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Monthly Archives: May 2012

Sex, Politics & Hotmail: a Tale of Two Women and their Push-up Bras



New Message to: Olivia Harris-Finke on Facebook

You won.

New Message to: Rose O’Brady on Facebook

I beg your pardon?

Rose O’Brady

You mean you don’t remember?

Olivia Harris-Finke

No I’m afraid I don’t. But then I haven’t heard from you for ten years, Rose darling, so I’m probably slightly behind the eight ball.  (What is the eight ball, by the way?)

So what have I won, exactly?

Rose O’Brady

You won the bet.

Hey anyway you were the one who stopped answering my emails.  I thought maybe you moved or something.  But then I looked you up on Facebook last month and everything was just the same, so maybe it wasn’t that after all.

Olivia Harris-Finke

Of course I didn’t stop answering YOUR emails.  It was you who stopped answering mine.  I thought it was because your ISP had cut you off, or something of the sort.

Rose O’Brady


Olivia Harris-Finke

Well you know how you’re always forgetting to pay bills.  I even wrote a letter, and you never answered that either!


Rose O’Brady

Well maybe we both just forgot.  Isn’t that supposed to happen when people get married and have kids?  Who needs friends when you’ve got a nuclear family!

Anyway let’s get off this frigging thing! Email me!

My neighbour..and me

He’s, like, “Typical,

Hippy single mother,

Kids swearing in the driveway

Comes home with her undies in the passenger seat.”

She’s, like, “Thick necked insurance agent,

Tight arse.

Fat wife, a four wheel drive and

Hog bristles, king in his castle.”

Dogs drive him nuts,

Yipping under the fence.

He complains.

Secretly she wishes they’d eat him,

Leave no remains.

Short of such exotic punishment, revenge is real.

Consists of house prices dropping,

As buyers eye askance

Her ill-kept domain.

Lucky he doesn’t have a sawn-off.

She thinks, the sex would be unpleasant with such a man.

On this one thing, they may be in accord.

Selling it

It’s a pansy, with one purple flower.  Maybe she should have bought one with several blooms, but she was in a hurry, so she just picked up the first one she saw, in and out of the shop then straight home to put it on the patio, in a plastic imitation-terracotta pot.  If it grows she might add more, make the beginnings of a garden.  She waters it carefully and picks up her mobile to check for messages.

“Hello Georgia, I was wondering if you’re free….”

“Dirty little thing.”  she mutters, writing down the number to call back. “Ok, you pervert.”

He could be the plumber, making a time to fix the drains.  He has that matter-of-fact way of speaking.  She pictures him as middle-aged, with a thick body and a square, greying face.

He looks very much as she expects him to.

“Make yourself comfortable.”

She waves at the double bed while she goes to put the money away.  When she comes back he is lying naked, as if for a medical examination.  She takes off her clothes quickly and sits beside him.

“How would you like to start?” she asks politely.

“I don’t know.  What would you suggest?”

Her mind is a blank.  “I don’t know.  It’s up to you, you’re paying.”

What about this, what about that, he asks.  She’s willing.  They chat in a friendly way while he experiments with her body.  She’s customer oriented.

When he’s finished he seemed pleased with the service.  He wants to know if she was pleased too.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Oh yes, it was very nice,” she says.

“But I suppose you always say that.”

A good saleswoman performs her work cheerfully and with pleasure.

“Yes, but I mean it with you,”  she lies.

He seems happy with that as he closes the front door, checking his fly.

For the next one, she has to drive out to a house on the borders of suburbia.  An anxious looking, ginger-haired young man is waiting on the front lawn.  A video, which features men with breasts, or possibly women with penises, is set up and waiting.  She tries to chat but he isn’t a talker: he seems to have a speech impediment.  She imagines he’d have little success with women, on a voluntary, unpaid basis.

His body is pink and white and bright red.

“Do you like toys?”

She says she does, and he gets out a bagful of implements for her to use on him, one after the other, while he stares engrossed at the screen.  As she penetrates him with rubber and tries half-heartedly to follow the joinings of various bodies in the film, she is conscious of a feeling of boredom.

“Maybe I’ll have you back next week,” he manages to articulate, as she’s packing up.  He is anxious to get her out of the house, now it’s all over.   They all are.

For her last appointment, she goes to the lobby of a four star hotel.  The client is 50-ish, obviously well-heeled and suited.  He doesn’t want to be seen going to a room with her.  She gathers that he has a reputation to maintain.

“Did you bring any lingerie?  Stockings and suspenders?”

She has to admit she didn’t, since she had to rush from her last appointment.

“Never mind, next time.”  He asks her about weekend rates.  She isn’t sure what to say, as she’s never been asked before, but as she looks at him, she makes up her mind that it will be very expensive.

She lies on the bed and watched him as he takes off his clothes: white cotton boxers of the old fashioned fittng kind, a white Bonds singlet.  He dresses like an old man: his backside hangs limp against the back of his thighs.  He hoists his skinny body over hers.

“Tell me about the first time you had sex?  Were you very young?”  His voice is hoarse with illicit arousal.

“It was when I was sixteen,”  she makes up obligingly.  “In my parents’ house.  In my school uniform…”

“Oh you naughty girl,” he giggles.  His face is close to hers, leering down, his tongue reaching for her mouth.  His teeth are yellowed and crooked.  From this distance she can see just how old he is: she realises he is nearer sixty than fifty.

“You certainly know how to please a gentleman,” he snickers.

“I’m glad you think so.”

She shuts her eyes.  Afterwards he, too, wants her to go quickly.  Maybe they’re ashamed, once the need is over.

On the way out to the carpark, she sees his face in her mind, and his skinny dick.  She feels sick.  She puts on a pair of sunglasses to hide the tears but they don’t hide the images.  She drives home, five hundred dollars richer than she was when she got up.  The cash lies like lead in her heart.

On the road home she wonders how it is with these men.  They think it’s like any other service but they’re buying part of her soul.  Or are they selling their own?  A man who has to pay for it, what respect can he have for himself?   She has none, nor for the men she passes on the street: any one of them could be handing money over to stick his pathetic penis into somebody he’s never met.

When she gets home, she goes out to look at the pot plant.  Its leaves are curled and limp: all the life has gone out of it.  Forlornly she waters it, hoping to bring it back to health.  But the one purple flower just hangs its head: it’s too late for water.  It’s been a long hot day.

Hey you! Yeah that’s right, you with the balls! I need help!

Right now I’m not dating anyone, or trying to. I’m writing.

But SOON – I’ll be done with my book, for now, and then I’ll want a man.

And THEN I’ll have a problem.  Which is:

How do I say ‘I’m not interested in seeing you again’ in a way that makes the guy feel less like the rejected novel on the slush pile?

Because I know how crappy it can feel when you’re internet dating and one of these things happen:

  • You’re emailing a guy, and he’s emailing you, and then suddenly – he stops. What did I say??
  • You send a guy a ‘kiss’ and he sends you back an auto-reply ‘Thanks but no’.  If it’s one in every ten that’s fine, if it’s nine in every ten, you’re like ‘What’s wrong with me then?’ and ‘Couldn’t you just, like, ignore me instead of hitting the auto-reply?’.
  • You meet up with a guy, and you get on alright, and he says he’d like to meet you again, so you email him and…nothing.
  • You meet up with a guy, and you THINK you get on alright, and he doesn’t say he’d like to meet you again.
  • You ask a guy if he’d like to meet up again, and he says no.

So the super-confident person, when any of these things happen, just quotes something out of He’s Just Not That Into You like ‘I’m simply magnificent and you obviously weren’t the right person to see how truly scrumptious I am – worse luck YOU!’.

I’ll buy you one if you answer my question!

But the not-so-confident person, after a string of these rejections, starts to think ‘What kind of loser am I? Doesn’t ANYONE like me?’

Do as you would be done by.  So I want to leave the guys I don’t happen to want, with a feeling of ‘Hey she doesn’t want to go out with me but I’m a hot, sexy, charming man and the right babe is probably sitting there at her computer this very moment having wet dreams about my warmth and intellect!’

But HOW?? Guys, help me here. Only a MAN knows how a man feels – so tell me, how do you like your rejections? What’s the best one you’ve ever had? How can I leave you feeling sweet?

Oh that dirty slut!

Inspired by Tearmatt (Sex is Key) – the topic for today is the Slut.

Call me stupid but I don’t see what sex has got to do with morals, any more than eating donuts. To re-phrase a rhetorical question often posed by religious gaybashers, would god have given us a sex drive from the time we hit puberty if he didn’t want us to fuck?  Nope.

Yes eating donuts can be wrong – if you’re eating them in front of a dying Ethiopian kid, or if you’ve nicked them from Dunkin’Donuts while the counter kid was in the toilet.  Yes donuts can be bad for you – that sugar goes straight to your thighs!  You can CHOKE on donuts if you eat them too fast.  But donuts as a moral issue? I don’t think so.  The birds do it, the bees do it, even the bloody trees do it (oh you slutty promiscuous green things, scattering your seeds all around the place!).

Personally I don’t enjoy sex that much if it’s not with someone I have a real connection with.  That said, I’ve had sex with at least fifty guys in my life, and I don’t feel bad about it.  Some of my dearest friends have been strangers I’ve taken home from the club one night – I guess I’m a good judge of people, either that or the real jerks don’t fancy me much.  I wear sexy gear when I feel like it and I like it when guys appreciate the assets.  I can pole dance (kind of, I’m totally crappy at it though).  I do what I want.

An acquaintance of mine has been known to have sex with three different strange guys in a day cause she craves sex by the bucketload – it’s risky, it’s undiscriminating but it’s NOT unethical.  Who does she hurt? No one.  If I like a man, I want to get physical NOW – I don’t want to have to wait till the magic ‘third date’, and why should I?

On the other hand, nowadays I pretend a bit.  If a man asks me how many lovers I’ve had, I’m kind of vague (that was after a boyfriend of mine said I shouldn’t be too frank about it).  If I go out on a date, I wait a bit, not because I want to, but because of strategy (if he really likes you, he’ll wait for you, and more to the point, you’ll wait for him..and wait..and wait…).  I don’t sleep with strange men any more – it doesn’t feel good to me.  I say ‘no’ a lot – because I want to.  But if I wanted to, I’d say YES – and so I should.  I don’t want to get STDs (the devil’s way of spoiling a good time?).  I try not to hurt people, and I understand that for men as well as for women, sex and caring are often linked – what’s one person’s zipless fuck is another person’s heartache.  Grown-ups know that and they’re careful and honest as well as horny.

If I ever call you a slut, it won’t be cause I think you have too much sex.  It’ll just be because I don’t like you much.

Meat and potato sex


Corn, peas, lamb chops….or sausages if chops turn out to be too expensive, jelly for afters but I’ll have to make it now otherwise it won’t be set and remember what happened last time, crystallising in the freezer like red bean-bag filler and the kids wouldn’t eat it, they didn’t eat their dinner either, maybe I’m a bad cook maybe they’re too thin…Mum, can I leave the table, Mum, why do you only give us horrible things to eat?  They only want to watch videos.

Ah, ah, now that’s interesting, I like that, I wonder how long he’s got to go, the pillow’s making creases in my face but that’s ok for now, thump, thump, thump goes the mattress sometimes my back hurts I must be getting older but it’ll be alright afterwards……

Have to pick Troy up from soccer in an hour, pestering about soccer boots, he has to have the right boots, can’t play soccer in any old thing, but how will I get the money?  Boots in the shop over fifty dollars, won’t his gym shoes do?  But he says no, break in his voice, tears in his eyes, have to have what the others have….money, try to save but every week can I have this can I have that…Last week his father bought him Buzz Lightyear and this week it’s a remote control aeroplane, now all they want is to go to daddy’s, daddy’s where all the toys are, all the light and good cheer….

Must make more noise…he’ll think I’ve lost interest.  Wonder if he’s thinking my bum’s too big.  He says it looks like newly baked bread, don’t know what that means, think it means soft and doughy…have to go out jogging tonight.  Thump, thump, sweat falling on me like dew….  Hard to tell when he’s going to – ah!  That’s nice, that’s nice, keep going like that, pull my hair, I like that, you can be my ape man and I can be your woman….just as long as I don’t look at you with your grey hair and your paunch and your middle aged breath.…mustn’t think that, puts me off…

Last night saw a cockroach skidding across the kitchen floor, hate those things.  Stamped on it, looked like a squashed prune, knew there were plenty more behind the cupboards…where do they live?  Probably crawl over the washing up sitting in the sink waiting for me to get to it but you know in the morning there’s no time to wash the dried rice bubbles off the plates it’s hard enough getting the kids to have their breakfast get their clothes on.  Kylie nearly drives me crazy, I’ll kick my legs, you try to get my pants on mum just see if you can do it, I never was any good at sport…GET YOUR BLOODY PANTS ON WE’RE LATE!

Mmmm….speeding up now, starting to make panting noises, is it me or him…not too long now, time to get the mind into gear, concentrate, concentrate, have to get ready to come, sound like it anyway, eyes shut tight, mouth open, breathe deep, is it pleasure or is it pain…looks passionate anyway, good enough for him.  Yesterday he said he loved me but that was afterwards they never mean it then, you can’t believe anything, why would anyone love me anyway….but I liked it, wonder if he’ll say it again…three times makes true and I could say it to him then, I love you, I love you, I love you…but I don’t.

Oh fuck!  Nine oclock meeting and I forgot to ring mum to take the kids to school…Oh, oh…have to ring her after I get my clothes on straighten the bed say goodbye see you sometime never really know when, pick Troy up get the sausages from the butchers don’t know what they put in them though, probably no meat at all, oh, oh, yes, please….forgot last week and the boss gave me dirty looks she’s got no kids the bitch doesn’t know what it’s like no lover either probably, like to see her fall under a truck, not much likelihood of that….oh my God, BRUCE!

Wet between the legs, cold on the sheets between us, head on his shoulder thinking, fifteen minutes to go, better get up need to go the toilet anyway five minutes to the soccer ground should check the oil in the car haven’t done it for weeks hope it doesn’t break down on the way to the meeting like last time stuck in the traffic five hundred dollars at the garage how will I ever….  Yeah, that was great.   What’s the time now.  Mustn’t forget the sausages.