"Let's Talk About Sex "
Be honest…
So it’s true. In the spring of 1995 my dearest mother called me one Saturday afternoon and asked, “Jimmy, be honest… Are you gay?”
It’s sad when your love life is in such a sorry state of affairs (or more appropriately lack there of) that your own mother is unsure of your sexuality. I certainly was having a helluva time meeting women, but honestly, I wasn’t ready to switch teams just yet. I guess my mom thought all the bikini posters of Paulina Porizkova that wallpapered my room when I was in high school were just a front. Maybe I should have displayed more prominently that Penthouse hidden under my bed.
I later learned that my sister Paula with her fetish-like fascination for any and all things gay put that thought into my mother’s head. Paula was just desperate to have at least one gay member of the family, and since lesbianism wasn’t gonna fly for her, I suppose I was the next best candidate. Hell, she knew I wasn’t getting laid anyway. Might as well make me gay. She actually spent about three months trying to convince ME that I was, in fact, gay.
“Jimmy, be honest….are you gay?” I was dumbfounded by the question, but at least she gave me fair warning with the “be honest” preface. It’s never a good thing when your mother leads a personal inquiry with a dramatic “be honest.” The only thing worse is the universally dreaded “we need to talk”. I shudder every time that hits my ears.
On the other hand, this offered a unique opportunity to further torment my mom – more of a lifestyle for me than a pastime. So being such a good son, I of course responded with perhaps a too convincing effeminate lisp, “Oh stop it Mom…I…I didn’t want it to come out this way. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just like boys.” She started laughing but at the same time began demanding me to be serious. She still wasn’t convinced. I played it up a while longer before eventually closing the closet door.
I did, however, forget to lock it. I made the mistake of telling that story to a colleague of mine who knew my parents. I figured he would find it funny. Despite the sad state of my sex life at the time, it was a pretty funny story. And he did find it funny. In fact, he found it so funny that at the American Chemical Society Convention a week later he repeated the “Jimmy, be honest” story to every customer, vendor, business partner and coworker of mine in the place. And I was subsequently blessed with the spanking new sobriquet of sissy boy.
That same loose-lipped friend of mine would eventually get tapped to be the VP of my new Business Unit a few years later. And I would become his second employee. Of course that very same story would again surface for a whole new set of coworkers to enjoy. Only this time, during our first team kick off meeting when my new VP hosted a dinner party complete with karaoke he didn’t let me out of the bar until I got up on stage and led the room in a rousing version of “I am woman.”
So let me take this moment to come clean one last time. Mom, listen up. I like girls. I’m not switch-hitting. I’m not changing sides. I’m not pitching. I’m definitely not catching. No chub smoking, no rump ranging, no bare backing or whatever thinly masked innuendo, explicit colloquialism, or insensitive remark you use. I am not now, nor have I ever been gay, bi, bi-curious, or a participant in any romantic activity that involved any part of my body inside any part of a man’s body or vice versa thank you very much.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that if that’s your bag.
Sex for Sale…
Have you ever been to a sex store? No, I don't mean a brothel. Sure, I’ve weathered some pretty desperate dry spells but I have some standards. Not many, but some. I mean a store that sells erotic stuff. Condoms, toys, latex, rubber, leather, silicon, and other similarly based products. Tools for the slap and tickle. Stuff I shouldn't be writing about since my oh-so-Catholic mother will likely be reading this. The same mother who once said asked me at the start of a new relationship "Are you having sex with her yet? I don't care if you are, I just don't want you having kinky sex." I'm not sure what disturbed me more. My mom asking about my sex life, or just what my mother thought was kinky.
Come to think of it, this is not a good thing. I spent enough time convincing my mother I wasn’t gay. All this talk of sex shops and she’ll think my bedroom activities were the inspiration for Quentin Tarantino’s “The Gimp” in Pulp Fiction.
Eh. What the hell. I can live with that.
I visited a sex shop for the first time in 1995 while I was in Scottsdale visiting some friends. After a night of drinking and clubbing and general carousing, one of my friends, a local to the area, recommended we all go to Zorba's. I thought she was referring to some local after-hours club. Turned out Zorba’s was an adult book/toy store. We had spent most of the night dancing in a variety of different nightclubs where I had tossed back three or four shots of tequila, so at the time, I was ready for anything. I walked in the door of this dark and dirty shop with two women at 2AM on a Saturday night. Got a helluva look from the three sleazy guys shopping at that hour. These guys hadn’t seen a real woman in at least a decade, and here I walked in with two of them. From the looks they sent me, I think I became their hero.
Zorba’s was the kind of joint that most people think about when they think of sex shops. Dirty. Dark. One guy behind the counter with bad hair, bad skin, bad teeth, sunken chest and a thin, greasy mustache. The kind of place where you don’t want to touch anything without rubber gloves and big, BIG can of Lysol. Come to think of it, I could probably have bought that there. They had peep booths in the back to watch every variety of porn and a magazine to satisfy every variety of perversion. Books for men who like black girls, white girls, Asian girls, young girls, old girls, and men who look like girls. Books for men who like red hair, brown hair, blonde hair, no hair (and we aint talking about heads). Men who dig butts, legs, feet, small boobs, fake boobs, real boobs, big boobs, really big boobs, and oh-my-God-how-does-she-keep-from-tipping-over boobs. This, of course, is plenty of fodder for another story for another time.
Not surprisingly, they carried very few books for women who like anything.
Zorba’s also had an interesting selection of mechanical devices in various shapes and sizes for what appeared to be the stimulation of various human orifices. However, considering the, ah, impressive size of many of these devices, I’m not even sure about that. Most of these mechanical marvels were in the general shape of the male anatomy but offered some potential advantages for men or women who just aren’t satisfied with the standard bump and grind. One in particular caught my attention, and no, it isn’t currently located in the back of my sock drawer. It bent at it’s midpoint at about a sixty-degree angle and spun around in a circle.
Now, as sexually talented and physically capable as I like to think that I am, ladies, if that’s what you need to get off, I can promise that you need to knock on someone else’s bedroom door. Cause I am never gonna get it to bend in half and spin around, no matter how much Yoga, tantric breathing or Kama Sutra I utilize. It just don’t work that way.
I’ve been to a few other shops since then. Condom Revolution is just a few miles from my house. It’s bright, tasteful, visited almost entirely by couples, and appears more like a boutique than a house of porn. I remember visiting a similar shop in Arizona for a friend's bachelor party and having the pretty young clerk explain all the benefits of their various lubes like I was asking about the features on a new stereo. And you thought Penzoil was technologically advanced. Hah! That didn't have to coat your genitals. “Have you tried the powdered honey? Oh, it’s to die for.” She smacked me with a puff of gold powdery stuff and asked me to lick my own arm. To this day it’s the only time I have ever licked my arm. If I start licking my arm any more frequently than that, please get help.
Pleasure Chest in Hollywood is damn near the size of a Wall Mart and is a veritable shrine to all things kinky, sexy, slippery, studded, risque, or ribbed - for her pleasure of course.
Now that I mention it, "ribbed for her pleasure"? Have you ever actually looked at the ribs? You need a microscope to see those things. I have never met woman number one who found pleasure from the ribs. How about engorged for her pleasure? Or sensitive for her pleasure? Or debonair, masculine and charming and willing to cuddle after sex for her pleasure? And if you do have to rely on the condom, how about one called "speed bumped for her pleasure" or “twice the size for her pleasure”. I just don’t think those four little ribs are gonna cut it.
I digress. I walked into Pleasure Chest with an ex-girlfriend a few years ago on a Sunday morning and found about thirty people shopping. On a Sunday! I wonder if they drove in right from church. Come to think of it, that wouldn’t be too surprising now would it? “Good to see you again Father Mike. How’s that ball gag working out for you? I have your subscription to “Barely Legal” for you over here.” I wonder if any of the money I’ve dumped into that basket has gone on to NAMBLA memberships. Pisses me off to think about it.
Regardless, the best part of visiting the sex shop is the cast of characters found cruising the aisles. No matter how uniquely twisted you consider yourself, rest assured, someone else out there is interested in pink latex diapers too. It’s always fun to see the nerdy accountant looking guy fondling a new cat-o-nine or the frumpy looking woman in a sundress buying a double-ended dildo.
I hear that the Hustler Store in Hollywood is THE place to be. It’s positively trendy to go there. I bet Larry never thought that his sordid little flesh empire would suddenly find itself mainstream. They even have souvenir T-Shirts. "My boyfriend went to the Hustler Shop and all I got was this lousy T-Shirt and a case of the clap."
So I paid another visit to a sex shop a short time ago. No, Mom this is not my usual weekend MO, and I am not into anything kinky. Well, not too kinky. Hang on a minute - gotta adjust my leather g-string. The metal studs are starting to chafe. With the exception of my one trip to buy gag gifts for a bachelor party and the occasional and all too infrequent restocking of the condom supply, I had never actually purchased anything from a sex shop. Subsequently I never had a need to check prices.
Well, as I was walking through the store I randomly started checking the prices of stuff. Just curiosity Mom, I'm not shopping for an orgy. Did you have any idea how much money they are making in the sex industry? Any single piece of leather gear used for S&M is regularly in $100+ range. Some of those more exotic looking vibrators? Hundred bucks. No shit. $100 - for a phallic tube of silicone and plastic - batteries not included. There is a HUGE profit margin built into that pocket rocket. The margin is as out of proportion to reality as the dimensions of the toy! I swear I need to stop selling super computers. The real money is in dildos. Only a few people in the world need a $1,000,000 piece of hardware. But apparently thousands of people need a $100 vibrator.
Sure I understand people like to get off, but when those good vibrations cost upwards of a c-note, it sounds to me like someone is really getting the shaft.
Dancers Wanted…
I’ll admit it. I like naked girls. It’s true. I, like most heterosexual men with access to a magazine rack or the internet, have spent some time admiring Playmates, Pets, Honeys, and plenty of other naked and near naked supermodels, starlets and such. The variety of girls to choose from seems endless!
A buddy of mine once told me he thought every single woman he met in Southern California had been naked for dollars at least once in her life. Wait a second. I need to start hanging out with this guy more often. Regardless, one trip to the magazine rack in the liquor store was, at least for him, fairly compelling evidence. A hundred different magazines all filled with different naked women.
Despite the pleasure I find in the nude female form, it might surprise you, however, to find out that the not-so-mighty-after-all Jimbo, has never visited a strip club. Not even once. This comes as a shock to most people since most everyone I know (including all my ex-girlfriends) has been to a club at one point or another. I, however, have not. One ex of mine really wanted to drag me out to Cheetah’s in Vegas. I opted out. Looking back, that was probably a mistake. Note to self, up the dosage on those testosterone patches.
Yes, there have been bachelor parties. Yes, I have a penis. Wait, lemme check…Yep. Still there. No, I don't live in Waco or Salt Lake or anywhere else with a high concentration of people who really, really dig church. I have even dated a couple ex-dancers, one nude model, and one ex-dominatrix, so does that count for something?
Maybe it was all those trips back and fourth from Flagstaff during college. There is a sign off the 17 Freeway in Phoenix on the way to Flagstaff. It says: "Live Nudes". Seriously. Live Nudes. Which is in my opinion a very good thing. The alternative doesn't sound all that appealing as "Dead Nudes" just wouldn't attract the same quality clientele. This is the type of thought that would run through my twisted head. Not the urge to go watch abused girls wiggle for dollars.
I digress.
So here's the deal: Strip clubs seem really sado-masochistic to me. It's not fantasy - it's torment. It's like going to a restaurant, ordering your favorite item on the menu, then just looking at the food before they take it away. The kicker here of course, is that they take it away WITH your money. This does not seem like a good way to spend an evening. The women are there for your money. Not your pleasure. I know this. They know this. It ruins it for me.
“Oooh, let me get turned on by a bunch of hot women so I can go home alone!” Boy that sounds like a good time! Wait a minute. That's pretty much what happens every time I go drinking in Huntington Beach. Except the girls are wearing more clothes. Not much more, but more. And considering the demographics of some of those nightclubs in HB, it’s probably the same clientele.
Regardless, strip clubs seem like going to a brothel to beat off. And that ain't an economically sound decision. At least with porn, I'm not out fifty bucks for admission, drinks, and a lap dance, and I can flip open the magazine anytime my eyeballs have a hankering for bare boobies. Besides, there's a lot less recovering-Catholic-adolescence guilt when the exploited, sexually-abused, drug-addicted, female eye-candy that feeds your masturbatory habits is only a bunch of pixels on a screen or ink on a page and not a real flesh and blood human being.
Peanut butter panties and other digital perversions…
I admit it. I love having a weblog. I post daily and get anxious if I can’t. It’s becoming an addiction, but that’s a story in and of itself. I also admit that I read the logs daily. It’s true. I love to know who is hitting the site, when they are hitting it, where they are hitting it from. But what I have found most fascinating is WHY they’re hitting my site.
As anyone with a modem and a pulse has long known, the bulk of the business on the internet revolves around ways to get people off. Some of these are good ways. Others, not so good. Some ways, many ways, I will never fully understand. Thank God.
And for the spammers who keep inviting me to check out their exclusive photos of Brittney Spears having sex, please, you can stop anytime.
The vast majority of strangers finding Digital Catharsis from Yahoo or some other flavor of search engine are looking for some subject or sentence containing the word, “nude”. The most common search, oddly enough, is for “nude flight attendant”. As a more than frequent flier I can comment on this subject. There are indeed a few very attractive flight attendants flying the friendly skies. I once upgraded a short flight home from San Francisco to first class just so I could sit in the same section as the gorgeous flight attendant who was serving drinks and those cute little cups of mixed nuts. For those keeping score, I did not succeed in getting her number. However, the vast majority of flight attendants lately are either flamboyantly homosexual men or women whose glamorous food service careers launched from ground level at the local “Denny’s” to American Airlines at 33,000 feet. To be perfectly frank, this is not a group I particularly want to see naked. But then again, perhaps that’s just not my cup of titillating tea.
This, of course, is exactly what’s been such a kick about the hit logs: a digital display of man’s vast variety of perversions. And I assure you, they are all men. I know plenty of women who enjoy a little erotica. Some naughty stories. Quite a few who steam up the CRT with a little helping of internet porn. Rest assured, women have their fetishes too. But I’m willing to bet that no ladies I know are out there searching for hairy girls in spandex. And people have found my site looking for precisely that.
Don’t believe me? Here is a sample hit log from Digital Catharsis.
27 Jun, Thu, 03:41:47 Google: nubile girls
27 Jun, Thu, 17:10:29 Yahoo: pics of nude flight attendants
27 Jun, Thu, 22:45:52 Yahoo: nude flight attendants
28 Jun, Fri, 10:19:49 Yahoo: peanutbutter sex
30 Jun, Sun, 21:50:10 Yahoo: Naked Mountain Bike Girls
05 Jul, Fri, 23:29:24 Yahoo: meeting with naked girls
06 Jul, Sat, 18:06:45 Google: anal veggie
07 Jul, Sun, 10:27:36 Yahoo: where to buy Rock an Roll Spandex pants
08 Jul, Mon, 16:11:08 Google: naked girls on mountain bikes
11 Jul, Thu, 11:13:51 Yahoo: lake travis girls in bikinis
15 Jul, Mon, 23:29:47 Yahoo: candle wax naked
16 Jul, Tue, 12:02:33 Google: naked girls on mountain bike
16 Jul, Tue, 20:27:46 Google: Naked Mountain Bike Girls
19 Jul, Fri, 21:48:38 Google: good looking chicks in bikinis
Peanut butter sex? Someone did a search for that?! And found me?! Now I love my peanut butter. I consider it a full-fledged food group. But that doesn’t mean it’s OK to LOVE your peanut butter, if you know what I mean. That is certainly a sandwich I don’t want to find in my lunchbox. Me, I’ll stick with jelly.
Actually, every few weeks some person finds me in a search for some variation of “peanut butter sex”. Last month someone found me with a search for “peanut butter bikini”. I really have no idea what any of that means, and here I thought I was fairly well educated in the ways and means of sex and all it’s dirty deeds. At first I really wanted some clarification on peanut butter sex and peanut butter bikinis, but I have decided that for the benefit of my own already tormented psyche, I’d really rather remain ignorant. That is an image I don’t want in my head. Besides, it will simply ruin the way I see “Skippy” during those reruns of Family Ties.
Anal veggie? I'm a hard-core vegetarian and that turns even me off. I also see plenty of hits for anal zucchini. To be totally candid, I can think of many better ways to prepare zucchini. I’m pretty sure there’s no mention of that particular dish in my copy of Joy of Cooking. Come to think of it, I bet there’s no mention of it in another famous manual with a very similar title. And it’s not just zucchini that seems to be taking the primal plunge into the naughty bits. Nearly every vegetable has its day on the web. Anal banana, anal cucumber, anal carrots. Somebody out there is getting really, really turned on in the Albertson’s produce section. I’m gonna get worried when I see the hit for anal pumpkin. Good Lord, here I thought I was putting out a clean, wholesome (OK not TOO clean and certainly not wholesome) web site. At least these kids like their veggies.
In that week alone, I received four searches for naked mountain bike girls. I've been riding mountain bikes for twelve years, and I gotta tell you, mountain biking isn't all that attractive when done naked. It’s not just mountain biking either. I get lots of hits for nude sports that really are best played clothed. Nude volleyball, nude softball, nude rock climbing, nude skiing, nude power lifting, nude golf, nude NASCAR…
Nude volleyball, by the way, I did once see played at Black’s Beach in San Diego. It’s not a pretty sight watching the big hairy dude crouched over, waiting for the serve. And for my own personal taste, there is just too much bounce in this game. I pass on that particular spectator sport.
Yesterday I got a query for “girls naked in church”. Now Father Mike, you know you aren’t supposed to have access to a computer in prison. Shame on you. That will be fifty Hail Mary’s and an ass raping from the crips in cell block three.
I also get a lot of searches for spandex in plenty of unique situations. I didn’t know that spandex was such a common fetish. I figured spandex went the way of pegged jeans and the mullet in the 90’s. I guess I was wrong. I have also seen “skinny girls in spandex” come along a few times recently. I guess if you are into spandex, “skinny” is a fairly important clarifier. I think we all have been haunted by the image of the fat guy at the gym who squeezed those seventy-pound thighs into a truly tortured pair of bike shorts.
Personally, the "where to buy rock and roll spandex pants" is my favorite query cause you can never have too many pairs of rock and roll spandex pants. I am tempted to change the header of my site to read “where to buy rock and roll spandex pants.” Rock on dudes!
Sorry. I digress. Again.
Which makes me wonder how so many people have…ah…digressed from the more standard sexual desires. Are we as a people becoming more creative? Have we become bored with the most basic of instincts? Or has it never changed. Have we always been this way, and is the internet just a convenient vehicle to take us to the center of our most secret fantasies? Or is the constant exposure to sex fuelling a trip into deeper and deeper waters to satisfy our darkest desires? At what point do we cross a socio-sexual line in the sand?
A friend of mine who has participated in some more provocative and quite public sexual experiences once argued that just because sex was sacred why does sex have to be so private? Church is sacred. It is also public. Public and sacred are not mutually exclusive. But I contend that sex is also intimate. And intimacy is private and deeply personal. Does the internet’s constant barrage of sex and fantasy and fetish reduce our sense of intimacy? Can we be digital and intimate simultaneously?
I don’t think I’m going to answer any of these in this little rant about peanut-butter panties and such. But it’s an interesting thought considering how much of my personal life is now quite digital. Many of the hits and responses to my site are rather personal. I have had strangers from around the world write and ask about my relationships. My girlfriends. My decisions. That’s the risk I take in my effort to be a memoirist.
Just recently, in fact, someone even found Digital Catharsis in a search for “beat me off Jimbo”. I’m not kidding.
I’m flattered, but not without dinner and movie first. I may be easy, but I’m definitely not cheap.
