Monday, Monday

Temperature: a sunny 10/50 degrees

Eating: stir-fried goodies; Hubby is a wok star!

Drinking: a fruity...milky...smoothie...something.

Watching: a hundred thousand different shades of yellow, orange and brown

Listening: to nothing in particular

Reading: see below

Writing: that never-ending story; oh the story has an ending, middle and beginning, it's the writing that seems endless.

Feeling: a slight ache in my left ankle and deltoid

Sisters are doin' it for themselves

After the annus horribilis that was last year, I was looking forward to an uneventful rest of the decade. (Okay, my first Romantica got published. That was pretty fantabulous.) No such luck. My brother-in-law's partner and my sister-in-law's mother were diagnosed with breast cancer this summer. One has been given a clean bill. The other, well, we'll see.

On Monday I find out that my father had a health scare over the weekend, a heart incident. My brother and sister had already given him an ass-chewing so I tried to bite my tongue, but seriously, he'd had all kinds of symptoms for three weeks (!!!). No, s e r i o u s l y , gents, what gives? And I'm sorry if this sounds like a gross generalization, chew my ass if you feel like it, but in my experience when men get sick it's either a big production over nothing or they admit they need medical attention when their heads fall off and even then they're going, "It's nothing." Death grunts. "Really, it's nothing." More death grunts. I feel for the hospital staff; he's being absolutely impossible to treat or reason with, I'm sure.

The things that have been going through my mind this week...I'm getting palpitations just thinking about it. Sweet. Baby. Jesus. We need to talk about something else. How about some smart, brave, wise, reasonable women. As you may have heard, the Nobel Peace Prize for 2011 was divided between Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, Leymah Gbowee and Tawakkul Karman, "for their non-violent struggle for the safety of women and for women's rights to full participation in peace building work." The Norwegian Nobel Committee noted that "[w]e cannot achieve democracy and lasting peace in the world unless women obtain the same opportunities as men to influence developments at all levels of society."

That's what women have been trying to tell the world for a couple of centuries now. And now we have the portrait of Alfred Nobel in relief to back our demands. But seriously, it is easy to forget in the relatively free and egalitarian part of the world how disenfranchised, and I do mean stripped of both rights and dignity, many women still are. Far too many women. It is for these women, women and girls with no voice or visibility, that the three winners and prizes such as these bring hope.

Got another brave and tireless woman for you, one who's doing something to leave the world in a better shape than she found it, brought to you via The Rejectionist. La Rejectionista has cooked up a buffet of a fundraiser to help her friend Emily, a buffet bound to tease the taste buds of readers and writers alike. The first item is already up for grabs so hurry! How will you know she hasn't booked a winter vaca and this isn't one of those last-chance-to-send-your-dollar fundraisers? I'm sorry but who vacations in Nepal? Really, peeps, jeez. Give the cynic the day off and have a look at those items, alone worth the price of admission, surely! 

I do love a woman, a man too, naturally, who doesn't lament the state of things but sets out to do something about them. Yes, I know, you could have been a contender, start a clinic from scratch, save the planet, it's a done deal, really, save for the fact you don't have the time or the expertise. Well, Emily does, and you can play a part. Major role, bit part, walk-on, the choice is yours.

No, serious like cancer, everything counts. As in everything. Maybe this week you'll do one daily coffee run instead of two. That pick-me-up pretzel? That's what the coffee is for. If it's not picking you up, it's either decaf and explain to me why you're having it or you're not getting enough rest. Enough said, you get my drift. When I start thinking I've got nothing to give, I give it another think and all kinds of possibilities open up. Not only are you leaving the world a better place than you found it, you're none the poorer for it. Do the math. None. You can take that to the bank.

I would like to sign off by reminding my dearest denizens duty calls me to step out of the den this weekend so no Frisky Friday this Friday. Doesn't mean you can't still have one, you know, not-so-subtle hint hint. I would also like to remind the ladies out there of the importance of monthly breast self-exams. You can find instructions on frickin' YouTube if you don't know how to do it, so there is no excuse. None. And gentlemen, please, it's the 21st century. Your dick won't fall off if you admit you don't feel one hundred percent one hundred percent of the time. Admit it. I dare you. Damn right I'm upset. I'm too young for this shit. Don't make it worse now. There's an army inside you. An axis of light and wisdom and truth and beauty. Mobilize it. Conspire for good.

Until next week, sweetie darlings. Behave.

The O factor

Last week's post on vibrators got me thinking about orgasms. I must confess I feel a bit uncomfortable writing them. Not uncomfortable writing about them here, talking to you about them, but in erotic romance. I sometimes feel as if I'm perpetuating a myth. You know, that if she's not screaming and writhing as if having a seizure and if he's not going off like a New Year's rocket, no one's having fun or satisfied. I sometimes feel and fear I'm party to creating performance anxiety writing stories where most every sexual encounter ends in climax, his, hers or theirs; that I'm implying that's all there is, and that that's all there is to it.

Yes, I know. Readers are smart. I for one love reading the dream instead of reality and regularly opt for entertainment instead of education. I'm also willing to suspend a considerable amount of disbelief when it comes to fiction provided the fictional facts hold water in the context of the story world. But. I do believe we agreed at the start of Frisky Friday that it would be about fact not fiction. So. The O. Some facts I rounded up for you:

Less than a third of women reach orgasm when having sex. Three in four men always do. But:
Women have more than one nerve pathway for sensation; women have four, which in turn implies women are capable of experiencing more intense and complex orgasms than men. Furthermore, women can orgasm from not just genital but several forms of stimulation. Everything from knee to brow has been reported and recorded.
It is possible to "think off." You can orgasm without touching your body.
Male orgasm and ejaculation are not synonymous or interchangeable.
Orgasms have the same impact on the male brain as heroin does on the brain of an addict, plus activity in the male brain’s reward hub is off the charts at the point of orgasm. Meaning what? Sex can be addictive.
The more aroused a woman becomes, the more the parts of the brain responsible for processing fear and anxiety deactivate.
Orgasms activate the same part of the brain as pain. Which kind of explains those distorted O faces, doesn't it?
For women, orgasms become easier with age.
Anorgasmia (female orgasm disorder) is a condition in which women can't orgasm or have difficulty reaching climax.

Let's face it. When it's good, it's good. It's good for you, too. Orgasm is a natural high, a pain-blocker helping with everything from menstrual cramps to arthritis and alleviating symptoms of depression and anxiety. It releases muscle tension and heightens women’s sensitivity to touch. But if you've never had one and are left wondering, if orgasms are elusive for physical or psychological reasons (hormonal changes, certain medications and disorders, depression, diabetes, stress, fatigue etc.), if it affects the quality of your life or relationships, it can be more a source of sorrow than pleasure. That's why I think it's important to bust some of the myths surrounding orgasms and acknowledge that there may be an overemphasis on orgasms when talking about sex. More! Better!! Faster!!! Stronger!!!! 

Sex may be a contact sport but it's not a competitive sport and I don't think orgasms should be viewed as the finish line, at least not every time. Focusing on the destination, have we forgotten to enjoy the ride? Sex can be great, it can be frickin' fantastic, even if you don't come. It doesn't have to be fireworks every single time. Firecrackers are good. They are absolutely acceptable and they can be very pleasurable and it's not an epic failure on anyone's part and I hope you agree.

Porn may have something to do with it, the confusion and delusion. Porn may even have a lot to do with it since it has given many a pleasurable, wonderful things a bad name and perpetuated some harmful myths about sexuality in general and women's sexuality in particular. But that's another topic for some other Friday.

I'd love to hear what readers think. Is the big O the sugar in your Romantica tea? Is there something in the descriptions of those climactic scenes (pun tot. int.) that bother or even irritate you, or are fireworks what you expect and let's leave the firecrackers to mainstream romance authors? In the land of a thousand pleasures, is an orgasm the epitome?

Frisky Friday takes a break next week as I take a short trip. In the meantime, enjoy the downtime. And keep thinking those sexy thoughts.

Notes in the margins

So now he has three hands?

Waxing poetic.

And again.

No, seriously. Stop sucking. Now!

Makes him sound like a power tool.

What season is this again? Fix description.

In 1751? I don't think so.

What? Losing your reader here. Losing the writer, too.

Is this her pussy or a cat after a bath?

Impossible since he is still wearing pants. Are these some kind of novelty pants? X [marks the spots in need of fixing]

Hysteria!

This ought to be good, I thought when I first heard about this a year ago. A romantic comedy set in Victorian England, based on fact, about the invention of the vibrator. The movie Hysteria generated quite a buzz (pun int.) when it debuted at this year's Toronto Film Festival, and frankly, the history of motorized sex aids is pretty hysterical.

In the bad old days a lady didn't enjoy sex. Let me rephrase that. A lady was not supposed to enjoy sex. Sex was for procreational not recreational purposes, the act of intercourse leading to male climax. Female pleasure was beside the point since according to general wisdom women didn't suffer from sex drive. Except they did. Women exhibiting symptoms such as nervousness, insomnia, heaviness in the abdomen and lower pelvic edema, erotic fantasies and vaginal lubrication were diagnosed with "hysteria," after the Greek word for the womb, hysteros, a condition resulting from congestion of the reproductive system.

Sounds like acute if not chronic arousal to me. The cure provided to free women from this awful blockage: orgasms, or "hysterical paroxysm" as they were called as not to imply sexual desire and release. It was just what the doctor ordered and, incidentally, administered, too. Being treated for hysteria meant getting yourself to the doctor and letting him get you off.

It was hard manual labor. So hard that physicians used everything from wind-up vibrators and midwives as masseuses to ascending douches and pneumatic equipment for assistance. You bet those poor medicine men welcomed the age of electricity with open albeit tired arms. So. Before there were electrically powered irons or vacuum cleaners, there were vibrators, or "manipulators." Before long, women didn't need to bother with doctors appointments, they could treat themselves at home. The massager was a labor-saving household appliance like any other, widely advertised in magazines such as Good Housekeeping and sold at Sears. It was a health aid not to be confused or associated with masturbation. At least not publicly.

Along came the moving pictures with pornographic movies in tow. The minute vibrators showed up in the flesh flicks of the 1930's they were given a bad name, and women wanting or using one suddenly became infamous. Vibrators practically disappeared. Until 1952, when the American Psychiatric Association declared hysteria was not a clinical condition and knocked it off the list of mental illnesses.

It would take another decade for vibrators to re-emerge. Despite the sexual revolution, reservations, guilt and the stigma of sin and mental disease lingered, and most women wouldn't set foot in a sex shop. Vibrators were something men gave as naughty gifts to their partners and the designs of the decade reflect what men thought women wanted: the bigger the better.

It would take a few decades more for the "delightful companion" to establish itself as the fun and safe way to satisfy yourself and your partner, and another invention, the Internet, for the female market for vibrators to explode. The monster phalluses are still out there, but so is a wide array of other pleasurable paraphernalia women can browse at will and shop discreetly, if they so wish, online.

So whoever did invent the Internet, thank you. Thank you, Betty Dodson. And thank you, weak-wristed doctors of the 1880's. We sure are glad to be rid of the disease, and elated the treatment survived the cure. 

For a glimpse at some forty vintage vibrators, visit the Science Museum in London. For some personal or mutual pleasure, visit your local sex shop or one of the many adult toy stores to be found on the Internet. Some suggestions from around the world and the www:

Adam & Eve
Babeland
Canadian Sex Toys
Discreet-Romance
EdenFantasys
Liberator
Lovehoney
Love Shack Canada
MasalaToys
Matildas 
MyPleasure
SexShop365
Sex Toys 
Wild Secrets

I'm not affiliated with any of these companies, I'm only here to help. Until next week, dearest denizens! Keep buzzing, and keep thinking sexy thoughts.