I am not pregnant

So I know I said I would only be posting things on Sundays but today something came up and...I don't know...I wanted to share it with everyone. There was a slight pregnancy scare here in San Juan and it caused some feelings to rear their ugly heads. Here it goes:

Clear: the result
Blue: a little
Easy: not as much as you would think

I am not pregnant.

For five days I wondered, what if. What if for nine months the clothes that fit me a few days ago now rubbed into the swelling mound that housed half of me? What if my jeans could no longer hold in the life that grew so intensely inside of me that it stretched my skin, stretched my imagination far beyond the boundaries of my own selfishness? What if I started to cry at all the things that were supposed to make me sad before but didn’t? What if changes in hormones are just this littlealmostperson inside of me teaching me what it really means to be human? To be good? Finally? What if I could create something that wasn’t about receiving accolades, hugs, positive comments on my blog, props, or a beer from a boy who wants to hit it or a smile from a girl who thinks I’m cool? What if I were a mother just like my mother? Only better? What if I talked to my baby about everything instead of saying “because I said so”? What if I no longer hesitated to hug someone when she cried or walked away when she needed me?

For five days I thought about having to make one of the hardest decisions in my life. For five days I thought about this moment right now, in the bathroom, sweating, shaking, not wanting to look at myself in the mirror, not knowing which result will be the right one. Then I peed into a white, plastic fortuneteller and waited for two minutes for either one or two lines. One line=I’m good. Two lines=I’m fucked. For five days I entertained the romanticized idea of what it would be like to have a child. I would do yoga everyday so that my baby would come into this bleak world flexible, ready to bend and not be broken by the difficult situations this world would throw at her. I would eat only the most pure and natural foods so that my baby would be healthy, not addicted to the chemicals, preservatives, and artificial colors that only serve to make us weak to the interests of companies who only think they are larger and more powerful than the love I would have for that imaginary child inside my empty womb. I would sing to her and dance with her to give her the lightness of spirit that will allow her to travel inside the spirits of others and heal them.

My baby would see inside of you, see through the wool you will try to pull over her eyes, see solutions in people blinded by ignorance.

I would exercise everyday so she could be strong enough to fuck shit up. Tear down seemingly impenetrable walls of silence. Slice through handcuffs with the sharp blade of her tongue. Lift the weight of oppression off of our chests with her bare, calloused hands. Carry the baggage our grandmothers have hauled for too long with their long, sinewy fingers spotted with age, broken by generations of hearing, "no, you can’t do that." She would be strong enough to love whomever she wanted, fearlessly, fiercely because I would have planted that love inside of her, fearlessly and fiercely.

But. I am not pregnant.

So I stared at the white, plastic fortune teller that comes in the aluminum wrapping that comes in the white and pink box, that is Walgreens brand because my first response to First Response was, “hell no, my unemployed ass will not spend eight more dollars for the same shit I can get for $11.99.” And I waited for the second blue line to not show up. And in the empty white space that confirmed my empty uterus, after the two minutes of obligatory waiting time, I saw nothing. I don’t have to say nothing. To him. I don’t have to plan nothing. With him. I don’t have to worry about nothing. And so, I threw out the white plastic fortuneteller in the white plastic bag it came to me in, rolled a cigarette, poured a glass of wine, and felt nothing.

The Politics of Penetration (Verse 2)

This is primarily a discussion between me and dictionary.com, more precisely, a discussion between me and the multiple entries listed under the word “penetration.”

1. To pierce or pass through. The most basic definition there is. As it is related to this article, penetrating someone’s rectum means to pierce it with something, usually a penis. However, in a wider definition, we should also understand it to include a finger, a dildo, or maybe even a tongue—but I don’t think tongues are hard enough to actually pierce your rectum. If you know someone that has such a tongue, please let me know; I’d like to shake his/her hand.
2. To enter and diffuse itself through; permeate. Here is where things start to get interesting and where we start to get uncomfortable with anal sex. It’s as if in the act of penetration, one leaves his/her stamp. If those who penetrate our anus “permeate” us then that leaves us, the penetrated, permanently marked, conspicuously saturated by someone else’s power. And that idea is certainly more uncomfortable than even the biggest, most oddly shaped phallus in my butt.
3. To arrive at the truth or meaning of; understand; comprehend. What can be understood about me when I allow someone to penetrate me? And when I like it? Of course, it can be understood that I am an open-minded person that sees every orifice as a potential invitation to pleasure. But more deeply, perhaps, when you penetrate me, you come to understand that I trust you as much as I trust myself because I wouldn’t let just anyone slip into the dark passages of my body. When we know something, we have power over it. Maybe I’m scared of being understood. Nah, I’m scared of being misunderstood. There are many opportunities for confusion during sex. Like, the only true moment of clarity there is during sex is post-orgasm. Anytime before that we are wrapped up in getting to that moment. How many times have I cum only to realize that I shouldn’t be fucking the person underneath me in the first place? How many times have I wanted to scream “I FUCKING LOVE YOU” when having sex only to then be so grateful that I didn’t after I felt that "shudder in the loins.” I can’t remember half of the random shit I scream during sex. And if someone only knows the “me” in bed, then the potential for a long list of really awkward misunderstandings is great. Nah boo, I didn’t say, “I love you,” I said, “I luck you.” Like I’m lucky to be fucking such an awesome guy. He he haaa..Have you seen my panties?
4. To obtain a share of (a market). To be penetrated is to be taken. In the worst sense, to be claimed. That’s shitty. Have you ever had sex with someone, only to realize a couple of days (hours) later that everyone knows what you did? Of course you have. Everyone has. And although you’d like to feel as if it doesn’t matter that everyone knows, it totally matters. It totally matters that everyone thinks they know what your vagina looks like, tastes like, feels like, and smells like. It totally matters that now everyone knows you start singing songs from The Little Mermaid when you fall off the cliff of orgasm. It totally does. Even the most liberated among us want a little discretion when it comes to sex, especially anal sex. But now that person with whom we have done it, has a piece of us and they can do with that piece whatever they want. And you know what? I’m not whole enough to just being giving my shit away and not care about what happens to it. So it’s scary okay? So be careful with it. Cuz if you’re careful with it, I might even let you have it again. And again.
5. To affect or impress (the mind or feelings) deeply. OMG. It is rare, so RARE to have sex with someone and forget about him or her like that (insert snap of the fingers here). Even if it was bad. Especially if it was bad. Take Becky for instance (remember her?), she wanted to forget about smearing her poop all over this dude’s dick but she just couldn’t. Because, as I explained above, this dude took a piece of her upon piercing her, a sloppy, shit-stained piece, but a piece nonetheless. It may be hard for me to recall every person I have fucked. Please don’t ask me to make a list, I’ll just wind up feeling bad about myself and fucking someone random out of self-pity, not because I have had sex with so many dudes that I can’t remember (uh…right) but that my memory is so bad and that means one of two things (or both): I’m either getting old or I have done permanent damage to some really important part of my brain from so much weed-smoking. But names aren’t important (right?) not as important as feelings and faces. Maybe I don’t want to remember the way the muscles in someone’s face slack when they first feel the inside of my excited vagina or my expectant anus. Maybe once I take that piece of them, I’ll feel too heavy and, as you can imagine, I got my own shit to carry; I certainly don’t need the weight of the memory of someone who may or may not have been good in bed. Humph. Certainly not.
   

How do I wrap this section up, now? By musing on power. Penetration is certainly an act of domination. I don’t need to remind you that it’s not always a peaceful/sexy kind of domination either. Think of all the violent words we use to describe the act of penetration: stab, cut, tear it up, beat it up, hit it, nail, pound, gut, etc etc. I’m definitely guilty of using these terms both in and out of the bed. Don’t misunderstand me; I don’t think these words or penetration are inherently violent (duh). Nor do I think that violent sex is necessarily a bad thing, as long as the people participating in it are 100% down with it and there is a very clear way to express when one is no longer down with it. But I do think it’s important to recognize the power inherent in penetration. That way, at least we can play with it as we play with our partners and ourselves. Think of anal sex as one big play date supervised by our favorite baby-sitter Foucault. Foucault, that baby-sitter who always invites someone over once he’s put you to bed and you get to watch them do it from the crack in the door. That post-structuralist motherfucker who loves flipping shit inside out. Put this shit in your pipe and smoke it:

The medical examination, the psychiatric investigation, the pedagogical report, the family controls may have the over-all and apparent objective of saying no to all wayward sexualities, but the fact is that they function as mechanisms with a double impetus: pleasure and power [oh God, yes]. The pleasure that comes of exercising a power that questions, monitors, watches, spies, searches out, palpates, brings to light; and on the other hand, the pleasure that kindles [mmmm] at having to evade this power, flee from it, fool it, or travesty it. The power that lets itself be invaded [penetrated?] by the pleasure it is pursuing; and opposite it, power asserting it in the pleasure of showing off, scandalizing, or resisting. Capture and seduction [oh!], confrontation and mutual reinforcement…These attractions, these evasions, these circular incitements [oh shit oh shit…I…] have traced around bodies and sexes, not boundaries not to be crossed, but perpetual spirals of power and pleasure [qué ricoooooooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh].

Gracias, y buenas noches.

***

So, because I wrote so much about penetration, I have decided to leave Verse 2 as is and make Verse 3 about the stupid homophobes and gender conformists. Verse 4 is the Ten Point Program For More Liberating Sex. So...keep your eyes peeled!

Are You a Banal Sex Queen? (Verse 1)

I’ll be the first to admit it: I’m unique in many ways. I like the smell of my own bellybutton and inhale deeply when walking through the suburbs and get a sudden whiff of skunk. I eat the rind on Brie cheese. I like anal sex. It’s true. I do. Uniqueness, unfortunately, has its price. Until recently, I’ve been embarrassed, ashamed even, to admit my fondness for butt sex for fear of being called, you know, slutty or, even worse, docile. But in the past few months, here is what I’ve realized: ANAL SEX=LIBERATION. Hell yeah. And I put it in caps! What of it? I think everyone needs to have more anal sex. But before I go into how this will come to be (oh yes, you better believe there is a Ten Point Program at the end of this essay), I want to start with a quick reflection on why I think people in general, not just women, have an aversion to anal sex. Yes there is an explicit ban of sodomy in the holy books of the Abrahamic religions. But I don’t think that God’s aversion to butt sex keeps your average non-believer, half-assed believer, or sexually adventurous believer from doing it. If anything, I know lots of Catholic girls who have butt sex as teenagers so they can still call themselves virgins when they get married (ha ha ha…ahh the Catholics).

What follows is the first part in a three part series on the wonderfulness of anal sex and a helpful list of suggestions on how to add it to your sex life. Verse 1, which you are about to read, and Verse 2, which will come next week, address the reasons why I think people scrunch their noses at the mere thought of anal sex. I narrow down the reasons why we keep our culos cluelessly closed to the following: first, it hurts; second, we hate reminding ourselves of our own shit; third, some see it as an act of domination; and fourth, the moronic homophobes out there think it’s gay. Verse 3 is a manifesto of sorts, listing ten logical actions one can take to make anal pleasure a reality.

Part 1: Ouch

Upon seeing my tattoo, many people ask, “Did it hurt?” And I, always the bastion of honesty and integrity, answer, “Hell yeah, it hurt!” So it goes for anal sex. Yes it will hurt at first. Christians call it a peccatum contra naturam because, I guess, it’s not natural to stick something big and hard up your ass (or maybe, they say it’s not natural cuz God doesn’t do it but really, did anyone ever ask Him?). And therefore, since it’s not natural and we are not used to it, it might be painful at times.

Clearly, I would never advise someone to do something that causes him or her extreme pain. But what I would advise someone to do is investigate the origins of that pain. “Duh, bitch, it comes from my fucking sphincter whenever my partner shoves something in it,” you say. Okay, okay, I don’t mean that. I mean, ask yourself a few questions before you categorically dismiss anal penetration from your sexual repertoire.

• Are you 100% relaxed? If not, maybe you need to smoke a little weed. Besides the fact that sex is AWESOME when one is high, I also find that it calms me and makes me more open to butt sex. If you don’t smoke weed, I have heard there are other ways to relax; something about a massage or a warm bath or some shit like that. But trust me, weed really works.
• Are you using lube? Only the pros don’t use lube and still that’s not all the time.
• Is your partner hitting it too hard? Suavecito at first, mi amor, SUA-VE-CI-TO. My culo, at least, can’t take the same pounding as my vagina can, at least not at the onset of sex. Penetration has to start smooth and slow. Tell your partner to relax; yo ass ain’t goin nowhere, you know?
• Do you trust your partner? Maybe you can’t relax (no matter how much you’ve smoked) because you have a nagging suspicion that the person sticking something up your ass is really a big, fat douchebag. For as much as I want people in this world to have copious encounters with butt sex, I can’t dismiss the importance of trust to anal sex success. If you can’t trust your partner then you’re going to continue to worry about your shit and your going to focus on the pain instead of letting yourself feel the pleasure.
• Have you tried different positions? Not all penises and dildos are made the same (¡qué rica es la diversidad!) and the rectum is curved. Without careful experimentation, anal sex can be like forcing a square peg in a round hole, not only will it be painful but also both partners are likely to get nowhere fast.
  

As with many things (exercise, tattoos, spicy foods), there is a thin line between pain and pleasure when it comes to anal sex. Walking that line is not easy but it’s also not as difficult as you would think. Besides, it’s totally worth a try. Trust me, jewel love it.

Part 2: Am I shitting or cumming cuz I can’t tell…

Gather ‘round kiddies, cuz I’m gonna tell you a little story. Once there was this woman named…Becky, yeah, Becky. Becky was lucky enough to find a fuckbuddy who cared more about the pleasures of the flesh than about societal norms of what is gross or acceptable. Becky and her fuckbuddy, therefore, had lots of anal sex. One night, the friend was hitting it hard and Becky loved it, just loved it. She could feel from the inside out that she was about to have one of the most significant orgasms of her life. And as her knees buckled, her eyes closed shut, she sucked in her breath and bit her lower lip, she went to another place. Jesus, it was fantastic. But when she opened her eyes and stepped gingerly out of Heaven, she began to smell something familiar yet woefully out of context.

Did I fart or is that…She reaches back to her butt and her fingers meet with the nastiness that is her own feces. Fuck!

“I’ll be right back,” her friend said nonchalantly and sauntered off to the bathroom.

I just shat all over someone’s dick. ¡Qué fucking vergüenza! Although her friend returned from the bathroom eager for another round Becky could not even let him touch her. How could she? She just soiled this dude’s cock with her own shit. She couldn’t even look him in the eye. That night they slept but didn’t cuddle and Becky had horrible, shit-smeared nightmares.

Alas, if we are to embrace anal sex, we must be willing to embrace our own shit. Yet, our obsession with disguising the undesirable makes that an exceedingly difficult task. Indeed, where did this notion of shit being so gross come from? I’m currently reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera and as it turns out, he muses quite beautifully about the metaphysical meaning of shit (which is, by the way, just one of the reasons why I don’t want this book to end). He says, “The fact that until recently the word ‘shit’ has appeared in print as s--- has nothing to do with moral considerations. You can’t claim that shit is immoral, after all! The objection to shit is purely a metaphysical one. The daily defecation session is daily proof of the unacceptability of Creation. Either/or: either shit is acceptable (in which case don’t lock yourself in the bathroom!) or we are created in an unacceptable manner.” Who among us, whether you believe in evolution or creationism, is going to argue that human beings are imperfect simply because we shit? In forging an argument that human beings shouldn’t shit, one either ends up with an evolutionary impossibility (are there animals that don’t shit?) or you go toe-to-toe with God and say, “nah man, you did it all wrong and Imma fix it.”

So, how can one come to terms with his/her own shit (here, I am afraid, I am using the word both literally and figuratively)? Clearly, humans are obsessed with the idea of masking our shit. There are a multitude of sprays, candles, and potpourri packets one can purchase in the hopes that the person entering the bathroom after us will not guess what we did in the mere minutes before they sat on the toilet. We make fancy toilet bowls and flowered toilet bowl covers to help us forget that we are voiding our bowels and flushing our shit to a place where it will meet the intestinal contents of the strangers who live in our cities and towns. Fuck that. Shit is shit and I’m not going to let it ruin my potential for physical pleasure. Instead, I am going to talk to my partner (with whom I feel comfortable, of course) about anal sex, I’m going to admit to him/her that I fart and poop just like everyone else, and I’m going to discuss the very real possibility of having to clean up a messy situation. Because as we all know (but won’t admit) a good shit is the closest thing to a good orgasm. If we, as a society, are becoming more open to talking about cumming and sex in general, then it should follow that we can discuss shit and deal with shit.

*****

Ready for more? Sorry, you’ll have to wait a week, boo! But trust me, it’ll be good. In Verse 2, I will address the following two subjects:

1. The politics of domination: or why Foucault makes me wet
2. Stupid homophobes and gender conformists need to eat shit and die because they’re totally making it hard for me to get off

Are You There God, It's Me Lola

You are Puerto Rican. You are Catholic. You are a child. You go to church and Sunday school, every Sunday, every Sunday, every Sunday because you know that getting the sacraments done and over with is your only ticket into HEAVEN. If you were Italian and lucky you went to CCC on Wednesdays and you got to leave school before last period. You read Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret and start praying like Margaret.

You learn from an uptight pseudo-nun named Ms. Rose about how you should pray to God, Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and a patron saint of your own choosing. There’s a fly motherfucker who ain’t never ever EVER gonna love your ugly ass? Pray on it with Santa Rita. Going on a long trip back in time to the nether regions of Brooklyn to visit your auntsunclesgrandmothersetc who always ask heavy questions like: “m’ija, cuando te vas a casar?” but don’t yet know how gay you really are, pray on it with Saint Christopher. Are you Bernie Madoff? Then get on your goddamn knees and pray to St. Matthew, the patron saint of motherfucking bankers (no don’t get up yet; you’re guilty ass ain’t done). You pray to Jesus and you ask him the following:

1. To give you bigger breasts (it’s only fair, Christ, since I come from the biggest family of tetonas, like EVER. Ooh, or maybe this is my test? Fuck it, gimme the tits).
2. To win the lottery
3. To get rid of the cockroaches for ever and ever

Aaaahhhmen…

You sit in Sunday school one day and learn that there is only one God and you must not take His name in vain and you must not worship any God but Him (and you must Always Capitalize HIS Name and Pronoun). This troubles you deeply—you just prayed to St. Thomas of Aquinas to give you a snow day tomorrow. You raise your hand to ask Ms. Rose if it is okay to pray to saints and to the Blessed Virgin Mary. She says yes. You ask if this means you are worshipping false idols. She says no. But, you say, why would I be praying to someone if they weren’t as powerful as God and if they were as powerful as God why shouldn’t I be worshiping them instead of God or why does God have to take all the glory when it’s really Jesus who did all the dirty work, or Paul, that motherfucker who got his head cut off for being Christian; why can’t he get some burn? She tells you to leave and call your mother. You walk out of the classroom with the buzzing fluorescent lights and dingy linoleum tiles. Your head is hung low and she leads the class in a prayer for your soul. You feel the prayer but in a cold and uncomfortable way, like a UTI.

You have your First Communion. You have been thirsty for your entire eight little years for the only alcohol you are allowed to taste. You wonder if you are really doing a bad thing like when your uncle Junior let you take sips from his beer when your mom wasn’t looking. You wonder but then your little eight-year-old lips meet that golden chalice and the cheap, watered-down wine hits your lips and somewhere in the white, glowing nooks and crannies of your chaste little soul you know a deep and impenetrable bond has been formed between you and—no, not Jesus, not God, not even the Holy fucking Spirit—but alcohol because you start to feel a miraculous warmth in your white, cotton, Hanes panties. You convince yourself that that feeling is Jesus and so you return to your pew and you pray. Hard and long until your mother taps your shoulder because it is time to stand now and sing some hymn. You blink many times because you have lost yourself in your orgasmic prayer session. Everyone is proud because it looks as if you are pious but really you may have just had your first sexual experience without you or anyone else knowing. You are introduced to the patron feeling of all Catholics: guilt. You blush. You go to your grandmother’s house and you eat cake in the form of a bible to celebrate. It is good. It is sweet. You wash it down with some Coke.

You are now thirteen. You get Confirmed. You don’t really know what that means. You pick a saint like you’re supposed to and you pick Joan of Arc because she’s fierce and she carries a sword and she dresses up like a dude so she could kill other dudes. You don’t care why she killed those other dudes. You only think about the fact that she got to wear armor and ride horses and stab motherfuckers with a big ass sword. She had to have been strong because swords are heavy. You wish you had a sword to slit the throats of the men who holler at your thirteen-year-old ass as you walk to school in the morning. Clearly Joan of Arc was a big gay and you think that is hot but you don’t say anything. You discover masturbation but you don’t say anything. Your father pounds on the door when you are taking a shower and hurries you to get out so he can get ready for work but your are too busy getting off to really care.

You learn that condoms are bad, that abortions are as evil as Saddam Hussein, and that you mustn’t under any wetpussypleasekeeptouchingme circumstances have sex before marriage.

…...

You start fucking every boy in your Sunday school classes. At night you watch soft porn on Cinemax. You feel guilty. Especially when your mom catches you one night and asks, “what are you doing?” knowing full well what the fuck you're doing and you wish she would have just asked you, “why are you masturbating on the living room floor?” But she’s Catholic too and guilt directs every move she makes and every question she asks so she would never ask that question anyway. You say, “nothing” and you feel the guilt so hot inside it threatens to burn off your goddamn skin. You turn off the TV, skulk off to bed, and finish the job there. And it is goooooooooooooood.

Now, you are met with a series of options. You either:

1. Continue having unprotected sex with motherfuckers you could care less about and never get pregnant because somehow God has chosen YOU to be the patron saint of pulling out.
2. Continue having unprotected sex with motherfuckers you think you care a lot about and then one of them gets you pregnant and you decide to have the baby because St. Catherine has taught us that abortions are badbadbad and even worse than premarital sex. And because you feel as if you are responsible enough to put your child through the same Catholic bullshit nightmare that you yourself had to endure.
3. Have straight sex, gay sex, queer sex, self sex and never get pregnant because God doesn’t want you to introduce the fucking antichrist into the world because He knows Damien will definitely come from your wayward-ass vagina. You step into a Catholic church only a few times since your Confirmation—only because of familial obligations—and each time you are scared that you will turn into a pillar of salt, a pile of ashes, a three-headed anteater or some shit like that because you now know, in the depths of your dark, atheist soul—you know, like in the pit of your stomach, that part that compels you to smoke lots of weed and have sex in public libraries—that you hate Catholicism and you LOVE being pro-choice.

Regardless of the path you choose, you take the Lord’s name in vain all the goddamn time and each time you do it, you wonder if you will be struck by lightening. Additionally, you wonder how you can know so little about something that was such a huge part of your life as a youth. And finally, you feel blessed that you didn’t grow up a Jehovah’s Witness or a Mormon because then you would have to stand in the subways and try to convince motherfuckers of the end of days or wear some kind of ridiculous underwear that somehow serves to remind you of your faith in God without chafing your special parts.

On Big Penises

The late twenties are awesome, for the most part. I feel a lot more confident in myself. I have much better sex then I ever have before (carajo, remember having sex as a teenager? How wack was that shit?). I no longer imagine a caring, loving relationship will come every time I make someone cum (crazyteenagethoughts) and sex can really just be about fulfilling physical needs (stroooong physical needs). And that's cool when that happens...

And it does. That is until I realize that I'm a woman and that there are emotions lurking in the dark corners of every single experience I have. The good thing is, when it comes to me and sex, these emotions are rarely amorous so it's not as if I'm setting myself up to get hurt. The bad thing is that these emotions are kind of neurotic and prohibit me from truly enjoying sex sometimes (I know, right!).

Okay. Now here comes a story…and then some advice, for dudes mostly but I think there is a larger lesson to be learned that everyone can appreciate. It's a story I must tell, even at the risk of exposing too much. Think of it as a fable. As a matter of fact, it is a fable. Complete with anthropomorphism. Here it goes:

Once upon a time, Rabbit suddenly found herself single and excited to be back in the woodland-creature dating world. She met many other creatures, most of whom were cool—at least not insane. She was even open-minded enough to date Turnip (but she found him dreadfully emotionally vacant and couldn’t deal). Soon she began to date two creatures at once. Fox and Field Mouse, although vastly different in most ways, were excitingly alike in one: they were both very well-endowed. Naturally, Rabbit felt like she had hit the lottery.

Gradually, however, Fox started being his sly, stupid-ass self and Field Mouse revealed himself to be the meek, simple-minded twerp that his remarkably cute exterior hid from Rabbit for so long. Now Rabbit was confused. So she escaped to the depths of her rabbit hole to sit down for a good think. She mulled over the following questions: Does a big penis make up for being a self-centered, manipulative prick? Can a big penis compensate for a lack of intelligence or low self-esteem? Is it okay to wake up one morning, bleary-eyed and fuzzy-minded, next to someone you despise, completely regretful not of the fact that you had sex with someone you can’t stand but of the fact that you are not high enough to have that hot-ass sex again? Aahh…so many questions. But where were the answers?

That night, Rabbit woke to the sound of her name being whispered through the leaves.

“Who’s there? Who’s calling me?” she asked frantically as she pulled the sheets up to cover her naked body (there had been talk of some kind of forest freak peeping into rabbit holes without an invitation; she had to be safe.)

“Raaaaaabbiiiiiiiit…Raaaaaaaaaaaabiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit…” the sweet and distant voice repeated.

“Who is that?! You better not be some kind of creep!”

“Nena, it’s Oak Tree! Get your ass out of bed so we can talk.”

“Oh,” she said sheepishly, “I’ll be right there.”

Oak Tree was the wisest spirit in all of the forest. Rabbit knew that she would now find the answers to all of her questions.

“Rabbit,” Oak Tree began, “I sense you have been struggling with some difficult shit. I think I may be able to help you out. I’ve seen a lot. And I’ve learned not to take shit from anyone, least of all some HOMbre. So, what is it? Cuéntame, mi amor.”

When Rabbit finished her story, the wise oak sat back and just shook her head. After a short while, she spoke:

“Damn. Isn’t it shitty when a man builds his whole entire personality on such a shaky foundation like that? Ah, Rabbit, a large member is a wonderful thing but it’s like when you go to some big chain store, like H&M or something, and you realize that they undercharged you for an item that you really wanted in the first place and would have paid full price for. You take it. You’re excited. Youre not gonna return it even if you don’t deserve the accidental discount. But you would have been happy anyway because you wanted that item in the first place. You decided that blouse or that pair of shoes was for you before you knew that either one would come with a bonus. Me entiende?

"Now, Rabbit, with that said, a man with a monstrous penis still cannot get away with the following:

1. Wearing leather dress sandals
2. Being an asshole or absolutely insane (this one, oddly, is the hardest for women to understand)
3. Wearing tims and shorts
4. Being racist, sexist, homophobic, heterosexist or ignorant in any other way
5. Not being able to hold a conversation post- or pre-sex
6. Being unattractive…”

“Hold up," Rabbit interrupted, "number six just contradicted every porn I’ve ever seen in my whole entire life!”

“Oh Rabbit, pornography is a genre of film just like Horror or Romantic Comedy," Oak Tree explained. "Do you believe that zombies will one day come and vomit blood in your face and eat your eyeballs out?”

“No.”

“Do you believe that a big, fat, drunk ugly dude can randomly get a drunk, pretty girl pregnant and that they will fall in love, have a beautiful, bouncing baby and live happily ever after?”

“No.”

“Then why would you ever believe what you see in a porno?”

“I guess you’re right,” Rabbit admitted.

“I know I’m right. That’s all I have for now. Besides, that’s all I think you can handle. You must go and contemplate the knowledge I just dropped on yo ass. Bye, nena.”

“Bye Oak Tree. Thanks for listening.”

Oak Tree closed her eyes and went to sleep. Rabbit hopped away to her bunny hole, her mind still heavy even though she knew the answers and knew the right thing to do. She lay in bed for about 22 minutes, staring at the dirt ceiling before she picked up her cell phone and called Field Mouse. He would be over in ten minutes. Guaranteed. Just enough time for her to have a whiskey and think some more.

“Ah sheeiit,” she exhaled as she opened the bottle.

An Introduction/An Invitation

First and foremost, a question: If your pussy could talk, what would it say? I hope to make this blog a long list of answers to that question. Okay, let's backtrack a bit. I have a friend who has a daughter who is about seven years old and her daughter calls her vagina, and indeed all vaginas, Lola. What a fantastic name. A name that conjures up the image of a self-assured woman laughing loudly and sagely with her head thrown back. The name gives voice to a part of the female body that has historically been silenced. And for many women of color, our pussies have not just been silenced, but violently gagged; our lips have been duct-taped shut.

Lola is ripping the duct tape from her lips and screaming her opinion. And she doesn't give a fuck what you think. Lola speaks in whispers that tickle your ears and make the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. She doesn't scream because she doesn't need to. You listen because you want to, de hecho, you need to. You strain your ears to hear her seductive susurration because you want to be wise like her.

This is the official introduction/invitation to Lola Speaks!. I hope you enjoy my blog and post constructive, intelligent, and progressive comments. Don't be ignorant; it's so unattractive.

xox,
Lola