from Getty Images
***
What a shitty world it is where women has to invent a man (in lieu of acquiring one) just to feel safe.
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The Fake Man-in-Your-Life
Margaux Is Faking It (a short story)
“I’m gonna fuck your ass, I’m gonna fuck your ass. Ugh, ugh”
“Yes, fuck me in the ass, fuck me in the ass.”
I yawned. This Chinese-looking guy with a big dick is totally having the time of his life pummeling behind me, uncaring whether my head is hitting the wall with the force of his thrusts.
Men are such pigs.
I really didn’t care much about him; but he looked cute, I was wasted and horny and he wanted to fuck. So hell. Yeah.
The foreplay is routine, to be honest. Lip-sucking, breast sucking, cunt-fingering – he didn’t go down on me, what a dope. But I got off. Kinda.
It’s getting harder and harder to go off these days.
And dammit, I need to go off. My work which I totally love is totally fucking me.
Like yesterday. I went to this meeting. Or hearing. Whatever.
It’s on fake news. And it was held in the grand, august halls of the Senate. And this porky-looking senator had the temerity to show up. What an asshole! He’s a pig, really. His wife died of cancer and I fucked him once. I don’t even think he remembers. Those were the days when I was desperate … like money-desperate.
I am not so desperate now. I have my page, my following. I have the ear of the most important man of the land. And he likes me. And he’s like my dad (in my mind I call him Big Daddy). He brings me on trips. He thinks I’m smart and funny and just … we are just having fun together. I tried to seduce him once, but he couldn’t get it up anymore, poor guy. So I just blew him. He was very grateful. His cum tasted like durian.
“Let’s get on the bed, baby,” the big oaf behind me is saying.
“Huh?” I say. I walk the few steps to the king-sized bed in this space-age themed motel room in the capital city. I love this motel. I have a lot great memories here. I don’t know if this will be one of them.
“Now baby grab your tits. Yeah like that.” I lie supine and make myself comfortable. I do as he says. He hunkers over me and licks my nipples. Please … what is it with guys and nipples? I mean, 70% of those I fuck have this thing with nipples. I’m like, you’re such babies, get a fucking pacifier. I want him to go down on me. But I forgot to shave, and men generally like dealing with your clit only if they can see it. Otherwise, they don’t bother.
I let my mind wander. So yesterday was not so bad. My bosses did not throw me under the bus or anything. They were very protective, actually. (They should take care of me, of course; or they will answer to their boss, Big Daddy.)
I haven’t seen Big Daddy for several days now. He was busy going around the country pacifying the military troops. He’s paranoid about coup d’etat. I laugh at him when he goes all serious like that. I remind him that 16 million of his people want him in office. The military is putz, because he is the rightful king, I mean, leader.
But he told me that this country is fickle-minded and he has to cover all his bases. Poor Big Daddy, he’s so stressed. Last week, he had a showdown with this ex-convict senator who had the gall to accuse Big Daddy of corruption. Big Daddy had to defend himself. Too bad the info this bastard Snoopy gave us was fake; Big Daddy was burned. Snoopy would have to die, of course. Scum.
“Ugh, ugh … you are totally hot, babe. Grab my ass.”
I roll my eyes. My legs are hanging on his shoulders and he’s pummeling on me again. I want to tell him: you have to pace yourself, dude. But guys are dicks, they will go limp the moment you give them instructions.
Anyway, yesterday, I thought I was doing well until Senator Piolo came. He’s an autistic nerd, honestly. I wonder how he fucks his wife. Darling, I can’t find your clitoris, let me grab my map? I swear, he must have memorized Masters and Johnson’s before his wedding night. His wife is a limp-faced, elitist bitch. I hope she is anorgasmic.
Senator Piolo is a total dope. He had the temerity to make fun of Roy. But Roy is smart and very bitchy. I love Roy; we went shopping in Prada that day in Dubai. Roy’s blog has 700,000 followers, way less than mine (only 4 million, bitch) but when I tease him about him, he just laughs and says most of mine are bots. He has a dark sense of humor, but I love him.
Senator Piolo, in his high-and-mighty chair, really went hard on Roy. But Roy held his own. Afterwards, I whispered to him, next time, we’ll gut the nerd. Roy laughed and gave me a high five.
I feel myself getting wet again. Good, great … ahh … so this big, dumb oaf knows what he is doing after all. He pumps like a piston and now he’s gonna kiss me. I take his tongue, taste the apple in his breath. I suck him; he sucks me. He bites my lip. I give myself to the pleasure, riding high on dope and cock. Hell, fuck. Yeah.
***
“Was it great for you babe?” he asks me after.
I think on his question. I remember yesterday when the nerd asked me: “Were you fair when you wrote those stuff about me?”
I look at the Chinese-looking guy in the eye and say: “Definitely.”
Polarization
What worries me is that these days we are often “preaching to the choir” as the idiom goes.
Do our words matter if we only end up reinforcing convictions that are already stubbornly rooted; and alienating those whose outlooks we want to want to win to our side?
What is the point of being right if we end up being more divided anyway?
We are so like this Juan Luna painting … a bunch of gladiators killing and torturing each other. Do we really know who (or what ) the enemy is?
****
“If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?”
― Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, The Gulag Archipelago 1918-1956
Killing Time with A Blank Page
image from: https://seventhvoice.wordpress.com/
She has lost her voice. Which is what usually happens when she is concentrating on doing this profession that she had trained on.
The truth is: she is an excellent faker. She had convinced everyone that she is a competent doctor even if the reality in her heart makes her break in sweats every time she gives advice or performs a procedure on another human being.
There are a ton of paperwork attesting to her qualifications. Diplomas, certificates, letters of recommendations. But what do they prove? For her, nothing really. But they were her key to getting this high-paying job, her passport to leaving her life of financial drudgery.
She has always detested poverty of the material kind. Of course, there is a part of her that romanticizes poverty… the virtue of sacrificing a cushy life for a principled one — and all that BS. She appreciates having a full stomach; the capacity to buy the clothes, accessories and gadgets she wants; even the presence of a hot shower in her flat. A part of her, though, wishes that she had been born with more backbone. So that she can withstand the inconveniences and indignities of standing up to her dreams.
She had given up dreaming (she thinks). Mostly because she lacks the time. Typing away random nothings on her laptop seem like a luxury. Stories used to come from her “random nothings”. But one has to be practical. Her stories have never brought food on the table. They have never helped her pay her taxes or given her a mode of transportation. Certainly, they have made her happy — the same way sex makes one happy, the anticipation, the dance towards an orgasm, but … after one is done, after one types THE END in Microsoft Word, what then? “Post-coital ennui” — if there is such a term describes her writing much more than it describes her sex life.
She used to treat her stories like her children. Each one a product of her dreams, characters and images lovingly nurtured in her head. She used to think that writing is her reason for being; much more than medicine, much more than her non-turbulent lovelife. Putting words on paper (or typing them on a word processor) has always made her feel connected, less alone; a part of the universe and all its mysteries.
Writing has always made her feel … alive, renewed, reborn.
In fact, she once made a poem that boastfully claimed that she had given birth to herself. (She probably would not have written that poem if she had actual physical kids. Human progenies tend to make their mothers consider them as the ultimate performance of her life, beyond any other creative endeavor. A singer may have made the most beautiful song in the world; but if she had a child, she would consider the human as far more important than the other product of her dreams. Which is, maybe correct, depending on how one looks at it. After all, a human progeny has the capacity to make other progenies … a song will never beget another song.)
Acts of creations are tricky things. Sooner or later, they will find their own agency. And when that happens, the god that created them is fucked. One can never have one’s life again when one has a child. One is forever bound to that entity which one has created. (So, there is a part of her that pities, or empathizes with God — the one that created Everything.)
***
The problem with her is that she took Khalil Gibran’s poem too seriously. Specifically, the line that says: Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself … etc etc.
Seriously! She believes that. Between believing in the Holy Trinity and that poem, the latter would win hands down. She feels more affinity towards this poem than towards any genetic imperative to propagate her chromosomes.
The irony is that she specializes in a field that helps women propagate their chromosomes. So it is always an awkward question when practical strangers ask her why she does not have a child (as if it is any of their business). To avoid long-winding explanations, she often lies and says that she and her husband have not been married very long (in the grand scheme of things, considering that the Universe is 5 billion year, her 9-year marriage is not that long.) Or she would be flippant and say: God has not willed them to have any kids yet (that reason would usually shut anybody up — nobody wants to argue about God’s will). Or she would say jokingly that she is too lazy to go through the efforts of having a kid.
In any case, today she has no genetic progeny and no literary opus to her name. What she has are a ton of books; a collection of mishmash in her hard disk drive; a bunch of letters after her name; a decent and steady salary (something that she can pat herself on the back for); and a patient, and kind husband who is the love of her life.
Taking all that into account, maybe she has not done so bad after all.
But she still, as yet, has to find her voice. She has to find it or else she will be that drowning person groping for her life-vest, flailing and gasping in the middle of the Pacific ocean.
She has to find it, a voice — her voice — otherwise what will be the point?
from pinterest
If This is A Filipino
Jose Rizal is the Philippines’ national hero. Some say he is an American-invented hero, but I still believe that the honors accorded to him are well-deserved. He died for love of country — which is probably a hell of a lot more that I can muster. He is a nationalist and a polymath and his work and whole life is something that a lot of of his countrymen can emulate. Sad to say, they do not. (photo from Wikipedia)
Jewish writer and concentration camp survivor, Primo Levi once wrote a book called “If This is A Man”. The title came from this poem:
You who live safe
In your warm houses,
You who find, returning in the evening,
Hot food and friendly faces:
Consider if this is a man
Who works in the mud
Who does not know peace
Who fights for a scrap of bread
Who dies because of a yes or a no.
Consider if this is a woman,
Without hair and without name
With no more strength to remember,
Her eyes empty and her womb cold
Like a frog in winter.
Meditate that this came about:
I commend these words to you.
Carve them in your hearts
At home, in the street,
Going to bed, rising;
Repeat them to your children,
Or may your house fall apart,
May illness impede you,
May your children turn their faces from you.
It is a heartbreaking poem, for it compares a free person from someone who is locked up in a concentration camp. The most powerful words in this piece are these: “meditate that these came about”.
***
Why am I writing about concentration camps and that archaic event called holocaust (which is being denied by a lot of people who disagree with Israel’s occupation of Palestine — holocaust did happen, my dears, which is not to say Palestinian occupation is a fiction, those two are not mutually exclusive; it is heartbreaking when victims close their eyes to the humanity of others) ?
The Philippine president once said that it’s okay to kill drug addicts and criminals because they are not humans. It is an outrageous thing to say; but which Filipinos (or at least the 16 million who voted for Duterte; note: there are currently over 100 million Filipinos) totally love.
They love the president, despite his bad mouth, shoddy accomplishments, crooked and squabbling deputies, and his very vocal support for violence to solve the country’s problems (number one of which is drugs — according to him, whether that is supported by facts is another matter).
Filipinos love him — the recent survey shows over 80% approves of his presidency.
They love him and his policies enough to wish other fellow Filipinos who disagree total ill will. For example, the social media is replete with Duterte supporters who will post statements that you deserve to be raped or killed or your family massacred if you point out how morally wrong the president’s pronouncements are.
***
Which brings me to the title of this post: If this a Filipino …
…. would I want to be one?
…. would I be proud to call a country that produces such people as my own?
…. would I want to go back?
****
What is frustrating, what makes me feel more sadness than anger towards fellow Filipinos who voted for Duterte is how willing they are to dig their own graves.
Talking to them is like talking to an addict who consciously knows that it is ingesting poison — i.e. Duterte supporters’ willingness to sacrifice innocent lives for this so-called war against drugs — when someone loses one’s moral fiber by supporting a policy that reduces innocent human lives to collateral damage, that is poison. (And please, they are aware that not all who are killed in OPLAN Tokhang are drug pushers, just like not all who were killed in the Marawi airstrikes were terrorists.)
Despite this, they are willing to ingest poison because the option of stopping (for them) would be more painful.
Oh well, I know I have the alternative of leaving the Philippines if (when?) it gets fucked up; a lot of the 16 million Filipinos won’t.
And that probably makes me sound unpatriotic but, fuck, I am beginning to disbelieve Jose Rizal and all those heroes that think our country is worth fighting for — 16 million Filipinos just showed that I am probably not one of them (insert sad emoji here).
GOOP’s misogynistic, mansplaining hit job
GOOP = Goliath (hello! this is Gwyneth Paltrow with her army of publicists and really, am I supposed to believe that her very polished, very merchandising blog does not even have one professional multimedia expert at the helm?),
Dr. Jen Gunter = Davidgoop.com = alternative facts,
drjengunter.wordpress.com = evidence based facts (or at least she is honest about where her claims come from; and I think honesty, above all else, should be the core value of every scientific endeavor)***
I am re-blogging this as my contribution to stopping the spread of pseudoscience and ridiculous ideas from people who think that they can away with it because they are Big Celebrity and have the advantage of multiple media platforms to infect others with their toxic memes*.
* “meme” is a very recently invented word, defined as “an idea, behavior, or style that spreads from person to person within a culture” (Wikipedia). It was coined by Richard Dawkins in his book “The Selfish Gene”. Recently, the Internet has been the culprit of propagating highly infectious memes — goop being one of them.
GOOP and Gwyneth Paltrow have a case of GOOPitis, which according to Dr. Steve Gundry is due to my potty mouthed facts. Or tomato skins. Or something. I find it all very disjointed, inadequately researched, bloated, and mansplainy.
I first saw this GOOP letter thing on the train back from a wonderful day in Manchester visiting with family (I’m over in the U.K. on holiday) when my phone almost blew up with Twitter notifications, partly because GOOP dedicated their first ever fighting words to little old me (apparently I have some gall suggesting women should not listen to second hand health advice from a ghost) and partly because even High Priestess Paltrow herself had descended from her bespoke, wooden vagina steaming throne to tweet about it among the mortals.
Apparently GOOP thinks I am a “third-party” who critiques them “to leverage that interest and bring attention to” myself. Thisopinion…
View original post 2,147 more words
Another Cut-and-Paste Blog Entry
The following words are from this website.
And while the details of the author’s life are different from mine, I share the sentiments she has towards her significant other.
*****
I Could Do This Without You, But I Don’t Want To (A Letter To My Husband)
by Amanda Elder
Image from Marriage.com
There were times I felt bitter toward you, especially when you were a medical student, and I was transitioning to being a stay-at-home mom. You didn’t understand my struggle. I ate, slept, and breathed our child, and felt consumed and alone.
You had a life outside of parenthood to continue, and while I stopped mine, I accommodated yours. For a period of time, we moved often and lived out of suitcases. Once, we even resided in a single bedroom of a Staten Island basement. For years, I manned the night wakings and offered my breasts around the clock as the only consistent comfort amidst constant upheaval.
Whenever you were off from work, I took our toddler out the minute he woke up so you (and our roommate) could sleep, but not always without resentment. I remember one morning, as I walked to our local bakery yet again, killing time with our little guy attached, I muttered, “I can do all this by myself.”
Because of life’s inherent uncertainty, I’ve actually considered the truth of that statement. I’ve now been a stay-at-home mom for five years and have wondered if I could actually survive on my own. Emotional well-being aside, would I even be able to provide food and shelter? I never thought I’d ask myself that question, being the self-sufficient woman I thought myself to be, but the honest answer is yes, I’d be fine. After all, I’m a go-getter, and that’s the reason all this staying home has been hard in the first place.
I’d make it, although there’d be details to figure out. You’re the dreamer, and you build our lives on the fantasies you manifest. Your doctor job is the one that would allow us to live a life of freedom and adventure in Costa Rica. I don’t have a vision for life without you, and the only notion of home I have is wherever we are. But I certainly wouldn’t head for the jungle on my own, and I wouldn’t do New Jersey either. Even though my sister lives there and I miss her when a single day goes by without conversation, I’ve been in Florida too long and have grown accustomed to bare feet and outdoor play all year long.
You’re in your residency now, and because you sometimes work 26 days a month, and 27 hours a day, I know that technically I can do this by myself. I pack bags and load babies like a boss. I clean toilets and play hide-and-seek simultaneously. I disguise trips to the grocery store as outings for cookies and have prepared many a meal with one hand. But despite my capability, I count down the time for you to come home, not because I so desperately need you to change the next diaper or fill the next sippy cup, but because I want you.
I don’t necessarily need you to carry scooters and tell the boys when it’s time to find a new climbing tree while out on family walks. I need you to hold my hand and talk to me.
I can put all the dishes away and find the missing shoe by myself, but with you, farts are funny, and coffee tastes better.
I can certainly walk the kids to sleep by myself, but when we stroll together, the full moon looks fuller, and I’m inclined to admire it longer.
I can take our son to karate by myself, but when that cute little girl beelines to be Javin’s partner, and another boy helps him perfect his jump kicks, I notice the sweetness, but I don’t giggle like I would with you.
I don’t need you to share parenting responsibilities with me out of fairness or survival, but for the joy of doing so. With you, the funny moments are funnier, the cute moments are cuter, and contrary to the pattern, the terrible moments are less so. Life is simply better with you.
We don’t only co-parent, we co-experience life.
We create and reflect on the same reality, and that somehow deepens the meaning of it all. When I see a beautiful sunset, and you say, “Look at that!” you validate what I see, and all of a sudden the colors become even brighter and more captivating.
I don’t necessarily need you for practical or worldly reasons, but I need you to know me. When I laugh, you’re aware of exactly why. And when I don’t say anything at all, you read my mind. You love my insecurities as you do my strengths, and your understanding gives me confirmation of myself. We’re like two beings from the same source, who get to witness more of themselves through each other.
It’s true that I don’t need you to survive. I need you for so much more.
