My Body is a Jungle Gym

When I was in college there were few things less appealing than the thought of having children. Marriage is fine and something I've always wanted to head towards, but kids? No, thanks. Somewhere along the line that plan got shot to hell and I am the proud mother of the most beautiful little red haired dimple girl. I see other women's babies and small children and want to talk to them and play with their kids. I'm a totally different person.

The biggest change in my life outside of the fact that, being separated from her father, I have no sex life is that I have a ton of confidence. I look more or less the same as I did before. I'm a bit thinner and after nursing and losing weight my breasts are even smaller, a feat I had previously deemed impossible. I have a couple of stretch marks on my stomach that have already mostly faded, my stomach tattoo has a couple of tiny stretch marks that are only visible if you study it intently, and I have a number of tiny imperfections all over too minor to mention. But even still, I am way more confident. Before giving birth I hated my body and all of its imperfections. I didn't hate my vagina because I have always had a deep rooted respect for that place, but the rest of me was shit.

It wasn't just the act of giving birth that changed my perception of myself but my daughter. I want to be a positive and confident role model. I want to show her to love herself and be strong and sexy and intelligent and own whatever it is that she is. And on top of all that, my daughter thinks I am the most amazing human being ever. Not just me as a mommy but my body. My body is her strength and nourishment. I hold her when she is sad or tired to my chest. When she is happy and awake she crawls all over my body like a jungle gym. I am a pullup bar, my leg can be crawled under like a tunnel. My face is an interesting and interactive toy. She loves my body and damn it, I should too.

The Story of the Hurricane

They met online. She responded to a personal ad he had placed. Neither of them expected much. He was expecting spam and vapid uninteresting responses and she, well she didn’t much know what to expect, but certainly not this. They had talked online a bit about generalities and finally after some prodding she pushed him into talking about sex. He was hesitant at first but once they started talking about it they couldn’t stop talking, longing, needing each other imagining their bodies pressed against each other nipples and penis and clit all erect the heat and friction and full body sensation, covered in goose bumps but sweating in the end of summer heat.

They thought about the other throughout the day but had never met even for coffee or a beer. They in reality had no real idea what the other looked like. There was a solid chance that, being the internet and all, that they could both be obese oafs with grease stained t-shirts, and some combination of man tits, a fupa, too many cats or a debilitating masturbation addiction. Maybe even all of the above.

But in reality they were both normal average people with one thing in common. Since they had met online and started chatting the same thing awakened inside of them, unshakable and constant arousal. They masturbated to the thought of the other and still couldn’t shake it.

After a couple of weeks of this a hurricane struck hundreds of miles south and the rain and wind worked its way up the coast to their state. They planned to meet but cancelled at the last minute and instead talked all day while they weathered out the storm. By nightfall, the hurricane’s intensity had waned but theirs had not. They decided to meet immediately and his place, though three hours away from hers. As she drove to meet him the wind gently moved her car on the road and the vibrations filled her body. By the time she got to his place her whole body was tingling and alive.

He met her at her car. She saw him and got wet and excited just looking at him. As she stepped out of her car, to buy time and regain composure she stepped out of the car and went to grab her bag from the backseat of the car. He walked over with the intention of giving her a hello hug but the closer he got the electricity and desire took over and instead he grabbed her from behind and pressed his stiff cock against the zipper of his jeans and the seat of hers. She had another surge of wetness and dropped the bag in the back seat, turned around and their bodies and mouths finally met.

She jumped up in his arms, wrapped her legs around his body and rubbed herself against him as they continued making out in the hard wind and rain. He started moving toward the door to his house, but instead she jumped down grabbed and held his bulge and pushed him against the nearest tree she could find. Once he was pressed against the tree she unzipped his pants and pulled his penis out through the fly and started going down in him tasting his delicious precome that had been waiting for her for so long. She got wetter listening to his moaning as the rain dripped off her face and pooled on his jeans around the base of his shaft. She started to slip his pants down to his knees and fondled his balls as he appeared to approach climax. She stopped sucking on his dick pulled up her skirt and put his hand between her legs as he kissed her neck pulling down her shirt as he moved lower down the nape of her neck. With his free hand he started pulling up the bottom of her shirt inching his hand upward and his mouth downward his other hand still up her skirt. She was backed against the tree now and nearly collapsing as she shook uncontrollably from the heat in her body, the cool of the rain, and the feel of his mouth, hands and dick as they explored every inch of her limp and compliant body. She started to lose all consciousness as he pressed her harder against the tree and explored every inch of her.

She regained consciousness in a snap and pushed him down into the muddy grass under the tree pulled his wet and sticky pants completely off, threw off her own clothing and mounted him. It had been sometime since her last partner and although her pussy was drenched with rain and desire she was tight and he nearly came as he slid slowly inside her. He held her pelvis in place for a moment while he took a deep breath and then lifted her hips at a slow and steady pace until he had regained control. The slow steady pace caused her to come in just a few slow deep thrusts and she widened to accept his dick inside her deeper. She threw her head back wildly whipping her drenched hair around as it stuck to her face in her eyes dripping rain and sweat from her locks into her open moaning mouth as she came two more times contracting the muscles inside her each time a little stronger. This sent him past the point of no return and he thrusted hard into her while he came hot come deep within her right up against her cervix as she collapsed on top of him.

They both lost all consciousness for who knows how long but when they regained their composure they had started to get cold from the rain beading on the curve of her lower back and in his belly button. She kissed his neck drinking the water and sweat that had collected in beads all over his body moving down his chest slowly until she reached his belly button where she drank the water there and lingered for a moment as his cock began to stiffen against her chest and hard nipples. She sprung up suddenly and pulled him to his feet with her as they sauntered inside wet clothes in hand.

Pet Peeve Time!

So, I have been trying to date. I am fairly pretty and thin and intelligent and well spoken. Men hit on me all the time. I hate it. Who cares what I look like? I mean really? In a relationship it doesn't matter what a person looks like if you can't stand to spend time with them. Anyhow, I had been on a million first dates and only one second date. More than I hate being judged by my appearance I really hate it when men try to talk themselves up sexually. So, I am going to give some great relationship advice for men:
Do
Not
Tell
Women
How
Much
You
Love
To
Eat
Pussy
.
.
.
Ever.
Not on a first date, not on a second date. Not on any date that precedes intercourse. The only time it is ok is after performing the act. You can say something like "God, I really love the [taste][smell][feel] of your [insert word for vagina here]. Don't tell a women you want to date or even just fuck how much you like to please a woman. Don't brag about your sexual abilities. Don't say that you never leave a woman dissatisfied. There are a few ways to hint at your sexual abilities in a sly and quietly confident, sexy manner, but just coming right out and laying it all on the table... not sexy.

You're welcome.

Postpartum Labia

I have seen a lot of porn. I've seen some really sexy amateur porn, I've seen some interesting commercial porn, and I have seen some depraved sexual acts that should never have been filmed (two girls, one cup? Anybody?). After seeing all of this porn I noticed that some women are what a friend of mine calls 'innies' and others are 'outies.' I'm an innie for sure, but knowing nothing about the female anatomy outside of my own I assumed that outies occurred as a result of hard fucking, abuse, and childbirth. Little did I know that is not the case. The differences are genetic and all forms of labia are totally normal. Mine are just small, tucked in and close together. And although small tidy labia are commercially attractive, I have recently become jealous of the extra labia many women have. It increases friction and helps to move lubrication from the vaginal opening to the clitoris and labia. Extra sensation and extra lubrication? Yes please! Having a smaller vagina the additional lubrication would be so nice. I wouldn't need so much foreplay and it wouldn't be so hard to get inside me. Anyhow...

While I was pushing my daughter into the world I remember thinking "oh god, my vagina is going to be gigantic after this!" As little as a month later (maybe sooner but I didn't investigate sooner) not only was everything exactly the way I remembered it being but I was actually a little bit tighter. The vagina is an amazing thing. It can give amazing pleasure to both partners, it can adjust to the size of any partner, and it can push and bleed and bring life into this world. The vagina is amazing. My vagina is amazing.

Twenty Four Years in the Making

So being a hypersexual human being one would think that I had figured out ages ago how to give myself orgasms. That I would be a masturbation fiend. No, and no. I didn’t even have my first orgasm until I was twenty, two years after becoming sexually active. I remember my first orgasm very vividly. I had lesbian friends who tried to talk me through orgasms, hetero friends who gave me advice, men who claimed I needed them to hand deliver me orgasms. In reality, I just needed to let go and allow my body to tell me what to do. I needed time. I needed to grow into my sexuality not just possess sexuality. It was a hard earned lesson in listening to the signals of my own body and one that I still keep in mind for all aspects of my life.

My first orgasm was with Jay. I call him the phantom boyfriend nowadays. He was my first true love and my first orgasm. The first person I actually made love to (another good story for sure). I don’t often talk about Jay, but Jay was fantastic. He wasn’t a sexual god, and I’m certainly no sexual goddess. But I loved Jay with every particle of my being. My body was ready for, itching for climax. I was comfortable with myself and had recently learned to love my body and listen to it. It was time.

Jay and I had a hit or miss sex life. We either had sex as often as we could or we bickered and got angry and were too bitter to have makeup sex. This particular night we had been on a good stretch for a while and were in a phase of constant fucking interspersed with some love making. After dinner that night I grabbed him by the crotch of his skinny jeans and felt his cock respond instantly. We headed back to my room because my roommate lived in the library and would be there till ten when it closed. We practically fell through the door trying to get at each other as fast as we could. We were naked immediately but he stopped me from going further. I wanted him inside me but he made me wait and started stroking my clit with his dick. At first I didn’t know how to respond. It felt nice, but it was different and new and slow like making love as we were wont to do, but still headed towards passionate fucking. I started to get so excited with anticipation and realized that I was leaking all over the sheets, his dick, and my clit. We were covered in the stuff. I would have normally felt self-conscious about the amount of fluid but this time I just embraced what my body was doing. I grabbed his cock and started stroking it while I rubbed it against my clit a little harder and faster and in a few minutes I came. I. Came…. Me. The biologically incapable of coming, me… just came. I yelled out in passion and he came all over my hot wet body. We collapsed and hadn’t even had intercourse but were both so fully satisfied that it was all we needed.

From that moment on I could come almost any time I wanted to. I came during foreplay, I came during sex, I came after sex while our bodies were still connected. I’m not great at orgasming in the morning because I don’t have the mental strength to procure one. I just enjoy the sensation of a hard cock sliding in and out of me as a way to start the day so I didn't do much coming in the morning. But once again, that’s another story.

Four years after my first orgasm and six after the beginning of my sexual journey, I still was incapable of producing an orgasm on my own. I could come if I masturbated in front of a partner but not on my own in private. It seemed contrived. Fake. Meaningless. I didn’t like it.

And then the magical day came. I had a play date with my daughter and some friends and their infant daughter. We all went on a hike and my daughter enjoyed it so thoroughly that she didn’t take a nap all morning. When we got back home she was exhausted and immediately fell asleep. I had what I guessed would be about two hours of free time. A few days earlier I had bought a bunch of books, one of which was a book by Penthouse that had a bunch of letters, written by women, about sex. Some were fictional some may not have been but they were sexy. I started reading them and got wet almost immediately. I figured, ‘what the hell, it couldn’t hurt to give it another try.’ As I read I gently and slowly started to touch myself, almost absent mindedly, assuming that my fumbling caresses would lead nowhere. The more I read and touched myself the wetter I got and it dawned on me that I was becoming more excited than I had ever been alone before. I was reading about this woman who had a sex drive that far exceeded that of her partner’s (I could relate) and she subsequently decided to seek out alternate partners to supplement her already active sex life (I could not relate). But as I read more of her passionate hookup with her random stranger and the longing she felt in general as well as for her sexy stranger man I related in a way that was beyond just a sympathy of ideas. I felt her. I came as I read and touched myself.

I was so excited that I just lay there smiling for quite a while and then started reading again. Some other story, some other sexually frustrated woman and came again. I felt empowered and sexy and free. It was glorious and will likely continue to be for some time.

For the Love of Cock

I’m just going to admit it. I love cock. I love the way it feels, I love the way it looks. The way it nods its head when its happy. I love them thick and thin, short and long, totally straight or bent to the side just a little. More than anything though, I love giving head. The taste, the smoothness in my mouth, the salty precome, it all feels so good. I moan just from the act of giving head as I get wetter with anticipation. My nipples harden and I try to go as long as I can without touching myself. I love to sixty nine and have my face buried in balls my mouth filled with dick and his face buried in my wetness fingers inside me, throbbing clit and pounding heart shoving his cock deeper into my mouth as I come from sensation overload and as he thrusts deeper down my throat gently vibrating the shaft with my moans of ecstasy. I just love cock.

I didn't know Jack

I met Jack online. In my foray into single motherhood I was nervous meeting men the traditional way and thought if I met them online first they could get to know me as a person rather than see my physical body and think only of sex. I’m not a supermodel. I am an active, thin, average woman with an above average sexuality and a confidence that is probably beyond my years. Men see me and an intelligent one will immediately recognize the sexual urgings barely beneath the surface. I exude sexuality and longing. Anything I may lack physically (boobs) I make up for with passion. I attract men who are intuitive enough to see that. Not many can keep up with my desire but they never fail to try. A for effort in my book.

Jack was a few years older, intelligent, professional, averagely good looking, muscular, interesting. He wore glasses and dressed in an entirely unremarkable manner. More than that though, the first time we met, he looked at me like a beautiful woman. Not physically but in an all-encompassing, hungry for me, longing sort of way. On our first date in a coffee shop we spent four hours talking about life, relationships, sex in any and all forms. Sometime during the conversation a physical need I hadn’t addressed in a long time woke up in me and I needed him. Soon.

We talked on the phone, chatted online, sent e-mails and I made it very clear that I wanted him badly. It wasn’t just the physical. My favorite moment of sex is the after party. Covered in sweat and cum and hair and saliva, tangled up in the sheets and each other like a pile of balled up scraps of paper in the wastebasket. Exhausted and throbbing just lying there after fucking wildly. That is when the real love making begins. Worshiping each other’s bodies for the acts they had just committed. I longed for that with Jack. I was wet all the time and couldn’t get the yearning for him to cease.

Jack was passionate and seemingly sexual. He said that he liked to just dive in head first and have passionate committed relationships. He was also excited by the prospect of intercourse. My kind of guy. I am not emotionally unavailable. I’m not sexually elusive. I’m not inhibited or passive or dishonest or even difficult to read. I am not a mystery. He seemed of the same ilk. It excited me to think of the combustibility of our interactions. It promised to be passionate and explosive and amazing.

Not too much time passed before I decided that if anything were to happen between the two of we would need to know that we were sexually compatible. Additionally, I was going out of my mind and needed a release. I found a babysitter, drove to his place on more or less a whim, against my better judgment. He said there would be no pressure, he just wanted to sleep next to me.

When I got there I probably looked frumpy. I was wearing a plain tank top, a button down flannel shirt, and some jeans. I had on a sexy bra and panties and didn’t bring in any pjs though they were in the car. I was nervous and sat far away from him while I pat his dog that was remarkably sweet and cuddly. He brought me wine and we talked. I moved closer when he got up to get me a second glass. When he came back into the living room with my wine he laughed and said, “I see you’ve moved closer.” That quiet mildly cocky, but totally sexy confidence just kills me. I shyly sat there drinking wine, chatting with him and staring at his crotch every time I got the chance. By this time the wine had kicked in and I was feeling loosened up. I finished my wine and he asked, “would you like another?”

I would have answered him but instead straddled him and started passionately kissing him. I could feel the blood rushing into my genitals and his as his cock pressed against his jeans and mine. Without a break in oral contact, I threw off my flannel and he took that as a signal to stand up, also not missing a beat, and carried me into his bedroom. We feverishly undressed each other and I had a fistful of cock before I could even process where I was.

He had the sort of body that looked like he would have a bit of a belly, but naked his body was hard, masculine and strong. Large upper half, thin toned lower half. Broad shoulders. Scant body hair. Slight musky odor. His cock was hard and rigid, and thicker than I had imagined. It was wonderful. I had hoped for hours of foreplay and coming and anticipation and teasing but I was drenched with excitement and soon he was inside of me. I nearly came the instant he entered me. He threw me on top and I came once and then again a few minutes later. Then he held my hips and had me stop. I tried to keep going and he held my hips in place and then got on top and brushed the hair from my face.

“You’re intense,” he said.
“I really want you.”
I suddenly felt very self-conscious.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“You’re just really intense.”
“What do you mean? Is it a bad thing?”
“I don’t know. I just question your promiscuity.”

My what? Did he really just call me a slut because I’m good in bed? I had never had any complaints before. Where the hell did that even come from? I rolled over in bed and faced the wall. A few tears welled up in my eyes and any wetness seemed to evaporate on the spot. He didn't say anything for a while and then rolled over towards me and put his hand gently on my shoulder. We talked for a while and he said that my intensity just surprised him. He didn't mean what it sounded like he meant. He said that I 'floored' him and then he held me for a long time. After a while started kissing again and eventually worked our way to sex and this time he didn’t stop me. My heart wasn’t in it so I just let my body act on its own and we both came again but it wasn’t the same. I woke up early and we had sex again, this time my parts were a little sore from hard fucking and months of being out of commission. He came, I didn’t and we had an awkward goodbye.

I’d love to say that I sent him an e-mail the next day standing up for myself, told him off, and then went on a date with another man, had passionate raucous animal sex, and then never saw Jack again. I did send him an email, I didn’t tell him off, went on a date with another man who I didn’t even kiss, and then talked to Jack the next day. A few days later I saw him again and we had sex that night and then the next morning. It was much better but still cautious. I really liked Jack, he was kind and quietly confident. His body was unspeakably sexy, he wanted the same things I did in life and he was intelligent. I need a passionate uninhibited man who sees sexual desire and passion as a desirable attribute. Maybe that is him and maybe it isn't. If it isn't him does that man even exist?

And Now for Something Completely Different

I had been using this to post book reviews and to put some of my fiction and poetry into the blogosphere for the past few years. Lately I have been in some sort of extreme sexual overdrive. I've been reading about sex, thinking about sex, not having sex, and more or less going crazy. Some stories in this will be sexual some not. Some of it is autobiographical, some not, but it is all an outlet for the throbbing passion inside of me. I still have the book reviews saved as drafts and can produce one on request, but honestly, who wouldn't rather read about sex?

Bonk: the Curious Coupling of Science and Sex

It took me a while to write this review with a newborn and also having recently gone back to work (while breastfeeding), and I'm not superwoman. I borrowed this book from a friend (it's in the back of my car, I'll bring it back soon, I promise). My first real conversation with the book's owner was about this book. He highly recommended it and then months later I finally got a chance to read it.

I wasn't sure I wanted to read a book that took something I find so sacred and science-ified it. After reading the book, devouring it really, I am so glad I gave it a chance! It was really just a history of sex research in no real particular sort of timeline. It covered early sex research which focused on animal sex to the almost deviant beginnings of human sex research.

Did you know that a woman's ability to orgasm during sex has everything to do with the distance between her clitoris and vaginal opening?
Or that panda bears have a penis the size of a man's thumb and no aim so they have a hard time even finding the vaginal opening?

There are a million other interesting factiods to be had in the book, but I won't ruin it for you here. Read it!

Metaphors - Sylvia Plath

I'm a riddle in nine syllables,
An elephant, a ponderous house,
A melon strolling on two tendrils.
O red fruit, ivory, fine timbers!
This loaf's big with its yeasty rising.
Money's new-minted in this fat purse.
I'm a means, a stage, a cow in calf.
I've eaten a bag of green apples,
Boarded the train there's no getting off.

After reading a lot of Plath as a angst-y youth, I always found her to be immature. She always seems to be whining or complaining about everything. I assumed that she had a bad attitude and a terrible lease on life and, although I still feel about the same as I always have, I now realize that she actually has some insight into life and a freshness of perspective that I hadn't seen before. At this time last year this poem would have no significant effect on me. Being pregnant and mostly isolated from the loving support of others usually associated with pregnancy makes even a cold person warm to the pain of others. If only they can directly relate to the precise feeling and origin of the pain. Pain and suffering are pathetic and selfish emotions. Pregnancy is not a blessing, motherhood is. Pregnancy is a time of selfish and pathetic inner reflection where the expecting mother sees either nothing but the definiteness of supreme and all-encompassing happiness in the perfection of their future or, toil inside trying to find the lofty and higher power they ascribe to mothers and find none of in themselves. I am nothing but a means, a stage and getting fat. The stretch marks, constipation, indigestion, nausea, fear, loneliness, fatigue and constant agitation are all symptoms of this blessing that is supposed to occur sometime in the future. Lovely.

I always considered myself very lucky. At the young age of 22 I discovered what takes a lifetime for some people and never happens for others. I discovered that I am beautiful, not beautiful in the way that all young women are transiently beautiful, but beautiful in the way that a person with an astounding soul lights up their face from the inside when you look into their eyes. My soul can always use some improvement, but what makes me a little different is the ability I have to see the inside with clarity. I am honest with myself and that translates to my behavior to other people as well. There is no need to make myself try to appear more attractive than I am in search of a mate because the difference between myself and most any other 20something woman I know is stark. I have no shame in my body my features which will all change eventually into something less than the beauty of my twenties. I have been blessed with great genes and will probably look more or less as I do now for some time, but it helps to be self assured. Women who age gracefully and over time letting the gray hair and wrinkles take their place as they are earned are so much more beautiful than women in their twenties who are beautiful for now but will grow into a different woman with time. The choice is for each individual to decide how graceful the aging process is.

Pregnancy has changed all of that. It is possibly the hormones or it could also be the misery. I had hoped that my changing mind and body wouldn't rock me to the inner but just be another part. It is a huge paradigm shift. Books read differently and conversation leads to morals and truths and higher thoughts. Any trivial conversation later tastes like sucking on a bag of pennies. It is just distasteful and lingers as an unpleasant memory.

A Longing for Ginsberg’s ‘Cock and Endless Balls’

I woke up next to him with my tits pressed hard against his chest. It was warm and my nipples were hard. He didn’t notice. The sun was shining through the ten million windows in the room and I inched my hand deeper and deeper under the covers looking for his cock. The alarm went off. FUCK.

We dated for eight months. Not even a goddamned year. Before I met him I used to write poetry. Terrible droning woman poetry. I though I knew something about love or truth or whatever highfaluting over romanticized concepts related to beauty that all women are fed. Well, raped with actually. He was a man of purpose and reason and concrete and black and white and gray and ohmygod is he dull. Within a month I realized that we had a major difference that we would never get over. I wanted to fuck. All the time. I wanted cock in the morning, cock in the evening. I wanted cock at night and during any time in between.

I knew I had little time to fuck him before he obsessed about getting to work on time.
“What time is it?”
He rolled over grabbed his watch/barometer/lifepartner and set the alarm to snooze. Another ten minutes till I hear that noise again and he gets more anxious to leave.
“8”

I thought about it for a minute. Ten minutes for him to wash his hair and brush his teeth, twenty for me to make him breakfast before he leaves, and about an hour of time that every day that gets lost or misplaced in the ether. Twenty minutes for him to walk to the post office and the back to work. Ten minutes for coffee. He works at 10. It’s 8. FUCK. Exactly two hours.

Two months ago I woke him up everyday with his cock in my mouth. That was the only way to get his cock inside me, to put it in my mouth first. Groggy and mentally devoid of any sort of lust, morning sex initiated (launched really) only by fellatio and his cock telling him to get off, his performance was not up to par in the morning. Not ever in the morning. If I wanted to come I had to make him do it the right way pushing against him to correct the rhythm he should have known by heart. In his sleep even. Apparently not.

I pressed my tits harder against him and slid my hands under his pants. He wasn’t hard. I hoped for morning wood. No beans. I left to pee and then snuggled up to him until the next alarm. It was entirely out of the question this morning. I would have to make his omelet while he got ready and then let the sexual frustration cause my hair to fall out. Literally fall out of my head after he left. Everyday my hair fell out of my head and my clit screamed at me for attention. Nothing could be done.

“Omelet or oatmeal?”
“Omelet.”
He always said omelet.

The Sex Lives of Cannibals

This was another of the many books found in the library of my house when I moved in. One of my co-workers told me that it was a “travel book” before I had even opened it and I was feeling a little apprehensive, but the title, like all of Troost's titles, was intriguing and I thought that it was worth a quick read. I soon realized that it was basically a less side splittingly hilarious, more intellectual version of Chelsea Handler's books; if Chelsea Handler lived in Kiribati and had a lot of diarrhea (which is a word I can confidently say I would never spell right but for spell check).

The plot is something like this: author goes to grad school, does not know what to do with his life, girlfriend gets job in Kiribati, for lack of any other plans he joins her, fails to write fiction novel, has a lot of insanity come into and out of his life, moves back to the states, adjusts, hates it, moves to Fiji, has kid, mushy new father sweet ending. Oh, spoiler alert. Too late? Oh well. The plot is not really the point of the book. After finishing it I realized that my coworker was right, this was a travel book. The author travels to the end of the earth and finds himself in the most unlikely place, a place where most people find only fish, fish, fish, and la Macarena. Maybe some occasional digestive discomfort and WWII relics from battles past, but mostly fish. It was a little cheesy (especially at the end) even in its gross honesty, but not so much as to detract from the point which is probably: visit Kiribati, it will be interesting at least, or respect the people from Kiribati they are an interesting group of people troubled by issues that would be unheard of in the states.

The novel is very funny, well written, and despite the many less than glamorous aspects of life on the equatorial Pacific, and Kiribati in particular the reader is (or should be) left with a feeling of familiarity and longing for life as he lived it on the tiny island of Tarawa. I certainly feel as though Kiribati is somewhere I would like to visit, though I know it would be a test of my mental and emotional fortitude to do so (not to mention the strength of my insides).

And as a final aside, this book is neither about sex nor cannibalism. I have lived with or relatively near my younger brother for all twenty years of his life. Not once
has he ever shown any interest in what I was reading or for that matter anything else that can be read except for maybe the script of a video game he was trying to beat (don't get me wrong he is very literate, and intelligent, but he spends his brain power on other things, such as being totally hilarious). A few days ago I allowed him to borrow my car on the condition that he bring me my books from it first. His car died, and the truck my father gave him to replace it actually has no brakes, so I let him take mine for the day. When he delivered my books he actually asked about this one. That may not seem like a big deal, but it really is. The title alone is genius, and the book is a good read.

The Last Sunday in January

I awoke with the sun this morning. Jeremy just got up to have his morning pee. In the immortal words of my younger brother, “not everybody takes a shit every morning, but everybody in the world has to pee.” Indeed. Nearly as soon as he left my side the dog, which had been sleeping on the floor next to my side of the bed, stood up walked around the bed and without any introductions, jumped right onto the place Dan had just left warm with the heat of his slumber. Resisting the sun I moved closer to my new bed mate and attempted a few more minutes of rest. He was much smellier than I was used to sleeping next to, but then again I have refused to wear deodorant or perfume for years, a custom which has become so ingrained in our culture that to disregard that rule becomes almost as unspeakable as incest or parricide. It is hard to understand how wearing a substance that makes my underarms smell like rain became a necessary part of modern society, but that is where we’ve landed. Either way, the dog most certainly has slept next to people whose odor was sweeter than my au naturale scent I have been trying to promote, rather unsuccessfully, for years, but he has more than likely smelled worse, and he moved a little closer so as to absorb my heat more efficiently.

Virgil, our friend’s dog, is a nice companionable dog who is neither incredibly friendly nor incredibly unfriendly. He had never really noticed me before this week. I had met him several times during the summer and he never so much as looked in my direction, but he has recently decided that I would make a great partner in the crime of lazy weekends of which we are both huge fans.

I was invited to breakfast with Dan and Ryan, his best friend from the age of three,, before their hiking epic of the day. So I dressed, or dressed in a fashion by throwing on a pair of socks and ambling downstairs in my pajamas without saying much of anything to the man I share my bed and much of my life with. I waited for Jeremy to take Virgil out to pee, and hopefully poop as he had neglected to do so all day yesterday, until I realized that he was too caught up in packing and planning and did it myself.

Even though I grew up in the middle of nowhere in the cold and frozen parts of the country, I am always caught unawares by just how cold it is the morning after a cold night during the deepest depth of winter. My mind refuses to this day to believe that the sun does not always mean a warm day, and in the winter without the insulation of the clouds, a sunny day is usually even colder. Virgil didn’t like the cold winter air either judging by the fact that he didn’t want to stop moving long enough even to pee until we were nearly back to our house when he must have decided it would be better to be cold for thirty seconds than have to pee all day. It was sunny, so by noon when or if I was ready to hike it would be much warmer. We both shuffled back into the house frozen. Still no poop.

In our coastal town there are few establishments of any kind open year round. Most businesses just stay open for the summer and cut their losses and hole up in little houses with wood stoves, or if they’re lucky, they escape to warmer and more civilized locales during the winter. I prefer a lack of civilization myself, so I chose the former. This morning in particular I mildly regretted my decision. The three of us Ryan, Dan and myself, were looking forward to a delicious breakfast made at what I am convinced is the most underrated breakfast location in the country, Two Cats. They are open all year; use fresh and real ingredients and have a well lit and laid back dining area. They also have the most deliciously innovative recipes and new takes on your traditional favorites. And did I mention delicious yet? The first time I went there was the morning after the Fourth of July and I was so hung over that I threw up the carrot and water I had used to try to quiet my stomach until the food arrived. The wait staff, if they noticed, seemed not to be bothered by this, as if that sort of thing happens all the time, which I doubt. My vomit wasn’t repulsive being made of two benign ingredients and the food that arrived at our table shortly thereafter was so good as to entirely shadow the experience of throwing up carroty water behind a restaurant at ten in the morning. “It’s going to be so delicious it will be like four cats” Ryan kept repeating all morning. “It will be five cats it’ll be so good.” But when we arrived there were no cats. They were 'unexpectedly closed for the season and will reopen in April,' so we went to the only other place that was open, a crummy diner-like place attached to a convenience store, gas station, laundromat bonanza. The food was average and we all left full more of butter than of real food. “Well that was definitely Five Cats” Ryan remarked as we headed to separate cars. They went for their hike, and I headed back to my house and the dog.

I had planned on hiking all day with a friend who lived an hour North, but he never showed up, and I was able to enjoy the soul of a Sunday that can only be felt while doing nothing and basking in the glory of that nothingness for hours. He had visited me at work yesterday on my lunch break and mentioned something about his roommate finally deciding to move in tomorrow. He asked where we were hiking tomorrow. “Beech Mountain, it is the last mountain on the island that I haven’t hiked. The last that has trails on it at least.” Now that it was tomorrow, I can only assume that he either decided to help his roommate move in or he happened to go outside and realized that it was too cold for a short walk around his house not to mention a long hike which would be light and enjoyable during the summer or fall months, but made arduous by the wind, crusty snow, and freezing temperatures of January.

Sunday and January two such intimately related concepts that it is hard to think of a January without Sundays. Of all the January’s I remember during my childhood I can only remember Sundays. January Sundays are always cold and usually gray and windless. All of my January Sundays were at least, but this Sunday was the exception; unseasonably cold, sunny and beautiful and still all I wanted to do was cuddle with the smelly dog and read books until Dan came back so I could bake bread and drink beer. It’s no wonder that Sunday is a day most people reserve for God. As Virgil twitches from his dreams on the floor and I lay in a sunlit room on an overly large couch it is hard to see anything else but a profound spirituality in the still of a cold and sunny Sunday alone.

Are You There, Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea

This is the second Chelsea Handler book I have read. There are only two, so I will have to read something more intellectually stimulating than stories about midgets, redheads, the horrors of aging parents next, but this, if possible is actually even funnier than the last one. I especially liked the chapter about when she dated a redhead. I myself am dating a redhead, but he refuses to admit to his handicap. It’s true that his hair has gotten to be a color closer to a sand color as he’s aged, but his beard and pubic hair are both still a little too red to be called ‘dirty blonde’ like he wishes they were. I remember having a conversation about how he is most definitely a redhead while getting drunk with my friends. After numerous attempts to deny his gingerness, I started yelling “Red. Your hair is red! I find them in my vagina!” while my friends laughed uncontrollably at him. I mean the guy has red pubes. That makes him a redhead.

Anyways, this memoir (I call it a memoir because I am assuming that the stories are at least partially true, and if you want to purchase either of her novels at your local Borders you would look for them in the memoir section) was much less depressing than the first ‘My Horizontal Life,’ which was upbeat about how silly and slutty her actions were at first, but ended with her feeling like she should put an end to her shenanigans and get married but doubting if anybody could ever take her seriously when she can’t even take herself seriously. I mean she is a comedian… She doesn’t need to be serious. She is paid not to be.

I was once again left with the impression that I could have written this if I were funnier, crazier, and more willing to share the stories that literally make me sick to think of. I have stories that are just as funny, embarrassing, and insane as hers, but I don’t feel like sharing them with the world. Chelsea Handler has balls. Also, every time I tell a story that is funny in my head it comes out sounding like total idiocy. I have taken to letting other people tell my stories for me because they do a better job with them and usually embellish just enough so as to make my craziness seem likable and fun rather than off-putting and offensive. But those things aside, I could totally have written this. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

The bottom line is similar to that of her first novel/memoir. This is not a piece of literature nor is it intended to be. It is hilarious, interesting, a quick read and totally worthwhile. As long as you do not intend your brain to get any exercise while reading it most anybody will be able to enjoy this book. Unless you’re a prude, then you should probably just be a social recluse and not burden society with your lack of a sense of humor and ability to allow anything to be fun. Or you can join the Republican Party.

My Horizontal Life

The same day that I bought Ana Karenina I finished reading Chelsea Handler's collection of one night stands and barely remembered vodka induced shenanigans. I feel like I could easily have written this book. It certainly makes me miss my vodka induced shenanigans and one night stands and just drunken whoreishness (not a real word, but should be). Like the time that I got so drunk that, on the way to the bathroom, I pulled down my own pants, peed on the floor, and then passed out in my own piss where campus security found me much later. My friend Ben then tried, unsuccessfully, to start a rumor around campus that I hadn't actually peed in the hallway but that Ronnie, another friend, pulled my pants down and peed on my and then ran away. I'm not sure which version is worse, but neither is flattering. This was, of course, during my vodka and wine phase where I would drink shitty cheap vodka out of a plastic jug and chase it with box wine. I would love to go on for days like this but this is probably one of the highlights so we'll leave it there.

Either way, Chelsea Handler has an honest and hilarious perspective on the world and reading her sexploits makes me miss both my own sexploits and my drunken idiocy. MEMORIES! Not good ones, but they're... well they aren't there. I do remember the after effects. I am looking forward to reading her next novel Are You There Vodka, It's Me Chelsea.

Bright Lights, Big City

This is a book I have been meaning to read for a long time. It is post beat style writing, and like much of the work of the Beat Generation also about New York City, drugs and loss. It is about the City, and pointless jobs and more loss. The writing style was mostly in the second person. It was interesting to read. I heard Mark Twight compare one of the essays he wrote about some mountaineering trip to the style of this novel. It makes sense now. I got a staff copy for free from Vintage Books and now refuse to part with it. It is a super quick read, well written and laugh out loud funny (if you have a dark sense of humor). I believe the commentary inside called it a 'modern classic' or the like. I entirely agree.

This Poem is a Cliché

I washed my hands for ten minutes today to watch them turn red like lobster’s claws. The change over time isn’t even noticeable. Time, it’s just sand in the wind. Don’t let them tell you life is short. It took forever to turn my fucking hands red under a faucet of scalding hot water, and I’ve had one hell of a ride so far. I think I’ve lived twice as much life as you and you’re the one saying it’s short. You still have that pretty girlfriend right? The one you’d rather fuck than me. The one you can’t leave because she’ll have a nervous breakdown, an emotional meltdown, and while we’re both down, in the dumps that is, hows about we talk about this. No, I want to talk about it I don’t see anyfuckingreason not to. Let’s bake this Clam, and blow this Popsicle stand, and while we’re at it ‘Ahoy, there’s land.’ Let’s get out for a walk. I’ve always liked sunset walks on the beach. That’ll be my personal ad in the paper ‘loves sunset walks on the beach with you.’ I don’t believe you when you say you love me. Beauty can be measured by looks, that’s what beauty is, skin deep, and we both know I’m no brown eyed girl, no buxom beauty, no dream girl. I bet if you’d let me though, I’d make your toes curl. But love is the most beautiful flower of all, even more than the red red rose. When I want something to grow, I put shit on it. Real shit’s the best. So let’s shit on our love and watch it grow, baby. If I live twice the life, I wonder if that means that I only have to do it for half as long? Seventy is the average life expectancy; I’m shooting for thirty-five. Fuck it, thirty. Who wants to live forever? I’d use the sorcerer’s stone to throw through your window to see you look out at me. They thought Florida held the fountain of youth. Tell that to the retirement communities down there. Doesn’t seem to do them any good. You think this is how I feel, and you think I hate your smile and smell, dear. But that’s what I am, and I’m really just caught in your headlights. The cornered animal fights the wildest, and like a caged beast I’m fighting against you, so hard you can see my fingernails scraped off on the side of your cage. There isn’t a key, because I gave it to you, and it was lost before it was gone, and my heart is gone, too, but what? Is it just my fingertips or is it all of the parts you’ve touched? Your hands are an acid to my skin that burns forever after it’s gone. My hands are white now, the water dry, and you don’t even know how much I’ve hated you in your absence. You don’t know how much I’d love to smell your skin, and I am just a walking cliché when it comes to you. A comet may only come once in a lifetime, but I don’t know of any lifetime that has what we had. Just throwing caution to the wind, don’t give away any part of yourself that you need to survive. A pound of flesh, but what part to give, I like my ears, my eyes. I need my hands, my feet, so I gave you the thing that makes us bleed. And you still have me hypnotized. Your bones and flesh my home. I’ve given my heart with both hands.