an optimum state of arousal–not too much, not too little–then some very unfortunate things begin to happen. (And by arousal, I don’t necessarily mean sexually. I mean consciousness or alertness). So I’m acknowledging that part of myself and addressing the issue in the safest, most honest way.

HSPs have to be careful to create an environment for themselves that allows them to function well. This is what I am doing. But I don’t expect non-HSPs to understand this, though I hope they will try. Just as I have had two girlfriends who were Synesthetes, (that’s about 1 in 25,000 people) I realize I also have unique brain architecture, too.

The other point to be had here, is that I am unable to fully please myself, sexually. This is not some psychological block, but also about nerves and brain chemicals. I require the sensory input from another person being present. So being single, means being in a constant state of sexual and tactile and emotional frustration for me. It’s not something I can turn off at will. However, it does help for me to be very productive and enthusiastic about some things, and creative, and social. That helps ameliorate the frustration, and since that’s been missing for so long, my condition is a little red-lighted at the moment. Hopefully, that will ease when I have more things in place that address my sensory needs.

I am also cultivating friendships, but I find everyone is so busy, they don’t have time to socialize or spend time except maybe once every two weeks. So I will need lots of friends if I want to have a regular social life, and especially if I want to distract those pathways away from sex. Or even if I want to meet someone I can have sex or a relationship (or both) with.

Now, add to this mix, the impending holiday season. Colorado can be a picture-postcard of holiday symbolism….

...horse-drawn carriages on 16th Street Mall,
…mountain vistas wearing white caps,
…snow bending the limbs of Aspen, Blue Spruce and Bristlecone Pines; …the light-adorned pedestrian shopping districts, piping in holiday tunes that become familiar again, like a friend you haven’t seen since last year…

But the holidays seem to have a power all their own…it’s this unique combination of joy and misery for me–
the joy that goes with beautiful snowfall, the feeling in the air,
how people start treating each other more nicely,
meals shared,
gifts given,
the new year on the horizon, as a chance to make the future what it couldn’t be in the past….

Then like Virgil’s Agnosco veteris vestigia flammae–I feel once more the scars of the old flame…{1} there’s the abject loneliness the holidays always represent for me…the reminders of all that makes me sad. The sharp prodding that stems from my orphan status, and this is just the right combination of cells in the Petri dish of depression. That’s when I have to create my own reminder that Virgil also said, Facilis decensus averni–The descent into hell is easy. We do have some control over the nature of our thoughts, after all. And I would like to believe–nay, MUST believe–that this control is at my own fingertips, and not in the hands of some mysterious force in the universe that insists on vexing me.

To some degree, thoughts really are things, and that which we resist, persists. These ideations are a curious mental carnival, the solution for which can often descend into psychobabble, but which can also edify and comfort us in times of great sorrow or generalized angst. Still, when you are an HSP, it is one thing to know you ought to choose the behavioral and psychological high road, and quite another to convince your wounded heart and psyche to actually do it. HSPs struggle with the synaptic leap from what they feel to what they WISH to feel. Often, it is a formidable obstacle to get around. And this is not about them being weak-minded or insecure, or negative. It’s about that Sensory Processing Sensitivity. Sometimes it’s like walking around with no skin. Or with burns on 50% of your body. It’s like every thought or word is a physical object and we have to constantly dodge incoming projectiles. What we feel and think and sense goes all the way to the bone. So we are often overwhelmed by this world and the challenges in it.

But we still have our needs. Our hopes. Our beautiful contributions. The unique and splendid works of art, insightfulness and love we have to offer. And I can only hope that one day, the world at large will know about and understand this, so that there will be fewer of us locked up in the loony bin, or on medication, or unwrapping the razor blades.

=========
{1} The Aeneid.

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Coffee Skin

My coffee has a skin again.

I keep my mug on an old coffeemaker masquerading as a hot plate because I like my coffee to remain highly warm while I sip it throughout my morning. And afternoon. And sometimes evening… depending on when I get up. Which is always a malleable enterprise for those with Delayed Sleep Phase Syndrome. I also have Coining Of Nomenclature Syndrome (C.O.N.S.), except this time I’m not guilty of it. DSPS really exists. Although when I first saw the abbreviation, I thought it stood for -Dating & Sex Postal Service –this is how I intend to find my next girlfriend. When you are at home as much as I am, that’s your only hope of seeing another human being. When she absolutely, positively, has to stay here overnight.
Where was I?

Oh, yeah. Skin.

If my coffee cup stays on the hot plate too long, (as it should, since I am a serious writer who spends many hours slaving away at my clickety clacking)….then it inevitably gets a skin on it. Then I have to take a piece of coffee filter and dig the skin out before I refill.

If I were to visit a coffee shop and say “Give me a hazelnut with skin.”

They would say “Skim milk?”

“No,” I’d say. “Not SKIM. . ..SKIN.”

They would, rightfully so, put me in the crazy category. Been there before, so it wouldn’t be a stretch. I can do crazy very well, thank you.

I thought about trying to put something on top of that skin one time, to see how strong it was. . ..a paper clip, maybe. . ..wonder if it would sink, or ride there? Then I could drink, while staring at a buoyant paper clip. There would be no reason for this, other than my own twisted and absurd entertainment.

I refuse to let myself get bored.

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8 Things I Learned From my Last Relationship

 

[1] Proving your level of commitment should never entail losing who you are, putting yourself in danger, or turning over control of your money, your bills, or your happiness

[2] If you don’t naturally and easily fit into a persons life, nor they into yours, is either not right or not right now

[3] No matter how honest or stable a person may seem, you cannot be sure about it in only a few months

[4] If a person shares a home with her mother and is not caring for her due to illness or disability, do not move into that person’s home

[5] Sexual compatibility is just as important as anything else.

[6] If a significant other cannot or will not communicate, it’s already over. It takes two to make a relationship work.

[7] In the attraction and chemistry department, if there aren’t any fireworks there’s nothing to celebrate

[8] If the decision to be together includes the consideration of rescuing that person, it’s either not right or not right now

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New Review of ISO

 
Another review on my book “ISO (In Search Of): Dating, Relationships & Sex for the Discerning Lesbian”…

“Whether you are a ‘baby dyke’, a newly out older woman or someone who has just been away from the ‘dating scene’ for a time, this book is an essential tool in your belt. Not only does Ms. Baeli provide thought provoking answers to all those obvious questions we all have, but you might find some information here about scenarios you had never even considered. Read it cover to cover or jump to the section you’re most interested in, either way you will come away with plenty to think about. And a few chuckles along the way!”
~Noni Nelson
Australia

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Food, Sex & Purpose

I wanted Chinese. Had a hankering, you might say. And i thought of how great it would be to go have Chinese with some new friend I’ve made. But they are all busy. I guess it will take longer than 10 days for me to get in sync with everyone else’s schedules here.

But i still craved Chinese.

So i went for Fast Chinese food At Panda Express.

I’ve never been to a fast food Chinese place before.
Pretty cool. Like Subway. You tell them what you want and they put it in the box.

I had fried rice, orange chicken, honey walnut shrimp with crab rangoon with a side of sweet and sour sauce. It was pretty good. I watched a Netflix and ate in my recliner. It’s not so bad being alone when you have plenty of options. Like options for good food that you don’t have to drive an hour and a half to find. I adore eating out, because I’ve frankly had everything i can buy at the grocery, and I’m bored with it. I am hoping the groceries here are a little more diverse. I think it’s a getting older thing. You just get bored with things. It’s BTDT–Been There Done That syndrome.

My friend Veep says that she thinks it all comes down to food and sex. I’d venture to add another, and say it comes down to food and sex and purpose. Though i do believe your purpose must sometimes change.

My purpose has morphed repeatedly.
Here’s an explanatory snippet from a segment of my life:

First, my purpose was to walk again, regardless of what they told me my fate was.
Then it was to work on my writing skills in my spare time, and full-time, be the best singer-songwriter i could be and always try to put on a good show.
Then it was to get over my broken heart.
Then it was to finish writing all those books i started.
Then it was to find a way to enjoy food again.
Then it was to find a lifemate.
Then it was to get laid.
Then it was to be more social.
Then it was to write and find a lifemate.
Then it was to write and get laid.
Then it was to create art to distract me from the fact that i was bored with food, and couldn’t get laid.
Then it was to lose all this extra weight finally.
Then it was to find happiness.
Then it was to recover from my disc injury.
Then it was to move to Colorado.

Now, it is to write more books, create more art, record more music, be more social, get laid and find my lifemate.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. But i do see a pattern there. And it is about food (sometimes–because i love to eat out), and sex (because i always like to eat in–sorry, i could not let that one go), then it was, repeatedly, about purpose. Every single thing on that list was about purpose. Am I giving something to this world and the people in it? Is my life meaningful? Am I attractive, desirable? Am I worthy? Am i good? Boil all that down, and it is the gruel of Do I matter, or am I just disappearing?

It took me a while (too long) to figure out that I had painted myself into a corner. Now that I walked through that wet paint and traveled far enough for it to finally wear off my shoes, I’m standing here at the entrance to my new life, hoping I can finally have the things i long for, but never find.

They say that when you eat Chinese Food, you’re hungry an hour later. That’s my life. Momentary satisfaction, punctuated by long periods of hunger.

Oh, and that fortune cookie. Funny thing about that. That’s the fortune i got a few weeks ago, too. SO the first change for the better was moving, i suppose. The second–not sure yet.

Maybe that’s tomorrow. Can’t be as simple as dealing with old storage….gotta be more dramatic or romantic than that.

I suspect it’s not about what I’m doing, but who i run into along the way.

Let’s hope that’s not in the literal sense: I’m still learning to drive in big city traffic.

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Leaving no Pebble Unturned

So one day after this long dry desert of sexual activity, i finally had sex again. And as a joke, i put a glass pebble in this tall tubular jar. Then another one, each time I had sex again. And another. I was dating a very enthusiastic young woman. So after there were about 40 pebbles in the jar, i was feeling rather studly and my self-esteem got a much needed boost. So i kept putting pebbles in the jar each time. By the time I had booted the sex-hungry young woman for her pathological lying, i had about 84 pebbles in the jar. (And no, I’m not pathologically lying. I swear. 80-something. Those who have read my book, Plethora, will recognize her in the chapter, “A Wish Called Wanda.”).

So this trend continued throughout my series of dating excursions, until the jar was getting pretty damn full, since i was inevitably, and with a degree of mystery, intent on filling that jar with pebbles. Each girl was represented by a different color pebble, so that the jar became this montage of carnal delights every time i looked at it. (My best friend once asked–”What’s that one black pebble for?” I told her never mind, i wanted to forget that one).

Eventually, i hit the intimacy desert again, and the jar came to a screeching halt at a certain level. It gathered dust. And mostly, it mocked me. Where’s all that irresistible charm and sexual prowess, now, Baeli? it accused. I told it to shut up, but somehow couldn’t put that jar away because it meant something. It meant that for one prolonged period of my single life, I was in demand. I had had my way with a string of women and had ultimately done everything i could possibly think of to satiate my desires. I had sex. Lots and lots of sex.

Now, I am starting a new chapter in my life, moving to Colorado, and hoping to again end this desert of celibacy I’ve found myself in for the last two and a half years. But, perhaps bravely, I put that jar and its intact pebbles in the Moving Sale.

And let me tell you, there’s nothing like selling my sex jar to a little old lady who dangled her fingers in it, swirled the pebbles around and said, “Ooo, these feel good.”

And I stifled a rude cackle. “Why yes,” I said. “They certainly do. But I have to let them go.”

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Random Act of Fiction

The book I am working on now is an expansion project. Random Act of Blindness began as a short story for an erotic publication, grew into a novella, and now, I am expanding it to a full-length novel. This project is dear to me because I am trying to do something that I don’t think happens very much in the genre: making a truly erotic story rich with all the elements of any other good novel.

I have always wondered why erotica seems to be sequestered in a dark corner, like a misbehaving red-headed step-child. Why can’t we have stories that are interesting, filled with three-dimensional characters, and a plot that keeps you turning pages? Why are erotica and quality fiction so often mutually exclusive? I mean, we all know that we all have sex (unless we don’t, and that’s another subject). So why do we pretend that sexual activity is not a part of our existence? It is at once one of the most motivating factors in our every day lives. It melts hearts, it wrecks marriages, it defines us, moves us, reveals us, and keeps us in touch with both our humanity and our spiritual selves. So why do we pretend, in our fiction, it is only an afterthought?

Perhaps the crux of the issue revolves around the degree to which we describe our sexual encounters in novels. But then, I have to wonder if this is some atavistic mentality that smacks of our historical shame regarding the sex act itself. I contend that sex is not dirty, unless you haven’t bathed.

Another challenge I have found with Random Act is that in expanding a story like this, one can only show the characters having sex so many times before it becomes tedious. It has to become, to a degree, less about the sex, and more about the characters and the story. This precarious balance I seek will no doubt make me a better writer, if I manage to pull it off. It remains to be seen if any publisher finds it a viable and respectable offering in the fiction milieu.

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Red Light Needs a Green Light


The oldest bordello in the red light district of Hamburg Germany has closed its doors. The madam cites a lack of business for the closure.

Let me get this clear…sex isn’t selling anymore?

That place has been around since 1948, and like any business, certain trends can effectively close it down; not the least of these trends is the ban on sale of alcohol in the area, the loud dance clubs nearby, and, oh let’s not forget, it costs about $3000 per night to enjoy its services. So, the madam can blame it on all those other things, but I’m sure her high price tag figured into the demise of her business. Her prices were prohibitively high in today’s economy. It’s also not economically feasible when the Internet lets you download porn for cheap.

The other reason I can think of for sex not selling, is that you can’t sell anything that is being given away for free so often. I’ve always been a bit dismayed by the inherent contradiction in those who look down on women who sell their bodies, when there are so many other women who give it away for free. And somehow the ones who give it away, behave as though they are more ethical than the women who recognize the value of their bodies, and demand compensation for the use of it. The problems inherent in prostitution have more to do with the environment in which it is forced to operate, than the profession itself.

So if it’s not about the act, but the nature of the act, then from whence do our notions of sex derive? My suspicion is that it derives from the nature of our society. We are a nation steeped in religion, and religion has a long history of framing sex as a “dirty” act. Even in the Garden of Eden myth, Adam and Eve become aware of their nakedness, and then become ashamed before God. This didn’t happen until after they ate of the Tree of Knowledge, which meant that knowledge equals awareness, and awareness brings with it responsibility and questions and confusion and–by extension–an opportunity for evolution. Yet most Christians believe, and the creation story implies, that this message has more to do with the value of ignorance and innocence than it does with wisdom and growth. I reject that tenet.

In one of my favorite series, Firefly, a futuristic world included the normal practice of having paid “Companions”–this was framed in an aesthetic manner, including none of the seediness that usually goes along with this activity when illegal. A need was recognized and met by two consenting adults agreeing that one would pay for the service of another. No different than paying for a massage, or electrolysis. I have to say this little bit of futuristic fiction helped sway me toward agreement with the legalization of prostitution, since I had not considered the possibility of viewing it from a standpoint outside the normal stigmatization. There are high-priced call girls in America, but the practice is still illegal, (except in 10 counties in Nevada), and much of this misunderstanding of its usefulness is fraught with the common erroneous ideas that preclude its implementation.

Accordingly, from an ethical standpoint, how do we categorize legalization of prostitution? Is the concept of sex-for-sale as a tainted morality a knee-jerk reaction, or does it actually adhere to ethical precepts? Consider these statistics:

  • 78 percent of women who sought help from the Council for Prostitution Alternatives in 1991 reported being raped an average of 16 times a year by pimps, and were raped 33 times a year by johns.
  • 62 percent reported having been raped in prostitution.
  • 73 percent reported having experienced physical assault in prostitution.
  • 72 percent were currently or formerly homeless.
  • 92 percent stated that they wanted to escape prostitution immediately.
  • 83 percent of prostitutes are victims of assault with a weapon.
  • 75 percent of women in escort prostitution had attempted suicide.
  • 67 percent meet diagnostic criteria for post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

In short, the victims of prostitution are mostly the prostitutes themselves. It just may be that they no longer have the ability left to “consent” to be a willing participant in their so-called victimless crime. Estimates of the prevalence of incest among prostitutes range from 65 percent to 90 percent. The Council for Prostitution Alternatives, Portland, Oregon Annual Report in 1991 found that: 85 percent of their prostitute clients reported history of sexual abuse in childhood while 70 percent reported incest.”**

Some might see this as a case against legalization, when really it is a case FOR it. Legalizing prostitution eliminates almost all of these things. While it won’t prevent women from being abused in their own homes before becoming prostitutes, it does help insure that these women aren’t re-victimized. And it’s crucial to point out, too, that these women didn’t suffer abuse because they were prostitutes, they suffered abuse because they were WOMEN. About 80% of the women I have known well enough to ask has confessed some form of abuse in childhood… and none of them were prostitutes. Let’s don’t confuse the sex-trade with the prevalence of rape and abuse in general.

More confusion can be found in the rhetoric of Feminists and Conservatives, who claim that the anti-prostitution laws protect women. Yet statistics show that 90% of those arrested are the prostitutes themselves. Additionally, 50% of street prostitutes are drug users, and this illegal and street-bound profession perpetuates this. So, in considering the viability of legalization, what are the negative aspects of prostitution in general? Most would say:

  • Immorality
  • Spread of disease,
  • Infidelity
  • Gateway into drug-use
  • Degradation of women
  • Property values in prostitution districts
  • Exploitation of young women or men

Immorality–since the principals of right and wrong are largely subjective, we can only go by the degree or presence of harm, when making a judgment about immorality. If a person enjoys sex and engages in sexual activity with someone else who enjoys sex, and there is an equitable agreement that sex will be traded for money, and this harms no other person or causes no other equal or greater negative result, then how is it immoral? The most common argument in this regard stems from religiosity, and this, too, is highly subjective and has no basis in empirical fact. It is merely opinion by rote.

Disease–Statistics show that only 3 to 5% of STD’s are prostitution-related, while 30-35% of STD cases are found in teenagers. (Sad commentary on the parenting issue). If the safeguards would include the use of condoms, and the testing for STD’s in the employed Paid Sexual Companions, plus the proof of clean STD status in the customers, this would completely avoid the spread of sexually transmittable disease. More so, ironically, than adults who do this non-professionally, by merely being promiscuous.

Infidelity– this is perhaps the one ethical drawback, as customers for PSC’s could be married. I’m not sure there could be some way of insuring that customers were not married. Maybe being able to screen clients via legal ID, check marriage records, and even calling the spouse, if there is one, to verify that he or she gave consent. Many of those who seek sexual gratification in someone other than their spouse, do so because they have a loveless marriage and their needs aren’t being met, or else, their needs are copious, and they believe those needs can’t be met with just one person. My thought on this is that maybe people wouldn’t get married or stay married if their needs weren’t being met, because they can be single and get those needs met with a legalized PSC’s. It might not cost any more than it would to go through the rituals of dating. This might actually help the stats for marriage and divorce. There might be both fewer marriages, and fewer divorces.

Gateway into Drug Use–drug use begins BEFORE the decision to be a prostitute, not after, as some believe. Individuals don’t “dabble” in prostitution, and subsequently develop a drug habit. They develop a drug habit and often turn to selling themselves as a way to afford the drugs. The contrary is a misconception at least, and misinformation at worst.

Degradation of Women
–the defining point of degradation seems to be subjective. Many women choose this trade for economical reasons, and don’t necessarily enjoy it, or as stated, find themselves forced into it due to addiction or other economic precursors. Those women should be afforded other choices, and if they do not have those choices, then this is a geopolitical, economic and social services issue, and not one of morality. But many others enjoy sex and have their own copious need for sexual activity and so providing this service as a legal career allows them to meet their needs both sexually and financially, without all the negative consequences attached to illegal prostitution.

Property values– in “red-light” districts, property values are notoriously low. This is due to the illegal nature of prostitution, and the environment it encourages. If prostitution was legalized and transferred to attractive establishments, and effectively removed from street corners, neighborhoods would not be downgraded, and those that were transformed from street prostitution to legalized brothels, would be able to enjoy the safety, normative property values, and aesthetic values such a legalization would offer. Property values are not contingent upon perceived morality of the inhabitants. They are contingent upon location, location, location, as real estate agents are fond of saying. This refers to the value of surrounding properties and the fiscal decisions by local governments. If a bordello is paying taxes, those monies can be used to maintain a quality neighborhood. And we all know sex sells and it will always sell.

Exploitation of young or under-privileged individuals-- madams and PSC’s would benefit equally from the legal sex-trade arrangement, and the vocation would be one of consent rather than desperation. Since PSC’s would have to be of legal age, this would prevent the exploitation of those below the age of consent. The under-privileged would have a legal means of supporting themselves in an environment that wouldn’t compound the problem. Legalized prostitution would also reduce violence against women, since women and men in this vocation would be less likely to be in a position of danger, and more likely to report any misbehavior or abuse.

Within the milieu of prostitution as it stands, is the fact that prostitutes won’t report abuse and rape, due to fear of being arrested for their illegal profession; though 80% of prostitutes have been raped 16 or more times per year. Accordingly, crimes against prostitutes are among the “safest” crimes to commit. Thus, the illegal status perpetuates violence against women and men who are prostitutes. Another 35 to 85% of prostitutes have suffered abuse in the form of rape, incest and molestation, mostly by family members, well before becoming a prostitute. Thus, the current laws make them victims again.

Contrary to popular belief, in comparing “House” prostitutes–those working from a house or other structure specifically for that purpose–and street prostitutes, 97% reported higher self-esteem. Surprisingly, statistics also show that abuse of prostitutes and women in general were about the same. So the violence against women is the issue here, not prostitution.

With these precepts in mind, here’s how it would be plausible and beneficial:

If prostitution were legalized, and practitioners became Paid Sexual Companions, with the expected safe-guards, regulations and oversights in place, and it was mandatory to run the business from an actual building designed for it (a brothel/bordello), then this would, I believe, solve many, if not all, of the aforementioned issues. Some women have practiced prostitution for a short time, and prefer to call it “survival sex.” If a woman feels that all she has to offer at any given time is her body, in order to survive, then first, she needs more options available.

Second, legalized prostitution would provide the PSC a place to live, regular income, and a support group. Women who have economical challenges or are single mothers, or otherwise lack appropriate resources, would be free to choose the vocation of PSC in lieu of homelessness and poverty. If these legal brothels also hire trained security guards or “bouncers” and implement educational opportunities for employees in the form of GED teachers or night classes in college, then the PSC is effectively building a future for her or himself, and any children the PSC may have. Arrangements could be made for a daycare nearby for those who live on-site. This would create a community of support that will allow the PSC to make other choices later, if he/she chooses, instead of spiraling into poverty, drug addiction, alcoholism and hopelessness.

So legalizing prostitution is at once a viable and feasible solution to the problems that illegal prostitution presents.

——————-
*Prostitutes Education Network. http://www.bayswan.org/index.html
**”Prostitution: Fact sheet on Human Rights Violations” by Melissa Farley, PhD of Prostitution Research & Education. http://crime.about.com/od/prostitution/a/prostitution.htm

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Remote Control Yourself

One thing I dislike most about driving an older car, is having no keyless entry anymore.

See if you can fathom it: you actually have to take a key out of your pocket, put it into a slot in the side of the door, turn it, turn it back, pull the key out of the slot, and lift the handle….all this, just so you can get into your car! Absurd.

The only saving grace about keys is that they provide me still another crime-fighting weapon. I can carry those keys between my fingers, sticking out, so that in case i get mugged, i can gouge out the eyes of my assailant. That would be called “Keyful Entry” into the eyeballs. *

I feel that almost everything ought to be remote controlled.

Except sex.

Yet being single, I’d take that, too…and of course there’s an exception to avoidance of remote controlled sex, as well…the sex shops now have a wonderful toy. You have your girlfriend insert these little metal spheres inside herself, and you have a remote that turns on the vibration in them.

Then the two of you go to a bar and while she’s across the room chatting with someone, just zap her really good. Hysterical. It’s one of my favorite things to do.
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*For another blog that came to me today while driving, see my other blog post, Drive-By Writing.
*For an even handier means of self defense with your keys, buy a Stinger, which can be held in your hand and the small protrusion can do great damage to an attacker.

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Coffee Skin

My coffee has a skin again.

I keep my mug on an old coffeemaker masquerading as a hot plate because I like my coffee to remain highly warm while I sip it throughout my morning. And afternoon. And sometimes evening…depending on when i get up. Which is always a malleable enterprise for those with Delayed Sleep Phase Syndrome. I also have Coining Of Nomenclature Syndrome (C.O.N.S.), except this time I’m not guilty of it. DSPS really exists. Although when i first saw the abbreviation, i thought it stood for -Dating & Sex Postal Service –this is how i intend to find my next girlfriend. When you are at home as much as i am, that’s your only hope of seeing another human being. When she absolutely, positively, has to stay here overnight.
Where was I?

Oh, yeah. Skin.

If my coffee cup stays on the hot plate too long, (as it should, since i am a serious writer who spends many hours slaving away at my clickety clacking)….then it inevitably gets a skin on it. Then I have to take a piece of coffee filter and dig the skin out before I refill.

If I were to visit a coffee shop and say “Give me a hazelnut with skin.”

They would say “Skim milk?”

“No,” I’d say. “Not SKIM. . ..SKIN.”

They would, rightfully so, put me in the crazy category. Been there before, so it wouldn’t be a stretch. I can do crazy very well, thank you.

I thought about trying to put something on top of that skin one time, to see how strong it was. . ..a paper clip, maybe. . ..wonder if it would sink, or ride there? Then I could drink, while staring at a buoyant paper clip. There would be no reason for this, other than my own twisted and absurd entertainment.

I refuse to let myself get bored.

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Open Relationships Vs. Monogamy (4)

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

Okay. I guess I’m being too hard core.

Someone told me I’m being judgmental and imposing my opinions. I just know what i know and believe what i believe and feel passionately about it…it is not my intention to make anyone feel they can’t speak their mind or have a differing opinion and i hope that’s clear–if it’s not, know it NOW. I am interested in engaging in thoughtful discourse, growing, learning, supporting and learning to communicate with each other.

And regarding this monogamy subject, i am still deciding where the lines are…like, is it okay to hug and touch and maybe do a little bump and grind to someone in a bar? is that over a line? I’m not sure. Maybe.(And why can we do that if there’s music playing, but it’s inappropriate if it’s not?) Anyway, I don’t do that very often. So i haven’t thought about it a lot. But as far as monogamy and our romantic/sexual/intimate behavior inside that is concerned, I do believe that Commitment Implies Exclusivity. That’s the main point. And i think that discussing it is healthy for all of us. I hope everyone still knows that you are all entitled to your own opinions, even if they differ from mine. I’m just passionate.

I had a real event take place about 8 years ago, and someone asked me about that…so i’ll share it…

I was at a party given by my friend and her girlfriend at their house. My friend took me to a back room where she had her artwork, so i could see some recent paintings…the conversation somehow ended up with us doing some playful wrestling, ending up on the bed, and she landed on top of me and kissed me. It lasted maybe 4-5 seconds. I wasn’t expecting it at all.

Afterward i said “What the hell are you doing?” That’s when she said she had always wanted to kiss me.

I said, “You have a girlfriend!” (and the girlfriend was in the house along with a bunch of other women).

She told me that her gf had given her permission to kiss whomever she wanted as long as that’s all it was, because this friend really had some kind of thing about being able to kiss women if she was attracted to them…she had only had one 3month relationship with one woman before this current girlfriend, and at the time they had been together about 5 years i think. maybe longer. So i had this moment when i thought “I guess it’s ok…” but then it still bothered me. It never happened again, and this woman and i are still friends—for a total of maybe 12 years.

So i didn’t exactly give permission for this kiss, and i was shocked by it. But even then, i felt bad. But i did deal with that confusion of “what if it’s okay with the girlfriend?”

So this friend i was talking to today also asked this: what if i was in a bar, dancing and drinking and met this girl whom i was attracted to and this girl kissed me, and then we wound up going home and sleeping together…and then i found out afterward she had a girlfriend. What would i do?

Well first, i would not have done anything UNSAFE. I have to make that clear at the outset.

But then i would admonish myself for not getting to know her better before making a decision to be sexual, and then I would admonish her for not telling me. And i probably wouldn’t be able to be friends with her, because there’s an honesty/trust issue there and i can’t always wonder if my friends or dates or gf’s are lying to me. And frankly, i don’t like having people in my life who think it’s okay to be dishonest. I got rid of the toxic people in my life a long time ago and i intend to keep it that way, IT just causes chaos and drama and stress. It was one of the healthiest decisions i’ve made for myself.

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Open Relationships Vs. Monogamy (3)

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

Someone said, about this monogamy debate,

“let me grow at my own rate, let me make my own mistakes, stop interferring with my journey!”

Well, I wouldn’t pull them apart and scream “I forbid you to do this!” I am merely voicing my opinion–but not interfering with their right to use free will and make their own choices.

I am not trying to be the Morality Police here, but that doesn’t mean i don’t feel there needs to be some policing–by someone….by all of us, really. I have always believed that what two consenting adults do is about Primum non nocere: “First, do no harm.” …that includes safe sex or full disclosure of STD status. I guess this edict would include that third person who might be “Okay with it” when her girlfriend sleeps with someone else…I could never be okay with that. I endeavor to be not only “Enough” for my partner, but PLENTY. So if she feels she needs something sexual/intimate from someone else, we are not suitable partners, and she can tuck and roll. And never roll back in my direction. I don’t “share” precisely because i have respect for myself, as *I* define self-respect. Part of that is how something makes me feel. When i have a strong negative reaction to something–there’s a damn good reason behind it. I believe that if someone needs more than one person at a time, they either have a sex addiction, profound and abnormal need for approval or love, or they are just universally and perhaps blindly selfish. (These are my feelings/opinions/beliefs and everyone else is entitled to their own, whether they agree with me or not. Hurray! there’s another one of those “Freedoms.”)

But again, i am stressing here, that the deeper issue is much more complicated…the deeper issue is about our evolution as beings of integrity and collective consciousness…are we all going to be such free agents that we stop caring about what our actions might CAUSE?

Others have made good points, and some points i don’t think are accurate, like the argument that there is no real decline in morals these days, as compared with the past. However, the very nature of our society is one predicated on a moral decay that grows stronger every day. Are you watching and reading the same information I am? Why is this even in question? I KNOW, personally that things have changed because i have been a kid and have grown up and am aware of what’s happening with the generations now and since then. I see it clearly. Things are VERY different where morality and ethics are concerned. So I’m always a bit chagrined by the stance that all is well, and ethics is alive and well. But that’s just me–I’m chagrined, and no one has to care that i am chagrined.

And as for the “carnal thoughts” someone might have about your wife, I don’t see that doing any harm, and if it served as an aphrodisiac for both of you, then smack my ass and call me a participant. I had my own experience with that one when i was in a band with a girlfriend, and after the shows we performed to cloying, flirty, appreciative fans, we would arrive home with an overwhelming case of the hornies.

I suspect that the use of the mantras, “it’s none of my business”…or “I can’t judge others” is precisely the sort of apathy that generates more problems. Are we not supposed to use our judgment? What’s it there for, if we don’t? are we not supposed to draw rational conclusions from facts? Are we so worried about being politically correct that no one can call anyone else into responsibility? Are we so terrified of losing one iota of our freedom, that we balk at the slightest challenge to it? Are we all becoming cowards? Am i crazy, unreasonable, and offensive for drawing these conclusions???? Should i just give up and join the crowd because it’s easier? because instant gratification feels so good? I’ve been guilty of it– I’m not always a paragon of virtue. But i do try to learn from my actions. And i just have this pervasive sense that we are all moving dangerously far from the ideals that might save us from this decline that is as clear as cellophane to me….i think i’ll change my name to Helena Handbasket.

And even if the number of sexually active/promiscuous teens and kids remained exactly the same (and i haven’t seen any evidence of this, but have seen evidence to the contrary)–but assuming that’s true–then, there are so many other things that have changed in recent generations that make having a moral compass and an ethical footing more important than ever. Here’s some stats to shed light on it:

According to Project Reality, 10,000 teens acquire a sexually transmitted disease every day. Although current sex education has increased condom use among teens, the number of adolescents afflicted with an STD has risen with it, so that a teenager is stricken every 8 seconds.

One out of every three children is having sex at the age of 10, and 17 out of 100 will deliberately spread the virus if they know they are HIV-positive.

These are the findings of a comprehensive survey by the Community Information, Empowerment and Transparency (CIET) in November and December 2002 (five years ago–trending would suggest it’s even worse now).

Some of the other disturbing findings included that, at 18, two out of every three children had had sex.

Two out of 10 pupils did not believe condoms prevented pregnancy or other sexually transmitted diseases.

One in 10 said they believed sex with a virgin could cure HIV/Aids, and one in 10 had been raped in the past year.

Three out of every 100 pupils thought that girls liked sexually violent boys and one out of every 10 thought that girls who got raped, asked for it, according to the study.

The study further stated people were becoming sexually active earlier and belief systems about sex supported sexually violent and sexually irresponsible behavior.

“It is not surprising that 43 percent of all sexual crimes committed on children reported to Childline, were committed by children under 18,” the study reported.

Consider these statistics:

* Almost half of all students in grades nine through twelve have had sex.
* Half of all girls are likely to be infected with an STD during their first sexual experience.
* Nearly one in four sexually active teens have an STD.
* Teens will contract nearly one in four of the 15 million new cases of STDs this year.
* Teens make up 10% of the population, but they contract up to 25% of all STDs.
* Herpes (specifically herpes simplex type 2 or “genital herpes”) has skyrocketed 500% among white teenagers in the last 20 years.

{remember, “back in the old days” there were only two STD’s “available (LOL-sorry) and these were both treatable with penicillin}.

* One in five children above age twelve tests positive for herpes type 2.
* One in ten teenage girls has Chlamydia; half of all new Chlamydia cases each year are diagnosed in girls 15 to 19 years old.

It gets worse. The Journal of the American Medical Association reported in a February 2002 editorial that the number of people with asymptomatic STDs (diseases with no outward symptoms like lesions or warts) probably exceeds those whose diseases are diagnosed. This means that the epidemic may be twice as large as we think.

The STD epidemic is a catastrophe. Millions of teens have been hurt. Millions more are threatened. Diseases are tearing into the bodies of our children in ways that will cause irreparable harm or possibly death.

Oh yes, i can see how the lack of steadfast ethics and morals have had no affect on any of us.

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