Breasts as a Weapon of Mass Destruction

February 4, 2012 I was threatened today with a 40D. That’s the woman’s bra size. She has always had large breasts but at 54 years old, it seems like they continue to grow. Coupled with gravity, she complains that now when she sits down, her breasts rest on her thighs. Another issue for her is her temper. Today, for the first time, she combined the two frustrations into one wholesome weapon: she threatened to bend down and whack me with her “titties” if I kept talking. 

Ignoring for a moment that I HATE the “t” word, I couldn’t help but laugh. Laugh out loud, and she did too. It was funny. In fact, throughout the course of the day, she made the threat four times, the last one being (in jest) “I’m gone fuck you up. Just wait till I take my bra off.”

With the focus of my book being “Down There” instead of “up here,” I haven’t had an occasion to discuss breasts much. That changed today thanks to my friend with the lethal hoohas. Now that her choice of weapon had become a running joke we could move on to other things involving her girls, as many women like to call them.

She unwittingly revealed that she keeps her bra on during sex. “I’m afraid they’re gonna smother the guy,” she explained. I wanted details, such as: What if he wants to see them? And, “What do you do if you want him to touch them - kiss them?”

She said, with as little description as possible, that she pops one out when she wants the extra attention up there. Fishing for specifics, I asked if she pops each out one at a time, or does she do the Kim Kardashian and pop them both out at the same time? Does she have a favorite? Does she give instruction? The answers?: “I have to serve it to him one at a time. I don’t want him to choke - shit, I’m not through with him yet,” she explained. Also, she has no favorite, and offers plenty of guidance. She likes whipped cream and hates when the guy buries his head in her cleavage for a toilet flush.

I’m a 38C - a simple two sizes and one cup from hers, but an insanely huge world of difference. Our conversation continued. She used to shop at Victoria’s Secret, but now prefers the economy of JC Penney. She has an impressive collection of beautiful bras, including a few underwires and even a push up. When she’s home alone, she lets the girls hang loose, including at night when she’s sleeping.

She’s sitting beside me right now at her kitchen table and thinks (with an equal amount of humor and flummox) that, “it’s a bit fucked up” that I’m writing about her breasts. I think the final straw was when I asked her if she prefers cotton or silk. ”Georgia,” she said. “You know what, I’m gonna ignore you and just drink my damn vodka.”

I guess letting me to take a photo for the blog is out of the question. 

My Turn to Go Bare

January 10, 2012  Without commentary or judgment, a dear friend pointed out over pizza and Proseco that I opened a coffeehouse when I didn’t even like coffee. Yes, I did! In fact, in order to even get a clue about what type of coffee to sell, I hosted a sampling party with a half dozen java die-hards.

And of course, I also wrote my first book, Headwraps: A Global Journey, without wearing headwraps on a regular basis, and wrote a children’s book (How Langston Leaf Delayed Winter) even though I don’t have a child.

So it should come as no surprise that I wrote a book about shaving pubic hair even though I’ve never shaven down there myself.

Here we are though - a new year, and just like how I eventually tried (and learned to love!) coffee, I am ready to finally shave it all off. Well, not me per se. The honor will go to a friend of mine. I can’t decide on an alter ego name for him, so I’ll just call him Red - the color of the shirt he was wearing when I dug my face into his chest after our first kiss.

As it turns out, Red prefers women to be completely shaven. In fact, he insists on it if he’s going to perform oral sex. This attitude, of course, suggests two things: 1) that when we have sex, a part of it will be oral, and 2) that it will be phenomenal in order to make sure that it’s worth the woman’s efforts.

Hmmm, this is rather appealing. Let’s take a moment and get a clear picture of who Red is. When I dug my face in his chest, I realized that he is so tall that my nose lines up exactly with his contoured peeks. Mmmmm. He’s dark. He’s spiritual. Has a great smile, big hands and is devoid of weird ticks. He’s slim, dresses like a grown-up and knows his way around a toolbox. Oh, and he eats out.

Which brings me to the topic at hand. My impending non-bush. The pages of my book, Down There: Narratives About the Joy, Aroma & Overall Existence of the Bush,” are riddled with people who go bare all the time. There are stories of women who’ve let their boyfriends shave it for them. And stories about how sex reached the rafters after going bare. I remember the telling of each story, and how each face was elated with the recall, as if they could all still feel the orgasm. Oh yes, orgasms apparently abound with a shaven pubic. Hmmm, only time will tell.

When I told my girlfriend about Red’s offer to shave me, I wasn’t sure how she would react. Not that she’s a prude or even judgmental. But she’s different from me. I like telling her things because I think she’s a good gauge of healthy behavior. She was quiet for a few seconds and drew in a breath, immediately prompting me to start to downplay all the enthusiasm I’d built up. “Yeah, I know, it’s creepy,” I started to suggest. But before I could get it out, she surprised me and said, “That’s so sexy!”  To which I proclaimed, “Yeah, right!”

Red has it all planned: A bottle of wine, a full evening of romance and breakfast in the morning. The skeptical part of me knows I’ll have to check his apartment for hidden cameras, but beyond that I have to admit that I’m really looking forward to it. A full report to come in a future posting.

Home Sweet Home

Last week, I did my first middle America book signing of Down There: Narratives About the Joy, Aroma and Overall Existence of the Bush. I went to St. Louis, my hometown and the perfect, long overdue test market to gauge the book’s reach and overall ability to connect with everyone with a pubic. Oh, the shock and awe!! Especially among older women. Shock, awe, a whole lot of head shaking, and a little bit of head bending between the knees. But also boundless laughter and multiple purchases.

True or not, I grew up with the legend that Disney originally wanted to build its behemoth Walt Disney World Resort in St. Louis, but after city officials bombarded it with middle America morals and stipulations, the gazillion dollar business was moved to Orlando. Really?! If a bastion of family values didn’t stand a chance, what made me think a book that put those values on blast ever could?

Because Down There speaks to our humanity. It reminds us that we are all human and no matter what the experience, we are not alone. And while the subject matter falls in the category of something one might take to the grave, it is not bad. If spoken, it will not reveal one’s dark side. It is not a sin to be confessed or something one might regret on Judgment Day. It is an experience. A simple experience that, thanks to Down There, is increasingly becoming the topic of hilariously open and honest conversations.

At the book signing, which was held at The Coffee Cartel in the Central West End neighborhood of St. Louis, one guy reflected that the first time he went down on a girl was 25 years ago, and how that experience and several others in that relationship changed his life. He said this without shame or embarrassment in front of old friends he hadn’t seen in decades.

A sixty-five year old woman proclaimed she’s never shaved, and wouldn’t think of doing it because right now, she’s just trying to keep what she’s got. In all her life, she had never had a conversation about the bush - hers, or anyone else’s.

One guy, who’d already purchased 12 copies by mail, bought one more because he loved it that much. (Or maybe he loves me… I’m still working that one out.)

A 32-year-old woman who only started dating four years ago and is unnecessarily shamed with her lack of experience, was elated to have what amounted to a floodgate of insight.

As with any book signing, there were a few people who didn’t purchase a copy, and that’s okay. It’s okay because every single person that was there at least read part of it. They read it and talked about it. They laughed out loud, then they talked about themselves - either to me or to the friends they came with.

It was great to be home. I should return more often. It was also good to be back in middle America and do a signing outside of New York City. I should do more of them.

The Phenomenon of POP

Trevor, a short man with a gumbo pot belly and bulging button eyes rented a room from me last week. He’d come to New York from the outskirts of Seattle to spend time with a woman he met over the Internet.

Trevor lives a dull, uneventful life. The co-owner of a small town mattress store, he has no children and few close friends. Blushing through the pale skin typical of Seattleites, he has fond memories of the early days with his Sudanese ex-wife. She and a dozen other women before and since have, however, crushed his heart. Yet here he was, mid-fifties, incredibly smart, somewhat business savvy, and devoid of swagger. And… he had hope.

Hope that he was going to get laid. Hope that what he had to offer – a little bit of money, a big heart, complete devotion and the willingness to eat the hell out of his woman’s pussy – would be enough to overcome any shortcomings he had with his paltry looks and penis.

Trevor had hope in spades. He strutted the unseasonably warm streets of Harlem with bounce, striking up conversations with everyone he encountered, such as The Barber. Trevor chatted up a barber with an empty shop. Without much convincing, he went in and got a haircut. It was a lousy haircut. Even so, Trevor thanked the barber and gave him a big tip.

The bartender. Next, Trevor went well over his weakling two-beer limit at a dimly lit Mexican bar & lounge with half-dressed women and a dismissive bartender. He had fun and bought a round of drinks for everyone, in spite of the fact that they all ignored him as a non-Spanish speaking outsider.

The waiter: Trevor made his way to a Moroccan restaurant where he laughed and talked with the waiter and owner even though he was shamelessly charged the tourist price for a meal he didn’t even enjoy.

Me: Trevor’s hotel couldn’t accommodate him for the Thursday he arrived in NY and the Sunday before he left. He stayed with me Thursday night and then paid in advance to return Sunday. I can’t explain why. I don’t like all that talking and repeatedly shut him down before he could complete every sentence he started.

This was a man filled with hope. He was going to get laid, a simple knowledge that propelled him into a happy oblivion. Let’s call it the Possibility of Pubic, or POP: a euphoric state that makes a person uncharacteristically regard insults and infractions as compliments to be rewarded.

Not to be mistaken with the phenomenon known as “being whipped,” POP is not directed at a single person. When someone is whipped, he or she is under the spell of a single person, forsaking everyone else. When a person is POP’d that love-energy is directed at everyone else, unfortunately often forsaking him or herself.

I’ve been POP’d myself. Six years ago while dating an Atlanta man of extreme strength and pubic endowment, I was POP’d for a full three weeks before each flight. The world around me benefited. I didn’t snap. I didn’t stress. I didn’t frown. I was helplessly blissed. To be clear, I don’t mean to write blessed - a state I always felt on the flight home. As in, I am so blessed to have that man in my life. No, this was something different. In the weeks before the trip, the Possibility of Pubic launched me into a state of bliss that to this day, even though he and I broke up and rarely speak, still makes me smile.

Inflicting POP onto a person as a form of manipulation (such as what the keen Lady Anne Boleyn did to poor King Henry XIII) is another blog. As is how the hopeful Trevor felt when he returned from his much-anticipated romp. For now however, I encourage all of you to think about your own experiences with the phenomenon. If you haven’t had it in awhile, seek it out. It’s better than a drug, is completely legal, lasts longer, and unless you do something to fuck it up, ends with an orgasm.

Pubic Tells

It is said that everyone has a tell. A twitch of the lip, a downward glance, or a flip of the hair can mean a person is lying. Wardrobe and jewelry reveal a sense of style. Weight, complexion and teeth shed light on eating habits. Handwriting shows gender, strength, and level of confidence. An onslaught of intimate details can be gleaned just by observing someone’s personal habits. But not what that person does down there.

There was a line in the 2010 movie, The Other Guys, where Hal tells Terry, “You probably think that because of the beard that I’m really hairy, but uh, I’m not. Shaved.” Ignoring the fact that Hal admitted to shaving his pubic hair, something a growing number of men do on a regular basis, my point here is that its impossible to assume what a person does with his or her bush. But what if it weren’t?

What if there were such a thing as a “tell” for the bush? It could be conscious or unconscious. The unconscious first. Sixteen teams, each staffed with a poker player, hypnotist, cultural anthropologist, pubicologist, and animal behaviorist would be tasked with identifying the elusive traits. Starting from an understanding of the 16 known personality types and taking into consideration that no two people are alike, these teams could quite possibly do the impossible: Pair minute behaviors with a person’s pubic maintenance. Perhaps women who are completely shaven unconsciously skip every third step. Men who secretly manscape bite their nails. Men who proudly manscape grin ever so slightly before they take a bite. Women who never trim make a fist when they laugh. Women who trim before sex lick their teeth when they turn their head to the left.

Of course, this study of human behavior would be like a giant lollipop that takes several million licks just to get past the candy coating. It would take years. The alternative until then is establishing a catalog of conscious tells.

History is filled with stories where outward signs have been used to hint to personal interests. In New Orleans and Martinique, turbans were once wrapped with a specific number of points sticking up to signal if a woman was single, engaged or married. In Russia, girls once wore red ribbons to show they were of marrying age. In France and London, women held their delicately laced fans a certain way to signal if they wanted a man to approach. Everything from flowers to business cards have been used as conscious tells to discreetly define a person’s intentions. I say we establish a new system of tells for the 21st century. Pubic Tells.

A French manicure can mean a woman has a landing strip. A handkerchief folded a certain way can mean a man trims but doesn’t shave. A woman who sits with her toes pointed is completely shaven, but who sits with her toes flexed is only trimmed.

Establishing a system such as this does two things. First, it automatically presses the refresh button on the dating scene. Dating will become fun again (or maybe for the first time) because all parties will know instantly whose flirting and what they’re saying. Second, it will be a way for pubic snobs – people who only date those who have a specific style of pubic maintenance – to know who is their type before ever saying hello.

Let men keep their beards. Let women dress like prairie librarians. Neither of those have ever been a reliable way to determine what a person does down there anyway. But consciously or unconsciously, it just might be possible to make an educated guess.

Pubicology

February 6, 2011 On New Year’s Eve, I closed Globetrippin, my coffeehouse and bookstore in New York, for ten days and flew to Munich. In tote was a single suitcase, my laptop, iPhone and a strict budget of $100. I purposely left behind my iPod, with thousands of well-loved, but getting-tired-of-listening-to-over-and-over songs. I knew Tafara, my friend and host in Germany, would hook me up with a fresh playlist full of eclectic, danceable music. True to form, within hours of me landing, Tafara did exactly that. Unfortunately, not all of it was great. Some in fact, were down right unlistenable and I wondered what she was thinking. Even so, I kept it and I continue to listen - refusing for now to sync my phone with my laptop and losing all of the music. I don’t understand or like a lot of the music, but I look at it as a way of keeping a dear friend close. I’ve also decided to make a project out of it by making a connection between her playlist and her personality. In that way, I am attempting to glean things I otherwise don’t know about her through the songs. What does this have to do with the Public Pubic? The other day, while trying to make sense of an especially bizarre tryptic of songs, I wondered how other aspects of people’s lives gave clues to their personalities. Because “Down There” contains page after page of an intimately significant aspect of dozens of people’s lives, I naturally wondered how each person’s comment related to his or her overall personality. For instance, what kind of man is the guy on page 24, who claims to “have a whorish disposition regarding size, shape, hair and no hair”? Is he truly that impartial? Yes. He is genuinely the kind of man who makes no snap judgements and rarely burdens a new situation with impassable expectations. Instead, he actually does take a person as he or she comes, in every situation. And what about the man on page 97 who manscapes and likes for his partners to do the same? As it turns out, he is particularly neat and exact in every aspect of his life. As I continued to think about it, I realized that throughout Down There, examples abound where a person’s lifestyle directly relates to his or her feelings toward the pubic. By gosh, I think I’m on to something! A new arm of psycho (or perhaps, psychic) - ology. Let’s call it Pubicology: The art - dare I say, master science - of drawing parallels between one’s personality and his or her ways of the bush. The significance of such an ability is infinite. Once perfected (which, I’ll admit is a bit creepy), the practitioner (me) could essentially help clients (all of you) with otherwise inexplicable matters of the heart, such as finding love, working through bad patches in a relationship and suggesting new, safe ways to add spark to dormant relationships. Taken further, Pubicology could also be used in the workplace. Once the practitioner understands the basics of how a person’s thoughts about the pubic relate to his or her overall personality - in the same way a person’s playlist or perhaps, sense of fashion or manner of speaking relates to that person’s personality - clients could feasibly be consulted on everything from hiring the right-minded employee to helping develop new strategies for negotiations. Of course, it will take awhile to perfect this new master science. I’ll need a substantial research grant, test subjects and access to exotic locales where I can isolate myself to examine data. I’ll hire (like-minded) assistants and later, teach others, allowing Pubicology to spread. Eww, that kinda sounds like an STD. I should say, allowing Pubicology to promulgate. Yeah, I’ll get started on that right away. Just as soon as I make a new batch of sugar cookies for my cafe.

Down There: Narratives About the Joy, Aroma and Overall Existence of the Bush is available on Amazon.com, and in select bookstores and spas. To be updated on new blog entries, please become a fan on Facebook (type in keyword “downthere”).

Tolerance

February 14, 2011

Natasha, a tall, confident, beautiful friend I met last summer, came to Globetrippin for lunch the other day. While eating – dare I say, immensely enjoying – my Bolognese Lasagna, she recounted the first time she saw a man with a shaven pubic. Her reaction to him was so merciless (yet, completely consistent with her take-no-prisoners personality), that I’m sure the tale will make its way to the pages of the next edition of my book, “Down There: Narratives About the Joy, Aroma and Overall Existence of the Bush.” Here’s what happened: Natasha and the man who was about to get some ended up naked at his place - after having eaten a “really good dinner in Midtown” (Manhattan), and enjoying a night that otherwise presented “no reason in life we couldn’t have had a great time.” In the bedroom with the lights on – apparently the man who was about to get some was proud of what he had. Certainly Natasha was proud. She keeps her pubic waxed year round – Natasha paused. Never one to be shy, she pointed and asked “What’s going on there?” (Giving him the benefit of the doubt that perhaps his hair didn’t grow down there or some such medical-related issue.) With pride, the man who was about to get some said he shaved it off. Natasha mercilessly said, “That’s not normal. You can put that back. It’s not normal.” She then got dressed, left, and never again spoke to the man who didn’t get any. This is what women do. It’s what I’ve done (not the same situation, but the same merciless “you don’t have what I want, so I’m just gonna leave” lack of tolerance. As much as men are berated for being cold and heartless (and to be clear, they can be!), when it comes to the pubic, there’s no match for a woman of scorn. Take for instance, the woman on page 95. She and a man who was about to get some were talking about grey pubic hair. She, herself, hadn’t yet experienced the phenomenon – couldn’t even imagine it. So as he was talking about it, she yelped, “Eww!! That’s disgusting! I don’t ever want to see that!” And just like that, he became the man who didn’t get any. On page 94, a woman admits that if the guy she’s currently sleeping with ever stopped shaving and let his grey hair grow out, she’d be turned off. And the woman on page 93 insists a man at least be trimmed if he wants her “to suck on it.” Women have zero tolerance. Of course, men are not exactly imperturbable. On page 29, a man who had a girlfriend and got some all the time, showed up one day with clippers and ultimatums. Of course, she was offended and he instantly went from getting some all the time to not getting any. And while that seems to be another example of merciless women, my point is this: Men are willing to work with women, while women shut it down on a whim. The guy on page 32 was truly horrified when his bride showed up clean shaven on their honeymoon. But did he end the marriage? No! In fact, he didn’t say anything until the honeymoon was over, and even then, broached the subject with tolerance. And the wonderful man on page 21 doesn’t refuse to go down on a woman just because she’s bushy. Instead, he stays down “as long as I can, and hopefully it’s enough to get the orgasm.” It’s like the guy on page 25 explained: “Women deal break in the moment. Men deal break in the process.” Meaning that women will walk away from a situation on a whim, with no notice or discussion. Maybe they feel like Natasha and think something’s “not normal,” or they might feel like the woman on page 93, and have such absolute rules that no matter how much attraction is there, if something isn’t to their preference, they simply won’t engage. Men, however, (at least when it comes to the pubic) won’t stop or walk away until all other options have been exhausted. They practice tolerance while they figure out a way to discuss it. One story that didn’t make the book was from a man who explained it like this: Things might “hit me in a certain way. It’s not always romantic or encouraging. Sometimes I don’t want to embrace it. I realize I’m having a reaction and I simply can’t embrace it. But to keep going, I can do one of two things. I can will myself beyond whatever is in front of me and re-connect with the moment (sometimes by even turning my head a certain way and ignoring it) or I can engage myself in a mind game. By this I mean I can embrace whatever it is and simply choose to make it part of the enticement.” Yep. When it comes to the pubic, men are way more tolerant than women. As anyone who knows me might expect, I’m certainly not espousing change. How can I? I can be equally intolerant and I don’t know if I’m capable of lightening up. But thanks to “Down There” I am, however, more aware of options and the need to discuss preferences up front (see blog entry titled “Preferences and How to Manage Expectations”). In that way, if we, as women, feel strongly about something, we can bring it up before the clothes come off. That way, when the time comes, everything should be wonderful. Of course, if whatever we have an issue with hasn’t been addressed, then our reactions can’t be labeled merciless. While still intolerant, our reactions will be more of a, “Dumb ass - I told you so” kind of thing. And that’s fair, right? Down There: Narratives About the Joy, Aroma and Overall Existence of the Bush is available on Amazon.com, and in select bookstores and spas. To be updated on new blog entries, please become a fan on Facebook (type in keyword “downthere”).