Tags: pornography

Baby and me

Egotasm - A Belated Report

Time flows ever on. I wrote the following last night, already 24 hours after I had inteneded to. And I figure I had better post it now, or it will lose all temporal significance.

Wednesday stated well, with Laura making a cameo dream-appearance just before I woke. She looked terrible and my dream-persona took some sadistic pleasure in telling her so. As best as I can remember, that was her first appearance in a dream of mine (that I recall) since I kicked her out last July. I don't put much stock in dream-analyses - certainly, not in terms of analyzing my own, which are usually pretty straight-forward; whatever symbolism they contain are usually as obvious as a clown-nose at a funeral - but I am tempted to think this one might be a sign I have ascended to a new emotional plateau when it comes to the ex, that my anger is now draining away like melt-water off a glaciated mountain peak.

In any event, better still was the The Globe and Mail's letter's page.

I had sent them a letter on Tuesday, one largely based on my recent rant about the CBC's coverage of Laval's soccergate. For those of you without a subscription, allow me to indulgence myself by reprinting the full text of my letter below.
Both your reporters, Tu Thanh Ha and Heather Scoffield (Red card
renews Quebec hijab debate) and columnist Sheema Khan (Hijabs: Don't
kick up a fuss) missed the real story in the Mansour affair - that is,
that not only did Ms Mansour's team-mates support her in her desire to
wear the hijab while participating in a soccer tournament by giving up
up their own chance to play, but so did four of the other teams in
that tournament.

That petty officials will sometimes glom onto Muslim head-gear as a
symbol of "too much" multiculturalism is news on the order of dog
bites man.

That over 40 11-year old girls would decide to sacrifice their own
participation in what for them must have been an important event for
what looks to be a matter of principle is news more along the lines of
man biting dog.

This reader, at least, would like to know more about the kids who
decide to support an openent's right to express her religion and so
gave up a tournament they had no doubt worked very hard to attend.

Perhaps not a multi-million dollar contract from Penguin Books for my first novel, but kind of gratifying nevertheless - who doesn't enjoy seeing his or her name in print? And coming on the heels of last weekend's 3,000-word review of Richard Dawkins' latest book, it had me feeling a little inspired, writing-wise.

And finally, one of you made the decision to take your journal private, having decided your future might be compromised by what you had previously thought okay to air in full view of the great unwashed.

I amused myself (and, I think, you as well) by penning the following pastiche.
Twas brillig, and the slithy bots
Did gyre and gimble across the web:
All mimsy were the gigabytes,
And the pages still online.

"Beware the the Wayback Machine my girl!
The bots that bite, the caches that catch!
Beware the sav'ed posts, and shun
The frumious Server Farm!"

She took her vorpal code in hand:
Longtime the manxome code she sought -
So rested she by the Memory Stick,
And typed a while in thought.

And, as with uffish words she typed,
The Wayback Machine, with hard-drives spinning,
Came whiffling through the fibre-optic wire,
And saved-to-disk as it came!

Bit, byte! Bit, byte! And through and through
The vorpal code went snicker-snack!
She left it dead, and with it's drive
She galumphed to home alive.

"And has though slain the Internet?
Come to my arms, my beamish girl!
O packet day! Callooh! Callay!"
Young Geoffrey chortled in his joy.

Twas brillig, and the slithy bots
Did gyre and gimble across the web:
All mimsy were the gigabytes,
And the pages still online.

Granted, it's a poor imitation of the original, but it made me smile to write it.

All right. Time to make my way through the slush to the office. Maybe next time I'll discuss my adventures in the online dating world, and how it seems the pornographication of our culture contines apace. Last week three different teenage girls sent me nude photos of themselves; it sure ain't the 1970s, folks.
Baby and me

"Touch Me, Touch Me - I Wanna Feel Your Body ..." - Adventures In Myspace (and Elsewhere)

The girl was no more than 8 or 9 years old. She wore bright, tight, red shorts and a an equally-tight, white t-shirt that both revealed and obscured the nipples budding from her narrow chest.

She looked me in the eye as I neared her, and held my gaze like some prepubescent Houdini.

Maybe 10 feet away, she broke into song and started to sashay, grinding her little-girl hips and waving her arms about her like a stripper.

And she sang,

Touch me, touch me,
I wanna feel your body!

Touch me, touch me,
Your heartbeat next to mine ...


It was summer in 1988, if memory serves. I was in my early 20s, and the song the little girl sang had been a recent hit on MuchMusic. The "artist" behind it was one Samantha Fox.

Cunt Rock
Cunt Rock


As I recall, Fox was one of the first female pop-stars to take full advantage of the new, video-based, era in popular culture. A pin-up girl who could more or less sing, she was a shooting star from Britain who made her name much less for her music than for her willingness to display her undeniably enormous breasts and to shake her ass to the delight of pubescent boys of all ages, clearing the trail first laid down by Madonna a couple of years before.

Did I mention the girl was no more than 8 or 9 or (maybe - just maybe) 10 years old?

I gave her a wide berth as we passed each other by. She watched me with the predatory look of a cougar on her eighth drink at a frat party. I knew it was silly to think so, but I felt this kid might - right there on the sunlit street - stop and grab me, hurl me onto the sidewalk and fuck me, whether I was willing or no.

And I wondered, as we passed without actual incident, What kind of kid does that kind of dance for a strange man on the street?

And that, despite the original's much-flaunted feminine pulcritude, is my strongest memory of Samantha Fox: a little television-watching girl, practicing lap-dance moves on 20-something men she passed by on the street.

* * *

I know, I've been neglecting livejournal, and those who inhabit my small corner of it. Truth is, I haven't even been much more than spot-reading my friends' list over the past few weeks.

What I have been doing includes work (a busy bitch, of late), writing yet another letter to the editor the Globe and Mail didn't see fit to print, continuing the (I hope) never-ending process of learning to live with the woman I love, not writing much, and wasting far too much time ogling profiles of pretty girls on myspace, which has nevertheless been an education, in spite of my voyeuristic inclinations.

It was on myspace that I was reminded of the existence of Samantha Fox. It seems that she is in Canada now, and trying for a come-back. Such is the way the world has changed, said come-back includes spamming people who have accounts on myspace. Even people whose accounts - such as mine - consist of little more than a photo and a username. "She" has twice sent me friend requests.

Myspace is a weird corner of the internet, a place where spam is okay and where young women - sometimes very young women - seem thrilled by the opportunity to show off their bodies in a state as close to complete déshabille as the sites owners will allow (actual nipples or pussy - and, straight men can only presume, cock - are apparently verbotten there, but sometimes slip through).

All of which pornography struck a chord, as Laura has such tendencies herself, as do a number of my lj friends.

I was reminded of a recent post here by touchmyskin, the woman who introduced me to lj and who - ironically - even more recently unfriended me, questioning feminist responses to pornography, a subject to which I have been giving some thought lately.

I have - at last - become more or less comfortable with the fact of my Desire. With the fact that I am attracted to women and, in particular, to the way women look. As my long-time readers may recall, I enjoy the sight of a well-turned ankle, a short skirt rippling in the summer air, pert breasts proudly carried like banners through the streets.

I say "comfortable" because I know that I am able to distinguish my appreciation of a woman's looks from her self. There are as many beautiful morons walking on their hind legs as their are buffed jocks striding about on theirs.

And yet ...

And yet, I am not comfortable with the emphasis our society places on the physical, on the visual. A firm ass or chiselled jaw no more means its owners are intelligent and moral than they are stupid or venal. Though I (do I flatter myself) maintain that I do not judge a person on her appearance, there is no denying I am in thrall enough to physical beauty that I am more likely to talk to a pretty woman than to a plain one.

It is not at all hard, from that acknowledgement, to imagine a slightly different "me" who would take the surface for the whole, dismissing the ugly as evil.

Celebrate the body, yes. Deify it, no.

* * *

Which makes my recent (and ongoing, thank you darlin') visits to one (or some) of Toronto's BDSM communities more than a little interesting. Here is a group of people, come together almost entirely due to their sexualities - sadists and masochists who not only beat and fuck each other, but who celebrate birthdays, play volleyball and generally act like the rest of us, only very often in weird clothes and to music I usually find much too loud.

Are they a part, or apart, of the mainstream sexualization of our culture? I don't know, but I note well that - their love of costumes notwithstanding - they come in all shapes and sizes, the fat apparently as comfortable in their skin as their slender counterparts.

These people, from what I can see, are living their own lives, not slavenly following the dictates of Fashion Television or Maxim.

* * *

I know, there isn't much focus to this. That's why it's a journal, I guess. Next time (maybe), I'll talk about the new novel, just out, by Kim Stanley Robinson. It's a good one. For now, I'm off to a birthday party, for someone I don't even know.