I know I should have seen it coming but let’s call me a hopeless romantic, or just a dope. When Pete talked about wanting to be a father, I heard wedding bells (and calls to available surrogates.) But then…you know the rest.

I need to know why! And who dumped who. Let Pete be the dumper, if you’re listening Jesus! How can they turn on a dime like that? Did something happen in Australia? Did Pete’s BDE fail him, or did Kim suddenly realize that he’s white?

When their thing was first reported, I was amazed by the incongruity just like everyone else. What the hell? I thought. But as it continued, I began furiously projecting. Kim must be smarter than we thought, if Pete likes her. In our narrative of Pete, he’s too smart and sensitive to waste his time on an idiot. She would have to have real substance as a human being, right? This meant that Kim Kardashian is not what she appears to be, e.g. an insufferable narcissist and plastic surgery addict!

And given Kim’s imagined ability to have any man, this meant that Pete is not only a great fuck but also a dynamic paragon of manliness. Plus, she introduced him to the kids!

I found myself daydreaming about Kim and Pete. Mostly it was hazy soft porn. I tried to imagine Pete’s frail physique juxtaposed with Kim’s gigantic mounds of silicone. On the one hand, ew. But on the other hand, I really wanted to visualize how it would work. I think this could be called mental fan-fiction.

I studied every picture of them to parse their body language. Their hand-holding was so cute! Their goofy selfies! Their trips to exotic beaches!

I was googling Kim-and-Pete several times a day. I couldn’t get enough. It as like a Novella only with higher stakes. And here’s the worst thing of all: I watched the Kardashian show for the whole season, eager for news about the budding love affair and for hints that Kim was not an idiot. My husband humored me and watched it too. We agreed that Kendall was painfully stupid but he thought Kourtney was even stupider. It’s a tough call, I guess.

At least I won’t have to watch any more of that crap. No more of their giant nothing-colored living rooms and staged heart-to-heart confidences. No more reminding my husband of how much Kylie has done to her face and how much weight Khloe has lost. No more of those nude lipsticked fish-pouts!

But when I woke up and heard about the break-up, I was devastated. I am not making this up; I was stunned and heartbroken. Could it be a mistake? Maybe so, because we didn’t hear it firsthand from Kim or Pete.

Now I’ve accepted that it’s over, and my hurt has turned to resentment. I feel cheated and duped. First I thought it was selfish of them to take away our only moments of respite from anxiety and global catastrophe. Now I’m wondering if the whole entire thing was a publicity stunt. So was it?? A friend believes it was a publicity stunt AND they also slept together. Whatever.

Now that Pete is history, clarity has returned and I see that Kim is indeed a big ho who can’t take her eyes off herself for a single minute and will do anything to hold the world’s interest. How dare she wear Marilyn’s dress! May she put on all the weight she’s lost and then some. May she take a fall down some stairs in those stupid stiletto heeled shoe-pants. God I hate her. I’m going to unfollow her on Instagram as soon as I wind this up.

I hope Pete can start dating someone twenty years younger than Kim whose butt doesn’t need a wheelbarrow to carry it and who doesn’t need hair extensions. I will forgive Pete for this slip-up because he is chronically depressed, genuinely funny, and because of that big dick. JUST KIDDING about the dick, of course, because a big brain is way more exciting, right ladies?

All we need to do now is predict Kim and Pete’s next love interests. Thoughts??

Since I’m borrowing my title from Derek and Clive, I listened to this sketch for the 50 millionth time and still laughed. If you haven’t listened to this, don’t even talk to me EVER.

All I intended to do was direct you to my essay for Miista about women and sex toys. I really want to hear your feedback on this! Are you with me or am I all wrong?

Let me know. Now, back to my 3 o’clock Monday wank.

If you’ve spend any time thinking about gender and pronouns, go and read what I wrote here, and get back to me with your thoughts, arguments, and insults! xo

A few days ago, I was at the mall, drinking coffee and talking to a young woman I will call Mary. Mary had started the conversation, which I was enjoying, because who else wants to talk to me? She was 22, but looked much younger. She told me that she tries to look after her 12 year old sister, who is getting interested in boys and fashion.

I’m always interested in young people who have grown up with social media. I wonder how it affects their lives, or if they even think of the internet as something separate from their lives. So I asked her if she spent a lot of time scrolling through shit on her phone, like I do. She seemed at once casually grown up and sweetly naive.

I started going on about how sad I was for young people, who would never know innocence, who would see hundreds or thousands of naked bodies and sex acts before they ever had a relationship. I deplored the lack of mystery that is now a fact of life for young people. I asked her if this worried her, and she said, Not really.

Then, because it’s one of my favorite stories, I told her about the time my kid brought a new friend home for a play-date, and they disappeared into his room. They were probably around 13 at the time, and my kid was already a prodigious coder.  After around three hours, the friend’s mom called to see how things were going. She then advised me to supervise the kids’ computer use, because her son had recently been caught looking at bestiality.

The punchline of the story is me going, “WHAT??? YOU’RE TELLING ME NOW, AFTER THREE HOURS?”

So I finished my story, expecting Mary to laugh. Instead, she looked confused, and said. “What’s  bestiality?”

Shit, I thought, oh no! I didn’t think I could just say, Never mind, now that I’d said the word. So, very sadly, I explained, “It’s when people have sex with animals.” Her eyes bugged out and her hands flew up to her face. “But how would they do that?”

Suddenly, my husband appeared, as we had planned to meet outside the coffee bar. Overcome with guilt and relief, I blurted out, “Hi honey, this is Mary. I’ve just destroyed her innocence!” Mary laughed but I still felt mortified.

As my husband and I walked to the car, he joked about me picking up kids at the mall. I told him that in fact, she had picked me up. Then I remembered reading that the men who get caught having sex with horses always blame it on the horse. “The horse came on to me, it wasn’t my idea!”

Just kill me.

Years ago, when I was married to the wrong man, I fell madly in love with a guy who sold used books. He wasn’t my type, but he had a certain lanky, preppy appeal. We met when I wandered into his store in a run-down promenade. He was very attentive. He was especially pleased by my familiarity with John Barth. Later, he called me at home, although I hadn’t given him my phone number. It was on the check I wrote; it was a bold move on his part.

I liked bold moves. I agreed to meet him at the book store, and we sat down on a bench outside in the bright sunlight. He turned to me and moved some hair away from my eyes. “Tell me everything,”he said. It’s still the single most seductive line I’ve ever heard.

He really did want to know everything, so I told him. I was unhappily married, I was a weight-lifter, I liked to read. He asked me why my past relationships had failed, a surprise question. I had to think. Because I’m unlovable, I told him sadly.

His own life offered few clues about anything. He’d been in love once, with a girl he met in college. I guess she dumped him. He pronounced her name, Cecily, in a reverent tone. He was from a small town where people still talked about having “Jewish friends.”  His brother was some minor pro golfer. But he loved Elvis Costello, so that was something. And he had arctic blue eyes like a husky.

Somehow, I must have brought up the subject of herpes, which was considered a huge deal back then. He didn’t know anything about it, but now worried he might have it. He had a rash! Shit! I confided that I might be pregnant by an idiot from my gym. We felt as though the forces were against us, while at the same time, our meeting was Destiny.

I learned that if you want to fuck someone but can’t, things get highly charged in a hurry. We were miserable but we kissed like our lives depended on it. We waited for his test results. Meanwhile, I wasn’t pregnant.

He was witty and self-deprecating, with a deep sense of resentment about his shitty job and shitty prospects. Who knows what he really wanted. We were only 28 years old, but he acted like he’d already blown everything.

His herpes test came back negative. I was lying on the couch in his tiny apartment, with my feet in his lap. He had turned very serious. “Well, now we can deal with the literary aspects of this tragedy,” he said dramatically. Later on, I would give him a nickname: The Tragedy.

I wondered nervously what would happen if we had sex and it wasn’t good or I couldn’t come. “That won’t be a problem,” he said without a hint of arrogance. And it wasn’t. I taught him that menstruation wasn’t a hindrance. He taught me that he would never stop, unless I asked him to. Late one night, we went to the book shop and in the dark, we had sex by the paperback fiction.

The excuses I gave to my husband were ridiculous but he was willing to believe them. I didn’t feel guilty. I deserved to be happy. But I wasn’t. Adulterous sex is wonderful but coming back to real life is a grim business. I felt trapped and addicted to my lover. I still swooned when he touched me.

One day, The Tragedy told me over the phone that he was ending our affair. He had recently become a Christian. Sex with me was a sin, he realized, and he couldn’t go on as we were. It felt dirty, he said.

I drove around in a daze, feeling sure I was dreaming. How could someone turn on a dime? Isn’t dirty sex a good thing? I thought I could change his mind but he was firm. I went to the book shop to confront him and he was polite but cold.

It took me forever to find my footing again but eventually I did. I hated myself and vowed this would be my last affair. Time passed and I managed to conduct a platonic friendship with The Tragedy. He needed an assistant at the store and I jumped at the chance to work there.

For months, we worked together behind the counter, sharing our contempt for our customers and laughing at our private jokes. The whole time, I had to stop myself from putting my hands on him. One day I saw him in a huddle with a skanky girl who was missing a tooth and bought Harlequin Romance novels. I was badly shaken but had to suck it up. I acquired a huge book collection. I took home fairy tales to read to my child, oblivious to how much I’d shortchanged him.

Eventually, I split up with my husband. One day, either before or after, I can’t remember, I went to visit The Tragedy at his new apartment. Through the screen-door, I asked him what had happened between us. I still didn’t understand. It still felt like unfinished business.

“{Sisterwolf},” he said, staring me straight in the eye, “I still find you fascinating. But I was never in love with you.” He was matter-of-fact, like he was giving a weather report. He didn’t blink. I turned and left, devastated. Sure enough, I was unlovable. And I was haunted by his words forever, it felt like, until I forgot all about him.

But what is the internet if not a place to look for trouble, and what are old flames if not embers to poke, out of curiosity, vengeance, or a desire to change history?

Let’s pretend you live in another solar system and you don’t follow celebrity gossip. I’ll try to get you up to date. Asia Argento is an Italian actress with a penchant for the dark side. She’s covered in tattoos and she likes to be shocking. Anthony Bourdain fell in love with her in the last year of his life. She has been a leading voice in the #MeToo movement, having publicly accused Harvey Weinstein of raping her in a hotel room.

Okay, so recently, it was reported that Argento paid hush money to Jimmy Bennett, a 22 year old actor who claims she sexually assaulted him when he was 17 years old, a crime in California, where the incident allegedly took place.

Argento made a statement denying Bennett’s story, insisting that he had been trying to extort money from her for some time. She denied having any physical relationship with the actor, who played her young son in a film she directed years ago.

But people got mad, because that’s what they do. They called Argento a hypocrite and  whore, and took out their anger on Rose McGowan, another outspoken #MeToo leader (and Weinstein victim) who had formed a close friendship with Argento.

Poor Rose McGowan didn’t know what to believe, but asked her followers to “be gentle.” This inflamed people even more. Why should they be gentle to Asia Argento, who had not favored gentleness toward Harvey Weinstein?

So then, TMZ published some private texts between Asia and an unnamed person, who presumably had leaked it. In their conversation, Argento admits to having sex with the actor, who “was horny” and “jumped her bones” in a hotel room. (note: stay out of hotel rooms.)

So now, we have Asia admitting she did it! But she’s pissed off because she herself had an older lover when she was 17; big deal. Plus, Anthony was the one who wanted to shut the actor up, fearing it would harm her reputation.

But then, someone leaks Asia’s text conversation with Bourdain, in which he offers to pay the actor $380,000, if that’s what she wants. He can see that Bennett is a screwed-up person and feels sorry for him. Of course, Anthony Bordain can’t weigh in, because he killed himself a few months ago.

In the days prior to Bourdain’s suicide, Argento was photographed in Rome, holding hands and making out with a young journalist. THIS DOES NOT MAKE HER GUILTY FOR HIS DEATH. And yet.

Now, pay attention! Rose McGowan has made a long statement, conceding that Argento molested the young actor, and should be held responsible for her actions.

How does she know Argento is guilty? Because the person who leaked the stuff to TMZ is none other than Rose’s partner, Rain Dove!

Now, Rain Dove is a model whose pronoun is they. McGowan refers to them as a “being” in her statement about how she came to learn the truth about Asia, who may not be a being but is certainly a cunt, I feel it is safe to say at this point.

Here is how Rose says she wised up:

But then everything changed. In an instant. I received a phone call and series of messages from the being I’ve been dating- Rain Dove. They said that they had been texting with Asia and that Asia had revealed that she had indeed slept with Jimmy Bennet. Rain also shared that Asia had stated that she’d been receiving unsolicited nudes of Jimmy since he had been 12. Asia mentioned in these texts that she didn’t take any action on those images. No reporting to authorities, to the parents, or blocking of Jimmy’s social media. Not even a simple message “Don’t send me these images. They are inappropriate.” There were a few other details revealed as well that I am not at liberty to mention in this statement as investigators do their job.

She had me at “being,” obviously. I mean, what more could you want here, except for Anthony Bourdain to have never crossed paths with Asia Argento??

If you were the god in charge of shit like this, what would you want to happen next? Please show your work, unless it’s a mystery to be revealed in the fullness of time.

If you live in the US and watch TV, you have been bombarded with commercials touting drugs for low testosterone. Never mind that doctors agree only a small proportion of men – about 0.5% – need testosterone therapy.

The ads are funny at first, then it might occur to you that a lot of money is being made by pharmaceutical companies preying on mens insecurities. Not only that, but they are pathologizing the aging process.  But of course it gets worse.

High testosterone levels increase your risk of heart attack, stroke, and death by 30%. Averse effects of testosterone drugs are creating a whole new class of lawsuit. But those constant ads keep nagging that if you just feel kind of icky, kind of grumpy and apathetic, IT COULD BE LOW T!!!

So I went to the website Is it Low T and took the quiz. I had a strong feeling, no, really an absolute conviction that I would test positive for Low T. Here is my score, where I lied about my erections because I wasn’t sure how to answer.

As you can see, I’m in big trouble. I’m not even a man and I have fucking Low T!

When I was a weight-lifter, in another lifetime, many of the guys at my gym were huge pro bodybuilders. At certain points in their ‘training cycle,’ they would bulk up by taking steroids and pure testosterone. You could tell which ones were using, because they were easily enraged and prone to acne breakouts on their backs and shoulders. Their feeling was obviously, Anything for bigger muscles.

Now, men are urged to raise their testosterone levels if they’re feeling sad or tired or don’t always feel like having sex. Look at that poor suffering couple above. He looks around 20 but awwwww, he can’t get it up. She’s not helping with that awful white bra. Is she a nursing mother or something? Anyway, this image comes from an article about Low T. I wish she would just masturbate and leave him alone.

Here is a chart showing the rise in testosterone prescribing between 2000 and 2010:

I don’t know about you, but I see plenty of repercussions.  Angry, acne-ridden men who want to fuck all the time when they’re not dropping dead of a heart attack. I’m just not into it.  If you or your sad and apathetic husband still see more testosterone as the answer to you problems,  bookmark this ad:

Smile Makers are sex toys with a cutesy design and a “playful” concept: they are named after different male stereotypes, kind of like the Village People.

I don’t know much about sex toys and that’s the way I like it.  But I love internet generators. Smile Makers lets you design your fantasy man, and with only a limited set of options I still came up with a very nice facsimile of my personal dreamboat.  His name is Fernando, and he’s all mine. You can make your own here.

I’m disappointed in the choice of masculine archetypes, since I have no interest in tennis coaches or millionaires.  (I did have an adorable French boyfriend, back in the day, but he became hysterical when I got my period.) Where is the Poet, the Biker, the Revolutionary, the Pimp, the Grad Student?

Go make your own loverboy and let me know how it goes.

I had another bad dream a few nights ago that was not only horrible but also embarrassing. I’m not sure whether one can be held responsible for dream content. I would never choose such an idiotic and reprehensible dream.  I couldn’ t even tell my husband for days.

In the dream, I was in a bedroom with a fat woman who I was pretending to like for some reason. We were cuddling, and I didn’t mind it until it got sexual. I was very anxious and told her to stop. She asked why and I blurted out, “Because you’re a woman!”  The next thing I knew, she was on the other side of the room and she had turned into an angry clown, the kind we all fear and loathe. The clown took out it’s dick which was around three feet long and more like a baseball bat. He snarled, “Now you’ll be sorry.” I started to cry and woke up.

Well! I don’t have to tell you that I have no interest in being raped by a clown, or even a fat woman. A friend of mine gave me a far-fetched analysis involving rejection and guilt. Now I’m worried that the woman was my mother, and the clown was my father. But it might all be the consequence of looking at old circus photos for hours on end.

Maybe I’m at the point where I’m creeped out by sex. I love Tumblr and can’t seem to give it up, but the sheer quantity of tits and asses is overwhelming. Not to mention the unexpected animated GIF’s of men blowing each other and Japanese women bound up in rope. What’s the deal with this? Doesn’t anyone else feel kind of exhuasted by these images? There are only so many asses I need to see bent over a chair. Am I just too old to appreciate random asses?

And the tits, god, after a while it seems so tragic. Some poor woman in the 1950’s, displaying her gigantic tits like pies at a county fair, it’s just not a happy sight. Obviously, I can’t sympathize with the male point of view. Men seem to need tits to look at, 24/7,  irrespective of context.

As a married person, I think of sex as inseparable from intimacy. Without intimacy, it’s all clowns with baseball bats.

I wish I could end on that note but that would be dishonest.  I would be leaving out the more recent dream where a friend asked me to babysit his pony, who was a delightful cartoon character of some kind. Everything was great until the pony offered me its services. Of course I declined in horror, and wondered what the hell my friend had been up to.

Forgive me. It’s not my fault.

Anthony Weiner is a gift from god for people like me who are struggling with depression.   His predicament (no pun intended) is so bizarre and tawdry, and yet  Shakespearean. If character is destiny, Weiner is screwed, or as he would put it, “First I’ll make you gag on my cock before I make you cum.”

Let me say first that I was on his side, in terms of refusing to resign, until I read the text of his online chats with women he’d never met and had no intention of meeting.

It wasn’t the fact that he was a reckless horndog that provoked my disapproval. I was ready to accept the fact that the internet is an irresistible siren song to anyone with a “weakness.” Whether it’s a weakness for shopping, for social networking, for gambling or for porn, the internet makes it  perilously  convenient to indulge.

According to friends I discussed this with, “sexting” is now common among fifty percent of teenagers. It’s a Brave New World out there, where not much is considered too personal, not to mention sacred.

I will admit to chatting online in a flirtatious manner.   Years ago I was chatting with someone who suddenly suggested “Send me a picture of your C**T” and the word was not cunt. I was so stunned and horrified, I shut the chat window and felt deeply shaken. I had no idea that people spoke to strangers like this. I learned that it’s the wild west out there online.

With Weiner, I imagined his sexy chat was something along the lines of “Baby, You’re so pretty, What are you wearing?” Big deal. Maybe he’s bored when his wife is busy and he’s just having a little tame sexy banter…. I don’t feel that calls for his resigntion, since it’s his personal business and he didn’t run for the Priesthood. Better to have a politition with a sex drive than Bush or Nixon, who seemed more interested in abusing the constitution than in getting laid.

But no matter what liberal   principles you think you have, it all goes to hell once you read Weiner’s raunchy efforts at seduction.   The deal breaker for me was “Pussy Juice.” It’s just a big NO in my world.   You can’t listen to a congressman talking about jobs or taxes or healthcare once he’s said Pussy Juice.   It’s over. He is toast.

So basically, for me at least, it comes down to literary aesthetics rather than any moral judgement. Sexting online isn’t a crime that would make someone unfit to serve as a congressman or mayor. Sending pictures is pretty lame but again, no real harm. Lying about it is only natural: You would want to avoid embarrassing your family. But a man’s game does reflect his sensibility. And “Pussy Juice” cannot be condoned. If only he could have said “Are you wet?” instead.

I cannot emphasize this enough but it must be repeated: Words matter! Choose them like everyone’s looking.

Opinions or objections?