Saturday, May 28, 2005

La Ribambelle du Luxe

Readerdroid anxiously called me last night as I was digging my spoon into the jumbo Nutella jar for the umpteenth time to reveal to me a revelation of sorts:

"You were right," she confessed, now calm. "What that faucet did in under three minutes, three men couldn't even come close to."

Let me parse that for you. By "faucet," she meant "bathtub faucet" and by "couldn't even come close to," she meant "get her off."

I guess I have to flush out the backstory. You see, I've been an advocate of self-loving since I was 13 as a way to prepare myself for those mythological high school escapades (originally thinking adolescence would introduce me to -- hold the gags -- a miasme of free-love and masculine charm). Turned out, even if the God Squad and Academic A-holes didn't run the place like Guatanamo Bay, there still wouldn't have been enough action to feed a class of hungry Czech whores. So the more I observed junior high traditions re-enacted by the pubescent, pimply set, the more I became a mating recluse, forever closing the door to handhold-a-thons in favour of pressing time spent alone (all the while praying my grandmother doesn't catch me in the act). [*Related story: I think she once found me in front of the Spice Channel and turned off the TV when she saw that I had fallen asleep mid-plot with the remote hovering dangerously over the edge of the bed. She never betrayed any signs of knowledge or disappointment afterwards -- it happened a few times -- and for all I know, I could've been watching the Food Network and getting hot off Emeril.]

Readerdroid's participation would make her one of my two public converts (along with a handful of privates). I believe there are three garden varieties of women in this department: Those who own up to what they do (besides consuming the Bridget Jones bible); those who engage in masturbation, but are still too shy to admit it; and those who've never seen a pussy without getting guilty flashbacks of Sister Wendy pointing at phalluses and foliage.

To resucitate the old, Steinem adage, "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle" would be terribly anachronastic at a time in history when the young are raised to believe in "partners." Yet, it would be wrong for me to say women have fully embraced their freedoms, which would include exploring erogenous zones traditionally deemed tasteless or unacceptable by a society ruled by matriarchs and their Oedipal sons. When men are still made squeamish by women who understand their own anatomy, you know there is still room for change.

Just don't make the mistake of telling girls who enjoy publicizing your habit to heighten their own appearance of sexual frankness because you will have men -- including unsavoury types -- begging to eat you out to validate their exaggerated abilities.


I've been listening to album after album today (real productive, I know): The Futureheads, The Bravery, LCD Soundsystem, Bloc Party, Scissor Sisters, and the Montreal-bred Arcade Fire. Like Swiss Alps, I've been getting into this whole Disco Punk genre where syncopated beats and heavy guitars dovetail perfectly with techno pops and screams. Makes me want to dance and contemplate all at the same time.

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