Sex: The Male Mind and the Body Politic

Everyone knows how Anthony Weiner sex-texted his junk nationwide under the moniker of: “Carlos Danger.” His “crime” of textophilia is really rather limp by comparison to the scandals generated by other politicians, but then again, it’s not a contest. Across the boards for politicians and cheating husbands alike, it’s the lying part that’s the biggest problem. Sadly due to our attitudes in America, lying about one’s sexual behavior is more common than openness no matter who you are. But we expect our leaders to be held to a higher standard than we mere mortals—ignoring the fact that they’re also human. Not to mention that the lust for political power is itself is often a sign of weakness, insecurity, insanity or all three. In short: Never vote for anyone who really desires the job. With rare exception, voters generally don’t find out whether or not a candidate is a sex maniac until after they’ve elected them. At least with Anthony Weiner you know what you’re getting into–in fact you already know whether he “dresses” to the left or the right.

That said, we are a society that condemns sexuality in the same breath as our obsession with every salacious detail. Being open about sexuality of any definition is frowned upon while every American’s ears perk-up to hear each naughty word or deed. That’s America for you. When the late French prime minister, François Mitterand died, his wife and his mistress openly consoled each other at his funeral. The only nation who’s citizens were were shocked were Americans.

As a man myself, I’m sympathetic to the plight of sex-obsessed men because I do believe the male animal is programmed to continually think about sex. I certainly do. After all, we men might be killed while hunting a mastodon leaving all the women of the clan to rely on one lucky bastard who survived the hunt to inseminate all the females, lest the population of the tribe should dwindle.

Leadership positions generate high stress—stress is relieved by sexual release. Kings, presidents, potentates and pharaohs all had mistresses if not harems to help elevate that known killer: “Stress.” FDR had a mistress. Eisenhower had a mistress—so did JFK, all of whom got a “pass” from the press. But Jimmy Carter got crucified for being faithful to his wife while admitting he’d at times “lusted in his heart.”

Former New York Governor, Eliot Spitzer fought tirelessly against human trafficking, but turned out to be on the short list of a madam’s clients frequenting the services of $3,000 a night call girls which is a mixed message to say the least. But he was also one of the most powerful voices of reason railing against the abuses of Wall Street–only to be brought down by a sex-scandal just when we needed him most. The male animal has proven time and again that he’s incapable of prioritizing sex to somewhere lower on the to-do list. We Americans love a good sex scandal—and turn a blind eye when suddenly all the good works one might have done evaporate–outweighed by humiliation and public disgrace. Americans can’t tell the truth about sex and we’re all condemned if we lie. The secret to political survival in this country is low-“T”.

Former senator and right-wing family man, Larry Craig was outraged by the Bill Clinton/Monica Lewinski stained-dress and cigar sex scandal. He indignantly called for President Clinton to resign or face impeachment. Larry Craig survived the sexual blood bath of ensuing holier-than-thou politicians “outed” by Hustler publisher, Larry Flynt’s undercover exposé that led to a waft of congressional resignations and the utter humiliation of then Speaker of the House, Newt Gingrich. But ultimately Senator Larry Craig, the vehemently anti-sex and anti-gay family man, was caught with his pants down in a homosexual encounter in an airport bathroom–having lied to his wife, his constituents and intimately to himself. Craig preferred his male partners to stand with their feet in a shopping bag so anyone passing by his toilet stall might simply assume the gentleman had a puppy squirming in a shopping bag—like that might be misconstrued for normal bathroom behavior. The examples are endless, from disgraced ex-navy man and ousted Rep. Eric Massa playing up-periscope “snorkel” with male congressional pages—to New York Rep. Chris Lee posting semi-nude photos of himself on Craig’s List (not to be confused with Larry Craig’s list). It should be pointed out that Rep. Chris Lee was attending a government seminar on Internet security at the time his sex-ad went live—genius, sheer genius.

Some sexually disgraced male politicians find redemption—or at least reelection—and some don’t. Governor Mark Sanford of South Carolina took a fictitious “trip” down the Appalachian Trail to have a tryst in South America with his Argentinian mistress–but later got elected to Congress representing hypocritical bible belters. But former presidential hopeful Gary Hart “invited” reporters to follow him if they wanted to, just to prove he wasn’t having an extramarital affair. He probably shouldn’t have made that invitation, because as soon as photos of him with his mistress, Donna Rice surfaced and were published his political viability was in the crapper.

Currently San Diego Mayor Bob Filner has been caught red-handed making inappropriate sexual advances to staff members. He’s plunged his tongue down their throats in front of witnesses and requested women staffers to wear short skirts and no underwear. Yet the son of a bitch refuses to resign. The City of San Diego has actually set-up a public hotline for people who’ve been sexually harassed by the mayor to call and file their complaints. Filner is a former member of the House of Representatives from the State of California. You can’t tell me this behavior is a new development. It was merely easier to get away with it in perverse old Washington, DC. And so the legacy of male dominated sex, power and corruption continues even as male legislators nationwide attempt to undermine women’s sexual health issues with no real understanding of those issues. It’s mind-numbing.

In summation: All men ever think about is sex. All I ever think about is sex. I get other things done of course, but like a program on the computer running ever so evasively in the background, sex is never far from my mind. Let me spell it out for you: Men are just grown-up little boys, and even as school boys, all we ever thought about is sex. Is it any clearer now? I despair that the history of the world has been written largely by the distracted and sticky palms of the male gender when women are much better qualified to govern the world. I put a lot of stock in the maternal instinct. But here’s the question: Are women in politics less inclined to sexual indiscretions or are they merely better at getting away with it? I suspect women are better at controlling their sexual impulses. It’s not that women don’t have impulses, I suspect they view their role in life differently. Perhaps we should just hand world governance over to the fair sex. Of course that would only work if laws are passed forbidding men from wielding authority or power of any sort. Women can bear the children and men can be stay-at-home dads, raising children, washing, ironing and preparing meals—if they get all their chores done with time to spare—they can philander to their heart’s desire. Men have made a mess of this world for thousands of years. Perhaps it’s time to turn the reigns of power over to our mothers and sisters, because men have had their chance and (ahem) blown it.

– Disassociated Press, 7/25/2013

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SPECIAL REPORT: Rumors Fly About the Birth of the New Royal Heir

Typical royal watcher.

There is next to nothing to say about the British royal family except: “who gives a flying fuck?” What actual purpose do these entitled, spoiled people serve and why? Does the Queen of England secrete some sort of sweet nectar or royal jelly that feeds either Parliament or the proletariat? It’s all too much like some weird insect colony. I just can’t relate.

Why is there so much buzz about the new royal baby? People have babies everyday. It’s no big deal other than I’m told it’s like passing a kidney stone times infinity. You know what’s amazing? A woman having a child and then returning to the fields or rice paddy and finishing an entirely different day’s labor. I hear all this fluff on the news about how previous royal wives have really had to “sweat it” trying to pump out a male heir–as if Kate Middleton was Wonder Woman. And along comes The Crown Royal Act of 2013 which makes it irrelevant as to the gender of the heir to the British throne–and the fates deliver a male child any way. Historically speaking Q.E. Two would never have been queen if she’s had a brother.

Something tells me this dude, hairdresser, Richard Ward isn’t the royal daddy.

All this chatter about this child is crazy-making. Important things are happening throughout the world, and the news media is transfixed on the progeny of the uber-priveliged. I don’t wish the royal family any ill-will, but I don’t really give a rat’s ass about them either. I awoke this morning to the news that Kate Middleton’s hairdresser had been spied entering St. Mary’s Hospital. Really…?!!! That was the lead story of the day in a dysfunctional world on the verge of continual chaos and collapse? I suppose the royal birth for some serves as a respite from the depressing realities that plague us all–but then again the most transfixed royal watchers probably aren’t paying a whole lot of attention to the real issues.

A giant insect lands on the head of the expectant royal mother where imperial eggs are left to hatch.

I hope baby king whatever-his-name will live a long, happy and healthy life. And that he uses his celebrity to bring about the betterment of society at large–like his late grandmother, Diana. Otherwise there is no earthly reason for the obscene wealth and lavish lifestyle these exceeding silly people enjoy, simply because they happen to have a royal bloodline. Now can we get back to focusing on what really matters? Probably not.

– Disassociated Press, 7/23/2013


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Let’s Talk About Race

I grew up in a typical, middle-class white neighborhood. My parents weren’t what I’d categorize as racists. They were people who’d progressed past the attitudes of their preceding generations–but there will always be work to be done–and that work needs to continue. Children don’t come into the world with preconceived notions about race–they learn all their attitudes–be they good or bad from the examples set by their parents, role-models and peers.

Growing up in the 1950s and 1960s I was keenly aware of the racial tensions in the world around me and the mixed messages being sent. It was all over the television news from the lynchings of young men trying to register black voters in Mississippi to the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.–you had to be living under a rock not to realize our nation was going through growing pains.

One day my parents took me aside right before I entered sixth grade to let me know that I was going to have a new “negro” child in my classroom–and I was to be “nice to him.” My initial reaction was bewilderment as to why this required a discussion and why my family presumed that I would be anything BUT nice to the new kid. I’d been in school with any number of other black classmates before. Shortly into the school year I introduced myself to the new black sixth grader in question, and he showed little to no interest in getting to know me. In fact he was extremely shy. It was OK, not all the white kids wanted to know me either. My parents meant well and I’d made the effort to extend my hand, but so it goes…

…But after some time had passed, I eventually became friendly with that same child–and suddenly I was told by my parents that it would “be best if I not bring him home for an after school play date” because our next door neighbors were members of the John Birch Society. That left me far more confused than had nothing ever been said to me at all. As I’d previously mentioned, I’d had black classmates all the way back to kindergarten. What perplexed me was why there was this mixed message being sent about this particular child. First I was told to extend my hand–and then I was given the impression I was to withdraw it. What I’d failed to grasp in my young mind, was my previous black classmates lived in our same hometown. The new child was being “bussed-in” from another district. He couldn’t have come back house to play with me even if we’d discussed the prospect–he didn’t live all that close to us–and he had a bus to catch. We never had any problems with each other. He was a nice kid. Over time–like most of my classmates from that period of my youth, we lost touch.

What I’d just witnessed was adults expressing their own fears and projecting them onto me. On some level I realized that was the case, but I wouldn’t have known how to put it into words at that age.

It was no secret how racist some of my uncles were, and it made me uncomfortable. My childhood logic weighed my uncle’s attitudes against what was being taught to me in Sunday school. It was clear that the two examples to which I was being exposed were incompatible. I’m pleased to report I don’t remember any of the racist “jokes” that one of my idiot uncles used to tell–only that he used to tell them. The women in our family would cluck mild disapproval and the men would laugh. I understand from black friends that there is a mirror image of this same scenario toward whites among some people in the black community. To me what that indicates is as follows: Our collective separation through fear and presumptions is more a comment on the human condition than an indictment of one race or another. Generations of learned prejudice and inherited patterns of exclusion is something unfortunately far too many people buy into. Clearly I’m not qualified (nor would I) comment on how black America thinks and feels. But I am an astute observer of people in general. People fear those who are unfamiliar to them, and white America has given black America plenty of reasons to be skeptical. And so the cycle goes round and round.

One day a few years back I was getting my hair cut at a black owned barbershop not far from my home. My patronage at that particular barbershop had nothing to do with race, it had everything to do with location, affordability and the fact that I always got a good haircut–pretty simple logic really. I tend to want to snooze while my hair is being cut. There’s something about it that’s relaxing and immediately my lids grow heavy. While half asleep I became aware of the conversation around me being dominated by one black patron who was off on a tear about how the black race should never commingle with the white race. It brought my racist uncle to mind. The words were nearly identical but the messengers were were from opposing camps. I became fully awake but maintained the appearance of remaining asleep when I heard him say to the room in general: “Tell me in two words why black and white people should mate.” Without so much as missing a beat I said “Halley Berry” still appearing to be asleep–and the whole place cracked-up. I pride myself on my comic timing.

I can’t solve anything here on my little blog that would be earth-shaking enough to heal the hearts of anyone who relishes languishing in hate. There’s very little anyone can do, save making an effort not to be the person who prejudges anyone based on skin color. We’re fighting against the tide of hundreds of years of preconceived notions–in a mixed message atmosphere where America is becoming increasingly diverse. The browning of America is neither a good nor a bad thing–it’s merely a fact of cultural evolution. Separatists can fight against the tide to their own fruitless frustration–but I believe it’s human destiny for the races to all eventually mix. Whatever comes to pass, the only thing that will ever help us to heal in the here and now will be an open, honest dialog. Who wants to go first…? Someone…? Anyone…? Or shall we leave it to the children to lead the way…?

– Disassociated Press, 7/22/2013

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My book, An Early Work Late in Life is available through PixelPreserve for $29.95 plus shipping and handling at:

When Protesting at the Texas State Senate, You Can Carry Firearms, But You Can’t Pack Tampons or Maxi Pads.

This past Friday, while Texas women were protesting at their State Senate–they could be admitted while carrying firearms, but state troopers were confiscating tampons and maxi-pads–both with and without wings. The tone deaf male excuse from legislators was a fear of these items (including Kleenex tissues) might contain explosives. at the risk of overstating the obvious to the male Texan meat-heads: You know what contains explosives? GUNS you freakin’ idiots.

I received the following message from a female friend living in Texas: “State troopers are justifying the great tampon clamp-down by claiming that a couple of pro-choice demonstrators attempted to bring in bottles of what looked like urine and feces. This claim is now backfiring on them because open records requests are being made and even a legislator is asking for proof of this claim. Personally, I thought the urine and feces claim was made up by the pro-fetus nut-jobs.” She went on to say: “My friend Lisa was denied access to the gallery at the capitol because she had a packet of travel Kleenex on her. No lie. I told her that perhaps they were afraid she’d ‘blow’ the place up.”

I’m a man, and I have no idea what in the world makes male politicians think they’re qualified to regulate a woman’s governance over her own body. It mystifies me. Let me give you an example, bearing in mind that an expert is a person who knows and acknowledges his or her own limitations. When I was caring for my elderly postmenopausal mother, she developed a “leakage problem.” While shopping for her necessities, I was completely mystified by the variety of products available for sopping-up whatever in the world goes on down there. As indelicate as it was, I found myself having to “install” self-adhesive maxi-pads (for maximum absorption) to my mother’s privates–a thing no son ever wants to confront. I was so clueless, I slapped the confounded thing on her like a BandAid, not grasping that the adhesive was designed to be placed against her undergarments–NOT against her body. When I went to later remove the damned thing, I’d inadvertently given my poor mother a Brazilian–much to her physical distress. Moral of the story: Men have no business telling women how to govern or maintain their bodies, especially their private parts and complicated inner workings. We’re just simply out of our element.

But back to Texas and it’s own special brand of insanity…

State troopers claimed they were confiscating items that could be hurled at lawmakers, including tampons, maxi pads, sugar packets, and condoms. Why in the world is the Texas State Legislature terrified of paper products and Sweet and Low when they’re in a room full of hot-heads on both sides of the issue–AND everyone’s packin’ heat…?!!! It just defies all logic.

Apparently state Sen. Wendy Davis’ filibuster over the abortion bill that swept the headlines during the previous “special session” called by Governor “Oops”–was checkmated by the din caused by the protestors–thus impeding Republicans from pushing through this incredibly unpopular bill prior to its arbitrary deadline. In a “limp” and pathetic effort to prevent a recurrence, this time, the vote is happening during an “extended” special session. This past Thursday, Lt. Gov. David Dewhurst said, “We’re going to have strict enforcement. If there are any demonstrations, we are going to clear the gallery.” So much for freedom of speech and the right to peaceful assembly–not to mention  the absence of New Freedom Maxi Pads.

– Disassociated Press, 7/18/2013

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My book, An Early Work Late in Life is available through PixelPreserve for $29.95 plus shipping and handling at:

“I do not believe that someone should be allowed to create the circumstances of a confrontation, then use deadly force to ‘defend’ themselves against the target’s attempts at self-defense.”

I am beginning today’s WinnieToon with a quote from my older brother, who is a retired law enforcement officer who is licensed and qualified to carry firearms in the State of Florida:

George Zimmerman got a “boo-boo” on what appears to be his “head” or possibly some other sort of enlarged, tumor-like growth rising-up above his neck. Things like this happen when you attack another person without provocation.

“I do not believe that someone should be allowed to create the circumstances of a confrontation, then use deadly force to ‘defend’ themselves against the target’s attempts at self-defense.”

Treyvon Martin on horseback. To bad he wasn’t on horseback that fateful night of February 26, 2012. Then he might have at least had the advantage of being a moving target and escaped his assailant.

And with those words there is already enough reasonable doubt…

…but reasonable doubt as to whether or not the jury of a half dozen dim bulbs in the George Zimmerman murder trial fully comprehended the material and evidence set before them. There are a lot of fishy things about that miniature jury–not the least of which is Juror B37 allegedly having already signed a book deal.


Reasonable doubt indeed. Reasonable doubt as to whether or not the Florida judicial system is fully functional and competent.

The Zimmerman trial was more than a miscarriage of justice: It was a national embarrassment, but then again, so is the State of Florida. The soggy, and nearly uninhabitable ground in Florida is barely worth standing-on as you marinate in humidity, dodging mosquitoes the size of Black-hawk helicopters and keeping an eye-peeled for throw-backs from the Mesozoic era–no, I’m not talking about alligators and armadillos–I’m talking about racists, gun-nuts and neocons. (I’ll reserve my disdain for theme parks for another post.) George Zimmerman (quote) “stood his ground” and now he’s sunken neck deep in muck for the rest of his life. He may have been found “innocent” by a jury of his peers, but that’s half the problem. They were indeed a jury of his peers–dimwits to be precise. I’ve heard from many a lawyer that they look for stupid and easily swayed jurors from the perspective of both the defense and the prosecution.

This entire appalling incident and ensuing court travesty serves as an indictment of the “Stand Your Ground Laws” which were concocted by people more interested in advancing gun sales and racism than personal protection or standing-up for that which is right and fair. Had Treyvon Martin been a seventeen year old blue-eye blond Caucasian high school boy, who in every other way fit the same personalty descriptions as the late Treyvon Martin–that “white boy” would never have been shot and killed by George Zimmerman. Anyone who believes anything different is kidding themselves. Zimmerman is a racist. A fair minded person without racial bias would be incapable of the following quote while describing a black teenage boy minding his own business, talking on the telephone to his girlfriend while enjoying Skittles and ice tea: “these assholes, they always get away.” I wonder what “assholes” George is referring to? The assholes that shoot first and ask questions later perhaps?

I was appalled to read a comment on Facebook justifying Zimmerman killing Treyvon Martin by saying: “Treyvon Martin was heading down a bad path and he was destined to become nothing but a thug, smoking pot and smart-mouthing people.” If that convoluted logic held water, every teenaged boy in the world would be executed prior to his eighteenth birthday. I smart-mouthed people and smoked pot when I was seventeen, as do most normal kids, and they do it under their parent’s radar. Minor rebellion is part and parcel of growing-up and finding your own parameters in life. But by that Facebook commentator’s lights, presumptive actions based on appearances are akin to seeing into the future with enough justification to snuff-out an innocent child’s life–as if George Zimmerman (the self-appointed neighborhood watch and “wannabe” cop) possessed powers generally reserved for–and attributed to the Almighty God Himself. George Zimmerman created this entire catastrophe all on his own with no help from anyone. And I don’t believe in my gut that the screams were coming from Zimmerman. If they were, then they were coming from someone who wasn’t man enough to be the of Sheriff of Mayberry.

If appearances are indeed damning, then so be it: This is not the face of a very intelligent man.

It shouldn’t matter what anyone’s snap-judgements of another individual might be–no one has the right to assume vigilante justice, based on “appearances” then create the source of the crime, commit the crime only to walk away “innocent” because a jury was too freaking stupid to pay attention or show courage. The minute we accept with acquiescence that people of various colors qualify for different considerations of justice: We’ve failed as a society.

OK, there was one funny thing during the trial–the fact that Florida managed to hire John Goodman in drag to serve as the presiding judge.

There is nothing funny about the death and the miscarriage of justice that martyred Treyvon Martin. I am reminded of an alarming sociological study I read where people of different races were fitted with electrodes that would measure their impulse responses to visual stimulation. The subjects of the study were then shown film footage of people of a variety of racial backgrounds being violently harmed. Each race in turn failed to empathize fully with individuals outside of their own ethnic and racial categories. The results of that experiment do not speak very highly of people in general.

Until we start to view ourselves as members of the same human race–and not separate feudal groups, the future of the world will remain grim. It depends on us all rising-up to meet an all inclusive challenge to think of ourselves as “one people.” Our national unity depends on it–in fact our world depends on it. And I say that without a wink and a nod.

– Disassociated Press, 7/16/2013

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My book, An Early Work Late in Life is available through PixelPreserve for $29.95 plus shipping and handling at:



Rewriting A Summer Rerun: The Day the Elastic Died

I’m sick of the news. I don’t want to hear another word about George Zimmerman–just drop him feet first into an active volcano and call it a day. I’m tired of Ed Snowdon. I’m tired of Muslim uprisings, climate change, Congress–in or out of session and all the other unsettling news of the day. To hell with current events. I’m going to make fun of myself. God knows there’s plenty of material to work with.

The following is my Facbook profile. It was amended from my old online dating profile, bearing in mind that dating was the lesser part of my stated objectives.

“I am a masterpiece of midlife crisis in motion. I wonder how this happened to me…? Not that I picture myself seriously hooking-up with anyone on Facebook, but if the unlikely happens, here are my criteria: Over 40 is a plus (men don’t ripen ’til well after 40). Kinda vanilla here, so nothing that requires plastic drop-cloths or upsets the housekeeper. Couples feel free to cheat-on-each-other with me, but no 3-ways. People in groups confuse me. NOTE: I make it a practice not to date anyone I could have fathered: No freaks, NO fems & absolutely NO gay-republicans! WHILE I’M ON A ROLL HERE, I NEVER date anyone until after the 3rd lay (just old-fashioned I guess). Regarding ‘chew-‘n-screw’ dinner-dates, y’all have it backwards. Fuck first, then have dinner. Them’s the rules.”

Needless to say that profile worked a lot better on hook-up sites than on Facebook, but not to worry. No one reads those things any way. My dating days are long gone along with my patience for coping other people where relationships are concerned. I’m now an old bachelor set in my ways and wondering exactly how I got to this point–feeling older than my years and working on accepting that I’m no longer young. We live in a culture obsessed with youth and beauty. It’s everywhere. It’s so pervasive that even when most of us are in our prime–still and young and attractive, we don’t recognize the moment for what it is.

That’s when the elastic died…

I got up this morning to walk my little dog Winnie to the park so as to beat the torrential rains that were accurately predicted–when half-way to the park both of my sneakers began to eat my socks. That was nothing unusual–it happens all the time. But that’s when it happened–that mysterious, ominous noise…

…from my midsection below my navel there came a snapping-sound like a distant crack of thunder leaving me with a very odd sensation. No, this time it wasn’t gas–the elastic on my underwear had gasped it’s last breath, and was quietly snuggling it’s way down my lower torso traveling a duel path into either pant leg. It was a peculiar sensation–like feeling naked in public without anyone noticing. I was walking like a person infested with bugs. No one I passed could hear my silent cries for help as Winnie peed and I groped myself behind a tree trying to retrieve my run-away foundations and hoist them well up over my belt and pull my T-shirt over the offending limp elastic so that I could make my way home with some shred of dignity.

With my dead elastic waistband UP over my belt, I stopped every so often to yank-up my socks only to have them re-eaten by my sneakers. But when I’d bend over to secure my socks, my underwear would take-on a mind of it’s own and head south again. I was as itchy as a hooker with crabs, but reasonably certain no one was paying me any mind.

People haven’t noticed me for a while now.

My waistline measurements went in record time from a trim 32” to an appalling 42“ expanse. Age and gravity ganged-up on me very suddenly over the last several EXTREMELY trying years–to epic proportions. Proportions that are now mine for keeps, leaving me with only one option: Accept my lot in life as a slightly over-weight, irritable old curmudgeon walking an adorable little Jack Russell mix.

Just then a former boyfriend who’d once thought I was the handsomest man in the world, went jogging past looking sensational. He’s a decade or more younger than me, and he was tanned, handsome and fit. For one brief, nasty moment I took comfort in the thought that he too would one day lose his elasticity. He’d find himself taking blood-pressure medicine and joining the wonderful world of erectile dysfunction and slathering prescription slime on his shoulders. But no, I caught myself in-time. He looked vital and full of life as he waived to me during his morning run. I’m sure it never occurred to him my underwear were peeling their way back down around my ankles to where he once preferred them–only this time it was very, very different…

I had a change of heart and found myself happy for him. Men in their late 40’s and early 50‘s are prime-rib by my lights. Before the rain hit, there was that nostalgic wet scent in the air. I remember when that scent used to compel me to jog in track-shorts and wear my T-shirts a tad too tight to see if I could cause a fender-bender. (I actually did accomplish said traffic accident–once.) I smiled and waived back at my muscular old boyfriend, knowing I haven’t missed a thing. I merely had a moment of jealous longing–not for who I’d once been–but for who I’d once hoped to be. Thinking too much will do that to you.

All of this neurotic self-examination was racing through my mind while I continued to do battle with multiple wardrobe malfunctions just as the rain started to fall. Wet-fabric doesn’t cling to me quite in the same way it once did. It was my old boyfriend’s turn to look hot as hell jogging while glistening with fresh rainwater making his T-shirt reveal the planes of his torso.

We all get our moment to blossom and bloom. I know it’s up to me to find a new way to glisten and shine. My wet T-shirt days are long gone, but at least my underwear comes off every bit as easily as it ever did.

– Disassociated Press, 7/9/2013–Partially re-blogged from April 17, 2011.

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My book, An Early Work Late in Life is available through PixelPreserve for $29.95 plus shipping and handling at:

Note to Wendy Davis: Women Would Have Fewer Abortions if Men Took More Responsibility

Rand Paul take note: Never wear heels during a filibuster.

There’s an odd notion which seems to be cross-cultural, that when a woman gets pregnant, it’s entirely HER doing. OK, during artificial insemination it is. During conventional wanted pregnancies generally speaking it’s at least half the woman’s fault–no, make that “decision.” I know how men think. I’m male and abundantly aware of my flaws and (ahem) shortcomings. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that men think about sex almost constantly–especially at certain stages in life. Women think about sex too, but men tend (as a general rule) to attach more urgency to sexual release. But when a woman is raped, she’s wrongfully stigmatized–and has been since the dawn of time–but it’s the man who’s committed the crime. And thus we begin WinnieToons journey into the center of the male and female minds.

The average male brain during orgasm.

Putting the subject of rape aside, when a man is having intercourse with a woman, rarely is he ever thinking: “MAN, am I ever going to plant the seed of a spectacularly loved and cared-for child into this woman’s womb.” Yes, there are men who’ve had that or similar thoughts. But what men are really thinking goes a little more like this: “Oh God, oh God, this is so damned hot, let me f**k the s**t out of that hot friggin’ p***y, oh yeah, YEAH… YEAH–Ahhhhh!” And when he’s done, he’s done. If she’s NOT…. well truth be known–most men are blithely unaware that women even have orgasms.

I hope everyone emembers last year’s all male production of the Vagina Monologues in the United States House of Representatives, courtesy of Darrell Issa and a panel of dumb old men.

People (men in particular) might not be crazy about admitting this publicly, but sex is recreational to the average person. Recreational sex bears consequences to any and all women having unprotected intercourse with a man. Of course women have tricked men by getting pregnant through failing to use birth control methods. BUT, nothing is stopping a man from routinely wearing a condom, aside from the fact that condoms create a bit of a buzz-kill where male sexual tingle thrills are concerned. But you know what’s really a buzz kill? Unwanted pregnancies and sexually transmitted diseases; that’s what defines a REAL buzz kill. It’s time for human male animals to grow-up, and take responsibility for themselves–and stop blaming women for their own recreational sex urges and appetites.

Texas State Senator, Wendy Davis.

Texas 10th District State Senator, Wendy Davis accomplished an impassioned 10-hour filibuster in the Texas Senate last week that resulted in hoards of thinking Texans (who’d-a-thunk?) of BOTH genders to descend on the chambers to cheer Ms. Davis along. Could it be that the ultra-conservative bone-headed males attempting to shut down all Texas abortion clinics are tone deaf and out of touch with reality? So it would seem.

But back to duel sexual realities….

….What are the majority of women thinking while a man is making love to her? I can’t say for sure, but my guess is: “He LIKES me, he really LIKES me.” Yeah, Sally, in the heat of the moment he really, really does. But while a man is having sex, all the blood that might otherwise be neurofiring inside his brain fostering responsible thinking has settled elsewhere lower on the torso–and in doing so has transferred all complex decision making from the big head to the little one.

Craig’s List, Rep. Chris Lee of NY.

With our national history of male politicians having sex in airport bathrooms–or during imaginary hikes along the Appalachian Trail–or sexting their junk on twitter while their wives are pregnant–or training interns to sit under desks while smoking moist cigars that might or might not be Cuban (depending on which rumor mill you ascribe to)–it seems to me that male politicians aren’t exactly the best (or most impartial) judges when it comes to the ramifications of sexual activity on the female body politic.

Lest-we-forget Texas Governor Rick Perry…. (Where DOES one begin?) There’s a very simple principle: When a person opens his or her mouth to speak out loud, other people can hear what that person has to say. And when what that person has to say is inane to the point of mind-numbing stupidity, then all we have left is Rick Perry’s most famous quote: “oops.” Perry derided Wendy Davis for being the daughter of a single mother–and herself being a single mother–while failing to recognize that Ms. Davis is taking a responsible and active role in attempting to break that cycle for herself and other women. (Unlike the Palin family who produce progeny out of wedlock–fornicating with abandon like a chinchilla farm in a trailer park while placing their faith in the hands of Jesus and FOX News.)

The most legally endangered form of abortion are those that take place after twenty weeks. Those are also the most tragic, as those abortions are usually children who were very much wanted, but the pregnancy has gone terribly wrong. I have close friends who desperately wanted a child. They were ecstatic when she finally became pregnant–but the baby died inside her womb. This was a horrible and traumatic turn of events for this couple. She had to have the dead fetus removed from her body or it would in turn kill her and (obviously) her chances of ever getting pregnant again. What was the “Christian” reaction to her presence at the abortion clinic? Jeers, harassment, name-calling, judgementalism and all manor of un-Christian-like behavior based on layer upon layer of ignorance–and specifically ignorance of her situation–painting everyone with the same brush.

Governor Rick Perry, at his own political peril is calling for another special session to ban abortion in his state. This of course will only burden and endanger the poor, driving them to desperate back alley procedures. It won’t stop women from seeking abortions, it will merely place them at higher risk. The rich will continue to travel to places where abortion is legal, and then merely lie about it being an extended vacation. Are the bottle blond female FOX News anchors and “analysts” looking at the consequences of limiting abortion access to women? No, they’re fixating on how Wendy Davis used to have brown hair and how she didn’t wear high heels during her filibuster. In summation: Getting through to the “conservative” mind (male or female) is a fruitless endeavor. Whether or not Rick Perry gets his anti-abortions agenda passed, he’ll be the loser in the larger sense of public perception, and Wendy Davis will still win the day. And here it is the Fourth of July. Let’s hope that someday Independence Day also means independence for women to have full governance over their own bodies.

– Disassociated Press, 7/3/2013

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