Dating under the giant phallus

The Catholic church has overseen my last few half-hearted/no-hearted attempts at relationships, literally. The exact same imposing steeple was visible from each bedroom where I've played guest, a constant feature of my Walk(s) of Shame and an enormous phallic reminder that Montreal can be a very small pond.

Living here for more than a decade, I've somehow, accidentally reduced this vast city of millions to a dating-pool effectively as small as that of my former high school. Population: Me, my ex-conquests and their new girlfriends. Great.

The men I cut out of my photos are generally artists and/or musicians (by coincidence not preference, I've learned that lesson already), and they all live within 10 blocks of me. And they're good at what they do, or if not good, then at least prolific. So, even if I'm lucky enough not to leave my apartment, go for coffee or grab a beer at the same time as any one of them, they still find their way back into my home via some form of local media - radio, TV or free weeklies. When The Mirror referenced three ex-something-or-others in a single issue, my comfort zone started feeling a little lopsided and lumpy. Maybe, I thought, it was time to find a new one.

Besides, bumping into a local ex-conquest at the end of the night (the just-give-me-poutine-and-put-me-to-bed part of the night) really blows, because unless you make an obvious and cowardly detour, you'll be sharing the same route home. Just you, your ex, and his annoyingly cute new girlfriend in the skanky little outfit she wore especially for him because he likes how it makes her ass look. Ugh.

When it happened to me most recently, the smalltalk was staccato and artificially sweetened. I certainly wouldn't order it again, if that means anything, and I couldn't wait for it to end.

Just before all tact was lost, the familiar giant phallus rose into view - a foothill to a mountain of relief - and grew taller with every click of the heels that were killing my arches. It became my symbol of hope, nearly as its architects intended. If I could just make it to the church, I thought, then poutine would be just around the corner and everything would be OK.

I knew then, walking with these people I'd rather have avoided, that this neighbourhood (and everyone in it) is "home" whether I liked it at that particular moment, or not.

Poutine, originally uploaded by mttsndrs.

Better bedtimes to come, surely

There's a bull penis in my bed and it smells awful. That's my situation.

My friend Mike would say I'm telling you this because I'm from a small town - just like the one he's from, but a few miles down the coast of Nova Scotia and minus several thousand people. Since the fishery died, not much happens outside of lobster season, so living there, we learned to self-entertain by perverting the mundane into pseudo-events worth talking about, though worthiness is debatable. Leaving out just the right important details, a skill passed from generation to generation of Maritimer, is something we do if only to force you to say, "What!?", so we can keep talking.

Now I live in Montreal - an overwhelmingly magnificent city with a population literally 10,000 times that of my hometown - where real scandals happen all the time. I could tell you about any of them, but old habits die hard and I just want to prattle on about the crusty old bull penis in my bed. The dog jumped up to chew it there. Arguably once the ultimate symbol of male fertility, it's now a dried up stick of rawhide, and it stinks.

At the pet store yesterday, I was reading its list of ingredients at the cash and got as far as, "All-natural, free-range, organic..." before the clerk cut in to say, "...bull penis. Trust me, you'll want to double-bag that sucker."

Now my dog has penis breath, and for the official record that is everlasting web archives, my bed has seen better days.

My mother, my muse

Ever since my mom realized I was writing about her online, she's been tattling on my dad. She's trying to divert my attention, but the harder she tries, the more hilarious she is, and off I go to write about her some more. "Oh, pick on your father for once," she'll say, her last ditch effort.

Here she is, laughing hysterically:


My mother, fellow lover of ridiculousness and inappropriate behaviour, is a sensitive woman (and vulgar and loving and neurotic and wonderful and I could go on-and-on) and I want to be careful not to make her feel self-conscious, or overly exposed by what I'm telling the world about her, so for years, I've refused to give her the link to my blog. It was the only solution. What she doesn't know won't irk her.

There's no way I can stop writing about her, she's a major player in this little life of mine, I was her doing. Dad didn't want any more kids. He was busy with my older sisters and the neighbourhood boys they'd sneak in through the basement. Safeguarding two virginities was exhausting work for a father of two beautiful teenage girls in the Peace-and-Love era, and he wasn't sure he'd have energy to do it again.

While my father is truly the greatest, a wholly interesting and lovely man (who decided I was a good idea after all), my mother is the real antagonist, the character of the family. Dad's just not controversial, not outside the context of his marriage to my mother, in which his primary commitment, she says with a twinkle and a smirk, is to slowly and definitively drive her mad. I love them both dearly, and want them to know that everything I write, I write with love and respect, and I only occasionally write about sex.

When oddball, small-time writer and editor, Maxim Jakubowski, asked to include blurbs of this blog in an anthology of online journals (2005), I chose excerpts I could show my parents. How fun, I thought at the time, to read my stories to them from a book that is for sale, in real-live stores.

When I received two complementary copies in the mail, they weren't what I'd been expecting, and I realized what I'd gotten into. Published in New York under the title, Sex Diaries, and in London, Erotic Online Diaries, my sex-devoid contribution begins on page 208, inexplicably sandwiched between sodomy, masturbation, bondage and sadomasochism. You might think that's why I decided not to show my parents the end product.

They're not so squeamish, though, and I think they could have handled the graphic sex stuff, or at least leafed past it. It was me with the problem. The web address to this blog was on every published page, and I wasn't ready to expose myself to them. My parents don't need to know a lot of things, for their own good, and selfishly, I wanted to preserve my freedom of expression without fear of familial persecution or guilt. A growing readership means my parents will see my blog sooner than later, though, or worst case scenario, one of their friends will first.

Little-by-little, I've tried to prepare both parties. I've read select entries to them over the phone, and copied-and-pasted others with minor edits, like the story about how I tactlessly brought up oral sex to my mom (a regrettable incident): Me, Mom and Polish Sausage.

She laughed while I read to her, and chastised me again for sharing "too much information". Feeling like we really made progress, I later mentioned that I'd gotten some funny feedback on that story. She was shocked.

"You let people read that?" She reacted as though I'd peed in the kitchen sink.

"Yes, Mom, it's on my blog," I was confused by her reaction. "I told you that."

"And you show people your blog?" she asked, incredulous. I explained to her that my blog is available on the internet for all the world to see, for as long as there exist web archives, possibly outlasting civilization, even cockroaches. Realizing what this meant, she began shouting, "People know what you DO! People know what you DO! They know what you do with your man-friends!"

It was my turn to laugh, repeating the term "man-friend", over and over again, and finally catching my breath to say, "You know I'm going to write about that."

This Mother's Day, she requested two gifts: an ornamental shrub, and "too much information". Finally, somewhat reluctantly, and not without fair warning, I welcome her to my blog. It's really only fair.

World, meet my mom. She's here, right now, reading this, wondering if you know what I do with my "man-friends".

Mom, make yourself at home. These people already know you.

Your love is still unconditional, right?

Dumping on humping

He lowered himself to his knees in front of me, facing away, and planted his palms flat to the floor. His poise was that of a randy canine prepped for indiscriminate humping. Breathing heavily, he began tilting his pelvis---up-down-up, down-up-down---his buttocks at eye-level from where I sat.

Only a few feet away, I could see that sweat had soaked through patches of his tight, black knit shorts, making dark and intimate stains as he pumped the air with a smooth, slow rhythm. From the edge of my mat, I was close enough to reach out and touch those sweaty buttocks, but that was the last thing in the world I wanted to do.

I wondered if he knew what he looked like, moving like that. I wondered what he thought about while he did, and whether he'd considered my view when he placed his yoga mat next to mine. I have seen scores of men doing this move at the gym, never any women. I noted that women seem more conscious of what they do with their bodies in public. Mostly, though, I was just disgusted.

This horror, while surely meant to stretch the lower back, has somehow slipped through censorship channels at my family-oriented gym. Had I wanted to think about sex while working out, I'd have kept my membership at my previous gym, known for its clientele of career strippers and horny first-year university students. Sure, it was interesting watching breasts not bounce on the treadmill, but that's not what I'm looking for in a workout. I prefer a gym I can go to sleep-worn, relaxed and make-up-less, and still fit in; somewhere where humping is not top-of-mind.

It was, perhaps, inevitable that sweaty men would find another outlet for grunting and ghost-grinding---somewhere outside of the bedroom, and off the dance floor---but, do they really need to do it at my gym? Alright, so maybe I'm making far too great a deal of the public pelvic thrust. Maybe I should just get over it and acknowlege the move as a healthy, normal part of a common workout routine. But, I can't. And, you can't tell me I'm the only one who's not mature enough to handle it.

Me, Mom & Polish Sausage

There are some things you should never tell your mother.

I've learned this lesson late in life. I am not talking about the obvious stuff. Generally, I avoid telling her anything that might cause her to worry more than she already does. Why would I want to make more work for myself? As it is, she panics when I get a headache, something about tumours and microwaves.

Last summer, for instance, when I was injured by a bicycle-ramming pervert in a city park, I just didn't mention it to her. Though I was tempted to tell her -- particularly when I mused that the remaining scar on my knee is a perfectly shaped "p" for "pervert"-- I resisted. She wouldn't understand how I could make light of the incident. She would want to think that was the worst thing that's ever happened to me, and it would bother her that apparently it's not.

The year before, some drunk opened fire in my direction during Easter weekend celebrations in Honduras. I knew immediately it would be one travel tale she would never hear. It remains a favourite of mine, primarily because I didn't die, but I know my mother, and she would stop listening before I even got to the part about life mimicking TV, when my friend yelled, "Hit the ground!"

No. These stories are kept in the same box that I keep my how-I-accidentally-lost-my-virginity account. Now that I have been an adult for nearly twelve years, everything else is fair game. I've really opened up to her about my dating and sex life, likely for no greater reason than to see her squirm, and she has become a true, albeit reluctant, confidante.

When a new guy I was dating avoided having sex with me, I called my mom. She suggested that perhaps he was just a little old fashioned and was taking it slow, that he was probably very sweet and respectful. She also said that any nice woman should take at least six months to get to know a man before jumping into bed with him. When I was done laughing, I mocked her until she hung up. Since then, she's redefined her idea of a "slut" because she doesn't want me to be one. You can imagine the pleasure I took in informing her that it wasn't that the guy was taking his time, it was that the anti-anxiety medication he was on had triggered some sort of erectile dysfunction. She muttered something about cows and free milk, and I said something about how practice makes perfect, and she let it go.

Still, she has become quite comfortable with the idea that, if not the degree to which, I am a sexually active woman. Perhaps I overestimated her level of comfort, but I definitely took it too far this Christmas. Mom, I am sorry.

We had a few last-minute groceries to pick up before settling in for the holidays, and as we pulled into the carpark, I recalled how much I used to hate shopping with her there. It had little to do with her, aside from her love of kielbasa, and everything to do with the deli counter staff. When I was sixteen, he was in college, and I had already nurtured a two-year crush on him. When I was in college, he became the deli guy, and every time I came home to visit, my mom would take me to the grocery store and have me stand in front of him and talk about Polish sausage. I would blush, he would smirk, and my mom was never the wiser.

He has since moved on, perhaps to bigger and better deli counters, and so I thought I might finally be able to tell my mom my story. I began gently, and tested the waters.

"Mom, you are comfortable with the concept that your daughter has sex, right?"

"Pfft!" she said. "By now? I'd certainly say so."

"OK, well I have a funny story about the deli guy who used to work here."

She tried to remember him.

"You know how you always bought his sausage? Well, he was the first guy I ever gave a blowjob, and so, in a way, he gave both of us sausage. Ha!"

That was my punchline. What was I thinking!? It's not even funny. She'd had been less disturbed had I defecated in the aisle. It threw me off my game, and I regretted bringing up fellatio. It was too much for my sixty-year-old mother.

"I thought you were comfortable with me having sex," I said, cringing.

"I said I was comfortable with you having SEX!" she yelled through her teeth, "but not..."

At first she couldn't bring herself to say it, and eventually she hissed and spit the words, "...not ORAL sex with the sausage guy!"

Her delivery was perfect and, momentarily, I forgot that I regretted telling her the story. Then, with a cruelty of which only mothers are capable, to punish me, her next sentence began with, "You know, your father and I..."

I didn't stick around for the verb. Even as I escaped down another aisle, I could hear her cackling in victory. There are some things you should never tell your mother and, likewise, your kids.

Wait. Did I say sex?

I tore the package apart, slowly uncovering its hot pink contents. I knew I was to be published, but what I didn't know was that it would be in the sort of publication I can't show my parents. The book features excerpts from my blog. This one. The one you are reading. And, as a reader, I would like you to think back about all the entries on the topic of sex. Need a minute? Yeah, didn't think so.

I'm quite certain that if you read my words to arouse anything other than your mind, you'd be sorely disappointed. You might shrug and move along to something more suiting to your mood. I imagine that is exactly what all the Googlers, who happen upon this site by searching for: "little+girl+models", do. I would prefer that they burst into flames, but alas, the world is not fair.

I was sure that the kind editor was confused, and had sent me the wrong book. My stories have nothing to do with sex. The only connection I have to the more sultry side of blogging are my links to others, like The Wandering Webwhore and Fuzzybunny's Disjointed Thoughts.

But, I opened to the contents page, and there it was, listed as: You Silly Little Girl: Little Exorcisms.

Which, if you've paid attention is technically not the name of my blog. I would never refer to myself as a silly little girl. I am nearing 30. And, frankly, "little girl" is far too loaded a term for a place as sketchy as the Internet. Nevertheless, there were my words, a chapter dedicated to me.

It's exciting to be published. I liked it. I just wish that the representation of my writing was a little more accurate, palatable, polite. I suppose that is why I couldn't quite find the words for the kind editor, Maxim Jakubowski, when he asked for my reaction. That, and because I am currently participating in the production of a history book, and I know how nit-picky people can be about the most insignificant things - like getting a name or title wrong. I know what it is like for people to entirely overlook everything you did right, because all they can see is that "Katherine" should be spelled with a "C", even if their nickname is "Kay".

And, contrary to what you may have thought, the reason I can't show my parents this book is that the address of my journal is at the beginning of my chapter, not because it's too raunchy. In fact, I am certain my mother could spend hours reading about swingers and gay sex, but if she starts reading my journal, I won't be able to write about her anymore.

As you may have noticed, my family is a great source of inspiration for me. Not sex. I don't like writing about sex. Erotica usually sounds ridiculously rehearsed, contrived, dishonest. If I were to write about it, I would get into the politics of it. I would make it academic. I would make you lose your sex drive. And, I can't say I wouldn't do it on purpose. I will leave the honest writing to The Wandering Webwhore, who somehow avoids all the typical traps, and comes across simply as a fascinating adventurer.

To me, the Sex Diaries book is more of a mystery than a collection of erotic journals. I think the kind editor may just wanted to give me a chance to be published. And, I sincerely thank him for that. It is very cool to read aloud to my friends, stories of events they'd experienced with me, from a bound book, published in New York and London.

I will, however, forever be confused.