“The Goy & Oy of Sex”

I was born and raised by Jewish parents and have spent a lot of time around Jews. I’m also an observant person, and find it fascinating to people watch. So it hasn’t escaped my attention, that Jews and gentiles have different philosophies regarding sex.

Although I dislike many aspects of my assimilated Jewish culture, I think that Jews generally have a healthier sexual attitude than gentiles. Catholics, for example, have the Vatican to cope with. In 2000 the Vatican denounced “the brutal transgression against God that is the enjoyment of sex for its own sake.” They also listed 244 phrases which are ” regarded blasphemous when uttered in a non-procreative context.” Apparently, according to the fun-loving Pope, you can’t whisper sweet nothings like: “God, your breasts are beautiful,” (I was unaware that God had breasts, “I feel so complete when you’re inside of me,” and “I love to watch your belly rise and fall after we make love.” In my 52 years as a lusty lady, no one has ever said that to me; unfortunately, men usually roll over and fall asleep afterwards. Fortunately, women don’t. But they typically want to nosh after they nibble.

My question is: who wrote those sexy statements? I imagine that it was a bunch of celibate Catholic men. So how in “God’s name,” did they figure out those phrases? I’ll bet that after the Pope went to bed, they discovered how to access internet erotica. Or perhaps they’ve been reading Dan Savage’s kinky column. In any event, it makes one wonder about what those holy honchos do after hours. In addition to the 244 phrases, they also cited 183 different “wholly sinful” sexual acts,” including the following: “the discrete, occasional manipulation of one’s own genitals for for pleasure; intercourse positions designed to heighten sexual ecstasy; and intimate, post-coital cuddling and conversation with a loved one, outside the bounds of of the marital bed.” It sounds to me like they’ve subtracted all of the ingredients that make chocolate delicious. Frankly, I wouldn’t want to bite their bitter bar.

Jumping back to the Jews, Jewish law says that “sex is not considered shameful, sinful, or obscene.” Sex is not a necessary evil for the sole purpose of procreation.” While the Torah doesn’t endorse unbridled orgies and porn parties, at least they recognize that having sex won’t send you to Hell. I haven’t read the Talmud lately, but it even “encourages foreplay.” It doesn’t, however, mention black fishnets and crotchless panties.

I’m glad that Jews don’t need to go to confession, like the Catholics. It would be a waste of time to “commit sins,” and then have to confess them to a priest. Not that I’ve ever done any “abhorrent acts.” But even if I had, I certainly wouldn’t share them with a “Jack in the box.”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff” (it could kill you)

I’ve heard of a bad schvitz, but this is ridiculous. Last week in Sedona, Arizona (the modern mecca of spiritual shysters), three people died in a Native American sweat lodge. Additionally, twenty other participants became ill. A huge price to pay, for the $9, 000 forked over to James Arthur Ray; the illustrious leader of the sweat. Apparently I’m one of the vast majority of unenlightened slobs, because I’d never heard of Ray. I also don’t watch Oprah where Ray often appears, to preach his unique brand of “harmonic wealth.” Judging from Ray’s own modest proclamations, if you follow his philosophy you’ll soon be sharing stock secrets with Bill Gates. But don’t purchase that personal jet, just yet.

Even after assiduously reading Ray’s arrogant assertions, I’m still a tad confused, as to the differentiation between ordinary, pedestrian wealth and extraordinary, harmonic wealth. It appears that harmonic wealth isn’t only about accruing boocoo bucks, but having a life that’s both harmonious and healthy. Throw in a few Beemers and a McMansion, and you’ve got the picture.

So how could such a popular paragon of profit fuck up, and turn a sacred ceremony into a dangerous death trap? Beats me. I have an issue with anyone who appropriates and exploits, “bits and pieces” from indigenous cultures, and then charges people for partaking in events. A sweat lodge was originally intended for “ritual cleansing and purification,” not to make some narcissistic white guy even richer. Ray actually had the chutzpah, to call his workshop for the wealthy a “spiritual warrior seminar.”

Gag me with a 24 carat spoon. A spiritual warrior doesn’t need to pay some schlub thousands of dollars to become evolved; because they’ve earned their “war wounds” by trial and error. A spiritual warrior doesn’t need to listen to the metaphysical version of a used car salesman, because they walk their own path. A spiritual warrior doesn’t fast for five days, and then pig out at a brunch. And a spiritual warrior, sure as hell doesn’t wind up sitting with sixty other schmucks in a 120 degree “heated hut,” experiencing “blood, sweat, and fears.”

I’ve endured the joys of a sweat lodge. Once. Frankly, I’d prefer listening to Barry Manilow while having a root canal – to ever setting foot in another lodge. After several hours of feeling like a roasted Costco chicken, I emerged from my ordeal. I was as wrinkled and wrung out as an old dishrag. But I was truly “enlightened”; I vowed to never join a gym that had a sauna.

I’m fortunate that I don’t have the dough, to go to an expensive newage (sewage) retreat. I can achieve my own enlightenment in the privacy of my bath. All I have to do is cram towels under the door, so no steam escapes, turn on the shower, and throw some stones in (for authenticity). I can also light scented candles, put on an Enya cd, and meditate about buying a new kind of cat litter. I might not become as “evolved” as those spoiled, suburban “spiritual warriors,” but I’ll have something valuable that they don’t : my life.

Reverend Moon: Loony Tune

“He’s baaack!” That madcap, marriage-maniacal, matchmaking Moon is at it, again. This week in South Korea (nu, you were expecting maybe Las Vegas?!), Reverend Moon joined 45,000 couples in conjugal bliss. Oy. Although I can’t speak from experience, having never been married, I’d imagine that one wedding is stressful enough – let alone 45,000. That’s a lot of hora dancing, if you’re Jewish. I shudder to think of the catering costs; Ixnay the shrimp and spread the Spam.

To research this post I went online, and discovered that Koreans don’t throw rice, even though it grows in abundance there. Instead it’s a tradition, to wallop the bride with red dates in order to encourage fertility. So much for the white wedding gown. And wouldn’t it make more sense to throw Viagra? Additionally, some Koreans like to “incorporate either ducks or geese into the wedding ceremoney.” I feel sorry for the schmucks who have to clean up the fowl (foul) crap. Especially after Moon’s massive nuptials. Do you suppose that Moon will foot the fat bill for 45,000 honeymooners?

While I bear no ill will towards any of his happy newlyweds, I do harbor a personal resentment for the Moonies. Decades ago, they attempted to recruit and ensnare me in their infamous cult. I was in my twenties and visiting a friend in San Francisco. He invited me to a Moonie potluck, and I had nothing better to do, so I accepted his invite. Time has blurred most of the depressing details, but I still recall their magnificent mansion. We were greeted by the kind of ecstatic welcome, usually reserved for sports’ stars.

That made me slightly suspicious. Why were these strangers acting like I was the Messiah? Or at least an Avon rep. But I didn’t have any miracles to perform, nor possess any beauty potions and lotions. I was overwhelmed by all of the hugging and attention. I’m a friendly person, but this was weird. It was like having a Welcome Wagon posse attack you, with no gifts to give.

Jack and I tried valiantly to join in their Moonie merriment, but it was a stretch. For both my smile and stamina. We were relieved when it was finally time for dinner. But not for long. They served us some kind of Hare Krishna-ish food, but without the orange robes and tambourines. Everything tasted the same: bland and boring. When I asked one of the ever-grimacing greeters if I could have some salt, she reacted like I was asking for speed. “We never use any kinds of spices,” she smugly said, “that would be too stimulating.” I later surmised that when you’re basically brain-dead, almost anything can be considered “stimulating.” Including “Mr. Ed” re-runs.

The highlight of this “enchanting evening,” culminated with the singalong. We all stood in a straggly circle, holding hands, and gazing meaningfully into each other’s eyes. Although I didn’t know any of the words, I tried to go with the flow and quietly hum. I couldn’t wait for the singing to end, and for us to flee the place. But they had other plans for us. Jack grabbed his coat and threw me mine. Suddenly, however, our garments were gripped by our now serious hosts. “It’s too late for you to drive,” one of the moronic Moonies menacingly whispered to us, “far too late.” He had a good point; we should’ve ran, right before the nasty meal.

Despite all of their enticing offers (like an autographed photo of their nefarious leader), we gently but firmly said “No thanks!” Literally. We were only grateful once we were freed from their clutches, and back in Jack’s battered old Bug. When we returned to his home, I promptly puked up my dinner; it was a symbolic rejection of their rigid religion.

So when I read the story about the Moonies mass marriages, I silent said a prayer of thanks. I narrowly averted being one of those 45,000 clueless couples.

Coffee cafe, kooky kids kvetch

I need to vent, again. I love living in Portland, OR, and have very few gripes about the city. Except, for one major issue: kooky kids in coffee cafes. My regular readers already know, my general feeling towards children: “they should be seen and not heard.” At least until they turn ten. In Portland, however, folks feel differently. In almost every cafe, there’s a corner for kids to play in, complete with toys; hence the noise.

I’m not a W.C. Fields, but is it really necessary to take your kids everywhere that you go? Apparently, the resounding answer is “yes!” Whatever happened to the “good ol’ days,” when kids stayed home until they learned not to wail and whine? I support sociological shifts, but I find the constant presence of little ones a big nuisance.

I’m a writer, and do most of my writing in cafes. I can’t count how many times I’ve been disrupted (usually in the midst of a brilliant idea), by crying, kvetching kids. I could almost cope with that by wearing earplugs. But what am I supposed to do, when Johnny drops his cream cheese bagel on my laptop; with the cover still up? I don’t care how many apologies his mom offers, she probably won’t buy me a new Mac. And the thing that really pisses me off, is that if I show the slightest bit of irritation, I’m a “child hater!” God/dess forbid that their adorable demons, shouldn’t be allowed to publicly express their emotions.

News flash!: If you allow your children to run rampant, they’re going to become obnoxious adults. Guaranteed. Parents, do you ever wonder why there are so many “grown-ups” who never “grew up?” Let me clue you in: they were likely allowed to do whatever the fuck they wanted to do; with no concern for the comfort of other people. Let alone the quiet that’s vital to do one’s work. I know that some of you are saying things like, “Why don’t you do your writing at home, and leave my poor kids alone?” No offense, but sooner rather than later, they’ll be forced to learn that they don’t run either the room or the world.

I’ve also noticed that most of these ill-mannered kids have parents that are equally as offensive. What a surprise! I wonder how their children ever learned, that it’s considered acceptable to hog psychological and physical space? If they see and hear mom conducting a loud, one-way conversation on her cell phone, bragging about her new Manolos and impinging on other people’s privacy - then they’ll use that as a rotten role model to emulate. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist  to comprehend the connection between rude parents, and their bratty broods.

I think that this kind of socially unacceptable behavior, is deeply rooted in the “I’m entitled” philosophy that’s prevalent in our narcissistic culture. I hate to break it to you yuppies and burst your beemer bubbles and baubles, but just because you earn a six figure salary, doesn’t entitle you to take over a public place. Ever. There’s no correlation between what you own and what you deserve;  whether you work for a Fortune 500 company, or a Fortune Cookie factory. I know that it’s shocking to hear, but other “low life” people who work two or three jobs just to survive, have exactly the same human rights that you do.

I would also like to suggest to cafe owners, that it’s not the cruddy kids who are paying for your rent, but ordinary folks like me. Is it really asking for too much, to have you remove the kiddie corner and make more room for paying patrons? I was once a kid, and understand the need for them to frolic and have fun. But it shouldn’t be at my expense. Otherwise, I’ll take my business elsewhere and you’ll end up paying the expensive price.

Why don’t some of you create a “kiddie cafe,” where kids can run and romp? I can envision the horror on your faces at this idiotic idea. But that way, your customers can “have their cake” (and coffee), and quiet, too. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be surrounded by screaming, for eight hours a day? I can predict by the end of the first week, you’d have a greater appreciation for “the sound of silence.”

Don’t “give me a sign”

I realize that everyone has to earn a living. But there has to be a better way, than standing in the sunshine wearing a mattress costume. Yesterday, while driving down the street, I saw at least three foolish folks dressed as human advertisements. Although I’ve had some horrible jobs, I’ve never worn a chicken suit, to beckon people for a Colonel Saunder’s meal. Yet.

Would I ever do a job that required me to hold a sign, saying: “Our hot dogs are well hung!”? It’s one of those $10,000 questions, like asking a dyke: “What’s your price for sucking dick?” I’d almost consider doing that (for a fucking fortune), if it meant that I’d be exempted from ever humiliating myself in public. Albeit, no one would recognize me behind the Santa schmatte, but I’d know the truth.

I’m not knocking “creative careers,” but spare me from anything that makes me inhale smog for eight hours, for a job that pays $8.00 an hour. I’m a freelance writer, and once, when I was desperate for work, considered setting up shop in front of an advertising agency. I had the whole thing planned out. I’d bring a table and chair, along with my iBook. My sign would say: “Will write for work.” I’d be busily typing out incredible ad copy, and handing my business cards to prospective employers. I was primed and prepared to do this strange stunt, but my pride prevented me from going through with it.

I suppose that if I was down to my last, ratty cashmere sweater, I might resort to a sign bearing gig. Or not. In any event, I wouldn’t have a hard time finding one. I did a Google search on: “sign holding jobs,” and it netted me over 38, 500, 000 hits. Oy. I’d have a difficult decision choosing between a plethora of paltry post positions. It’d be a hard choice: dancing in front of a coffee cafe, with a styrofoam latte balanced on my head, or wearing a wild wig, to cajole kids into getting their curls clipped.

Fortunately, I still have some stalwart clients who keep me in cashmere (even though most of it’s from Goodwill); but you never know what the future portends. I don’t want to tempt fate, but perhaps I should start stockpiling some signs. If my income goes down, my signs might have to go up. But I refuse to relinquish my writing. If I’m doomed to carry a sign, at least I’ll make certain, that mine will be an award winning one.

Playing dumb on Yum Kippur

Once again, I’ve successfully avoided Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement. Yom Kippur, is one of Judaism’s two High Holy Days. “The purpose of Yom Kippur is to bring about reconciliation between people and between individuals and God. According to Jewish tradition, it is also the day when God decides the fate of each human being.” Oy fucking vey. That means I’m in serious trouble.

There are three components of Yom Kippur: teshuvah/repentance, prayer, and fasting. None of those requisites are impossible to accomplish, occasionally, I’ve tried to do them. But the issue is, that I can never remember when the Jewish holidays are, let alone obeying their rules. Ironically, it’s usually one of my non-Jewish friends who will ask me, the day after the holiday, whether I remembered it – or not. Take a wild guess, as to what my response would be.

I also have trouble with the fasting, on Yom Kippur. In my family, we used to compare whose stomach was grumbling the most, in addition to planning which foods we’d scarf down first. How repentant can you be, when you’re dreaming of devouring matzo ball soup and beef brisket? Finally, when the fasting ended, we’d all race to to the dining room and plunge into the meal. We were like the Jewish version, of those movie scenes set in medieval England, where the men ravished rare roast and swilled down suds. Although in our case, we settled for Schnapps, instead. And after eating, we didn’t throw the bare bones to the howling dogs; we gave any remains to our aging, arthritic cat Fudgy.

Repentance is challenging, too. How can I repent, when there are so many sins that I plan on indulging in? And why repent just once a year? Why can’t Jews have confessionals just like the Catholics do? That way, you could clear and cleanse your crap all year long, and not save it up for one day.

While doing online research for this post, I discovered that on Yom Kippur there are also other, less well known restrictions, like: washing and bathing, wearing cosmetics, and engaging in sexual relations. It’s also customary to wear white for this holiday, a color that makes me look like a semitic, sickly Sikh.

In the end, I might not qualify for sainthood (fortunately, Jews don’t believe in saints), but I might get some “Brownie points” deducted for my ms.behavin’. I’m counting on my gift for gab, however, to convince the Divine powers that be, that I be fine. And when I walk through those “pearly gates,” I’ll be showing the pearls of my teeth, and flaunting my pearl necklace, too. It never hurts for a girl to look her best, when she’s being judged.

Getting a “head” of myself

I might not have the biggest bucks, the biggest boobs, or fortunately – even the biggest booty, but there’s one thing that I’m certain of: I have the world’s biggest head. I’m neither boasting nor bragging, simply stating a fact. I look like a Jewish version of The Bride of Frankenstein; minus the nuts and bolts.

How big is my head? Frankly, I’ve never measured it, for fear of freaking out. But I do know this. At Thanksgiving at my uncle’s one year, I was voted number one in the “Big Head” contest. And there were thirty other, cranberry cranial contenders. I know that “technically,” my head’s circumference wouldn’t win me any acclaim; like a Guinness mention. But its relatively large size, has caused me some sizable issues.

Like wearing hats. I love hats, and have a cool collection. Unfortunately, however, I have to stick with soft and scrunchy ones. I can’t wear any hat that doesn’t stretch at least ten inches. A cowboy hat would be out of my range, and a pointed dunce’s cap would fall off, for the same reason. It’s a good thing that I’m not a rabbi, because my yarmulkes would have to be custom made. I can just envision some semitic tailor exclaiming, “Oy! A kopele she doesn’t have.”

Another problem with my head, is not only its size but its shape. My skull is boxy, not foxy. I envy people with round heads, who can wear any hairstyle; including no hairstyle: like being boldly bald. When Sinead O’Connor went bowling ball bald, I was bedazzled. And even Britney Spears, with her chrome dome, looked better than I would’ve expected. But not everyone should shave their strands, including me. If you can balance a cup of joe on your mo’ (hawk), consider yourself too square to be hip.

Surprisingly, there isn’t any scientific evidence, that there’s a correlation between one’s huge head circumference and one’s intelligence. So Albert Einstein, who had a “disproportionately large head,” and Dumbo the Clown, are “strange headfellows.” But I’ll bet that Einstein, would’ve blown up a super, solar-sized balloon; Dumbo would be lucky, if he could crank out a cruddy crane.

I shouldn’t kvetch about my kepe. After all, it performs its main function beautifully: keeping my brains safe and secure. Although I wish that it was smaller and svelter, I still appreciate its singular strength. While I may never be able to wear a pixie with pride, or flaunt a Fedora, it’s the only head that I have. There are worse things than having a big head, like having a big ego to fit inside of it.

Shrimp & Jews: a semitic seafood story

Yesterday I was at the seafood counter, pondering what to buy for dinner. I hungrily gazed at all of the delicious possibilities: lobster, crab, salmon, and shrimp. It was no contest, the shrimp won out. How much do I love shrimp? Basically, I could die happy with my face buried in a vat of it.  Shrimp is such a popular treat, that there’s even a National Shrimp Day on April 29th. Even though it has to share the glory with scampi, it’s still a tremendous tribute to this cute cretaceoun.

I can relate to Bubba Blue’s quote in the flick, “Forrest Gump”: Shrimp is the fruit of the sea. You can barbecue it, boil it, broil it, bake it, sautee it. There’s shrimp kebabs, shrimp creole, shrimp gumbo, pan fried, deep fried, stir fried. There’s pineapple shrimp and lemon shrimp, coconut shrimp, pepper shrimp, shrimp soup, shrimp stew, shrimp salad shrimp and potatoes, shrimp burger, and shrimp sandwich.” The man spoke the truth: shrimp rules the roost.

My love affair with shrimp began around age five, and shows no signs of slowing down. In my family, eating shrimp was almost a competitive game. We all liked it so much, that we battled to snag the most succulent shrimp. Throughout the years, I’ve noticed that many other Jews also loved shrimp; almost to excess. I have a theory that part of my “tribe’s” craving for shrimp, is because it’s “forbidden fruit.” Or fish. The Jewish law of Kashrut, strictly prohibits eating shrimp, because it’s a shellfish. What a disappointment. I can live without Wendy’s, but I can’t cope without camel. Or rock badger; another no-no nosh. But the good news is: as long as an animal has cloven hooves and chews its cud, it’s kosher and fit for human consumption.

Fortunately, I’m a blatant desecrater of both sacred and secular rules. I don’t discriminate, when it comes to ignoring asinine authoritative admonishments. You could call me an equal opportunity rebel. One might ask: “Aren’t you worried, when it’s time to meet your maker?” I’ve thought about that accountability query, and the answer is “no.” If scarfing down shrimp is my worst sin, then I’m unconcerned. Frankly, it’s the other rules that I’ve broken that might fry my ass. In the meantime, I’ll continue my crimes: eating shrimp, and not eating the shit that society dishes out.

Strange Sexy Cyber-Searches #2

Last week, I wrote about the odd cyber-searches that my blog has attracted. I mentioned the mystery man from Port Townsend, WA, who was searching for: “kinky sex in PT.” I’ll bet that he also contributed to today’s post. One of the most frequent searches that I’ve seen, has been a variation of the following phrase: “men getting fucked by women with dildos.” Oy! I had no idea that so many dudes wanted to get diddled, by dames with dicks. I guess that I shouldn’t be so surprised. Who can blame these poor guys? It must be exhausting, to have to be at the mercy of women when it comes to schtupping. Obviously, if they can’t get it up, then it’s a failure fuck.

It must be such a relief to turn over (literally), the reins to another rider. To just for once, have the pleasure of participating in pleasure, rather than planning it. There’s something to be said, for giving up control and just letting things roll. Since I’ve been in the other position when I was acting straight, I speak from my past erotic encounters with men. Although I’ve never been one to lay back when getting laid, nor enjoyed screwing guys, I’ll still give them a pat on their backs (or butts) for their extra efforts to take charge. And now that I’m finally a dyke, I can personally appreciate the many merits of dildos. I understand the desire for penetration, and the satisfaction that a stiff, silicone schlong can bring to one.

I’m actually a little touched, that men have the courage to admit their need to get fucked. Many macho men, abhor even the thought of a woman wearing a strap-on. Erections are equated with power, and what could be more powerful than a woman with a permanently hard cock? Basically, it means that it’s “she who must be obeyed,” not he. Frankly, I think that all men should experience, at least once in their lives, the thrill of getting fervently fucked by a female. If nothing else, it might give them a new perspective on gender roles and expectations.

I know that it’s difficult to imagine someone like George W., screaming “harder, Nancy, harder!” – but it’s well within the Republican’s realm of reality. Remember, it’s often the least likely candidate for kink, that ends up being “Kinkoid of the Year.” Therefore, “boys and girls,” beware of conservative men wearing Brooks Brothers suits and ties; because by day, they rule the world; but by night, their women rule them!

Strange Sexy Cyber-Searches #1

Our species’ strangeness never ceases to amaze me. I’ve been blogging for over a year, and have amassed quite a collection of salacious cyber-searches. One of my favorites was a recent search for: “kinky sex in Port Townsend.” I lived in PT for over five years, and was slayed by the search. I didn’t think that anyone was having sex in PT, let alone the kinky kind. Perhaps it’s because I was celibate (by lack of dykes’ default), that I was unaware of PT’s sexually charged atmosphere. It’s hard to say; when you’re surrounded by both men and women wearing stupid sweatshirts, shapeless schmattes, and a plethora of plaid pants – no one looks hot.

I found it hilarious, that one of my posts popped up in the search. Being of a curious nature, I typed in the same search; and sure enough, it led to my blog. Ironically, several posts appeared, and none of them had anything to do with the sexual behavior of PT residents. While I did mention PT in one post, and kinky sex in another – the topics were completely irrelevant to that person’s search.

It sounds sexist, but I’m going to assume that the searcher was male. Even though I know that women also groove on kinky/kreative sex, including yours truly. I’ve been having fun imagining who, out of all the men in PT, that sexual cyber-searcher may be. I have several educated guesses, but since I’m not one to ever gossip, my lips are sealed. But whoever that mystery man is, I can’t help but feeling some compassion for him. I know from my (lack of) erotic encounters in PT, how hard it is to find a love/er. In fact, that’s primarily why I moved last month to Portland, OR. There are almost more queers here than straights. I’ve had two dates already, and have more booked. My date book actually has dates in it, rather than pathetic notes, like: “buy more cat litter,” and “rent lesbian erotica movies.”Fuck that shit! Because at the rate that I’m going now, I’ll soon be too sore to walk for a week. Or so I’m hoping. I have enough pent up erotic energy, that I could light up Las Vegas. And still have some left over for LA. I pray that my soon-to-be lover is popping a lot of Vitamin E, because she’s gonna need it.

I hope that unknown man finds his kinky sex; but he’ll probably have to move, first; because the only swingers in PT are under ten, and in the playground – not the playroom.