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10 posts categorized "sex & shopping"

July 23, 2008

Putting a Sock in It

The confession I’m about to make may freak women out.

I loathe shoe shopping.

That’s it, in a nutshell. I entered my own dark place while shopping for ankle boots. I figured, with it Louboutin being winter, that it was high time I had a pair of closed shoes; my feet have been freezing these last few weeks in open toed wedges. If I see another pair of cuffed ankle boots, I’ll scream. What is it with cuffed boots? Sydney shoe stores are inundated with cuffed ankle boots, and just when you  need a pair of sturdy everyday boots, they all feature lofty stiletto heels. I visited more than ten shoe boutiques, and I wasn’t happy because I couldn’t find the type of shoe I was looking for. As for the five inch (and upward) hell. Who am I kidding? I hate the recovery process - painful toes (or pre-bunion roots) and the strange sensation that arrives the moment you set your feet on the floor. Then there’s calf muscle shortening. I don’t miss that, and I haven’t experienced it for years. I don’t plan on reverting either.

The store assistants in small boutiques always annoy me. Not a minute passes, and they greet you with, ‘hi how are you?’ like you’re their next door neighbour. Some stores assistant in these small trendy stores are either lazy or they aren’t impressed with the idea of you purchasing a single pair of shoes. If you don’t like one pair, it’s not like they’ll suggest another. I kept on nagging housemate for us to go to one of the department stores  because I reached my limit with lackluster assistants and morons who couldn’t understand why I didn’t want flat heeled Pirates of the Caribbean boots or hated kitten heels. I don’t get the kitten heel. I had a pair of kitten heels in the Nineties and I came close to falling on my arse countless times. I haven’t yet seen the way the kitten heel enhances women’s legs. I call them 'granny heels'. All women I’ve seen, look like they’re missing something when they’re wearing kitten heels. To me, they scream indecision: ‘Am I sexy or not?’ When I see women wearing kitten heels, I think, "She wants to a mix: femme fatale & demure." It's like pairing a lime green shirt with shocking pink hotpants. It’s the sort of heel you’d wear to church on Sunday - and even then there are other alternatives. A dry shag is more exciting than a kitten heel.

I eventually found my boots in Myer. They weren’t over the top in terms of pricing, but they weren’t Payless. I complained to housemate, “we could have come here first instead of traipsing around one of the biggest malls in the Southern Hemisphere.” \ Many small common boutiques have strange shoe ranges. A range (clothes, shoes, anything) is like a story. Enter some of the smaller shoe shops, and it’s like you’ve entered a crap novel that takes you all around the world without getting to the freaking point. And that’s how it felt. My patience thins out until my brain feels like it’s going to vomit. I’m peeved, because most decent shoes are far too pricey for me to consider, and the affordable shoe outlets have 80% crap that ought to retail for twenty, instead of eighty dollars. So I settled with a hundred and forty, for the boots, and felt the sweet sense of relief claim me.

The sexiest shoe shopping experiences occur in high end stores, for two reasons: quality shoes and great service. Everywhere else, or the little boutique with supposedly trendy shoes (Shoobiz, Novo, Payless, etc) are terrible, with the capacity of stretching the patience of a saint, and there is nothing that annoys me more than a shoe sales assistant that knows nothing about shoes.  I had a girl try to sell me a pair of boots today, and on closer inspection, the shoes she brought for me to try (in the box) had scuffed heels (even a tiny scuff mark is enough to put me off - between 1 to 2 millimeters). Admittedly, I did commit the cardinal sin. Shopped for shoes at the wrong time of day - in the late afternoon, when my feet tend to bloat more (which makes constant try-ons a pain), but there is the other thing:

The best time to shop for shoes is when you don’t really need them. Murphy’s Law tends to kick in when you need a particular shoe.

There has to be something wrong with me, for me to find shoe shopping a nightmare. I’d like to say it’s a sexy experience, but the only way it can be a sexy experience for me is if I miraculously wound up with a cute male store assistant with a foot fetish (for the free foot massage) or won the national lottery. That’s an idea. Why aren’t there foot masseurs in shoe stores? I’d pay twenty dollars extra for a fifteen minute foot massage. Shopping is exercise.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to soak my footsies in my electric foot spa.

Image: (Shoes that I can't afford) Christian Louboutin

June 04, 2008

Charlotte, Carrie, Samantha and Miranda: 4 Phases of Womanhood?

I never thought I'd ever read about Sex and the City topping Indiana Jones, but it's happened, and as it is happening, as every single article – from razor reviews to SJP's dummy spit at the secondhand Nina Ricci dress – appears on the web, I still think I'm going to wait for the DVD to come out before I fork out money to see it. Despite adding the London premiere on Lucrezia Magazine, I can't say I'm immediately sold on the idea of a film that may (or may not – or hopefully not) become a sequel.

Much has been made about the superficiality of Sex and the City. Susannah Breslin explores the views of noted sex writers, in her Salon article 'Those Dirty Girls,' and the views of prominent US writers are relevant. Rachel Kramer Bussel states that Carrie's life as a writer doesn't reflect her own experiences, and although I live all the way down here, on the arse end of the world, I'd concede. I was always amazed how Carrie could afford to shop at Dior, Blahnik, and never sweat her credit card bill. It was fucking amazing she was approved for a credit line based on her once weekly newspaper column. Susie Bright adds her view, and she is quite justified. As one of the pioneering sex writers who explored, discussed and wrote (and still writes) about sexuality before Candice Bushnell began her column in the New York Observer, she deserves more recognition than the imaginary Prada-Dior-Louboutin-Choo crew in Sex and the City.

SATC doesn't proclaim to be education, nor does it offer any tips/advice on relationships. Then again, it is comedy and is more about friendship and lifestyle, than sex and intimacy. I don't think the female characters were ever comfortable within their skin, and this has been a major issue for many women. Body image still permeates through mass media; women are forever going on diets in order to show society (or potentially significant others) they are in control of their lives. One would think that women, with a sky-high income (such as the SATC characters) would be comfortable with their identity based on their achievements, income and independence, but the show obviously says that independence isn't enough.

This morning, after my return from my local library, and seeing the computers hogged by Internet geeks (one of whom browsed every singe SATC web article), I decided to delete all my Google entertainment news alerts: talk about SATC saturation. Marketing is a strange thing. Before you know it, a film becomes embedded into one's mind. I arrived upon a sudden thought:

What if the four female characters in SATC don't represent individuals? What if they represent different phases in a woman's life based on social trends and fixations?

Let's begin with Charlotte. Charlotte can represent the earliest stage of a woman's life, fitting somewhere between the cessation of childhood and the onset of adolescence. She can be a new teen or a late teen. To her, love conquers everything but she has no idea how to define love, and it is defined by external stimuli: golden oldie television romances, the Brady Bunch, every single bullshit new-age soulmate guide, and it can go on. It is the primitive stage of womanhood, one that is draped with naïve ideas that have no real foundation, where one lives on a cotton candy pedestal: life will be complete once marriage occurs, the most important day of a woman's life is her wedding day, ad nauseum.
After the Charlotte stage is complete – when modern life conflicts with romantic ideals – the Carrie stage opens up. This is like the Destiny's Child phase; she is bootylicious and independent, making a life for herself but a part of her itches for the ideal relationship, one that sweeps her away from the headaches of her daily existence. She wants the soul mate, and although she is mature enough to know that people have faults, she continually puts herself last, possibly emulating her (idea of) mother: everything her mother failed at (in her eyes), she can better. She is the fixer-upper; the guy fucks her around, and she is left with the pieces, but not to worry because 'life is a challenge, and what better than a real-life jigsaw?' After all, she has everything or is led to believe that women can have everything, even fuck like men, and come on, she is smart enough to distinguish between the soul mate and asshole. What's wrong with having as many sex partners as shoes?

Enter Samantha. Samantha is the inner slut, the woman who is sick and tired of all the double standards and moves forth to shatter the social myths, except that society is quite comfortable and stubborn; it does not want to upset the status quo and prefers to move through the path of least resistance. Samantha says, 'why can't I live my life like a man?' and she goes ahead and takes on that challenge, naively thinking that all men live this way or 'fuck this way.' She reels them in, and flings them out after they've satisfied their purpose – to fuck – and she eats breakfast alone and prefers the company of her neurotic female friends. It's any wonder that she evolves. Her friends are enablers, and they don't find any faults within the emotionally immature Samantha, whose priorities revolve around her sexual conquests. Up to this point, she has dealt with her naïve ideals, transformed into a fiercely independent woman but fails to grasp the reality of compromise. Although sexually independent, her bravado hides the chinks in her armor.

Samantha enters the Miranda stage after she lowers her guard, opens herself up to intimacy and trust, to see it wither away due to her own insecurities, that also shine light on ideals that never really dissolved: her hankering for her knight exists in her deepest regions. Shattered, embittered and slightly rattled by the realization that relationships require a little more than mastering the Kama Sutra, she knuckles down and becomes the uber professional. She earns more than most men, and this unsettles every partner she dates, not that she is worried. The idea of never being her mother, reliant on a man, comforts her immensely. She can pick and choose, but she fears doing so, so she settles for jocular asides, sarcasm and dry humor whenever the subject of men and relationships arises at the girlie breakfast. She uses cynicism to mask her perceived loneliness. She has lost her yen for 'fucking like a man,' and takes sex as she sees it, or according to her mood. Sex is no longer about frequency, numbers of partners or experience. She doesn't feel that she has to measure up to her friends, or society, but a part of her – due to mainstream society and/or its marketed images of female perfection (fashion, body, relationships and marriage) – still ponders the possibility of attaining a workable relationship.

The above 4 phases aren't concrete, there are many phases within an individual, but each SATC character - as an individual - is in transition, which is quite alarming when their ages and supposed professions are taken into account.

March 20, 2008

Covet

I don't know what it is, exactly, but a shopping trip unleashes the inner little girl with me.
I love pretty things.
I adore pretty things.
Today, I would have needed a fifty thousand dollar credit card to satisfy the objects that were arousingRiki my pleasure zone; most were made from leather. Top item (pictured right), is the Jimmy Choo Riki bag. I fell for it, and almost fell on my ass when I saw the price tag in David Jones for a little over two thousand dollars, but it was worth it because prior to that moment, I chanced the Marc Jacobs collection in the store, and I have to say, I don't understand the big deal about Marc Jacobs (his Louis Vuitton creations are mind boggling - to me).  Matching the Jacobs handbags at DJ's with any outfit would require an entire wardrobe renovation. And the colors? Let's not go there.

But the Riki bag...oh man. Biker leather and watersnake trim. A nice handbag is a sexy thing.

If you're a handbag aficionado, check out  The Bag Lady

December 09, 2007

18 Karat Kiss-Kiss

What do you buy a woman who has everything?

You give her a Kiss-Kiss…

Guerlain is upping the ante, including a whopping US $62,000 lipstick within its Kiss Kiss range. It appears that diamond sales are falling under fair-trade styled requirements. The diamonds embedded in the lipstick case are ‘conflict’ free.

The price tag includes a personal consultation with Guerlain artistic director Olivier Echaudemaison, to discover your own personal shade, a lipstick hue that will not be duplicated, which adds exclusivity.

Lipstick is the most agonizing buy for me. I spent hours gazing at endless tubes in department stores, to walk away, noting to return another day. Finding the perfect shade is akin to finding the perfect shoe. I purchase less than five pairs of shoes a year, because I’m god damned fussy; I buy less than one tube of lipstick a year. If I find a great shade, I’ll buy two. My most recent disappointment was Clinique’s discontinuation of its Black Honey lip stain; I still have the gloss, thank goodness.

Is Guerlain’s latest product astronomical and outrageous? You bet, but a part of me is unable to quash the first cosmetic memory in my life, namely my mother agonizing over lipstick selection on her meager widow’s pension. Lipstick, to her, wasn’t limited to the shade; it was also about the case. A woman has to take her lipstick tube out of her handbag, to apply it, and it wouldn’t do to display a shoddy or ill designed lipstick case. That was the reason she gave me after my continuous whining; how long would it take, I’d think? It was excruciating, but I came face to face with similar frustration as an adult; one hundred shades, and I can’t find the one I desire?

In the world of femininity, and it certainly goes back to Mesopotamia (circ: 6000 BC), lipstick is a staple. A half dressed face is one that lacks lipstick. One cannot apply foundation, eye shadow, and overlook lipstick: there is no point. Lipstick or lip stains are associated with our feminine bits; sexual arousal reroutes blood flow to the vulva, engorging our intimate pair of lips, and stained facial lips can be viewed as mimicking sexual arousal, but more importantly, lipstick can be considered a visual tag, highlighting libido. There are numerous associations with lipstick. Some think lipstick aids to enhance male arousal; others think that lipstick forms an additional barrier. Lipstick can be any thing, but one thing I know is that I’ve never kissed any one who is repulsed by lipstick. For me, it’s the additional layer that needs to be penetrated: a sexual prerequisite. Yet in my every day life, it can be many things or has come to mean many things for various people. Wear a vivid shade in a drab work environment, and watch the reaction as you walk by. I’ve done this wearing Rouge Bingo (Dior). Loud, vivid, and eye catching, my co-workers were curious as to my reasoning, and boldness, something that says more about my then workplace. The sexual connotations may be salient, especially among the more repressed co-workers I’ve experienced, their reasoning immediately being linked to my supposed sexual goals: ‘she’s wearing lipstick for a specific person.’

I don’t wear lipstick at work to impress any males; it’s my own individual stamp or the last shred of individuality that I am able to display within a regimented corporation. I do, however, have an erotic quirk where fellatio is concerned; I love lipstick blowjobs. I adore painting shafts, with various pigmented shades, and go further, to avoid eroding my lipstick throughout the cock thrust and suck; it requires detailed pre-application, I’m talking about lip primer, lip liner, lipstick, blot, followed by a seal, and so on.

Lipstick, aside from its decorative function, is a powerful instrument. Its sublime subtlety is unchallenged. There is no women’s magazine today, that doesn’t feature a lipstick. Whether it be a model in an editorial ad, or a stand alone advert, lipstick is king. 92 million American women wear lipstick on a daily basis. Many women wouldn’t leave the house without priming their lips beforehand.

Guerlain’s lipstick may be considered excessive, astronomical or a downright insult, but the power within that 18 K gold diamond encrusted tube is plain to see, and such power – like everything else – has both negative and positive connotations. In the hands of a skanky Coke Queen, it screams ‘spoilt rotten,’ whereas in the hands of an executive or professional woman, it implies refined taste. While it can be said that the package is often superficial, presentation is a daily requisite. Everything from attire, to work projects, is received favorably based on presentation.

Now for the most expensive lipstick in the world...

November 28, 2007

Sexshop 365 & Moi: New Endeavors

I can be hopeless writing about me, myself and I, except to say that you can check out my writer link here and visit a wonderful adult store outlet, Sexshop 365.

I'll be contributing writing, exploring the sexual arena, and enjoying the sexy fun.



June 14, 2007

Objects d’Art: LELO Nea Mini Vibrator Review

My not so fond memories, of sex toys are related to high powered (or noisy) vibrators, that have a distinctive phallic flavor, one of which was the source of some impromptu embarrassment in a public café on an afternoon I decided to open the surprise -prank- birthday present from two girlfriends. Luckily things change over time; sex toys have benefited in the area of design and technical innovation.

The Nea, from LELO (Luxury Erotic Lifestyle Objects), offers discretion that is second to none. Its ornate porcelain-like finish, and rounded curves add an artistic edge . It reminded me of a bent egg, with a subtle pleasure point. Its floral motifs accentuate each curve, and when added to its petite size; if it wasn’t a sex toy, it could sit in the high fashion accessory section of any clothing boutique. Such is its finery.

Black1I took the risk and slipped it into my bag, took it to work and revealed it when the coast cleared a little. I sat at my desk massaging my neck with the curvaceous toy, to be asked a few questions such as where I bought the nifty gadget. The person posting this question did not know or realise that the Nea pleasure object was a sex toy.

‘It’s gorgeous, what is it?’ one said. When I activated it, and rubbed my temples, they assumed it was a new line facial massager. ‘Ideal for office stress,’ I replied, gazing at my new little baby Black Pearl affectionately.

‘It’s light,’ another began, to conclude that it felt quite fab pressed against the junction of their neck and shoulder. Its gentle hum, or vibration, added more points.

I didn’t reveal its elite sex toy status. I would like to point out that I had not, as yet, intimately trialed the Nea. Nonetheless, it proved to be an interesting non sexual experiment. I did fear for its safety; its floral décor, smooth texture, curves and lightness appealed to a high degree. Those I showed could not stop touching it, and neither could I after I returned home.

The LELO Nea makes a ideal gift, and its ingenious shape and lightness (39 grams of mind altering pleasure) make it a fantastic introduction to clitoral vibrators, especially for women who are yet to make their first purchase. A sex toy need not be shaped like a penis to provide pleasure when the clitoris is the prime pleasure zone. The Nea may be small, and fit in the palm of the hand, but this doesn’t limit its capacity to pleasure.

Nea is a chargeable toy, thus eliminating the need for battery purchase, and has a one-year warranty from the date of purchase. It comes with its own charger, and three socket outlets, that should enable anyone, from any part of the world, to charge it on any outlet. It operates on an internal Lithium battery, and once charged has a stand by time of up to 90 days. It takes two hours to charge fully, and can provide seven hours of erotic delights. Simple to use; it has two buttons, framed by a LED screen. The minus button acts to turn the toy off, and to descend from a high setting, whereas the plus button increases the intensity of the vibration.

Fully charged, and ready to go, I initially whirled it up and down, over my pants. There are no marked lines that demarcate vibration levels, as you increase the intensity using the + button. Spontaneity lies in the Nea’s simplicity. I pressed until I reached the highest intensity, and felt comfortable with the fact that its soft hum didn’t remind me of a large dentist drill (that resonates with every suture in your skull). This toy can be safely placed in your panties; it was the most fun I had washing the dishes for a long time.

Things heated up in my boudoir. I introduced it to my pudenda, one that has been accustomed to directBlack2  digital stimulation for a few years now, and rested the Nea so its pleasure point curved over my clitoris. Reaching orgasm in this position takes a little longer, but it’s pleasurable just the same. The merits of its shape enable a comfortable grip. I started off by stimulating the outskirts, the crease between both sets of labia, arcing the pleasure point around the area. It offered a steady, gentle hum. I then roved further inward, caressing the inner labia, working my way upward to tease the clitoral hood, where I remained.

The curved shape of the pleasure point offers gentle stimulation, regardless of the setting. The Nea’s shape guarantees a smooth ride, regardless of intensity. There is no danger of overshooting the mark, for your clitoris to cry out in pain or discomfort. My strokes varied. At my clitoris, I started with the tried and tested circular strokes that reminded me of my fingers, with added pizzazz. I then worked the pleasure point up and down, from clitoris to perineum. The steady vibration extended to my urethra, and added vivid hues or spices to the experience.

Throughout all this, I felt myself relax, right down to my feet while my arousal ascended. I have to admit that it was a longer climb for me, not the same as my usual orgasmic outburst. Nonetheless, the fruits of my vibratory pleasure proved as the toy demands respect, and perhaps forces one to appreciate the steady climb. It was as I reached the peak, as I swirled the pleasure point over my clitoris (strangely enough, it brought to mind playing a guitar using a pick to pluck each note), that the first orgasmic rippled sashayed through; deliciously smooth, it was a far cry from the immediate orgasmic jolt I usually experience with manual stimulation. The Nea is a clitoral stimulator and serves this purpose, but it also stirs every skin receptor surrounding the clitoris, taking each receptor to the next quantum and keeping each receptor suspended in a pleasant state of arousal As an added post orgasmic bonus, I ran the pleasure point down, over my clitoris, to intensify the post orgasmic contractions.

Pluses:

Discreet, quiet vibration. Ideal if you’re sharing a residence and don’t want your roomies listening in. Barely audible under the covers.

Two buttons mean easy navigation. No knobs to twist and turn.

Ideal for gentle clitoral stimulation.

Ideal for any one new to sex toys and/or clitoral stimulators.

Its size minimizes travel dramas; can be locked by simultaneously pressing the +/- buttons to prevent accidental activation.

Packaging, shape and presentation make for an ideal romantic/sexy gift.

LELO products do not contain Phthaletes.

Orders from Black Label also include a plush pouch for luxurious storage.

~~

Price: AUD $125.00, US $105.31, GBP 53.50 & EURO 78.83

LELO Nea is available from Lelo, and from many major sex toy distributors 

May 16, 2007

La Femme (Retail) Nikita

News of the upcoming APEC summit is causing a stir here in Sydney; our trains are a nightmare as it is, and now the authorities are planning on blocking out all mobile networks. I didn't really want to hear about Bush after spending time last night watching a TV program highlighting the top twenty political gaffs; George came out on top, and my son started impersonating him (and driving me batty) the remainder of the night, 'It'll take taiiimme to restore chaos!'

With this APEC conference, I guess I should be happy that I’m not using a cell phone, but catching the train will be a bugger so I spent part of the day thinking about taking annual leave around the time Dubya pops in for a visit, and along with that thought, I decided on some heavy duty retail therapy after work…

Fem2I really don’t want to look at my receipts, but the one thing I’ll reveal is that I tend to go kind of stupid whenever I have a bloke on the brain. So you could say that I had some sex on the brain as I shopped. I bought three bras. The two previous bargain basement bras gave out in the wash; one underwire popped out one day, digging into my chest, and I thought I was having some kind of heart attack only to discover the fucking thing in the Ladies. The things women go through…tell ya! As for the second, the hook on the strap broke as I was looking for yoghurt in the deli aisle. The remainder, those comfortably folded in my drawer, are everyday types of bras, so I decided to spruce up the lingerie drawer again and two hundred dollars later?

I feel like a new woman!
Umm, not really, but there’s a huge difference between a cheapie bra and a ‘oh, there goes the utility bill,’ type of bra. The latter almost always conjures up images of sweat infused sex, whereas the former is like another day in the office.

I didn’t stop there, I found a fitted shirt for work, and one that accentuates my boobs nicely; if you’ve got them you may as well flaunt them. No point waiting until I’m fifty. The clothing trip was followed by two pairs of pants, and well…add another couple of hundred to the kitty, to please Miss Kitty, and then it was off to the cosmetics counters, to stock up on perfume.

I’ll just cough up and confess. After my recent experience, I didn’t want to be a total dag at work, to be caught out looking like a dag, by one of the hottest males I’d seen in two years.

The gals at the Lancôme counter were so happy to see me before closing time. I needed a bottle of Tresor, asap. Lo and behold, they had a special gift offer, and just as I was about to explode in a climactic reverie of retail pleasure, Tresor is my secret weapon (no one has resisted it so far, and I asked myself why – the fuck – was I holding out for so long, wearing other perfumes by day?), the gals mentioned another special offer. So there I was with another –pretty- box, filled with three lippies, bronzer, mascara…. an orgasmic delight.

As I was paying, I caught sight of the huge poster and reminded myself to check the corners of my mouth for drool.

There was Clive staring at me, his sultry eyes aflame, and oh my, I thought.

‘Can you put him in my shopping bag? I’d really like to take him home,’ I said, thinking thoughts involving handcuffs, whipped cream, sweat, remote control sex toys (guys like remotes, I’m thinking Clive would like a remote to play with) and a myriad of naughty things.

The woman serving me started giggling. She would have been in her mid to late forties.

‘He’s really nice isn’t he? He’s the new…’

‘Oh yeah, I know…’ I know everything there is to know about lovely Clive being the new Lancôme male rep, I said.

Ka-Chink…

All up, five hundred. All gone, then again I hadn't done that in six months. I have to be in lust, otherwise I’d be satisfied with a Penguin Classic.

Image: Getty

May 08, 2007

Shopping, Sex, Body Image & Other Calorific Moments

I’m not a huge fan of boutiques, or shopping for clothes; trendy apparel caters to women who dedicate their lives to the Zone School of Thought. I set out to update my winter wardrobe; winter’s coming down to Sydney, and I popped into a couple of shops, deciding to steel myself. Shop assistants drive me mad. They’re trained to be in your face within sixty seconds. Seriously, our police department here has a hard time controlling gang violence in places like George Street, and I can only imagine how organized it would be if we – god forbid – had a terrorist alert. My idea? Boutique assistants, or amateur fashionistas, ought to be enlisted in the police force; they’ll be there within a minute flat if it meant a commission.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m looking,’ I replied, thinking that there is no way in hell I’m going to get half of my arse cheek in aDietcock  pair of black pants. I’m not a size 10, then again a size 10 here in Australia has transformed into a size 8 or what a size 8 used to be, so a size 8 has become a 6, and a size 6 may as well operate as a diagnosis for anorexia nervosa.

I wanted to satisfy my twisted mind. It’s a form of masochism, I think. My fingers walked along the coat hangers, while my mind tallied up all the miniscule sizes on the rack.

‘Hmm, I don’t think we stock your size,’ said the straight up and down, peroxide blonde beanpole.

(I don’t recall asking you, Miss Paris Hilton wannabe.)

But I didn’t say it. This issue of finding normal sized clothing is bigger than my Greek arse. It’s global. Sometimes I enter the crazy zone, my inner Travis Bickle and think it’s all some sort of plan; Environmental paranoia cum box office craziness, thanks to one Al Gore, and before we know it we’ll be on food rations, monitoring every calorie (Tic Tacs included), just to save a few yards of fabric. A little bit like a Mad Magazine cover, where Alfred E Neuman upgrades his slogan to, ‘What, me eat?’, followed by a shot of him in low riding or better yet, dangling hipster jeans that are held up by his penis or scrotum. This is what I don't understand. A woman's pair of hipsters have to be tight, whereas a man's version of 'low riding crotch to the floor'  or MC Hammer styled jeans have yards of fabric. Like women have a limited ration or something,either that or men need extra fabric to show us their boxer shots (or Calvin elastic band, like it's Cartier) or guard their precious family jewels.

I decided to buy a scarf. She folded it, and had the audacity to ask me if I wanted a bag.

‘Yes, I do want a bag.’

Continue reading "Shopping, Sex, Body Image & Other Calorific Moments" »

April 09, 2007

Sex & Music

I was reading about the OhMiBod online the other day (it takes me a while to catch up a lot of news), as I was typing a story, and thought it logical; the marriage of sexual arousal and music makes sense. This vibrator would have to be the most innovative vibrators for women. It only goes to show that a sex toy doesn't have to be neon hued to be innovative; it all depends on what its functions are. Personally, I find the idea of listening to a steady vibratory hum tedious. The thought unraveled further, probably because I was busying myself with a story for my Sex & Music blog. Anyway, if you’re intrigued by the innovative idea of blending song with vibes, you should step into the Lazy Geisha, where Nina has written a comprehensive review on the OhMiBod. It’s sold on me. The idea of listening to my favorite CD of all time, Metallica's S & M, kinda makes me hot.

~~

Did you say story with sex?

Thierry is a man about town. He makes the occupational equivalent of a sea change, opting for a job where he’s in full control. It’s a job that allows him to eat his sexual cake….

That is, until he checks his voice messages and is intrigued by the youngish, female voice on the other end….

The story resides in Sex & Music.

It’s written to the tunes of one of my favorite Aussie bands, Silverchair. The song is from their new CD Young Modern.

Click here to enter my Sex & Music Blog and directly to the story, and leave your erotic plot expectations and/or inhibitions at the door.

April 07, 2007

The Getaway

I’m the type who prefers a dental appointment to a regular trip to the supermarket. The final day of the working week saw me race into the supermarket. I had a plan: to be in and out in less time than Warholian fame. I stopped at the fruit section, and decided to buy something different: ladyfinger bananas.

My shopping list consisted of items that would get us all through Good Friday. Enough for a cholesterol packed breakfast, and pita bread lunch; the pita (along with the tomatoes, tuna, lettuce and ricotta cheese) balances out the guilt, and drowns out the sound of my GP announcing the result of my last cholesterol test.

The music at the supermarket has been replaced with the steady hum of refrigerators, chatter and packers unloading boxes. Dreary. A part of me thinks, as I head into the dairy section (for the Ricotta) that it’s all about cost cutting. People brainstorm the most stupid things where cost cutting is concerned, just to get that pat on the back. A lot like the bright spark at my place of employ that decided to eliminate cups from the water cooler, offering environmental reasoning as their logic when we go through reams of paper per day. But what is a ream when people aim to ream upper management with their (idiotic) ideas?

Continue reading "The Getaway" »

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