anteaters versus helmets

A doctor named Christiane Northrup, who's apparently something of a feminist provocateur, has written an interesting piece on The Huffington Post titled "We Need To Stop Circumcision."

My parents, both MDs, albeit shrinks, refused to have my brother snipped when he was born. I was brought up with the mindset that circumcision was a bad idea. I've never really been convinced otherwise.

Yes, some males don't keep their uncut junk clean. I remember this was a problem for a few teenage boys with whom I slept. I made them wash up down their before they were admitted to the kingdom. Always happy to get laid, they quickly complied. Men past twenty-three or so usually know to keep their foreskin clean.

I'm one who believes by experience that uncut males, all other things being equal, provide more pleasure during sex. I know that depends on the woman, because some believe the opposite. I've always found that a foreskin, particularly if thicker and more prominent, is provides greater stimulation.

My husband is uncut. Like many men who are, at least those with whom I've discussed the subject, he's somewhat horrified about the idea of getting the trim. He's opposed to having any male child of ours cut, a decision which I heartily concur.

what do you see in this picture?

Did you have field trips to art museums when you were in elementary school? I did. We would be trotted into a gallery where some patronizing museum curator would lecture about a painting and ask what the students saw.

So let's play again today. "Class, what do you see in this tattoo? Yes, the girl in the back there."

"I see a Patrick Swayze centaur in a modified Chippendale's getup posing in front of some kind of gay helix cloudburst."

"Very good. Can anyone in the class answer why someone would put this on their calf forever? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?"

30 days without sex

Esquire magazine has a piece on their website with various writers detailing their experiences of going a month without a basic of human life today: email, the news, underwear, Google, etc.

Some of the entries are interesting, but the one about thirty days without sex stinks. The piece was written by actress Mary-Louise Parker. It's one paragraph of gibberish about how she didn't have sex for about a day. It sounds to me like she totally bailed on the assignment and turned that in at the last minute. Give that girl an F.

I have to say that, for me, thirty days without sex would be torture. It's almost virtually unthinkable. When I was a single woman, I could always get laid when I needed to. As a married woman pledged to monogamy, the idea of total abstinence is frightening. I've never been able to masturbate well, so I'd be woefully disappointed in that department.

I wish the magazine had a woman who did the piece properly, a woman who had sex daily and gave it up. That could be very interesting. Guys could always take the matter in hand. Virtually every guy I've known has said he could make himself cum if he had to. Yes, that might be a poor substitute for sex, but at least it's a release. Not all women have that luxury.

But, of course, if you were truly going without sex, you couldn't masturbate, either. I might actually go crazy, now that I'm thinking about this. So I'm feeling a little sorry for Mary-Louise Parker. I can see why she caved. She sounds a bit around the bend in her piece, I almost certainly would go over the edge, too, particularly if The Husband was handy. I think I'd attack the poor man and ravage him no later than Day Three.

torn jeans hnt

Another trip into the vault for this week's Half-Nekkid Thursday. This picture was taken in Las Vegas as I modeled my clothes for my then-boyfriend/now-husband when I asked him to help me decide what to save for the big move to Australia. Most of my clothes were given to charity because I didn't want to take too much. Only the best stuff was kept.

These were my "professional jeans" from my stripper days. I did a considerable amount of bending and butt wagging while wearing these until I finally peeled them off, and they were always big tip generators. The rips were strategically placed because they give you a glimpse of more than just butt cheeks. James liked these and snapped some pictures at the time, which I'd forgotten I had until recently.

Needless to say, I threw these jeans away. They were uncomfortable to wear, and I certainly wasn't going to wear them in Australia. I didn't put them in the charity boxes, either, because I couldn't imagine a woman who had fallen on hard times would want to wear these.

old flames

While our houseguest Callum has been here, The Husband and I have discussed my past boyfriends and his past girlfriends several times in passing and once in significant detail in a particular conversation. The other night, Callum expressed amazement that we discussed them so openly in front of each other.

James and I exchanged "huh?" looks at that point. What is so amazing about this? Come to think of it, however, this happened before with another couple during dinner several months back. They, too, were surprised neither of us took offense at this practice and said they would never do such a thing.

With that said, I know a lot of couples who talk about past lovers without restraint. I just don't see what's the big deal. Callum wondered why we weren't jealous of the respective also-rans.

What exactly is there to be jealous about? Those other women are out of the picture and I'm not. I got what they couldn't have. Darling Husband feels the same way about my past loves.

Communication is essential to a good relationship, and in my opinion that includes talking about the past, including past mistakes and past loves. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Callum was even more amazed when I said that I still kept in touch with some men I had dated in my past. "You allow that?" he said to James, who simply replied with a "who gives a shit" shrug.

The fact that my husband is so confident I'm safely his makes him all the more attractive to me. Confidence is sexy. If he got all freaky about an occasional email to an old flame 10,000 miles away, that would make me far more annoyed then him telling me about old girlfriends.

eye test

Here's an eye test that will ensure men end up with the prescription they need. They'll have encouragement to go to the eye doctor and won't be inclined to cheat.

interesting tattoo

Lest I seem like I'm always dumping on people with tattoos, I found this one to be fascinating. (And a reminder that my husband has three of them.)They are the Greek god and goddess Zeus and Medusa, based on the sculptures by Bernini.

rotten

An old navy "mate" of Darling Husband is visiting from Perth and "bunking" with us. (These are terms the two men use.)

Fortunately we're living now in the elderly neighbor's house while she continues to recover in the rest home, so we have plenty of room. If you're not familiar with Australian geography, Perth is on the far west coast while Sydney is on the far east coast, a distance of about 2,400 miles. As a result, they do not see each other often these days, notwithstanding they've been very close friends for many years.

I have come to know my husband intimately over the past year and a half, yet I'm still fascinated to see new sides of him I've never witnessed before. He's told me in great detail about his wilder past, yet this is done in the voice of a quiet, even-tempered man a few weeks shy of forty. When he speaks of his younger, wilder self, sometimes wistfully, it often seems he's describing a younger brother or relative. He even occasionally uses phrases like "that James would have" or "young James did that kind of thing."

The mate from Perth, named Callum, gives me a new perspective on the old James. I get a sense Callum was something of the instigator in those days. The two men proudly display their various scars from boxing matches and barroom brawls as they recall them in loving detail.

The two got rotten last night, which is Aussie slang for getting drunk. This started at dinner -- fortunately I was the designated driver -- then continued at home. The more they got off their face -- also Aussie slang for getting drunk -- the more they laughed and told old stories. (Australians, by the way, have an enormous variety of slang expressions dealing with liquor and over imbibing.) They frequently laughed so hard they could no longer speak. When they finally calmed down, an additional sentence would send them into table-pounding, gut-clutching hysterics once more.

I have never seen my husband drink anything more than one beer -- and very rarely -- so this whole experience was quite amusing for me. Although usually quiet and mellow, James is by no means a restrained man. He is the personification of cool. He has a whole Clint Eastwood thing going. So now imagine Clint after about twenty bottles of beer unable to stop laughing.

When he gets as full as a goog -- more Australian slang for drunk -- he is still adorable, so fortunately he's not an ugly drunk. The liquor considerably loosens his tongue and makes him far more demonstrative with his gestures and behavior. And as I learned later in the evening, it also made him even hornier than usual. The only reason Callum didn't hear us going out it, we presumed, was because he had fallen into a deep, drunken sleep.

Needless to say, this morning both men were looking pained and sheepish. While in their younger days they would have kept drinking once they woke up, that's an experience they said they had no intention of repeating. The rest of the day was spent very quietly.

cake

My first thought upon seeing this was "I wonder how many offers she got?" Some men love bigger girls, so I have to think she got at least a few. The bigger the cushion, the better the pushin', as the old saying goes.

I admire her for her chutzpah. She likes who she is and isn't trying to be a size two.

At the same time, you have to think some really weird guys hit on her with this shirt. Ladies, you know the kind I mean. Those really icky gross horrifying ones, the ones you'd choose a dark room full of spiders, snakes, scorpions, rats, and cockroaches to avoid if you had to.

big burly he-man

Remember when guys who got massive winged tattoos on their chests were big burly he-men, the sort who could take on eight thugs in a bar fight and still come out the winner?

Apparently those days are long gone.

I did not crop out his head -- I found the image this way. The face I'm seeing in my imagination is something like a young Bill Gates with smudged glasses. He probably has a few zits. His voice still cracks when he gets excited.

As my dear friend Amanda says about improbable men like this: "be still my heart." And, yes, he must be a man, because he has facial and armpit hair. That means he could father children. He might be having sex as we speak. Something tells me he's not, however. She took off his shirt and couldn't stop laughing. It's hard to have sex when you're slumped on the floor in a hysterical fit of laughter.

in flagrante delicto hnt

My antique cellphone has a camera function, but I could only get it to work in black and white for some reason. Husband's camera has not yet been fixed, so this will have to do in a pinch.

This Half-Nekkid Thursday shot is titled in flagrante delicto. If you don't know what that means, I'll give you a hint -- I'm not alone in this picture. It wasn't cropped; it just happened to turn out that way. It's not a position we do very often, but sometimes he can't help himself. I actually was changing when he got all hot and bothered, which never bothers me.

My HNT shots have been more naked than half-naked in recent weeks, so I'm conforming more to the rules here because I've been such a scofflaw.

attention Walmart shoppers

One of the great things about having a blog is encountering readers with the same somewhat twisted sense of humor as mine. Rick, a very cute hottie from Buffalo, told me about The People of Walmart, a fantastic website showcasing some of the more curious folks actually encountered and photographed at the shopping mecca.

I particularly like this site because I always peoplewatched when I went to Walmart, but they don't have any stores here in Australia (and, besides, Aussies are never as outlandishly odd as some Americans). The Walmarts I shopped in while living in Vegas were the best for this sport.

curious couple

You've probably seen FailBlog. Fans submit "epic fail pictures and videos" of all sorts.

Someone posted this photo there some time ago. I don't believe it meets the "fail" standard. I think it's interesting and kept it in one of my image folders.

I want to know more about who they are. She looks like a gothic cupcake while he looks like the midnight cowboy vampire. I'm left wondering it they're lovers or just friends or possibly relatives. She might also be a drag queen. They're crying out to be characters in a story.

upside down

T. S. Eliot may have thought April was the cruelest month, but if you grew up in the Midwest like I did, you'd probably vote for February for its savagery. I remember bitter cold snowy days when I was a child. I lived for a while in New York, where the weather was a little better but nevertheless could be horrid that same month.

I'm still having difficulty wrapping my head around the fact that it's ninety degrees, dry with low humidity, and it's February. I've been in Australia sixteen months as of today, and I wonder if I'll ever adjust to the inverse calendar, where spring awakens in October and March begins the onset of autumn.

I'm not complaining. In many ways, I think this part of the world has an ideal climate -- dry when it's hot and never too cold. It's like a better version of Los Angeles without the extremes.

Still, however, I can't help but exclaim on a gorgeous day like today, it's February. I guess you can take the girl out of Chicago, but you can't take the Chicago out of the girl.

happy valentine's day

I hope you have a very special someone with whom to share your love today.

truth in advertising

There's always something to be said for honesty.

Alexander McQueen RIP

I was already thinking about writing a post on Alexander McQueen's absolutely hideous shoes, seen below, when word came today he had died, likely a suicide. An early death by one's own hand is always tragic, particularly when someone is of significant renown.

IMHO, most of McQueen's designs were ugly or bizarre, and a few downright misogynistic, like those shoes, but some of his work was take-your-breath-away spectacular. His impact on the world of design and fashion was becoming increasingly significant.

Had he lived, he could have been one of the most important designers of the next decade or two. By pushing the envelope in sometimes odd directions, he shook things up considerably, and his overall impact overshadowed other more conventional designers. While I might not like much of what he did, I always looked forward to seeing his new stuff.

mermaid HNT

Darling Husband's camera phone is still having recharge problems, so it was back to the vaults again for this week's Half-Nekkid Thursday, where I'm doing my mermaid imitation.

My cousin from Pennsylvania emailed me today, telling me about the second blizzard they've had in five days with a combined total of more than forty inches of snow. I feel guilty for our weather here -- in the low eighties, dry and clear.

killer orgasms

I'm currently reading a novel where one female character says to another, "when women have orgasms, scans show large parts of their brains go completely absent on the screen."

That's somewhat vague, but I'm also left wondering if it's extrapolated from some truth, like some research lab took MRIs during women's orgasms. (That posits the question, of course, about how did they both fit into the scanning machine and what sexual act were they enjoying while being scanned, but I digress?)

I know sometimes when I have a really good, intense orgasm, I feel close to blacking out. It's sort of like imploding and exploding at once. Darling Husband, bless him, takes particular pleasure in seeing if he can make my orgasms into almost near-death-from-ecstasy experiences.

So I tried to find out via the Interwebs if this is true or close to it. Unfortunately, I couldn't find anything specific. I did find this claim interesting: "if the intensity of a woman's orgasm was played through a man's brain, there's a danger that the shock to his system would kill him." However, that theory apparently is gibberish, according to this and this.

This, of course, begs the question of why does a fantastic, mind-altering orgasm really need to be analyzed and studied to death? Can't it just be enjoyed? Shouldn't medical research dollars be spent on curing some terrible disease, rather than devoting funds to angels-on-pinheads studies about female orgasms?

Imagine, however, how some women might react to a cute guy in a bar when asked what he does for a living -- "I study female orgasms. Really, I do. I'm not kidding. Would you like to see some of my research papers?"

how to fall 35,000 feet. . .and live

I found this article fascinating, particularly the bit about a flight attendant who fell 33,000 feet without a parachute and survived. I can't say I understood all of the science, but it's something hopeless optimists might want to study closely.

If you fell six miles to Earth and survived, how would your life be different, once you recovered from your injuries? I'm guessing that would be a major life-changing moment. You'd have to think you survived for an important reason.

I often fall from great heights in my dreams, but then I'm able to slow myself and just zoom around at will. Sometimes while on the ground, I'll get myself out of a tight spot by simply leaping into the air and then sort of rocketing a few hundred feet in the air. I don't fly like Superman with arms forward, but basically as if I'm walking on air, completely upright. I've also noticed I'll dream this way for a week or two, and then not again for maybe two months.

exploding tits

I wish this was a joke, but it's true: Al Qaeda may deploy female suicide bombers on commercial flights with breast implants that are actually bombs. This has been reported in the latest issue of The Week, a respected mainstream magazine published in Australia, the UK, and the US.

Of course, this could spawn countless jokes about special TSA training. And I'm wondering what female jihadists are promised, given that males are "guaranteed" something absurd like sixty virgins in paradise.

Comics will have a field day with this, but at the same time, it's absolutely sick. A woman would have to be beyond seriously disturbed if she's willing to do this.

where is this?

I was hunting around for some images for my Tumblr when I stumbled on this fantastic photo on a Russian site, which of course I cannot read. I assume it was taken by some sort of travel or nature photographer because many of his other images were of landscapes.

It has an almost surreal, other-worldly look to it. To see a larger, better version of the image, you can click on it.

bank peeper keeps job

Who knew business news could be so sexy? You may have heard the story about the Australian banker who was caught ogling model Miranda Kerr on live TV here while a talking head in the foreground yammered away about interest rates.

After an outcry arose when word spread he would be sacked, word came this weekend he will get to keep his job. The moral to this story is try not to look at smut while a coworker is being filmed for live TV, but if you do, when you're busted, don't turn around and look into the freaking camera.

hot chicks with stormtroopers

First there was Hot Chicks With Douchebags.

Then came along Hot Chicks With Stormtroopers.

I'm thinking of registering Hot Chicks With Trekkies and Hot Chicks With Hobbits. And maybe Hot Chicks With Tribbles, too.

Click through on the picture for a much larger version, because the girls are cute. Are they related?

soaking wet hnt

The Husband took this at the same time as last week's Half-Nekkid Thursday. He's having problems with his camera recharging, so I had to dip into the reserves for this one.

aurora sexualis

I tend to see sex in inappropriate places. I'm like those people who see religious images in ordinary objects, except mine are X-rated. A few weeks ago, I saw a woman giving a guy a blowjob in a rusty mark on the side of a vending machine on the street.

In this picture of an aurora in the newspaper yesterday, I swear I can see a man doing a woman from behind while both are squatting on their haunches.

My husband says you can see southern lights sometimes, the equivalent down here. They're technically called aurora australis. He's seen them a few times in his life, but I've yet to see any, with or without sexual imagery.

gents

Subscribing to American magazines is very expensive here in Australia. Rather than pay a small fortune for one of my favorites, The New Yorker, the hard copies go to my brother in the Midwest -- presumably to be enjoyed by patients in his waiting room -- and I read the subscribers-only digital version online, which includes more than eighty years of archives.

This photo, entitled "Gents," appears in the latest issue with information about photographer Eric Ogden's opening at a gallery in Manhattan. I love this image. The question will forever remain unanswered: what was she doing in the men's loo? A little business or was the ladies' unavailable?

guilt or grief?

A childhood friend emailed an obituary to me about a neighborhood girl we knew mutually from school back in the Midwest. The notice gave no indication of how she died. She was a year older than me and recently graduated from a top law school.

I will be honest in saying I never really liked her -- I'll call her Dina here. She was very manipulative of other people and was cruel behind their backs. Dina would fool people into thinking she liked them because she had a false charm, when she was really using them, particularly boys. She was very pretty and from a wealthy family, so she never lacked for nice clothes, vacations, cars, parties, and all the trimmings.

Dina and I largely moved in different circles, so we only had infrequent contact. She always was pleasant to me, but I had the sense she realized I didn't buy her bullshit. I was once picked by a teacher to be her research partner to do some report, and that was the only time I had any real dealings with her. Dina's idea of research was finding other people to do everything for her.

So while I do not have fond memories of her, I now feel bad about her death. She would have been only twenty-five or possibly twenty-six. Was it an accident? Illness? Suicide?

As the child of two shrinks and the sibling of another, by rote I wonder why I have certain emotions when I do. I've been trying to decide why I feel badly about Dina, who I never liked.

Is it grief for someone dying young, no matter who she was? Or is it guilt for perhaps not reaching out to her when I knew her with some "tough truth" -- maybe she was a deeply unhappy person.

Perhaps all she really needed was a true friend who would call her on her bullshit and help her to be a better person. I know that sounds sort of Girl Scout-ish, but when someone is behaving badly, do we bear some responsibility if we look the other way?