Online Dating

Today is Valentine’s Day, a day in our culture that represents our love of more holidays and often is expressed in deep disappointment that we don’t have the day off work. After all, if we don’t have all day off, how are we going to make continuous love to our partners in a bathtub full of roses (isn’t that a scene from American Beauty? Come to think of it, he SPOILER ALERT kills himself in the end, so maybe I shouldn’t be comparing that to excellent sex, unless a side effect of lust for the majority of Americans is suicide. I know I’ve been tempted to kill my partner after he… oh that’s different). Anyways, having the day off would function two-fold one: preparing the ultimate Valentine’s day gift and two: wallowing in a deep well of self pity of singledom (maybe this is where the suicidal tendencies kick in).

I decided this year to end my wallowing by signing up to a dating website, Okcupid. I created a profile I thought was witty for example stating that on a typical Friday night I am to be found burning crosses on people’s lawns. I’d like to clarify to all those silly Klan haters that they are often very small crosses on very large lawns, so it really shouldn’t cause too much of a fuss. I also said in the “six things you can’t live without” that number four was hard liquor and stereos blasting Rhianna. Not surprising when revealing these appealing tendencies along with the fact that I am never seen without my floor length old mink coat (my cat attacked it) and muu muu, I got many responses.

The first comes from a charming fellow: Smoothchocolate. He said in his profile that his full name was Alan Millis (non-descript enough I feel I can post it), but that the ladies call him Alan. I found this fact to be a little confusing. I mean the ladies call me Jayne, but maybe that’s more significant than I previously gave it credit for being. My dog knows me as Jayne too, in fact my mother can ask “Where’s Jayne?” and he’ll look at me. Apparently this represents some deep seated sexually deviancy on the part of my pet. Go figure. He then proceeded to tell the dating world that he really liked pussy and his mother. I was a little disturbed by the relationship between those things, but maybe he meant his cat, and it could also be this kitty and his mother who call him Alan. His message to me was simple, “sup?” I was immediately aroused. So aroused I had to leave the room for a while. Upon returning I told him he was disgusting and creepy to which he replied that “if chicks can’t take his jokes they have no business…” Apparently they just have no business. I’m not sure if this is true, does anyone know how many private businesses are operated by women? I replied that I was giving him friendly advice. His response, “This is why men are paid more.” I told him that frankly I thought men were paid more because they bowed down to their female CEOs and begged for forgiveness for their flaws.

Anyways this was my beau number one. Number two was a 43 year old man who had to hide his profile picture because he was a teacher. No doubt he had some deep-seated desire for students since he was contacting me. One of his photos showed him in bed barely covered from the waist down, naked from the waist up, smiling blearily into the camera. Apparently this was taken by “a friend” who had “just woken him up.” His favorite books included: Aristotle, Calvino, Sappho, Caesar, Napolean. I guess he was searching for a companion to help him create an empire and maybe, following the French Revolution, guillotine some people.

Beau number three sent me a message telling me I was sexy. His profile revealed that the most important part of a new relationship was discovering another’s body and that although his primary interest was sex, he was morally against contraception and abortion. I replied of course asking if I was sexy enough to bear his children and got no response. Typical. I mean, I offer to be a man’s procreation machine and I am flat out denied. Sexy indeed.

The final beau I’ll speak about today was a 31 year old army man. He told I was easy on the eyes and that he could distinguish himself from the pack by his ability to give good massages. He offered to give me a sensual massage as a Valentine’s day present. Perhaps a step up from wallowing, but one step away, clearly, from suicide. I politely declined his generous offer.

These, in short, are some of my dating prospects. There are a few I like and see potential in, but am sure I’ll be receiving more messages about my inherent sexual appeal (obviously) and my less inherent procreation abilities. I think both are pretty strong. People are always telling me I have baby-making hips after all.

The General & The Flowers

We, as Americans, live in a strange culture. Perhaps this is a sentiment echoed everywhere – not that we’re strange (although I imagine that is an established fact around the world) – that one’s country espouses odd attitudes and perceptions.

Take, for example, my recent trip to the drug store to buy boxes and boxes of hemorrhoid cream. In the check out line I glanced at the current issue of Cosmo only to see one of the featured articles was titled, “What is your va-jay-jay telling you?” Yes, it was hyphenated. I think I could devote a whole entry to this. Mine gives me fashion advice and I use it to make political decisions. In fact, I’m making a non-profit based on our collective va-jay-jays and their thoughts as peace initiatives. Mine speaks French, by the way. It has a certain je ne sais quoi, if you will.

What strikes me as odd here, though, is that it’s so taboo to use proper terminology that we have to invent code words to discuss it. Va-jay-jay was the joke we used as kids to refer to our privates, before launching into hysterical laughter. I would think we’re adult enough to say now. Or maybe not.

The va-jay-jay has always been feared. Perhaps for its awesome power and potential for complete world domination. Imagine that for a second. Ok, stop pervert, sheesh, I said a second not an hour. And I don’t even want to think about…. Ok, my va-jay-jay told me to calm down so I will. My point being, you would think since the time there was no sex education and girls were simply told they’d get the “flowers” or “the general” (my personal favorite, I’m telling you world domination!) through the suffrage movement, through feminism to a point where women, dare I say it, are equal (or nearly so) that it would be able to be discussed properly.

Maybe, this means, we’re not so equal as we thought. Women are still supposed to be modest and secretive ABOUT THAT and yet now sex. I have a whole entry devoted to HBO or porn with plot.

The va-jay-jay is even now used to symbolize weakness o being less than someone else. Example: JC Penny was selling a t-shirt to girls that said, “I’m too beautiful to do my homework.” After a petition, they took it off market. Then arrives on the scene a web article about the “ugly, fat feminists” who are involved in the “pussification of America.”

Compare this “pussification” to a recent interview with the actress from the Playboy bunny show who said Playboy was empowering to women, not demeaning because they had made a choice which was sexual.

So then, it’s not empowering, but pussifying, to take a stand, but is anti-ugly feminists to be exploited for your body. Review: sex=good, body=bad. This is an issue full of contradictions it seems. And if one thinks this has anything to do with privacy or modesty, I ask you to look at the rest of the cosmo cover.

“Five new positions to please your man”

My va-jay-jay is telling me to go take a nap and forget about all this. When it’s president of the republic of the world, though, just you wait, there will be some changes afoot….

Break

I'm taking a brief hiatus from this blog as I work on some other more pressing writing projects. I should be back within the next couple of weeks. I look forward to your continuing to entertain you!

Please check back around mid-September, or pay attention to my facebook page as I'll post when I've done an update!

Thank you for your support,

Jayne

The Classifieds

Here are a few actual personal ads:

Pot Belly W4W - 20 (Boston)

I think a girl whose potbelly is pushing her clothes apart is sexy. I'm not attracted to girls, but I have this fantasy of exposing another girl's big bare, bloated belly. I think it's hot to see a normal girl all plumpened up, kind of like a stuffed roasted turkey. I want to eat until our bellies get so full they can't handle it, and then massage each other's big bloated pot bellies :)

This one was posted in the "platonic" section of the ads.

Sugar Daddy - 30 (Cambridge)

Hello and good evening. Well, I've been thinking about trying this for quite some time now. I just turned 30, I own a large, successful entertainment company and am very, VERY well off. I'm hoping to meet an attractive, intelligent, educated young Woman that would allow me to provide her with a weekly allowance, dinners, shopping, etc. Unfortunatley due to the hours I work I'm unable to meet a woman the "conventional" way. I'm in excellent physical shape, respectful, intellighent....etc.

In other words, be my high-class prostitute.

Want to go to a Britney Spears concert?

im looking to take sexy pretty younger girl to Britney Spears Nikki Manaj concert...

My number one choice for a first date. Hit me baby, one more time!

My Wife - 34

Won't have another baby, will you? And soon please. Please be hot. No exceptions.

If only I were a little hotter, he would father my unborn child! Maybe if I got a pedicure? Highlights?

A Big Woman - 28

is that you? :) i'd like to find a woman who enjoys endulging in her own gluttony as much as i do and would like to grow with me! lets spend some time cooking, baking, eating, gorging, stretching our stomachs and testing their limits, growing...as you can see from my pics i've been exploring this on my own for a while and fattened up from 160 to 210, but i'm not done! lets get huge together!

Frankly, I'm not sure what to say about this one.

And yes, these are non-fiction.

Milkshakes all around!

More men are attracted to breasts than faces. Thirty-six percent to be exact with thirty-three percent to butts, twenty-one percent to faces, and ten percent to legs. Following this trend, I propose a new fashion movement I call, "The Dairy Cow." Uncover the breasts and cover the faces! Masks, after all, are always in fashion. Think super-heroes, think, even, super-villains. Who, after all, really needs an identity when so many women are butter faces to begin with? And udders are infinitely more important to our culture, to food, to everything! I don't believe we'll be losing anything. In fact, we'll be reminiscent of our favorite childhood figures like Zorro! Only partially nude! And what better way to stop crime then to burst in through the window crying: "Stop thief!" The criminal will then, stopping short say, "Um, you're breasts are jiggling." Zorro: "Well, so they are!" It already provides an advantage with the element of surprise and the disruption stops the crime in its tracks. Ah yes, the magical power of breasts! They bounce, they lactate, and if the face's mask is patriotic, they stand semi-erect honoring our country.

Although, it does seem to be the mystery of breasts that makes them so darn attractive. Sixty-two percent of guys think of their own bodies in sex. So when this wonderous thing is present, nay is available, it is ignored. Thus, I must ask myself, will the "Dairy Cow" movement consequently bring faces back into popularity and down-play breasts? After all, what is butter but a rich condiment? A delightful addition to any food, though the imagery for that is really less than enticing. So I say let us celebrate our bodies and worship them with the unveiling of the breasts and veiling of faces! Milkshakes all around!

Glamour

Men and women are different. There's a line between them and whether this is a big fat glow-in-the-dark line or a tiny breakable one really depends on the person. And on whether that woman reads a fashion magazine. You know the kind: the one that devotes an obscene amount of pages to sex and tips to please your man while looking stylish and perfectly tanned. Not too tanned, though, because that would mean skin cancer and like that article tells you, in just about every issue, that leads to worse: wrinkles.

Men, on average, though, think of sex several times a day. Women, according to a recent survey, have thirteen negative thoughts about their bodies daily. Here in lies the separation: while women are obsessed with their bodies, men are obsessed with what their bodies can do. Eighty-nine percent of men would never turn down sex because they’re feeling fat. Compare this to the thoughts of the women polled:

My arms and waist are fat.

I look like Chewbacca.

No wonder you’re single you fat cow you.

Men are able to put their bodies aside for pleasure. In fact, seventy-three percent polled say their penis is larger than average and this is after NOT looking at other men in the locker room. Because that would be gay.

Women wonder, is the spanx I’m wearing deceitful? Should I suck in my stomach? Men’s thoughts?

Before: Please?

During: Thank you!!!

After: More?

One man said that his thoughts are on negotiating the fine line between enthusiasm and slobbering all over her like a Newfoundland.

Oh, you're a writer!

Is there truly any love greater than the love for oneself?

I met an artist recently, a painter, who told me in no uncertain terms that she was extraordinarily talented - or so she's told by all of her peers. Note that not only was she able to lift her skills to a grandiose level, but she was able to include a reference to how many people (all) substantiated this claim. In fact, she said, she had painted over 200 paintings and was going to do another one TOMORROW which should be finished in, oh, about a day. Yes, this is how she phrased it: with a little pause to stroke her metaphorical beard.

Now I was under the impression that great art took a tad bit longer than a day. And if her art is realism - i.e. an exact transcription of the scene around her - doesn't it get a little tedious? Doesn't art need the injection of meaning or purpose rather than

HERE is a sky.

HERE are the clouds.

Done.

I'm no master painter, I'm a writer, but I've encountered this very problem again and again. I await the day this painter encounters someone with their MFA. When I say I am a writer, which I rarely do for this very reason, the invariable response is: "Oh! Me too!" If I say I write poetry, then forget it. All is lost. Because what is poetry in the public's mind except "One, two, skip-to-my-loo." I become something flighty and ultra-feminine. I suddenly think in rhymes, because all poets rhyme. For a dime. On a lime. Really, this could go on all day. Out of time.

When an author I've read says she is a writer, she always hears, "Oh, I'm going to do that when I'm retire." So she's developed a technique of inquiring what that person does at present. If they say, "I'm a brain surgeon," she says, "Oh, I'm going to do that when I retire."

What I'm really trying to say is take a step back. Telling me we all write, telling me we all can paint if we only try, that talent is latent in all of us, is like telling a 6'7" tennis player he should try out for basketball. Not only does it offend the sensibilities of all basketball players, whose only requirement to make the team apparently is height, but it offends the tennis player who has, according to you, thrown his whole life away for nothing. Consequently, when I say I write and you tell me we all do it's like telling me my whole life, all of my training, is a waste.

And these 'writers' are so full of themselves, so self-absorbed while I sit beating myself up over a paragraph they say, in my brother's imitation of them, "My writing is so good it makes me want to touch myself. I am overwhelmed by my own sexuality."

Because really, when I lay me down to sleep, I pray not to be the William Hung of literature. And so should you.