Trigger Warning: This post is about mental illness and sexuality. Please exercise self-care.

Today is the day that Bell encourages Canadians to talk about mental health. I sat down in front of my trusty laptop feeling calm and clear-headed, eager to write a pithy post about my ongoing struggles with sex and mental illness. Ironically, the challenge of trying create a light-hearted entry has set my heart pounding and brought me to the verge of tears. Seriously, brain? You can’’t even stop being mentally ill long enough to let me write one lousy blog post about being mentally ill? No, of course you can’t. That’s not how this works.

 

That’s what the tears and the anxiety are about. I have a brain that doesn’t work the way that people say brains are supposed to work. And the effects of my malfunctioning brain have traumatized my body. I am never more aware of this fact then when I have sex.

Some people believe that our emotional experiences stay in our physical bodies. I don’t know if there’s any scientific research to support that claim, but I believe there’s something worth considering in that idea.  In order to become sexually aroused and sexually active, I have to allow my body to become vulnerable. Often times when I let that happen, my initial emotional reaction is overwhelming. It’s this kind of amorphous fear, anger, shame, sorrow and general badness that erupts from the pit of my stomach. It moves quickly, but sometimes I catch it right away and shut it down. Unfortunately shutting it down means shutting myself down as well and then no sex for me. Other times, it’s too strong and swift. It powers through me and beyond me. I start crying because the emotions are so big, I literally can’t contain them. When the tears stop, I typically feel relief…but I’m also a puffy-faced, snotty mess. No sex for me.

 

If our physical bodies are haunted by emotional phantoms, my body’s reaction makes sense to me. In some ways, I’m lucky. Most days, I can cope with my illness. Like I know that I’m going to be vaguely panicky for the first hour of every weekday. because getting The Bean ready for school and having the day’s “to-do” list looming in front of me is terrifying. But I also know from experience that tasks in front of me are not as daunting as my brain is telling me and that my heart rate will slow down as the day progresses and I get stuff done. I’m used to the way my heart leaps when I hear an e-mail alert or the phone rings. I’m getting better at ignoring the part of my brain that’s constantly telling me, ‘No one will care if you don’t show up, because no one actually likes you.’

 

Most days I can live my life in a way that probably looks pretty normal. But I can’t stop being mentally ill. So instead I strategize. I use tools and coping mechanisms, many of which involve ignoring my emotional state and dealing with the world on a more cognitive level. I constantly remind myself ‘Just because it feels bad, doesn’t mean it is bad.’  But the flip side is that just because those painful emotions are the by-product of lousy brain chemistry, it doesn’t mean they aren’t real. Even when I’m able to recognize certain feelings/reactions as “that’s the anxiety” or “that’s the depression,” it doesn’t make them go away. I’m not curing, but I’m coping.

 

If I want to have sex, I have to let my guard down. And if all those icky emotions that I normally push through are still living in my body, it makes sense that they kind of explode when I let myself be more physically vulnerable.

 

Like I said, I haven’t looked into any scientific data on this emotions-in-body theory, but I am trying a little experiment of my own. I’m sleeping naked. Back in Canada, it’s either too cold or too air-conditioned for me to sleep nude, but I find it quite comfortable in the Northern California climate. I know nudity is not required for sex, but I find nudity does make me feel very physically vulnerable. It sounds a little farfetched, but I think that maybe if I do that in times when I’m not having sex, it will give my body a chance to process and discharge some negativity, without the pressure of having it tied into a sexual experience.

Also, my grandmother told me it’s good to give my vagina some breathing room.

It’s just hard. For me living with mental illness is an ongoing process of building myself up and breaking myself down. As I build a system to cope with an aspect of my life, some other part of me is broken and I have to find new tools to shore myself up. I’m starting to realize that my sex life is not exempt from this. My sex life is part of my life, as is my illness. I can’t separate it. I can’t fix it That’s not how this works. I will never cure my mental illness, but I can keep learning how to live with it.

This past weekend I made my way down to f Los Angeles to attend Catalyst Con West, a conference dedicated to the wonderful world of sexuality. I’ve wanted to check a Catalyst event for awhile now and being that L.A. is a short flight from away, this seemed like the perfect opportunity to check it out.

CCon Badge

Flashin’ the badge!

How was it? Phenomenal!

Being at CatCon was like attending awesome summer camp but with hotel rooms instead of cabins and the buzz of vibrators instead of mosquitoes. I played games, made new friends and by the time it was over and by the time I left, I had grown at bit. I learned so much, enough to fill several blog posts. Those are coming but for now I’ll review some of my CatCon highlights. Believe me there were many!

GAGS AND SWAG

Next time I go to CatCon, I’ll bring a bigger bag. I was not prepared for the generosity of the conference sponsors. I came away with two beautiful new vibrators, including the much lauded We-Vibe Thrill. Another fave is was Nature Lab’s maple-scented lube.  This Canadian gal is here to tell you that they nailed the aroma. Now I’ll have nice reminder of the True North during frisky times!

SEX-LEBRITY SIGHTINGS

Keynote speakers (L to R): Tristan Taormino, Jackie Strano, Yosenio V. Lewis, Shira Tarrant PhD and Sinnamon Love.

Keynote speakers (L to R): Tristan Taormino, Jackie Strano, Yosenio V. Lewis, Shira Tarrant PhD and Sinnamon Love.

I had the opportunity to meet so many of sexuality heroes. Charlie Glickman, whose thoughts on sex-positivity have shaped my own. Tristan Taormino, one of my favourite porn performers, producers and authors. Carol Queen, one of the most influential sex-positive feminists of all time. And Nina Hartley, who starred in many of the first feminist porn films I ever saw.

I also met Sinnamon Love. I wasn’t familiar with her work in the adult entertainment industry but after meeting her and hearing her speak, I did some Googling and girlfriend is an adult-film superstar! She is also one of the most intelligent, articulate women I have ever heard speak on the subject of sex work. After making her acquaintance this weekend, you best believe I’m a big  Sinnamon Love fangal now!

TALKING THE TALK

The talks I attended at CatCon were full to brimming with ideas and information that I can use to become a better educator, business person and sex-positive advocate. By the end of each day, my fingers were cramped up good from furious note-taking. But it was worth it. I’ve got a Google doc crammed full of great stuff! I didn’t get to every session I wanted to attend (Note for next year: look into cloning options), but such is life.

I’ve now got a bug in my brain about giving my own at a future CatCon. Given what I heard, I’ll have to bring my A+ game.

FRIENDLY FACES

Chatting with the sexuality big-wigs is a thrill and a honour. But there’s nothing that fills the soul like forming new friendships – especially warm, funny, accepting, amazing friends. These are just a few of the folks I met. I highly encourage you to check out the wicked work they’re doing. And if you have a chance to make their acquaintance, do it- you’ll be very happy you did!

Sex Texts

Queerie Bradshaw

Darling Propaganda

Think Banned

Bondassage

Sex Positive Parent

The Ramblings of Zoya Lynne

BONUS BUILDING!

I also got to build my very own vibrator! For reals!  It’s a nifty little number from Crave, with a special design that maximizes genital sensation, while minimizing that pesky hand numbness. It’s also waterproof. I should know. I tested it myself.

Vibe Building_1

My tools :-)

Putting it all together...

Putting it all together…

 

The finished product! (Shout out to my building buddy, Zoya!)

The finished product! (Shout out to my building buddy, Zoya!)

 

So, that was my weekend. A great time and the perfect prelude for this weekend, when I begin classes for my PhD. Wish me luck? It’s been a looooooong time since this gal’s done the school thing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Open-Sign-1598827

Greetings from sunny California!

Well, sunny save for the reliable cover of fog that blankets my neighbourhood first thing most mornings. But this is Bay Area – a bit of grey is par for the course.

When I last left you, I was packing up my sex toys and saying good-bye to Ottawa. Since then, I’ve driven across the United States with my family, settled into our for-now home in the lovely city of Berkeley and spent my summer days being a stay-at-home parent, exploring my new surroundings and having a good-old summer vacation. But I owe you peeps an apology. I’m sorry. I should have given you the heads-up before going on hiatus. To be honest, the break wasn’t planned, but after all the moving, travel and change it was very much needed.

Now we’re into fall and I’m about to rejoin the back-to-school ranks. I’ll be starting my graduate studies in San Francisco next week, which both intimidates and excites me to no end. Before I start the book learnin’ I’m heading down to Los Angeles this weekend for the Catalyst Con sexuality conference. Attendees include some of my big-time sexuality idols such as Arial Clark, Charlie Glickman, Mona Darling, Nina Hartley and Tristan Taormino, so that’s an extra-helping of excitement!

BTW, if anyone has a smoother introduction than my standard “OMG YOU ARE THE COOLEST EVAR!!!”  please share it.

I’m thrilled to be back to blogging but with heavy schoolwork looming, my output won’t be what it was. At this point, I feel comfortable committing to a minimum of one new post a week. Sometimes there may be more, depending on what’s going down at the time but expect at least a once weekly update.

The other minor change I want to alert you to, is my new e-mail address. My old client had terrible spam filters and I lost a lot of your messages. So I’ve decided to switch to tried and true Gmail. If you have a question or a request, drop me a line at adorkableundies@gmail.com. E-mailing guidelines are here!

Anyway, enough about me –  how are YOU? What did you get up to this summer? What’s exciting you about the fall season? If you met one of your idols would you be cool and gracious or full of squee?

Trigger Warning for discussions of sexual assault/abuse, bullying and Rethaeh Parson’s suicide. Please skip this post if you need to.

Today is meant to be the question of the week. I’m sorry but I can’t. Like many of you, I’ve been reading about Rehtaeh Parsons, a young girl who died at only 17 years old. I’m sure a lot of you have read the statement her father posted yeseterday. It’s beautiful and devastating. I know I’m not the only who read it, cried and wondered why this happened.

I’m looking for answers. I’m hearing stories, reading articles that point the finger squarely at bullying. Rehtaeh was harassed at school and her classmates called her a slut. Someone took a picture of the assault and students posted it all over Facebook. There are some really cruel kids out there today and easy access to social media and technology makes them ruthless. Rethaeh took her own life because she was mocked and humiliated. Bullying caused this.

Or so the story goes. And I’m seriously disturbed by the glaring omission in that story. Rehtaeh Parsons wasn’t just bullied by her peers. She was sexually assaulted by her peers. When she sought the support from community, she was essentially told “Sorry. Nothing we can do.” The bullying was undoubtedly rough salt being rubbed in, but that’s not what caused the wound. We’re telling the story wrong. And in doing so, I feel like Rehtaeh Parsons’ experiences are being dismissed all over again.

(Aside: I’m going to use the words “we” and “us” lot in this post. I mean it in the general “we as a society” sense and not the “you and I as specific individuals” way).

When we turn this into a story about a girl who committed suicide because she was bullied, we’re spinning a convenient truth that absolves us – the adults who are largely in charge of things around here – of our responsibility. We agree that Rehteah Parsons’ death is tragic. We offer her pothumus sympathy. We empathize with her loved ones. And we tell ourselves that we didn’t do anything. It’s the kids who were wrong. They bullied her. We reassert our determination to vanquish the scourge of bullies from our school and restrict online access (because the Internet is kind of wrong too).

Yes bullying is a thing. It’s a real problem that can absolutely break people’s spirits and drive them to desperate acts like suicide.  It’s not okay that people harassed this girl or called her names. And finding ways to end bullying is important, necessary work. But the taunts and social media slander are only symptoms of what for me is a much bigger problem. Retheah Parsons was raped and we – the adults who are largely in charge around here – don’t take sexual violence seriously enough.

We don’t like people who are raped. And we really, really don’t like people who are raped and then tell us they were raped. If we know about it, we’re supposed to do something about it. We have to think about it and that’s really unpleasant. I’m not certain of the reasons for our reticence. I do have some theories but I’ll leave for those for another post.

When people like Rethaeh Parsons tell us – the adults who are largely in charge around here – that they’ve been sexually assaulted, what do we do? We turn them into defendants. We ask them why they got raped? Haven’t we told you over and over again not to let yourself get raped? We concede that sexual violence is terrible, we’re not saying that anyone deserves it. We just want to know, what did you think would happen when you put on that oufit, went to that place, drank all of those drinks?

Yet we don’t understand why Rathaeh Parsons classmates called her a slut.

When people like Rethaeh Parsons tell us that they’ve been raped, we don’t want them to be “victims”. We don’t want to know how deeply sexual violence can hurt or see the raw, messy parts of their pain. We like people who endure rape and sexual abuse in a quiet, dignified way We’re supportive of counselling, therapy and other coping methods that involve going away and dealing with it discreetly. We just can’t get too involved – not the school, not the police. Adults in positions of power and authority but we can’t help.

Yet we wonder why Rethaeh Parsons peers didn’t say anything?

We talk about people who have been raped as though they aren’t human. After Stubenville, CNN lamented the fate of two young men by describing, their scholastic acheivements, their extra curricular activities and their histories. They were portrayed as people. People who’s futures had been tragically thwarted when some girl thoughtlessly left herself vulnerable to raping. In Rethaeh Parsons’ case her father, a man gutted by grief, who tells us that she was a person. She was a living, breathing, thinking, feeling, valuable person with a past and future that was tragically altered into something she couldn’t live through. His letter was stands in heartbreaking contrast to our habit of describing people as dehumanized cautionary tales.

We ask ourselves- how students could circulate a picture of a peer being raped?

Prime Minister Harper has said we need to “call out bullying”. As usual, he’s missed the point. Yes, Rethaeh Parsons was bullied. And that is absolutely not okay. But it’s not fair for us – the adults who are largely in charge around here – to say “Hey, kids, what you did was wrong,” when we created the environment that supports this type of bullying.  This story we’re telling – the one where Rethaeh Parsons died because of bullying – obscures the issue of sexual violence. That act of pushing it into the background is what promotes the type of bullying we say we need to stop.

The youth who slut-shamed and dehumanized Rethaeh Parsons need to understand that what they did was wrong. It was destructive and almost certainly caused harm to someone who couldn’t endure more pain. But bullying isn’t just cruel actions disconnected from thoughts or emotions. The belief that Rethaeh Parsons deserved to be treated so poorly came from somewhere.

I’m pretty sure, it’s coming from us.

Aaaand…we’re back!

As I mentioned earlier, The MoMs, The Green Bean and I took a quick trip down to San Francisco.  Spending time in the Bay Area is always a pleasure, but we also had much business to take care of, namely scoping out neighbourhoods, looking at homes and meeting the locals.

By now, many of you know (and the rest of you have probably guessed) that come June, the family and I will be leaving Ottawa and moving to San Francisco!

Actually, it looks like we’ll be moving to Berkeley, where a slightly less expensive rental market will afford us an extra bedroom for guests. It’s a pretty happening city in its own right and a short BART ride away from its sister across the Bay. We spent the bulk of our time Berkeley this week and the friendly people, bountiful markets and vibrant night life were seductive indeed.

Why the move?

I decided several months ago that I wanted to continue my career as a sexuality educator. To do so, I knew I’d have to further my education. After a lot of research, discussion with colleagues, discussion with mentors and discussion with my family, I decided to I would apply to begin graduate studies in Human Sexuality this fall. The program that best suited my needs was the The Insititute for the Advanced Study of Human Sexuality, located smack dab in the middle of San Francisco.

The family I and briefly considered the distance option, which would have meant travelling from Ottawa to San Francisco for two to three weeks at a time, every four months. It was doable, but the more The MoMs and I thought about it, the more we realized that that much time apart was going to heap a ton of extra stress and work onto both of our shoulders – something that neither of us wanted.

What we wanted was to spend more time with each other and with The Bean. We wanted a break from some of the obligations that have us both a bit bogged down. The MoMs’ brother and his family recently made a big move to Australia. It was a risk leaving their very established life behind, but the fresh start has done them a world of good. The MoMs and I began to wonder if a new beginning might do us good too. Both of us love San Francisco. Nice weather and the opportunity to be outside in sunshine year-round would undoubtedly be good for the Bean. The MoMs could work there. I’d have access to some of the best sexuality resources and experts in the world. The more we thought about it, the more we realized heading out to California was a no-brainer. So we’re going.

The plan as it stands now is to go for a least a year. I have very strong attachments to Ottawa – especially the family of friends I’ve made in the almost fifteen years I’ve lived here. I also see that there’s a real need for sex positive resources in our city. Eventually I’d love to come back and continue working as a sexuality educator here in the capital. We’ll see what life has in store.

So that’s the jam. There’s a triple-long list of to-dos to get done before we pull up stakes. While part of me is champing at the bit to start this new adventure, I know the next few months are going to race by and I know I’m going to miss the shit out of Ottawa once we go. So I will enjoy the time I have left here, while I look forward to a new set of experiences and the chance to cross item number 8 of my 40 Before 40 off the list!

Trigger Warning: This post contains some discussion of sexual harassment and assault. Please exercise self-care and skip this post if you need to.

The other night, The Man of Mans were walking downtown after a fun night out with friends. The January deep freeze was on in full force and from the moment I felt the arctic air on my face, I had only one goal – getting to the nearby parking garage and our car as fast as possible. I was quick-stepping along the sidewalk urging The MoMs to keep pace. We were a few blocks away from the parking garage, when I spotted a man and woman who seemed to be engaged in some major public display of affection.

As we got closer, the majority of my brain was still occupied with matters of Warmth. Car. Now! But as glanced at the couple out of the corner of my eye, I became concerned. I don’t want to go into too much detail about another person’s experience – that part of the story isn’t mine to reveal. But as we passed the couple I heard and saw something that made me question whether she wanted what was happening.

Maybe I should stop,’ I thought. Then, almost instantly I began doubting myself, ‘What if you’re wrong? What if you make a scene? What if she doesn’t want you butting your nose into her affairs? She didn’t ask for your help. She’s not screaming or anything. The MoMs hasn’t said anything – he clearly doesn’t think it’s weird. No one else on the street is doing anything. It’s really, really cold and maybe this is nothing. Maybe it’s just your imagination.’

I glanced back one more time. Then, I kept walking.

I second later, another pedestrian who was clearly even more susceptible to cold than I am,  scurried past us. He was moving quickly with determination but he did pause for a moment to talk to us. Gesturing towards the other couple he said  “So, um…something pretty weird’s happening back there, ” and took off.

“Yeah,” The MoMs whispered to me,  “I was thinking the same thing.”

They had seen it too! This wasn’t my imagination.  I made my way back to the couple. “Excuse me,” I said, addressing the woman, “Are you okay?” Again, I’ll spare the details but as it turned out things were not entirely okay. After a brief exchange, the woman assured us she would be fine, thanked us and hurried away.

The man stared at The MoMs and I momentarily. “Oh wow,” he said ruefully, “I guess that was really bad.” He trotted away. The MoMs offered me his hand and we quietly finished our cold nighttime walk and climbed into welcoming warmth of our car.

I wish this were a different story. I wish I’d thought to ask that woman if she wanted company when she turned to walk away. I wish I’d acted immediately when my gut first told me something was off.  But the truth is while I eventually did something, it was that other guy, the one who told us that “something weird” was happening back there, who deserves some major props.

Cliff of the Pervocracy once wrote this awesome blog post about how, when you spot weirdness, telling someone in the vicinity can be a great strategy. To quote Cliff:

Next time you see something that seems wrong, but “oh my gosh maybe not really maybe I shouldn’t say anything I don’t know,” you don’t have to go right to the cops or the boss or run into the situation with your fists up.  What you do have to do–this is a goddamn order–is tell someone about it.  Someone as confused and powerless as you are.  Just check in.  “This seemed off to me, does it seem off to you?”

Sometimes it isn’t even about how the other person reacts.  Sometimes it’s just about putting it into words.  You hear yourself describe the situation and you realize what you’re describing.

Sometimes it’s just about taking a step, even if it isn’t the perfectly right step, that makes you realize you are allowed to act on this; now that you’ve done something you can do more.

And sometimes they look back at you and say “yeah, that was fucked up. I was thinking the same thing but didn’t want to say anything.  You think we should go tell someone about it?”

And that, two people realizing they’re not the only one in the universe who has a problem with what’s happening, much more often than any spectacular act of lone-hero courage, is how evil gets dragged into the light.

I saw someone I thought might have been in trouble. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I failed to follow Cliff’s order. Fortunately, that fast-walkin’ dude was on the ball. Props to him because if I hadn’t said anything, I probably wouldn’t have stopped. It was only once I knew that someone else had what I had seen, that I was compelled to take action.

As for the man we interrupted? I was only once he saw his behaviour through the eyes of random strangers that he stopped to  reconsider his actions. Will our 90 second encounter influence what he does from now on? Who know?  It will definitely influence me.

Sometimes it’s easy to rationalize harassment or assault. If the act isn’t overtly violent, if there’s a pre-existing relationship, if everyone around you starts rationalizing it too. But it’s a lot harder to rationalize these things when someone calls it out. Someone spoke and I could no longer justify walking away. I spoke up and – at least in that moment – that dude could not justify his behaviour. The next time I see something and the red flags go up, I won’t search for an excuse to ignore my instincts. I will say something to someone and hope that it triggers a chain of change.

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve found my way onto the talk show circuit. One show…that counts as a circuit, right?

Jesse Reynolds is a performer, local media personality and connoisseur of all things fabulous. We met years ago as fellow actors and formed an instant friendship. Sharing the stage with Jesse was such a blast! When he invited me to be a guest on his new show From Zero to Jesse, I couldn’t say yes fast enough.

Check out the episode below! Jesse and I chat about embarrassing sex stories, a real life fruit ninja and a few fun toys. We also put musical guest/best dressed man I’ve ever met, Danniel Oickle to the test in The Gay Electric Chair.

 

I was meandering ’round the Twitterverse the other day and saw a friend had linked to Chloe Curran’s recent article: Get Out Of My Gay Bar Straight Girl!

Straight Girl: two words definitely apply to a certain adorkable someone.

It’s a strongly worded title and the ensuing rant pulls no punches. Not that Curran’s a straight-hater. She explains that:

I get it: Straight people don’t come to gay bars because they want to hate on gay people. They come because as the empowered majority, they feel entitled to access every space in the world.

I’m not here to argue for a ban on straight people in gay clubs; that’s discrimination, and clearly wrong. However I will ask you to a) rethink the entitlement you feel to occupy every space and b) respect that no matter how much you “love the gays,” sometimes gay people need to be amongst their peers and therefore apart from you. 

Um…yeah. I can’t speak to any other gay-club-going-straight-person’s motives but I’ve enjoyed getting my dance on in queer spaces for years. Until I read this article, it never occurred to me that my presence might feel intrusive and/or disrespectful regardless of how awesomely accepting I believe myself to be. Looks like the entitlement thing applies to me as well.

Also? This:

“My girls and I just want to dance without being bothered by lame guys dancing up on us,” you’ll cry incredulously, eyes a’ flashin’ and gum a’ snappin’ with (what you think to be) righteous indignation, “Why is that so wrong?”

I admit, I’ve totally been that gal. I’ve sought refuge in gay clubs, using them as dance-sanctuaries when I wanted to flee from dudes who thought crotch grinding was an appropriate introduction.

I would never snap my gum, though. The odds that I’d swallow it and choke are too high.

Now I’m thinking about it and yeah…that shit ain’t on. I would never go into a synagogue and be all “Hi, folks! I’ve got some sick cantor music on my iPod but it’s just not the same as live davening. I’m gonna chill here with y’all because even though I’m not of your faith, it’s cool because I am TOTALLY DOWN with the Jews.”

I’m not beating myself up or saying I’m a horrible person. This is just a situation where I wasn’t aware. Now that I am, I’ll try to be more respectful of people’s need to have a little time and space away from the dominant culture. That doesn’t mean I’ll never set foot in a gay bar again, but it might best if I wait for an invitation before I boogie on in.

If you have a moment, I encourage you to read the entire article. Then come back here and tell me what you think. I’d love to get some other opinions on this, particularly from my queer readers. How do you feel about straight people hanging out in gay bars and other queer spaces?

In the meantime, I’m thinking I should open a club specifically for dance-lovin’ ladies, where come-ons are strictly forbotteen. There’s clearly a market for it.  I can call it “No Hitters”. Huh? HUH? Who’s with me?

So…big news!

Long-time readers no doubt know that I’m a huge fan of style writer Sally McGraw and her blog Already Pretty. Sally is one of my favourite people on the Internet. So imagine my glee when I was invited write for Already Pretty as part of a crack team of contributing bloggers!

People, the squeeing? Was deafening.

My first post, What Size Sexy is live over at Sally’s. Head on over, have a read (and check out the rest of the site while you’re at!)

While I’m taking it easy over here, I thought I’d share some of the fun, funny, thought-provoking and sexy things I’ve been enjoying on the intarbets!

Thanks to some inventive fundraising, Cards Against Humanity raised dough to purchase oodles of condoms and buckets of boar sperm. (They didn’t, though.)

Cliff says “…it’s easy– especially in areas as private and emotionally loaded as sex–to have a totally skewed idea of what everyone else is doing, and to try to conform to that skewed idea,”  and other stuff that makes a whole lot of sense to me.

I’d love to be a sex educator for parents and kids. Like The Mama Sutra!

I hear tell that some folks think we’re all going to die in a fiery inferno this weekend. That’s probably not true, but if Armageddon does come to pass, 25% of men will regret that they didn’t have more sex.

This spoken word piece on fatherhood is super dope!

I have a new Internet/blog friend! Annie is a wise, witty wordsmith and her blog, The Belle Jar is a treasure trove of feminist musings.

A mega-sized coffee table book of photography and graphic art from The Golden Age Of Porn? YES, PLEASE!

This article about perceptions of black sexuality in the U.S. fascinates me.

Hands up if you love The Lingerie Addict as much as I do!

Before I jet, I just want to say thank you everyone who commented, Tweeted or e-mailed with well-wishes after last week’s post. I’ve read all of them several times over and I feel very blessed to be part of  such a supportive community of friends. Thank you, thank you, thank you.