You Push and I Pelt

Learning From How The Flowers Felt


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Sex Appeal and Beauty

Sex Appeal and Beauty

Sex Appeal and Beauty

When did beauty and sex appeal become intertwined?

It has been my experience that the two things do not go hand-in-hand, yet they usually are spoken about as if they were. I think about Jean Harlow, Mae West, Mick Jagger, Denis Leary who are all very sexy indeed, but not classically beautiful. Sometimes the disconnect between society’s definition of beauty and what is happening between one’s legs is explained in utter disbelief.  I would have more money for my laundry than I do if I had a nickel for every time I heard one of these phrases when a man couldn’t stop touching me or wanting to fuck me:


“Baby you are damn sexy.”

“It’s not one thing—you’ve got the whole package.”

“It’s your mind darling…Your mind is what turns me on.”

“It’s the connection I feel when I’m with you.”


Being the insecure cunt that I am, I usually ask men for further clarity in a bat-your-eyelashes kind of Sally Field ‘You like me, you really like me’ kind of way.  “What do you like about me specifically though?”  I unabashedly probe.

Inevitably, he sighs before grabbing my ass, tits or voraciously kissing my neck before explaining that my 43-year-old, overweight 5’4” frame is made of flesh he just cannot get enough of.  Then, I am held up in great esteem as the superior choice when compared to a model he shared his bed with the other week, the stripper he watched dance that night, or a young bartender with a perfect body that failed to keep his interest for very long.

“She just had nothing to say,” he explains.

I want to quip, “You cared about what she had to say?”

But, I hold back. Sarcasm and sheepish ego-satiating questions are like oil and water.

At first, I was sure every man was lying to me—assuaging my ego—telling me I was hot enough to fuck without blatantly lying, so that I would let my inhibitions down and he could do what he pleased, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. There have been too many unrelated instances of men telling me the same exact thing for this tactic to be the truth and the truth to be fiction. With these examples, and my understanding of quantitative studies—that is when reproducible results in two or more experiments creates validity—leads me to think the guys were and are telling the truth.  I may not be Cosmopolitan material, but it seems most of my casual encounters result in an erection and a man who is not content with wham, bam thank you Mam.  I usually am called the next day or so. He wants me.  He misses me and wants to see more of me though sometimes he is unable to articulate why.

I think about my attraction to David Bowie as a teenager. By no stretch of the imagination was he the hottest rock start in the 80’s.  He was not the epitome of a beautiful man, and yet the way he moved, his odd lyrics that spoke to my soul and his confidence despite the awkwardness made my fingers and toes tingle. Just thinking about the men I’ve been attracted to–famous and personally–who would never be Calvin Klein’s choice for underwear model still can get my panties in a bunch.  The way my first love bit his bottom lip and ran his sterling silver ringed fingers through his thick dark auburn hair is one of the sexiest images I can muster, but he was not beautiful. The untouchable and deeply sad eyes of a young man I could only look at from afar in college haunts me to this day—sexy, but not beautiful. The lawn mower guy with a thick head of dark brown hair, green eyes and disinterest in me was more sexy than beautiful – though he was both as a young man.

As I get older, the text of a frustrated love interest is sexy to me. “Okay you win-I happen to miss you probably more than you miss me. Call me,” it vibes and reads.   He doesn’t want to like me at all, but he can’t help it, and he admits it. It’s funny and real and that’s sexy. He likes when we read together and talk about math and science.  He even likes my obstinacy and absolute insistence that I do things my way. The last thing he wants to do is let me in, but he does.

I think most men love and hate that I cannot be controlled or held down.  I have a mind of my own and it drives them crazy. They like my passion and how I move. My honesty takes some aback. They try to unravel how I can be vulnerable and pissed off that I am vulnerable at the same time. Is it the mystery they find sexy?

It may be rare when beauty and sex appeal mingle, but when it does it makes for superstar fireworks that we usually only see in movies: Marilyn Monroe, Clark Gable, Grace Kelly, Robert Redford, Mel Gibson, Tom Cruise, Melanie Griffith, Angelina Jolie, Brad Pitt and I’m sure you have your own favorites.  Still, none could hold a candle to David Bowie for me when I was 18. It’s the whole package baby—the whole package. Now that I think about it some more, I might go so far as to say that sex appeal and beauty are like time’s arrow moving in one direction. In that phallic arrow, sex appeal can become beautiful, but beauty alone can never become sex appeal.  There is just no makeover for that one now is there?

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Unicorns, The Universe and Other Skills

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I suppose it all started when I decided to become a unicorn, which is a mythical creature that doesn’t exist except in the dreams of the middle class voyeurs of weekend erotica. My demands for my individuality drove my husband to the brink of insanity. His jealousy caused him, my sister and his (my matron of honor and self-proclaimed BFF) to try and 5150 me, which I learned without having to experience the act of being committed, is an attempt to declare me insane. Imagine that! A woman in 2014 who creates a virtual identity for her sexuality is a danger to herself or others.

When the police were called because I threw a wine glass at the wall, I grabbed whatever I could from the run down hotel room where all of this freedom was to begin and ran to hide. I knew I looked like the insane woman they claimed I was, for I had grabbed a shower curtain that had been packed up, a few books, my computer, of course, and my Birkenstocks. I had been betrayed by everyone I thought cared for me. It was not the first time I would fall to my knees that month and cry to God. “What the Hell am I supposed to be learning?” I cried it again and again. The crazy woman who collects cans for a living and channels the Dali Lama grabbed me and pulled me aside when I was hysterical. She told me that I’m not supposed to be in control. “Let it go…” she laughed at me. “Just let it all go…” Her hand flitted the words into the wind. But, how was I supposed to let it all go? I had my dogs, no job, no money, no direction, and I knew nobody who would help me. The universe was about to give me my first lesson.

The events that were to unfold from that night are stranger than fiction. Suffice it to say, I am writing this post from an apartment of an ex Israeli soldier who is a French chef and lover of Fellini and Kurosawa films. He drove two hours to pick me up in his Range Rover with no promises of anything. He cooked me dinner. He wanted to hold my hand and listen to opera with me. He is a poet and apparently a very load snorer. He has left me alone here to write. He has fallen asleep in his bed and I could rob him blind, but I won’t, for the universe gives me everything I need when I need it. I am in awe, and I am still learning. I’m still insistent on a few things.

I want to keep my dogs. I made a promise to them-the only living things to stand by me no matter what, so I won’t just drop them at a shelter to save my skin, or to be put in some shelter prison. This insistence has been met with outrage and disbelief. Still, they are fat, happy, sleeping soundly and were just groomed yesterday. Since I’ve been “in transition,” the eccentric name for homeless, my dogs and I are in better shape than we’ve been in years. How fucking funny.

I started with three dogs. A man I am fairly sure is a non-violent kind of crazy fell in love with one of them, Gracie, and kept her. I know she is safe with him, as they drive to Scottsdale Arizona in his BMW. She finally has the one owner who will love her like the princess she is. He told me that he was saving her from me, and I believed him. She needs him as he needs her. He will be her forever home. I still have my 11 year old Shepherd Husky, Jake and my little bitch of a min-pin, Bella. She is irreverent, intolerant, watchful, loyal and just like me, her attitude betrays her size. I have six bags of stuff-mostly clothes, this computer and my music. I still have no car, no job, no desire to work for another asshole ever again, but it seems I have everything I need. I do have the ability to write and post ads on Craig’s List, like my most recent ad, which reads as follows:

Any decent men?

Single female needs decent place to stay for about a month. I need to get my life in order without someone calling me names, or stealing from me. Are there any decent people out there? I can cook, clean and I have other skills too.

Join me on my adventure in LA. Fasten your seatbelts. I have a feeling it is going to be a bumpy ride.