Thinking is bad. Or more specifically trying to put your head in order, that is bad.There’s experience and caring and many, many other things. And then there’s death, being no longer. There is stone. Or nothing. Someone else might write that story. But probably not. There are no notes to be reviewed. No follow-up meeting. You’re done. Dead. The world is only how you knew it, how you had it, your memories. But when that is done, whatever you did, good or bad, that is gone too.
She was hiding under the covers and then I was under her dress, tucked against her breasts. She tried to push me away but she liked it too much, her body taut, pushing into my face and then pulling away. I loved her like that, her lips and breasts, her hips rolling up, so bent on the edge. I liked that emptiness, holding that demand in me, hard, and I couldn’t stop.She was still wearing her panties and part of her top, or at least I thought she was, and saw her lean away, her face go to one side, eyes closed as she lifted her knees and grabbed my shoulder. I was frozen, seeing her like that, pent up, wanting to explode, me wanting nothing but that, to be there, my hand down her stomach, pulling at her top and breasts, down onto her hips, pulling her panties down, all of her naked, she turning around, pushing back, wiggling, hanging on in a desperate act, burning, her back arched and pulling me inside. It was terrifying – for a moment anyway – how much I liked it.
I have done with tears. I will endure my death./ O gates of the dark world, I greet you as I come! Let me receive, I pray a single mortal stroke,/ Sink without spasm, feel the warm blood’s gentle ebb,/ Embrace death for my comfort, and so I close my eyes.
Friends, there is no hope, none – once the hour has come./ This is the day. Retreats wins little./ I go. Now in the land of the defeated I/ Will mourn my end and Agamemnon’s./ I have lived. I am not like a bird scared at an empty bush,/ Trembling for nothing. Wait: when you shall see my death, woman for woman; when in place/ Atoned with death woman for woman,
Then witness for me – these and all my prophecies/ Were in utter truth. This I request before I die. Alas for human destiny! Man’s happiest hours/ Are pictures drawn in shadow. Then ill fortune comes,/ And with two strokes the wet sponge wipes the drawing out.
Cassandra’s lines (1297-1328) from Aeschylus’ Agamemnon.
Espousing virtue when it comes to desire is a tenuous thing. This is not just because sex is often considered dirty by those proclaiming a purity of heart but more so that the self-same go incognito in pursuit of their own lust.The internet provides the opportunity to delve into erotic fantasies, case and point being this blog, which had a surge of thousands of hits over the past few days from searches for “Jade Elizabeth Bachelor Playboy”. This virtual world of sex amounts to a reported $14 billion annually, which means that porn, as shadowy as so many claim it to be, is a reality for the silent majority. And so what of it? Can it not be left at that? Must there be shame attached to sexual desire? Why must there be some self-damning awareness for craving nakednesss?
Surely no one can claim anything wrong with the impulse, nothing out of the natural order. It would seem to be one of the great things about being alive.However the lectures on decency and propriety always follow, inspiring schizophrenia in the listener, who must fight a natural impulse. Indeed, trying to be good and pure isn’t just difficult; it’s impossible.
The most common route – and most damaging – is to find shame in the desire and target the object of lust for this urge.This violent demonization of sexual imagery, turning women into disposable objects, is founded upon a system where men seek to control women through mysogenic messaging.It’s a lame-brain rouse that has dragged on for thousands of years (Yes, literally thousands.).
The issue is skewed, everything muddled between the left and right brain, just because of the premise that there might be something wrong with desire.
And then the object of desire is no longer the issue, and instead it is only a matter of understanding and accepting the passion in oneself…and then clicking a button to see what’s there
WordPress provides me with the search engine terms people use to find my site. Some of the phrases are less predictable:
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I don’t drink coffee. And for good reason. My brain is on constant whirl. It starts from the moment my eyes are half open. My dream? What was that? What did I do? I was a lawyer? I was that. And a murderer? No, that was him. And he got off. I was all right. My health was good, even if I always had the pain deep in my back and ribs. What was the point of any of this? I was alive. Yes. I had to get to work. I had to get back to the book. How were the Leafs? Oh right. Shit.Sometimes I want to hide from my head, get into the corner of it and let it spin on itself. It never stops, whirling from the banal to the introspective back to the banal. Lots of doubt. Lots of darkness. Lots of sex. Sports too. That helps tone everything else down – the nothingness and all that. And then I do what I have to do. I eat and walk, teach and talk, email and grade, write and plan, blog and argue, reason and mount the elliptical, try to make some sense of what’s to come. And then I have a drink and think and have another and try to ride the round slow arc, going up, my arms almost out, warm and clear, and chase that well, and slump, giving in to my urge to play Texas Hold ‘Em. Watch something and something else, sleep and do it all again.
Brigitte Bardot appeared in over 40 films in the 1950s and ’60s, most notably Godard’s Contempt as well as her breakout film, Roger Vadim’s And God Created Woman; however she was not known for her acting talents, her ability to create a character, as much as for her to-be-looked-at-ness, as the film theorists would frown and say.
She knew how to strike a pose, how to highlight her eyes, how to part her lips, and she certainly wasn’t shy about showing her body. Popularly referred to as a ‘sex kitten’ by the paparazzi, she did not hide the fact that she had many sexual relationships. “I leave before being left. I decide.” Also known for her singing duet with Serg Gainsbourg, Je T’aime, she accentuated the music with breathy moans and hence furthered the conception of her profound sexuality.
Bardot retired from the entertainment industry in the early ’70s and devoted herself to the cause of animal rights. “I gave my beauty and my youth to men. I am going to give my wisdom and experience to animals.” She created a foundation and has waged many battles since, including those against bull-fighting, seal-hunting and the slaughter of dolphins.
Dee, the protagonist in my novel The Bad Side, is inspired by Brigitte Bardot and her foundation. She wants to be an inspector for the foundation and writes to Ms. Bardot, receiving the following reply:
Thank you so much for your lovely letter. I am so sad to tell you that you must live in France to be an inspector for the Brigitte Bardot Foundation. I know you will always be a friend to me and the animals all over the world. I wish your life to be filled with love always.
While Dee is disappointed by this response, she is fascinated by Bardot’s lipstick signature.
There was a lipstick kiss at the bottom, the lips slightly apart. I touched it, my pinkie just against the red. It was real. The lips had made a mark on the back of the folded page. I read the letter again and folded it and slipped it neatly back into the envelope and then opened it again and peered at the lips. I wanted mine to be like hers. I stole a lipstick from Nani and kissed a blank piece of paper. It didn’t look like anything, just a messy smudge. I tried again, pressing less. They still weren’t much, just lines. I kissed my arm and then the mirror. I did it all along the edge of the glass and looked at myself through the marks. My face was surrounded by my kisses. I liked that. But then I couldn’t get the smudges off and got in trouble for that.
Researching Brigitte Bardot for the book was quite interesting. While a great many continue to be enamored by her image, she has remained distant. Is that what it is to be a sex goddess?