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Archive for the ‘sex of the icky parental kind’ Category

Blowjob (Vulgar Slang)

I never thought of it as a line of work.
I did not think of myself, with my lunch pail,
going to the job and punching my time clock in and out.
Surely that act was not divided
into management, who were owners,
and staff, who had no share in the profit.
“Job,”
is that what they thought?
That it was boring for us and we couldn’t wait ’til we could break for lunch?
They thought that they were rulers commanding us against our will,
there was a thrill in that?
A payback for having to do what mom says when dad’s at work
blowing his master?
So that the one who was being given suck after hours
already gave at the office?
It’s weird thinking about it from a bosses point of view:
looking down at the working head,
the alienated labor,
looking down the pay scale, too.
If they were both engaged in the same act
it wouldn’t be a job, would it,
but play.
Play in the house of the gods of pleasure.
At least “blow” is not a word from commerce
but the golden rule of music:
know, as you would be known.
Blow, as you would be blown.

– Sharon Olds

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Poems like “You Kindly” capture two brilliant paradoxes that run through Olds’s work. They give the impression of being wildly personal, even as the experiences they describe—in this case, the erotic union of spouses—are common. And they break with the female-confessional tradition as represented by Olds’s predecessors Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton, who used their poetry to rattle the bars of the cozy middle-class matrimony and maternity that they felt imprisoned them. Olds found a path to her own radical artistry by championing the domestic everyday. Breastfeeding a baby; coaxing a sick child to take his medicine; drinking wine on a summer evening with your husband as a comfortable prelude to sex. These are ordinary moments, the kind most of us, if we are lucky enough to have them, wash down life’s drain. Olds rescues them from obscurity by paying them the close attention of her verse.

From “Sharon Olds sings the body electric” by Alexandra Schwartz in The New Yorker.

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“In life there is no real safety except for self-belief.” – Madonna.

This quote really resonates for me and is the core theme in a piece of writing I just submitted. But the whole speech from Madonna is worth hearing here.

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It is another common assumption that a single mother is a woman who puts her sex life ahead of her social responsibility. Manipulative or sexual, she exhibits either too much self-control or not enough (what is never mentioned in relation to teenage pregnancies is the possibility of child abuse and rape). Behind the idea of maternal virtue, therefore, another demand and/or reproach. A mother is a woman whose sexual being must be invisible. She must save the world from her desire – a further projection that allows the world to conceal from itself the unmanageable nature of all human sexuality, and its own voraciousness. Even in the years leading up to the 1960s, when there was more sympathy for the predicament of single mothers, the basic assumption was there. ‘Innocent’ girls could get into trouble and deserved understanding ‘provided that they did not flaunt their transgressions’. Nor is the childless woman immune from sexual taint. ‘Surely,’ one journalist said recently, expressing a common attitude to the declining birth rate in 21st-century France, ‘a woman who refuses to be a mother enjoys lovemaking rather too much?’

In this context, ancient Greece and Rome are again refreshing. Cleopatra, deemed the most desirable of women, was the mother of four children, one, she claimed, by Julius Caesar and the three youngest by Mark Antony, something most representations of Cleopatra conspire not to remember or talk about (no one I have mentioned this to had the faintest idea she was a mother).

From this amazing essay, “Mothers” in the London Review of Books by Jacqueline Rose.

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I feel I can give you everything without giving myself away, I whispered in your basement bed. If one does one’s solitude right, this is the prize.

[Yet] dependence is scorned even in intimate relationships, as though dependence were incompatible with self-reliance rather than the only thing that makes it possible.

I know now that a studied evasiveness has its own limitations, its own ways of inhibiting certain forms of happiness and pleasure. The pleasure of abiding. The pleasure of insistence, of persistence. The pleasure of obligation, the pleasure of dependency. The pleasures of ordinary devotion. The pleasure of recognizing that one may have to undergo the same realizations, write the same notes in the margin, return to the same themes in one’s work, relearn the same emotional truths, write the same book over and over again—not because one is stupid or obstinate or incapable of change, but because such revisitations constitute a life.

Perhaps it’s the word radical that needs rethinking. But what could we angle ourselves toward instead, or in addition? Openness? Is that good enough, strong enough? You’re the only one who knows when you’re using things to protect yourself and keep your ego together and when you’re opening and letting things fall apart, letting the world come as it is—working with it rather than struggling against it. You’re the only one who knows. And the thing is, even you don’t always know.

From Maggie Nelson’s The Argonauts.

 

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A year ago tonight my boyfriend moved in with us. It felt like such a big step back then. But in the end, we just laughed together a lot more.

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I love this article on middle age and why it is such a happy time, by Natasha Badhwar in live mint.

The belief that early youth is the peak of one’s life has been proven to be a fallacy. Now one feels far more productive, especially when one finds oneself managing so much more with much less effort. I write when I sleep, I raise children when I am away from home, I support people with just words. This is also when one realizes that this isn’t the peak either. There’s a lot more uphill ahead for us.

There are so many things that I still want to do. Thinking about doing them makes me as happy as doing them. I own my imagination.

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