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Saturday, November 18, 2017

The Blowjob Dilemma (adult content)



I have a colleague who sometimes shares his dating adventures with me. He told me that one of the women he dated was not his type but the sex was great, so he enjoyed it for what it was. I asked him what he meant by great sex. He said, “When a woman makes me scream.”

I found myself pondering his response not only because I was surprised to hear that for at least one man great sex did not mandate certain acrobatics or activities, but because for me great sex meant something completely different. For me, to enjoy sex, three things needed to happen: One, it had to happen when I wanted it, not when my partner wanted it and I did it to avoid silent treatment or an argument. Two, it didn’t hurt. And three, I knew I was not expected to give a blowjob. Because I hate to give blowjobs.

I recently confessed my aversion to blow jobs to some of my women friends and found out that not all women felt the same. One said “When you love the man it’s actually nice.” Another said, “Oh, it’s OK once in a while.” A bisexual woman told me that blowjobs made her feel powerful, that’s why they were so great.

But I was not convinced.

You see, the way I feel about blowjobs is this: I was endowed with a mouth and a throat for the purpose of chewing and swallowing food, drinking fluids, and of course saying what is on my mind – not sucking men genitalia. My mouth is equipped with teeth and my throat with a gag reflex, so shoving an erect penis in there makes absolutely no sense. Besides, I have a vagina, which was specifically designed to host an erect penis and give it as much pleasure as that penis can endure. There are no teeth in there and it won’t make me want to throw up if the man attached to the base of that penis had reached kingdom cum while visiting that end of my body.

The first time I was introduced to the blowjob hall of infamy, I had no idea that climaxing inside my mouth was on the menu. I was only nineteen. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with the warm substance that was deposited in my mouth and I was too shy to ask. So I’ve been wondering since then, what is the blowjob etiquette? Can I ask you how far you are planning to shove your penis down my throat? Do you really expect me to keep my mouth open in that frozen silent scream for several minutes without dislocating my jaw? Are you planning to leave your DNA footprint in my mouth because you like to go with the flow?

You see what I mean?

Unfortunately, this is not what the average mother prepares a girl for when the girl happens to ask how babies come to the world. That is why, when my daughter reached the ripe age of ten, I broke the news to her and told her that she should never let a man force her head onto his crotch under any circumstances. Ever.

If a man feels the need to reaffirm his dominance over you, I told her, make use of any sharp or heavy object in your vicinity to bring him back to his senses and remind him that the universe is so much larger than his penis.   

I can’t count the number of times a big hand was put on the crown of my head and shoved it down to the nether world of unchallenged masculinity. Some men think that it is cool to fuck a woman in the mouth, maybe because they saw too many porn flicks in which women couldn’t wait to swallow a giant penis and defy their gag reflex or ignore the stress signals that their taste buds were sending to their brains. Maybe seeing women giving blowjobs makes men even prouder of their male addendum. What they don’t realize, though, is that these women are actresses and they get paid to do it. But we mortal women, are not inclined to compete against professional blowjob artists for the cherished title.

So I confess, again, that I have zero incentive to involve myself in this unrewarding routine. As I have said, I have a functional vagina and it can do the job just as well.

Come to think of it, men don’t need a woman to give them a blowjob. Men can do it, too, because all you need is a mouth, and every man has one, so why not commission a man to perform this unappetizing feat? A man might even do it better than a woman who has to resort to trial and error because she had never felt the sensations that the male anatomy produce. Men know much better where all the most sensitive spots are located, the amount of pressure that needs to be applied, the correct rhythm, and whatever it takes to send a penis to its predictable finale. But no, straight men would probably not go for it because the best part of getting a blowjob is knowing that the woman you are fucking in the mouth is at your service.

That would probably cancel my next idea: A remote-control, battery-operated, five-speed, toothless, gag-free rubber mouth, framed in bright red silicone lips and accessorized with a tireless velvet tongue. Woman not included.

Because the allure of a blowjob is so powerful, more times than I like to admit I found myself in bed with a man who eventually posed the inevitable question, “So when are you going to suck my dick?” using the euphemistic version, of course, “Don’t you do oral sex?”

  And my answer is “No I don’t.” By which I mean “Not when I have to do it.”

I don’t mind using my tongue to pleasure a man, as one of my gay friends once suggested that I lick it like a Popsicle. But it never ends at that stage. There is always the moment when expectations start to rise, and I know that sooner or later I will have to open my mouth and let that penis slide into it, and I don’t want to do it. Not only because I don’t like the taste or the smell or the size of it, or because it hurts my jaws or makes me want to throw up, but because I don’t know where this penis had been before it landed in my bed, and I really don’t want to find out.

I used to think that I was divorced and single because I didn’t like to suck men’s dicks, but a recent conversation I had with some married women had taught me that not all men demanded it. Some men could love a woman and stay married to her for decades even if she didn’t like to perform this task. I was so surprised to hear that not all men attached their male-pride to the number of blowjobs they received that I nearly regained my optimism.

Then one of my man friends who had many good experiences with women told me that 90 percent of women didn’t like to give blowjobs, which was a true eye-opener. At last, I felt vindicated. I have never dared to share my aversion for blowjobs with anyone. Until that day, I thought something was wrong with me. Because no one I knew dared to be the first to open up and admit that she didn’t like to do it, I assumed that most women treated blowjobs as another chore that had to be done for the sake of the relationships, just like putting away the dinner dishes and taking the laundry out of the drier.

Now I know that just like anything else in life, everybody has a different preference. Some like it, some don’t. I belong to the second group, that’s all. Blowjobs are not my cup of tea. Just like cilantro may not be yours. So don’t take it personally. It’s just not my thing.

Friday, September 29, 2017

Dog Love 8


Yesterday I was walking downtown when I saw two young women coming out of a trendy brewery. They were ahead of me walking at an extremely leisurely pace, both dressed in tight stonewashed jeans with decorated back pockets, short black boots, and white tops. Each was holding a leash to which a small dog was attached. The dogs were of the same breed, same size, and same colors. The women did not engage with the dogs. They were just holding on to the same length leashes as the two little dogs ran around sniffing things.

And then, one of the little dogs lifted a hind leg and pissed on the wall of a jewelry store. The woman holding on to the leash did not notice that the dog stopped to mark the wall. The dog finished squirting his yellow fluid on the grayish wall and resumed trotting behind the woman, leaving a meandering trail of drops on the cement pavement. Then, as the women crossed the small plaza and reached another storefront, which looked like an art gallery, again the dog lifted his hind leg and pissed on the wall. And again, the leash holder did not notice what her little dog was up to.

Although I was by myself, I was left speechless. That dog nearly pissed on my foot, he twice pissed on a wall, left a trail of drops on a pavement in front of me, and his leash holder did not respond. She did not look at the dog once or try to pull him away from the wall and get him near a tree or a bush. And I wondered, what is this supposed to mean? How can these identically dressed women walking with these identically looking dogs be unaware that the leashes they were holding have living, walking things attached to them?

And then it dawned on me. These dogs were just accessories for these women. A part of the outfit. No different from the tight jeans or the short boots. Some people accessorize their persona with jewelry; others with body piercing; some with belts and purses and bows in their hair. And some people accessorize with dogs. Especially little dogs.

The fact that these dogs piss on walls and stop to sniff things, and look for stuff left on the ground means nothing to people like these two women. The dogs are there only as props. To make someone look pretty, or interesting, or fashionable or God knows what. Because if a dog can piss on a wall and you don’t even notice, then what is your role in this dog’s life except for holding on to the leash?

The more I look, the more I see dogs used as accessories, as props rather than companions or protectors or little helpers. Some people would tell you otherwise, but the truth is that dogs are becoming the new accessory.

The other day, an advertisement popped up on my computer for yoga classes with dogs. It announced “The latest fitness trend which aims to help you bond with your pet.”

The first thing that came to my mind when I saw that ad was that yoga already demands a mountain of accessories: mats, straps, blocks, blankets, towels, socks, you name it. And now, dogs, too? Are they going to be used as pillows to support the neck or the knees, I wonder. Or as squishy weights?

And what type of dogs make the ideal yoga accessory? Only small ones that you can lift and balance on your shoulders? Or patient ones that can sit for an hour and watch people twist themselves into strange shapes without barking or growling at each other? Or well-behaved ones who know not to lick your face when you lie down, or sniff your crotch when you contort your legs into lotus pose?

Then I thought, “How do you bond with a dog during yoga, anyway?”

I barely bond with myself at yoga class. I am not that flexible, I can’t do a head stand, I can barely twist my back into the snake pose. When I notice a thin young person who sits with a straight back in front of me without slouching after a minute, or twists her body into all kinds of advanced poses, instead of hating myself I transfer that self-loathing to her. She might be the nicest person in town, but if she can do the one-legged inverted staff pose without blinking while totally ignoring me, I will find it difficult to like her.

So imagine if I were a dog without the social filters and fear of humiliation.

What I am sure of is that the little dog in that ad is probably not the type that would piss on you when you relax into downward dog pose, folding your body into a triangle shape and letting your head hang down until every vertebrae in your back sings in relief. That little white dog knows he’s being watched. He will wait until you finish yoga class and as soon as you walk out, he will piss on the wall of the studio, while you’re still under the influence of Om.
And I would say: You should have seen it coming.



photo credit: Business Insider UK on facebook

Monday, July 31, 2017

Dog Love VII


As absurd as it may sound, it appears that many dogs have a certain sense of entitlement when it comes to pooping. Especially urban dogs. These dogs, when they go out for a walk, they know that every time they poop, their person will pick it up, put it in a plastic bag, and carry it to the nearest trash can or until they get back home. They don’t even try to do it discretely in the bushes where no one can see the pile that they leave behind. They do it on bare concrete, where they know they can’t bury it or cover it with leaves and dirt like cats do, for example.

You may say, “how do you know they understand what’s going on?”

And I say, of course they do. They see it happen every day. They are not that stupid. The simple proof is that they never show interest in that bag once it gets filled up with their feces. They choose to ignore it, and they don’t give a damn. If there was a treat in that bag they would have asked for it, I promise you. But there are no treats in that bag, and they know it. So they continue to ran around and sniff things and wag their happy tail, while their person is walking around with a bag of warm poop in hand.

They think it's cool to have a human pick up after them. And their people do, too. Without complaining. Like it’s normal. They go out to get some fresh air with their dog, and end up carrying a bag of mushy poop instead of, let’s say, fresh berries they found hanging from a bush.

Well, maybe not all dogs don’t care. But a good portion of them don’t give it a second thought.

Several years ago when I was visiting my brother in Tel Aviv, I realized that I was putting myself in danger when I was walking the streets of his neighborhood. There were giant landmines the size of Madagascar on the sidewalks, and they were not the kind that maim you. Just smear the bottom of your flip-flops. I had to remind myself every time I left home to watch out for these mounds of puppy poop, or whatever cute name they want to call this stuff, or find myself frantically looking for a patch of grass in that urban desert. I was praying for rain in those days. Then finally, the city decided to join the civilized world and installed plastic bag dispensers in strategic spots and hung signs everywhere telling dog owners that they were expected to clean up after their dogs. I must say that in my last visit I was quite impressed.

But don’t get all smug that here in the U.S. people are more civilized than the infidels of the Middle East, because there is still a lot of room for improvement, even here.

Ask my friend Fadi who shares a sidewalk with a neighbor who manages not to notice the unwrapped presents her dog leaves in front of his door on a regular basis. Fadi, whose family escaped from Beirut during the bloody civil war of the nineteen eighties in search of a peaceful haven, ended up here, where he is greeted by dog poop every time he opens the door. Maybe it is better than sniper fire and car bombs, but hey, don’t we want to make a good impression?

Well, this little old lady, as Fadi describes her, probably doesn’t like to bend down and pick it up, and I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t want to do it, either. Not even if someone paid me. Walking around with dog poop in a bag is not very sexy. And these days, when I am trying not to be perceived as a little old lady, I’d rather get a tattoo or even walk in high heels than dangle a little plastic bag that screams “dog poop.”

So while I profess admiration for those dog lovers, who don’t let their egos get in the way, and leave their homes with their dogs, knowing that at some point during their walk they will have to bend down and scoop a mound of warm dog poop into a small plastic bag, and never let that humbling experience compromise their love for their dogs, I have to say that I have zero tolerance for the idiots who walk in nature with their dogs, and leave that bag of shit right there, on the side of the trail.

Who in their stupid little brain thinks that leaving a plastic bag filled with dog shit on the side of a nature trail helps the environment or humanity or the wild turkeys and the squirrels who call that trail home? What is wrong with these people? Why don’t they just let it dry in the sun and become compost or whatever?

So while I tell you that I would rather walk in high heels or get a tattoo than scoop dog poop into a bag, I find myself occasionally collecting old green plastic bags filled with what I assume is dried dog shit that were discarded by idiots on the side of the trail where I go to get in touch with nature. Me, the person who would not touch a bag of dog poop if they paid me.

So please, if you ever see anyone leave a plastic doggy bag in nature, tell them to take it home and put it in the trash where it belongs. The squirrels might thank them.




Monday, July 10, 2017

Dog Love VI

                    Flickr/James Foreman
It appears that there is a conspiracy of silence surrounding dogs and their ticks. Dog people talk about all kinds of misfortunes that befall their dogs: bloody fights with other dogs, attacks by vicious raccoons and coyotes, exotic illnesses, getting lost, run over by a car, bitten by snakes and so forth. But no one ever mentions ticks.
 
Yet every dog occasionally has ticks on its body. Once a dog steps out of its people’s home, it is bound to attract a tick. But I never hear about these ticks and I never see dog people pull ticks from their dogs. And I wonder, is talking about ticks taboo? Is pulling ticks a private thing like going to the bathroom? Or is it a non-issue, which is worse, because for me, ticks are one of evolution’s meanest ideas.
 
Since dogs live in people’s homes, on people’s carpets, in their kitchens, and many times in their beds and cars, and ticks live with dogs, logically, people live with ticks as well. So how come I never hear about them? How come I never see dog people pull ticks from their dogs? Is this done in secret?
 
When I was a kid growing up on the kibbutz, every dog I knew had ticks lodged in its ears. These ticks looked like small blueberries and came in different sizes and shades of pink. The people who had dogs knew how to pull the ticks out of their ears and then smash them on the concrete walkways with a stone they found on the ground. Sometimes you could hear a small popping sound and blood would splatter around the crushed blueberry.
 
Now since I didn’t have a dog, I didn’t give ticks much thought. I avoided ticks and the dogs’ ears that housed them and practically forgot about their existence for many years.
 
And then I came to America.
 
The first time I heard about ticks was when Lyme disease started to appear on the East Coast. But the ticks that carried the disease were deer ticks, and they lived in the woods mostly, so apart from hearing about the danger of contracting this awful disease, I didn’t have to worry about ticks, since my chances of running into them were slim.
 
Until I found a tick on my neck. Twice. After hiking in the woods.
 
The first time I didn’t even know it was a tick. I felt something crawl behind my ear and picked at it. Then I looked and saw between my fingers something black that looked like a little spider. But it was not a spider. The thought that it might be a tick passed through my brain like a blinding flash of neon light. I threw the thing on the carpeted floor of the San Jose Airport, and tried not to pass out before boarding for my flight was announced. 
 
Before I saw that spidery thing squirming in the palm of my hand, I’d never seen a tick out in the world, doing its own thing, not attached to a dog. I didn’t know ticks had little legs. It never occurred to me that they turned into pink blueberries only after they sucked enough blood from their host.
 
Host. I’d become a tick host. Sweet mother of Jesus, break out the tweezers and dunk me in pesticide and petroleum jelly. Sorry, I am Jewish and should not take the name of Jesus or his mother in vain, but I can’t think of any equivalent expression in Jewish vocabulary, and I need something stronger than “oy vey” and “gevaldt” to convey my horror.
 
Ever since I discovered that I was attractive to ticks, I look at dogs with even more suspicion. Yes, we share the same predicament, but they don’t seem to care much about it. And neither do their people. Or maybe they do, but they know how to hide it.
 
Thinking that something that crawls in nature and sucks blood decided to camp on my neck and drill a hole into my skin in order to suck my blood makes me want to jump off a really tall bridge. I don’t do well around blood-sucking, multi-legged crawling things.
 
I remember, when my daughter was three and a half, we came back from Israel—a hot and humid place brimming with all kinds of unspeakable wildlife—and the next day her father discovered lice in her beautiful, thick, long hair. At that critical moment, I seriously considered giving her up for adoption. Luckily, her father was more realistic and said I was a bit radical and that the problem could be solved with a special shampoo and repeated treatments.
 
But what treatment is there around to help me overcome the realization that for a tick, I am not much different than a dog?
 
I guess dog people don’t have this problem. They are not offended by ticks. They can live happily in the company of their dogs and their ticks, knowing that at any given moment a tick can get tired of their dog and decide to crawl out of its ear and settle on them.
 
Maybe they are created part human and part other things—a combination that enables them to accept the fact that they might find a tick on their dog or on themselves, and that the tick will have to be removed and smashed by none other than them. And then, they can return to normal life as if nothing unusual had happened.
 
I, for one, cannot do that.  I guess that’s why I am not a dog person.