Posts filed under ‘Sexuality’
Team Snooki: “Jersey Shore” Returns for Round 2 on July 29
Mike “The Situation” Sorrentino called her “a chihuahua spray-painted black.” Cathy Horyn, a journalist for The New York Times, likened her to “a turnip turned on its tip” and described her as “incapable of serious introspection.” A grown man punched her in the face.
Standing a mere 4 feet and 9 inches tall, Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi is ethnically ambiguous (turns out she’s of Chilean descent but was adopted by Italian American parents), sexually curious, and outright boisterous. She wears her hair in a signature bouffant, a smaller version of which can be seen on nearly every member of the 12-20 female demographic. Snooki is the only member of the Jersey Shore cast to have her own Wikipedia page, and fans around the world eagerly await the August release of her talking bobble head. She is like the fake-tanned, pint-sized version of reality princess Tiffany “New York” Pollard: With plenty of curves in all the right places and a strange fascination with pickles, Snooki has a penchant for grabbing attention and inciting drama.
Message boards on YouTube and all the gossip sites are littered with trash talk about the self-proclaimed “guidette,” but Snooki seems to take it all in stride. Although she battled an eating disorder in high school, Snooki maintains a relatively healthy body image, especially for a young woman under the media’s ruthless magnifying glass.
I hope the reality star has more hook-ups and fewer bruises this season, and I’m elated that she’s already signed on for round 3. Jersey Shore would not be nearly as wet or as wild without her.
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Goo Goo for Gaga
Have you ever liked someone as a friend or acquaintance or even distant contact and—FLASH! BAM! ALAKAZAM!—all of a sudden and without warning, you felt much more strongly?
Lady Gaga, I think I love you.
I fought the feeling at first. I considered her act wannabe Madonna and wondered when her 15 minutes of fame would run out. I dissed “Just Dance” and “Poker Face” and even called her outfits and performance at the 2009 MTV Video Music Awards “outright ridiculous.”
But I have since changed my mind. Lady Gaga is like a lascivious mutant love child of Madonna, Elton John, Gwen Stefani, Cher, and David Bowie. Her performances are completely over-the-top, her voice is spectacularly versatile, her wardrobe is bizarre/sexy/original/fearless, and she identifies as bisexual. Her music defies genre, and her sexuality transcends social constructs.
Not to be arrogant, but I’m pretty sure Lady Gaga would want to have sex with me if she and I knew each other. Gaga seems like the kind of woman who gets around—not in a slutty way but in a cosmopolitan, open-minded sort of way. And although she’s admitted having sexual relationships with women (see the Barbara Walters interview), she has only been in love with men. Sounds like someone I know.
So, Gaga, hire me as your entertainment lawyer or personal trainer or backup dancer or—better yet—conjoined twin. I run circles around Alejandro.
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Celebrating “Semi-Charmed Life”
In the summer of 1997, my girlfriends and I camped out in a backyard tent and listened to “Semi-Charmed Life” on repeat for several hours. I’m the kind of person who tires after hearing a threshold amount of even the best music (How many times can a person really stand to listen to The Joshua Tree or Thriller?), but this Third-Eye Blind hit has never ceased to astound me.
As thirteen-year-olds, we only somewhat understood the sexually and chemically charged lyrics. Also, the breezy, fast-faced tempo made it difficult to decipher what lead singer Stephan Jenkins was even singing. It didn’t help that we couldn’t just “Google” a line from the song and retrieve the lyrics. I recall mistaking “And I speak to you like the chorus to the verse” with “And it speaks to you like the birds in the forest.”
Now, of course, I realize that “Semi-Charmed Life” is the seminal anthem of sex, drugs, and rock & roll. It was also my brother’s theme song. We played it at his memorial service, and it was awesome to hear “Doin’ crystal meth will lift you up until you break” and “How do I get back there to the place where I fell asleep inside you?” blast in a room full of relatives, young people, old people, Christians, atheists, and floral arrangements.
I went to Newport Beach this past weekend and had a great time slowly running my bare feet through the sand. I thought, “I believe in the sand beneath my toes / The beach gives a feeling / An earthy feeling / I believe in the faith that grows.” I thought about how hard it really seems, sometimes, to get through this bittersweet, ironic, defeating, gratifying, semi-charmed life. I thought about how I can’t not believe that there’s life after death. I simply cannot accept a reality in which I will never see Alex again.
I’m not listening when you say goodbye…
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“I’d Rather Keep the Trash and Throw You Out”: Feminine Angstiest Songs #3
See also Feminine Angstiest Songs #2 and #1
“Son of a Gun (I Betcha Think This Song Is About You)” samples Carly Simon’s quintessential song of feminine angst, “You’re So Vain.” Janet Jackson sings, and Missy Elliott, a veritable hip hop guru, raps. The music video, clearly alluding to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” stars a fleet of undead women. Janet dances in the midst of the ghouls as she stalks her former lover through a creepy mansion, bathroom, and parking garage. She wields a baseball bat, strutting her svelte figure in a sexy outlaw getup. Missy accompanies Janet and the zombie women on this hot pursuit. In an eerily erotic scene, Janet seductively swallows a black spider and growls, “I’d never be your lover / I’d rather make you suffer / You stupid motherfucker.”
Basically, don’t fuck with, lie to, cheat on, steal from, or disrespect these women…unless you want to end up in a “show down, knock down, drag down, gun slugger, shoot ’em up” with demonic damsels. But this post isn’t about you anyway, is it?
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Feminormative
el, los, don, señor, padre
not qua doctor
or professor
lawyer
boss
President
lover?
No
not in any
of those capacities
will i consult
you (Uds.)
Unless i have to
Why do i so often have to?
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The Real Melting Pot
Agegenderracesexuality
All so fluid
Relation
Ship sliding over
Liquidlovelust
Welcome to the identity diaspora.
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The (Out of) Shape of Things: Part II
Lester Burnham: (running astride fit neighbors) I figured you guys might be able to give me some pointers. I need to shape up. Fast.
Jim Olmeyer: Are you just looking to lose weight, or do you want increased strength and flexibility as well?
Lester: I want to look good naked!
-from American Beauty
When I made the decision to stop “running seriously” three years ago, I realized that I had only been running for one purpose for too long. I asked myself, “If your body were to look the same whether you ran or not, would you still run regularly?” An unequivocal “no” resounded through my disturbed mind. I put my shoes into my closet and laced them up twice a week at most.
I have always conflated my body image into my sexual identity. The unhealthy marriage was consummated in 1995 when I hit puberty. I felt extremely uncomfortable in my own skin. To make a long story short, I made my period go away. The thought of developing breasts and hips absolutely terrified me, so I started exercising and virtually stopped eating. A year later, running saved my life. I felt entitled to eat again, and I gained self-confidence from excelling at something other than schoolwork (“Athlete” sounded better than “bookworm.”).
“Bootylicious” topped the charts the summer before my senior year in high school. Its sexy, charismatic message failed to reach me.
Fast forward two years.
Competing in collegiate sports put me in the best physical shape of my life, but I managed to keep subtle “lady lumps” throughout the years of intense training. Never before had I received so much attention from the opposite sex. I felt at once exhilarated and horrified. After three progressively problematic incidents, I started forcing myself to throw up. My experiences and surroundings seemed to convey to me that my body and my desires had provoked predatory behavior: My burgeoning sexuality could and would be used against me. When my breasts and hips refused to disappear, I tried to “act like a man.” I felt more attracted to women than ever before and feigned apathy toward “catching feelings.” I became aggressive, power hungry, and, occasionally, hateful. None of these pretenses worked, of course, and I started to fear the monster I was becoming.
I quit bulimia cold turkey when I left New Haven. My distance runs became fewer and occurred further between. I gained a nominal amount of weight and an immense amount of self-respect. I now run mostly to feel good. Looking good is just a fringe benefit.
See also “The (Out of) Shape of Things”
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Punctuation
(written in 2005)
Whether that was a question or a statement
Affects whether I answer or respond
So Im adding structure to your ambiguity
Since you have broken the rules of punctuation
For the last time
I wanted to experience all of your etceteras
And I really liked how the apostrophes always followed our name
Or even better
How we were one pronoun or possessive adjective
I got a kick out of your interjections in bed
And your clever appositives in reference to me
But there is always a but
See the only conjunction I can tolerate is and
And you think or can replace and
And so Im ending with a period this time
Not an ellipsis.
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From the Vault: Nine 1/2 Weeks Gets 8 1/2 Stars
Three years after I was born, Adrian Lyne (Unfaithful, Indecent Proposal, Fatal Attraction) directed Nine 1/2 Weeks, starring Kim Basinger and Mickey Rourke. I saw it for the first time this weekend and felt puzzled by the film’s poor critical reception. Lyne manages to forge a balance between art and sex, creating an erotically-charged drama rather than soft core porn. The film is a meditation on the ambiguities and limitations of consensual liaisons between women and men.
Elizabeth (Basinger), a “divorced white female, beautiful statuesque blonde,” meets John (Rourke) while shopping for dinner party fare. John is concomitantly creepy and desirable as he makes overt sexual advances toward Elizabeth. “You’re taking a hell of a lot for granted, aren’t you,” Elizabeth remarks as John pointedly changes the bedsheets after their first outing. And thus begins a 9 1/2 week sexual journey. Elizabeth’s endearing naiveté complements John’s carnal authoritativeness. Scenes of sadomasochism, female masturbation, spontaneous lovemaking, and erotic food usage ensue. Lyne’s images at once titillate and disturb as the couple crisscrosses sexual boundaries and societal norms.
In her early 30s at the time of the film’s production, Basinger is, in retrospect, living proof that some women are like wine; they improve with age. While undoubtedly attractive, Basinger’s Renée Zellweger-like poutiness in this film pales in comparison to her fetching sophistication in L.A. Confidential and The Door in the Floor (both filmed over a decade later). Rourke, on the other hand, has endured a transformation in the opposite direction. The intensive reconstructive surgery he underwent after his professional wrestling career has rendered his once-alluring face almost unrecognizable. That said, he still has the body of an Olympian and acting talent that ranks him among the very best. His portrayal of John in Nine 1/2 Weeks made me further appreciate his wide range as an actor, as evidenced in Body Heat, Sin City, and The Wrestler.
If nothing else, this film depicts two major actors at pivotal moments in their respective careers. Beyond that, the disquieting interactions between Elizabeth and John speak to the complications of human nature and the overwhelming responsibility that accompanies sexual desire.
The Lollygabber 
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