Sex : Life

Bad vibrations

Jeannie Greeley — Tue, 22 Apr 2008 19:41:00 GMT

I AM NOT a promise-maker. But here’s one I intend to keep: never will I attend another sex-toy party as long as blood continues to pump to my pink parts. I don’t care if it’s being thrown by Parker Posey on a Caribbean island and the dress code is string bikinis. I’m not going.

These may be harsh words, but they’re not without reason. I have a lifeless, veiny penis under my bed that haunts me and a pair of nipple clamps that almost separated me from a tender piece of my flesh.

This is what happens to me at sex-toy parties: I feel compelled to buy something. Then, as with any impulse buy, I regret spending too much money on something that isn’t that great when I already have a perfectly good shower nozzle at home.

Initially, I had no desire to attend a sex-toy party, especially considering that Sweet-N-Nasty, Eros, and Amazing Express are all within walking distance of my apartment. Personally, I’m not embarrassed to take a stroll through the sex shops every now and again. I’ll pick up, try on, sample, or ask for an explanation of exactly how people fit half-inch metal rods into their urethras. I don’t need to be surrounded by a bunch of suburban housewives sharing dip recipes to realize that sex toys aren’t taboo. But I think a lot of people take comfort in knowing that others share their fantasies and perversions. Or perhaps it’s a sign that our society is growing more sexually liberated, going from hawking Tupperware to butt plugs in the span of a decade.

At my first party, I chose three products: Nipple Nibblers, Nympho’s Desire Arousal Balm, and a large black strap-on. All of these were ordered from the privacy of the hostess’s trailer, which was parked down the street from the party. That’s another weird thing about these events: you spend hours passing dildos around the room, listening to your neighbor talk of her affinity for anal beads the size of avocados, and then you’re shipped off to a top-secret location to place your order, as if it’s going to be for mustard gas rather than a vibrator.

My penis, I was told, was out of stock and would have to be shipped. After two agonizing weeks, during which I realized that my other new products amounted to expensive Ben-Gay, I received a nondescript manila envelope in the mail. I anxiously brought it with me into the bathroom, peeled open the envelope, pulled out the satin bag, grabbed the drawstring that cinched it shut, and yanked my penis out of its sack. Then I screamed, whipped my penis at the wall, and jumped off the toilet.

The item I’d ordered was a sleek, black, shiny number akin to a chocolate-covered missile. The item I received was a bulbous beige object with a scrotum the size of a turnip. I was furious. I called the hostess and spent a good 20 minutes arguing over the definition of “realistic.” I just wanted it to work like a penis, I explained. I didn’t want it to look like one.

“Well, that’s what you ordered,” she insisted. “And you can’t return it. I’m sorry, hon.”

Needless to say, I wasn’t enthusiastic when I recently got a call from my sister demanding my attendance at yet another sex-toy party. Not only would I have to listen to what my brothers-in-law enjoy doing to my sisters, but I’d be surrounded by a bunch of their straight co-workers who are unaware of my flaming gayness.

But off I went. This party was much more interactive than the first, with embarrassing “icebreakers” that have you passing a humming vibrator around the room using just your locked knees. One lucky partygoer even got to wear a pair of vibrating panties, her clit like a victim in a bad game of Operation, my ruthless sister holding the remote.

The main difference was that this party was geared toward straight girls. So instead of strap-ons and double-ended dildos, the focus was on vibrators and an array of items to fool women into thinking they might actually want a penis in their mouths. The Swedish Fish mouth guard was a must-have for my sister, whose order form, 20 minutes into the presentation, read like the Magna Carta.

But I was determined not to make the same mistakes I’d made at the last party. I’d get something that I could actually take home with me that evening, and I’d only spend the requisite 50 or so dollars that make you feel like you’ve paid your admission. But at the end of my sale, the hostess informed me that my cordless vibrating nipple clamps would have to be shipped. (Either there are a lot of freaks out there draining the supply of weird novelties, or I’m the weird novelty.)

A week or so later, the manila envelope arrived in the mail, and I tore it open with the same enthusiasm that I had before. I didn’t waste any time: still in my pajamas, I pulled my shirt up and clamped them on. I turned them down, then cranked them all the way up. I loosened the grip, tightened the grip. Then I made the mistake of looking at myself in the mirror. Not only was I feeling nothing, but I looked like a lab experiment. In the moment between regaining my breath after a fit of laughter and phoning my sister to see how her 12 vibrators were working, I contemplated calling the hostess and demanding to return the merchandise.

But really, whose fault is it that I keep ending up dissatisfied with my purchases? The hostesses can’t be to blame. And it’s not the merchandise that’s flawed, I realize. What’s flawed is the image I have of myself as this adventurous sex goddess strung with nipple clamps and brandishing a giant penis. All the other girls seemed perfectly content with their purple bunny vibrators. @

[Illustrationby Corey Smigliani]

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer whose batteries are not included. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

In The Sack: Sock It To Me, Muthafuckinpissedofflady, and more

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 18:33:00 GMT

I LOVE pissing off lesbians. The capital-letter fury of their responses never fails to entertain me. From irate lesbians to bi-curious co-workers to sensitive gents, this last batch of letters brought out all the colors of the rainbow. (Letters have been edited for brevity, and to protect the identity of mad crafters. And by "mad," I mean licking-the-walls crazy.)

You described, to the letter, a trainwreck of a party I attended ["Demented and sad, but social," 1.15.08]. I should have known it was going to be an "interesting" party when we arrived and realized there was no music and that there was an entire area of the party devoted to decoupaging one's envelope, and the lesbians were crafting it up HARDCORE. The really pivotal point for me was when I was in line for the bathroom and overheard a conversation. Two women were talking in front of me about "some class" and I piped up, "Oh, what class, you guys?" I was quickly given a once-over and told, "Oh, it's for this sock-puppet-making class I teach." You very accurately described the tone of that "party." Sadly, no one went out of their way to talk to me, and I remained sad about the state of lesbian social and single life.

Sock It To Me

Dear Sock It To Me,

"Really, now. Do you have to go and get all up in the sock puppeteers' shit? You are a vile and insensitive person whose sarcasm is wasted on us! Here we are, trying to have a little fun by putting things on our hands that belong on our feet and speaking in high-pitched voices, and you have to rain on our parade because you feel inferior? How many adults have you entertained with a sweat sock? Huh? Huh? Yeah, that's what I thought." There. That was my best angry-lesbian impression. How'd I do?

You know, if the singles event wasn't your thing, fine. But don't fucking go and write this shit, dissing all over the people who work at planning these events (in this case, ME) and creating a community of wonderful, nice, friendly women. This is a community of volunteers, and it just gives us all that warm fuzzy feeling when you piss all over it in the media. [Lesbian organization] is built on FRIENDLY, and I fucking STEPPED UP and planned a party with two other women. You weren't the one stepping up, so don't think that your ideas or your party would be that fucking great. Maybe YOU would have had fun AND met people you liked IF you had gotten off your fucking self-righteous pedestal and actually joined the fun instead of fucking mocking and judging perfectly nice people. And, yes, for the record, you are a total bitch.

Muthafuckinpissedofflady

Dear Muthafuckinpissedofflady,

I have no goddamn idea why anyone would fucking think YOU gals were anything but totally fucking FRIENDLY. REALLY! Darling, I've planned plenty of parties. The only paint involved was the latex covering people's nipples. And when glitter and scissors were involved, so were my three-year-old nieces. Keep up the cordial crafting.

Just wanted to give a shout out in response to "Straight Shot: On Exploring the Opposite Gender" [2.12.08]. After 13 years of lesbian drama, I fell for a guy at work. "A harmless crush. It'll pass." But it didn't. I liked him. This went on for a few months. He went to visit his family, and on the way back, bought me a little box of chocolates. Uh oh. I called my ex-girlfriend. "If you're not serious, give him back the chocolate," she said. "I can't," I said. "I ate one." "Chocolate means something," she said. "He thought about you, and probably decided to get chocolate instead of something else." I didn't really question what any of this meant, but he did. I was happy to be temporary. Then one day, I said, "Let's go on a real date." So we did - an Ani DiFranco concert. I have no idea why. Ultimately, he was not strong enough for me. He dumped me. It sucked. I wrote a lot of bad French poetry. Things got complicated, then uncomplicated. Now we're coooool. Oh hey, you didn't write that six-word story, "Boyfriend in bed. Still a lesbian?" did you?

Bi-Curious Betty

Dear Bi-Curious Betty,

Please tell me you're no longer questioning your sexuality. Ani concert on a straight date. Too sensitive to do the dirty work of a breakup. Poetry. Drama. Now best friends. It reads like a Michelle Tea excerpt, minus the rubber gloves. And, no, that wasn't my six-word story. My submission was: "Underpaid writer. Ramen is cancerous? Fuck!"

I read your article "Straight Shot: On Exploring the Opposite Gender" in Stuff@night. I'm not sure how I would feel if I found out the girl was just going out with me as an "experiment" or as a form of "cleansing her palate." But maybe that's why, over the last couple of years, women whom I've had great dates with just disappeared. No return of my messages. Yeaaaaaa, that's it. . . they didn't call back because they were lesbians. It couldn't have been me. Anyway, it's no big deal . . . but maybe you should refrain from doing that anymore. It's not really fair.

Diplomatic Dude

Dear Diplomatic Dude,

You know what's not fair, buddy? Going Dutch on Every. Single. Tab! You know what's not fair? A beautiful woman with a rotted tooth. Girls who can't have orgasms because they're so doped up on antidepressants. Also not fair. I've dealt with my fair share of shit in the dating department, dude. I think I've earned the right to test the waters, thank you.

I am a straight guy and always enjoy your column. As you point out, your experience is not unusual. I once dated a lesbian for a summer and it was a great summer. Her sexual preference was not an issue. She was terrific, but we had to be careful around some of her friends. Unlike a lot of straight women I know, she was totally open in the bedroom. She once told me, "Hey, just ask. The only negative will be that I say no." I miss her to this day. Why shouldn't you enjoy male company from time to time if it makes you happy? Men are not crazy about this stuff, at least the open, well-educated, and intelligent ones. Live it up!

Side Dish

Dear Side Dish,

John, is that you? I think it is. Yeah, that summer was a blast. I learned a lot from you in the bedroom. Except that time with the zucchini and the toilet plunger! That was just way over the top, even for an experimental lesbian who almost believed you when you said all straight girls liked that. Thanks for your continued support. And as for your couched proposition of enjoying "male company from time to time," I accept. @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who's even more confused after soliciting advice from her readers. You can get In The Sack by writing to jeannieg@comcast.net.

[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]

Sinners and Saints: A Mardi Gras showdown

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 17:40:00 GMT

DRIVING CROSS-country gives you a lot of time to think. You can put miles between you and any insignificant relationship woes. You can master the state capitals. You can become acquainted with the history of "meat showers" in some of our finer states.

But, most noticeably, you can glimpse the warring worlds of conservatism and excess as you buckle in and make your way through the Bible Belt. As you leave the comforts of the Northeast, you go from seeing highways littered with billboards for adult entertainment and sex stores to passing hillsides covered with giant crosses hailing the wrath of an angry god down upon your eco-friendly Prius.

One stretch of road in western Kentucky had me preparing to perish if I didn't repent and change my sinful homosexual ways. "Hell is real," one sign screamed, the "H" painted in flames just in case it wasn't clear. "Jesus Saves," read another, within miles of a billboard listing several of the 10 Commandments. Then there was my personal favorite, a message from our holy pen-pal: "Talk with me. I love you. Jesus."

We saw an 18-wheeler named "The Other Woman" stopped at a gas station that sold vanity plates informing people that "The 10 Commandments are not a multiple-choice question." Next to it was another plate featuring a large set of breasts stuffed into a Confederate-flag bra. This is, apparently, what rednecks call "Dixie Cups."

Roadside attractions along a barren stretch of Texas highway included a sign claiming abortion goes against the Hippocratic oath; a billboard for a gentleman's club called Plantation; and an ad for micro-surgical vasectomy reversal. (Apparently you must drive backward on that bit of road in order for the advertising to be effective.) And - this is the God's honest truth - all this takes place shortly before you reach a town called Turnaround, Texas. That's in case you missed Run For Your Fucking Life, Alabama.

But nowhere is the battle between the saint and the sinner more pronounced than in the city that care forgot: New Orleans. And Mardi Gras, naturally, is the showdown, when both camps come out in all their costumed glory. It is, after all, the last day of debauchery before the onset of the sacrificial period of Lent.

The thing that's interesting about Mardi Gras is that there's no distinction between the people at whom the religious zealots take aim. At gay pride parades, they target the homos. At Planned Parenthood clinics, it's the "baby killers." At Mardi Gras, it's anyone with a sinful strand of beads slung around their necks.

One banner included the following in its list of people going to hell in a handbasket: "party animals," "two-faced people," "pot-smoking little devils," "pencil neck weak-kneed gutless men," and "sports nuts," the latter of which featured little stick figures of a tennis player and a downhill skier. Poor Martina Navratilova, damned on so many levels.

Nearby, a man stood holding a banner that read, "The blood of Jesus washes away your sins." Just feet away, a strip club featured images of lathered women, beckoning potential customers to "Wash the girl of your choice." Sin. Cleanse. Repeat.

A more moderate message was spread by the strip club that warned visitors: "Bottomless. If nudity offends you ... don't come in."

The Mardi Gras revelers certainly didn't miss the opportunity to take potshots at the religious, either. In a gay bar, a man dressed as a nun asked me to take his picture stuffing $1 bills into a male stripper's G-string. Talk about a bad habit. A man dressed as a priest tried to lure me into another bar by dangling his giant fake penis toward me. Maybe it's the recovering Catholic in me, but I always find these costumes funny on some level.

I'm certainly not someone who spends her energies shouting against the messages echoing from the megaphones of martyrs. Nor would I waste my entire Mardi Gras like one man did, standing beside the proselytizers with a sign reading, "I'm with stupid." I guess my greatest act of defiance was to walk right past them into a throbbing gay bar and celebrate the faltering campaigns of both an evangelical and Mormon presidential candidate on Super Tuesday.

Besides, there are far worse sins being committed at Mardi Gras, about which people should be up in arms. Fat women raising their shirts. Little Asian girls burning their fingers stringing beads that get washed into the gutters with beer. Women over 50 flaunting their implants. Drag queens walking the streets shoeless with runs in their stockings. Where is the outrage?

In recounting my Mardi Gras experiences to my dad, I told him about a snapshot that I took from a balcony overlooking Bourbon Street. It was of a group of middle-aged gay men sporting auburn wigs and pink T-shirts emblazoned with the same slogan. "It said, ‘Suck it, Jesus!' " I told him. "Jeannie," my father scolded, stifling a laugh. "It's Ash Wednesday!"

He should know that it's been a hell of a lot longer than 40 days since I quit caring. @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer getting 40 miles to the gallon. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]

On the Couch ... with a horny handicapped* hombre

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 25 Feb 2008 18:32:00 GMT

I'VE SPENT many a night with a certain pal of mine, scoping women in bars and bitching about relationship woes. But while complaining about my trivial challenges, I sometimes forget how much more difficult it is for him, a disabled man in the dating world. So I plopped his ass on my couch one day and we got down to the nitty-gritty of sex and disabilities. "I feel like I'm everyone's best friend but nobody's lover," he admitted. (Note: his answers are not to be taken as sweeping generalizations about the disabled population. This is simply one person's perspective.)

Q: Can you describe your disability?

A: I have had partial paralysis since birth. I use crutches to get around.

Q: How has your disability affected your sex life?

A: Very much so. But as I get older, it becomes less of a problem. I can think of various moments, like when I discovered that scars are not necessarily unattractive. I have a body covered in scars from various procedures. To find out that some girls actually find it attractive or cool was a revelation. Up until that point, I would hide. I would be nervous about going to a beach, anywhere where you could see the major scars. I think the other revelation was realizing that I have absolutely nothing to lose by trying the best to do whatever I want to do. It doesn't just apply to sex. Seeing the cutest girl in the room and going over to her and talking to her is no longer a problem, whereas when I was a teenager or twentysomething, I would run in the opposite direction, scared.

Q: Now you're almost overconfident?

A: Now I feel a little bit superior in my own life because I can do everything that a "normal" person can do, with the disability.

Q: Does that bold approach work for you?

A: No, but it increases the odds. What's better: running toward the girl or running away?

Q: I've found that running away helps.

A: Of course there's always the caveman approach. When she walks by, trip her up.

Q: Literally using your disability as a crutch.

A: A crutch for crotch.

Q: Pig. So do you ever feel like people play the sympathy card with you?

A: If somebody appears like they only want to be around me because they have some sympathy for me, my attitude is, I'm not put on this earth to make you feel good about yourself. It's more, you treat me the way I treat you, and I'll give as good as I get. And that's the third cliché in a row.

Q: When's the last "relationship" you've had?

A: I'm not sure I ever had one. It was a few years ago. It was an on-again-off-again that lasted nine months, at best.

Q: What was the last sexual experience you had?

A: It was with a European. It started in a restaurant making out in the bar, and then proceeded to my car.

Q: Do you want to continue with that rhyme scheme?

A: Bite me! On this particular evening, it only progressed as far as my car. She claimed to have friends staying with her, and for whatever reason didn't want to bring me back to her place. And we simply made out in my car, to the point where we got to what most people would describe as third base. It's not exactly easy, when you're two full-grown adults, to shag like rabbits in the back seat of a car. And the other thing about me and sex is it tends not to be spontaneous. It's very difficult logistically if you've got a part of your body that doesn't work well. So it tends to be more of a planned event.

Q: Do you think people are afraid to get physically or sexually involved with people with disabilities?

A: Yes. The ignorant answer is they're afraid of catching whatever the individual has. The more informed answer would be because they are afraid of having to deal with that person's disability on a daily basis. And then there's attractiveness and unattractiveness issues. I stand out in a crowd, but not necessarily for the right reasons.

Q: Do things function properly from a sexual point of view?

A: I think the physical problems that might affect sexuality or ability to have sex have more to do with the body following through with what the brain is thinking. In my case, it's a spinal-cord disorder. Sometimes the messages don't get through. The brain is working fine, but the body doesn't always follow through. It doesn't have any effect on the way you think. You have a healthy sexual appetite, a healthy sexual drive. It's just the fact that the body sometimes doesn't want to go along with that.

Q: You say you're always the best friend, never the lover. How frustrating is that?

A: At times, very. I've grown into a routine of acceptance of that role. And it's not necessarily the best because you find you're attracted to somebody and either they see you as just a friend or you don't say the right things at the right time. Or you come across as asexual or nonsexual, and suddenly you're a good friend and you're never going to be any more than that.

Q: Do you think you'll ever find your "ideal" woman?

A: I don't see why not. If you lose your optimism, you've lost everything. With any disability, I think you can either look ahead, look for the happy life, or you can sit and wallow and wonder why did God make me like this - if you believe in God. The other option is to just get on with your life and enjoy the short time you have on this planet. I very much prefer to live for what I have now, because I know that down the road there's always a possibility that something could bite me on the ass. I could be completely incapacitated and regret everything that I didn't do. That would definitely be a problem. You would have wasted your life. People have goals for themselves - school, college, career, family, nice little house. And some people just want to live day by day and have fun. I'm somewhere in between. And I lean more toward the latter than the former. That's why I never have a penny in the bank.

Q: What are your thoughts on dating other disabled people?

A: I would shy away from disabled people in general when I was younger. But now, it sounds corny, but I wouldn't look at the disability first. I would look at it a little more closely to see what the person is like. And it wouldn't stop me from dating them if I liked them enough. At one point in my life, I wouldn't associate myself for any reason with a disabled person. I didn't want to be put into that little pigeonhole that says, "You're disabled. Sit in the corner. Look happy. Be thankful you're alive." I shouldn't see the disability. Nobody should. @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer whose mouth is often her biggest disability. If you'd like to share your story On the Couch, e-mail her at jeannieg@comcast.net.

*Yes, I know "handicapped" is not an appropriate term. But the interview subject and I agreed we could sacrifice our political correctness for a good literary device.

[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]

Straight Shot: On exploring the opposite gender

Jeannie Greeley — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 22:15:00 GMT

THE FIRST thing that alarms me is the facial hair, dragging across my chin like an enraged porcupine. Then I feel large, rough hands cupped around my face. Then the musky aroma creeps up and stings my nose.

Holy absence of labia minora! I'm with a dude.

Cheap facials aside, I don't really know what I'm doing in the front seat of this car being, quite literally, manhandled. I just remember waking from my lesbian bed one day in a very bad lesbian mood. Suffering from a bout of clitoral despondency, I grabbed a fistful of phone numbers from my dresser and plucked from them the one with a man's name on it.

I was a woman scorned. (Maybe I was a woman desperate, but stick with me on the drama here.) I quite purposefully picked up the phone and, with no fuss, arranged a date. Then I hung up, looked in the mirror, and morphed into Munch's The Scream. "What are you doing?" my gaping mouth asked. "You're gay!"

This "one straight date" is a tactic used occasionally by some of my gay pals and me. Often it's a last emotional resort. We've suffered one too many crazy broads. We've gone catatonic talking about our emotions. We're convinced that if we don't explore the opposite gender, we'll end up with a mute dwarf.

We convince ourselves that we must find something simpler, or at least a little less complicated. We want our doors opened for a change, our outfits complimented, and for God's sake, we don't want to go Dutch on any more tabs. So we log on to dating Web sites as straight girls. Or we give our number to some cute guy at the bar. It's our sexual entremets, one friend noted - a light and refreshing heterosexual sorbet to cleanse our palates between heavy gay courses.

But this little hetero adventure takes a bit of practice. First you've got to reveal your scheme to a few trustworthy friends, just in case your body winds up in a duffel bag at the bottom of the Charles. In my case, I used my sisters as a litmus test.

"Good for you!" one said, convinced by my dating history that lesbians have some unique, crazy chromosome. The other acted as though I was speaking Cantonese when the word "guy" kept coming out of my mouth.

Friends can be a bit less forgiving, and I omitted some of my five-star lesbian friends from the conversation altogether. When I confided to one lesbian friend that I was going out with a man, she was stunned.

"You're the gayest person I know," she exclaimed.

"I can't be the gayest person you know, because you are the gayest person I know," I responded, before reminding her that she had a little bit of a boyfriend for much of the previous year.

Preparation for the one straight date can be grueling. You must scrub your vocabulary of gay thoughts and agendas. Revealing that you're a lesbian could be both the ultimate turn-on or turn-off for your male date, and you don't really want to risk either on a first rendezvous with a total stranger.

"Talk about places like Saint and Abe & Louie's," I advised one lesbian friend who was heading out on a straight date. "And Faneuil Hall. Those are good straight places."

We agree to omit references to Tribe, Toast, and Pure, all popular lesbian bars. And, God forbid, don't mention Club Café; you might as well stir your drink with a strap-on. If possible, avoid the South End, because you're likely to run into an ex or a butch friend with a wallet chain that could lasso the guy to the ground.

Are we deceiving people with this behavior? Some might say so. Others might say we're only lying to ourselves. If you're not so rigid with your sexual labels, you could view it as harmless experimentation, much like all those hetero housewives going down on each other after a few too many glasses of boxed wine.

Someone asked me recently where I fell on the "spectrum" of sexuality. Hopefully on someone's face, I thought. But seriously, I have a theory on my own sexuality. I came out sometime around age 20. Men at that age were a bunch of beer-guzzling dolts. Women were these soft cushions of understanding and emotion. They got me. And I was perfectly willing to let them.

In the decade since, men have caught up. Some of them now even talk about art and politics. And there I am sidelined at a beer-pong match with a bunch of lesbians in baseball hats. This particular guy that I find myself out with schooled me in the language of tequila. Up until now, I thought that consisted of three phrases: lick it, slam it, suck it.

He's what straight girls would presumably call "a catch." Handsome, intelligent, multilingual, well-traveled. But I can't stop wondering what his vagina looks like. While he's talking about his job, I'm eyeing the waitress. And my conversation keeps getting hung up on all the potentially damning gay bombs I'm about to drop.

But aside from the beard burn, I'd actually say the date is a success. Afterwards, though, I freeze. I can't get myself to return a phone call or write an e-mail or send holiday wishes. I think too much about how difficult it would be, and about all the explanations I'd have to issue and the condoms I'd have to buy and the cycles I'd have to keep track of. And I allow myself to get sucked back down the drain of lesbian drama, partly out of fear and partly out of desire.

But it's only been three weeks since our date. I think I should call him. Guys don't care about stuff like that, do they? They're not crazy, right? @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who needs some advice in this department. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]

In The Sack: Responses to "Rotten Eggs: Pondering Procreation"

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 18:21:00 GMT

HAD I KNOWN everyone out there loathes the idea of childbearing and rearing as much as I do, I would've written my manifesto much sooner ("Rotten Eggs: Pondering Procreation," September 25, 2007). Stay tuned for reasons 11 through 347 in coming months. In the meantime, while I normally offer pithy and misguided rebuttals to my readers' letters, I thought these missives on motherhood were best left to speak for themselves.

I am a total Stuff@night supporter and wanted to let you know I love your articles. The article you wrote about societal norms is great. I am very anti-conventional [about things like] marriage and children. I have tried, but I am just not a child fan. Why spend money on these little things that don't appreciate you, and when they get old enough they will bitch at you, when you can just spend money on yourself and have a little less stress in your life? I admire you for not going along with those social norms. It's like they think you are 30 so you need to be on your way to poppin' out kids like Pez.

I really enjoyed reading "Rotten
Eggs." For someone not interested in
a) getting fat, b) cleaning shitty diapers for years, and c) having no time to truly enjoy life, this kind of article is refreshingly reassuring. I always get the, "Oh, you just don't know that you want it yet" or the "You are such a freak" silences. Why do people feel the need to judge women who are probably saving a child from abuse and neglect by not having one? We need to hear more messages like your article that are lighthearted and, frankly, make sense!

As I was scanning Stuff@night for your article, I was so excited to see that I was not alone in my feelings about not having children! Although I must tell you at least you are not a "breeder" and can use that as an excuse. I am screwed. I am so sick of having people tell me that I will want them someday and that I "haven't met the right person yet" or that I haven't "grown up yet." For god's sake, I am 25. I am not 12! And who has the right to tell ME what I want from life or to decide if I have or haven't met the right person yet? I wish that one day, just once, someone would just say, "You know what, honey? Good for you! At least you know what you want and you should go for it! You don't HAVE to have kids. If you don't want them, then don't have them!" But for now I am just going to have to settle with the looks of horror that I get every day. And someday, when I don't have saggy tits and still have a great body, I will point and laugh at all the people who ever looked at me like I was a Wiggles assassin.

I would have liked it more if you mentioned how childbearing is an essential cog for the economic wheel, and without it we become relatively normal self-actualized adults, and heaven forbid that! The other thing that pretty much guarantees that at least I won't be having any of these little bundles of pain is the women around this wonderful city! When they are in scouting mode for the contributor of half the DNA they need to procreate, the guy has to have something going for him that only they get to define, and the card game is stacked where they hold all the trump cards that get dealt whenever and wherever needed! No rules, all theirs! And that is something inflation has infused and the upwardly mobile interest hedges on some pretty distinct values that leave many men shaking their heads and going for the mail-order brides rather then the locals!

My freakish adoration for little alien-looking babies with heads twice the size of their bodies aside, I was laughing out loud as I read your article. I was in a miserable mood, sitting in a miserable jury-pool room, doing my miserable "civic duty" when I came across your article, and it was the singular thing that brought joy to my morning! And in all of my laughing, I can honestly say that you have changed a habit of mine (and not the monosyllabic cooing. I may never give that up). But I realized that in the past I have been somewhat aghast when questioning friends of mine who really don't want kids. And today, after reading your manifesto, I found out that a new friend of mine who is happily dating a guy doesn't really want kids. So instead of badgering her into "wanting to have a human head squeezed through her vagina," I just said, "Oh, I didn't know that. Cool." So your great writing was both entertaining and life-altering. And really, is that too much to ask from an article!?

As a father of a 13-year-old and weekend caregiver of his three-year-old little bro (not mine but I love him so), you are so, so right on all points. Parenthood is the gift that keeps on taking!

I really enjoyed your piece "Rotten Eggs." I am also in my thirties and have never wanted children. I work with mostly straight women who are mothers and I can't even begin to count the number of times I have been told "Oh, sweetie, someday you'll want children." Well, considering I'm well into my thirties, if the maternal drive hasn't kicked in, I don't think it will! I get tired of all the baby showers and weddings my straight friends make me endure! And it's frustrating to see my sexually liberated, progressive, independent, liberal friends change into overprotective busybody moms. My good friend recently told me of her three-year- old, "as soon as Ella can p-o-o-p-y we are going to have a potty party!" How the hell am I supposed to respond to that!? Anyway, I loved the piece and I, too, enjoy my freedom, good clothes, and travel, and really enjoy my beauty sleep! Thanks for always writing with brave conviction!

I'm 30, been married a couple years, and (gasp!) I do not want children. Family learned quite some time ago not to bother asking me anymore, but my friends don't know how to take a hint. They keep asking when the babies are coming, and when I say I don't want them, they tell me, "Oh, hopefully you'll change," or "Once you're around them more, you'll want them." Maybe, maybe not. I still can't get over the balls that some women have to broach such a personal decision, especially in light of so many of us that have problems with fertility. You'd think that women our age would be a tad more sensitive. Ugh. It's enough to make me tear my hair out. It's refreshing to know that there are other people out there like myself. And it's funny how you say the act of child-rearing is selfish. Because all the people who scoff at me not wanting to procreate? That's what they refer to me as being. Cheers to freedom! @

Jeannie Greeley is a stretch-mark-free freelance writer. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

Demented and Sad, but Social: Venturing into the ‘singles’ world

Jeannie Greeley — Tue, 08 Jan 2008 18:35:00 GMT

SIGN HERE. Take a name tag. You're number 41. Now print your number on this envelope. Decorate the envelope with the supplies in the other room. Hang your envelope on the wall over there. Then people can leave you messages. Yay! Have fun!

This is lesbian socialization at its finest: timid, contrived, and crafty.

"You deal with this," I say to my friend. "I'm going to hang my coat." Or myself.

Not one for organized singles events, I arrived at this party after a fight with an ex-suitor, hell-bent on whoring it up with a bunch of hot ladies. Decorating vegan cupcakes wasn't exactly what I had in mind. The lights are bright. The music is nonexistent. And the ladies are men (or used to be) - at least the ones who care to talk to me. We're drawn together by our mutual fondness for mascara and vintage dresses. But we have to part ways when I start getting cheekbone envy.

These kinds of events make my skin crawl. Desperate eyes dart around the room looking to lock with anyone else's. Uncomfortable people jockey for a comfort zone. Body movements are awkward as attendees negotiate a minefield of human wanting. And the sexual energy is as charged as a dead battery.

As if the attempts at forced socialization weren't bad enough, we're later corralled into games of raunchy charades and Spin the Bottle. Can someone please hold me and tell me it'll be okay?

"Oh my God. That's terrible," said a sympathetic friend, after detailing the exquisite marriage proposal her boyfriend had orchestrated on the same night that I was engaging in adolescent games.

"If I don't have a date for your wedding, shoot me in the head," I said.

I'm not having a pity party for one. I'm just terrified at the options I see for "singles" nowadays. Everywhere I go, someone wants to put a lei around my neck or force me to wear a name tag in order to meet other lepers. Eight-minute dating is about seven-and-a-half minutes too long for me. And those gimmicks in which they employ sensory deprivation to see if personality trumps looks fail as soon as you catch a glimpse of the person with whom you're matched.

"Single" is a label I've always worn proudly. But I used it more as an explanation that I wasn't committed to the person or persons I was dating; I wasn't really embracing the actual state of mind or being. I just wanted people to know that I was available. Now "single" feels more like a verb, something I must work to change. Others use the word like it's an ailment: so sad that you've contracted it, and pulling for you to be in the clear.

Taped to my computer monitor are two fortunes. One reads: "The love of your life will appear in front of you unexpectedly!" The other says: "You will never need to worry about a steady income." Together, they are my daily affirmations that absolutely nothing in life happens without effort - and that the Chinese lie.

We must get up every day with the hope that, if we wander the streets long enough, we'll bump into our soul mate. We must work ourselves up for another belabored dinner conversation with a boring stranger. We must keep motherfuckin' hope alive! Because this one, any one, could be "The One."

So here I am, nestled between a lesbian I've nicknamed Robocop (because of the pins holding her arm together after a motorcycle accident) and an Italian girl whom I think is making fun of me in her native tongue. I am not amused by the dancing antics of this Rosie O'Donnell look-alike. And I'm starting to think that I am, in fact, a total bitch.

But I'm trying! I'm here wearing a pained smile and my little name tag. And I'm trying not to think about the girl who recently told me she's emotionally unavailable. I'm trying to forget about all the relationships that I casually discarded for the promise of something better. I'm trying to imagine having anything in common with these people, other than all of us being gay.

Mostly, I'm trying to make it across the room inconspicuously to grab my envelope. Who knows? Maybe there was some cute girl spying on me from across the room who didn't have the nerve to approach. Perhaps someone will crack me up by sticking her credit-card statement in there. Anything is possible. Remain positive. Walk with purpose. Take a quick peek without anyone noticing.

It's empty. @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who doesn't mix charades and dating. You can reach contestant #41 at jeannieg@comcast.net.

[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]

The Art of Apathy: On fighting the battle of who could care less

Jeannie Greeley — Fri, 30 Nov 2007 18:50:00 GMT

MY MOTHER called the other day and excitedly announced that she was about to conduct that annual holiday tradition, "picking names." The ritual involves my mother, scraps of paper, and her gleeful assigning of gift-buying duties.

"I was wondering if I should include X," she said, referring to someone I've hung out with about 10 times.

"What?" I asked, lulled into my usual coma by my mother's belabored ramblings. Then I heard the name again and realized what she was asking.

"No," I said sternly, sounding more parental than daughterly. "No!"

"Oh, okay ... I ..." she trailed off timidly. The poor thing keeps trying to get a handle on my inconsistent relationships, only to have her small efforts rudely rebuffed. All it probably meant in her mind was the simple scribbling of another name on a piece of paper and the purchase of one more pair of nondescript earrings that would suit Any Woman. But to me it held far greater significance. It meant my mother had heard this person's name enough to know it from memory. That she had assumed from my enthusiasm that I would be spending holidays with this woman. That we should make her feel welcome by giving her a pretty gift. These, of course, are facts I want revealed to the woman in question about as much as the details of my infamous proctology visit of '94. (I'll tell ya later.)

This is 2007, for God's sake. We're all supposed to be well practiced in the art of apathy. Showing that we care has gone the way of the handwritten letter. Women are the new men. Men are the new barbarians. Stick your 'pods in your ears. Don't hear a thing. And for fuck's sake, don't cry, sissy. We are, as Ben Folds so aptly put it, fighting the battle of who could care less.

Apparently, I'm paying my karmic debt in this department. Somewhere around age 26, I just paused my ability to show people that I care. All the ink I used to waste scribbling love letters and sappy poems dried up. Gifts became less sentimental and more obligatory, constructed with just enough feeling to convey not so much feeling. "I love you's" were sometimes returned with an appreciative and cold "Thank you." What a douche bag I was.

But recently I re-emerged. Now when I look around and assess the situation, I can only pessimistically conclude: people kinda suck.

We're all so busy being busy. Who has time to get to know someone? Who wants to tell that same story about the funny trip to Jamaica? How many more times do I have to talk about my childhood, and where I went to college, and why?

Phone calls are passé and time consuming. Why would I call someone when I can just e-mail them? And e-mails can be so laborious. Why would I e-mail when I can just text? The first time I received a text message from someone I was dating, I responded with this: "Primitive." What a waste of hands that could be wrapped around a coffee mug while you're staring across the table at a new face. (Look how clean I kept that reference to free hands.)

A few weeks ago I handed this girl a manila envelope the size of a business card and asked her to send me something to test our fallible postal service. Not only did she take the time to mail it, but she found a pint-sized card to fit in the envelope and filled it with such niceties that it rendered me both speechless and consumed with writer's block. I imagined myself in a romantic post-WWII setting, where every trip to my rusty mailbox turned up a surprise. Instead, it's a clunky electronic device in my palm, mocking me with its pathetic jingles and 50-character limitations. But it's perfect for us, a fabulous way of conveying that we simply can't be bothered.

I'd always thought that at a certain stage of life, games just ended. You stopped tallying the number of phone calls exchanged and how far apart you've spaced them. You could buy a gift for someone and not worry about her interpreting it as a marriage proposal. You could show that you care about someone even if you knew the two of you weren't going to last more than a few months, might never fall in love, might never even make that unfortunate fall foliage trip together. But we temper ourselves to avoid becoming vulnerable. The most I've been able to muster in the past several months is taffy. Fucking taffy. And I actually turned to my friend when I was buying the paltry gift and said, "Is this too much?"

I now look around my room and see old trinkets of affection with new eyes. The broaches handmade from seashells. Books with funny messages inscribed to curb my writer's block. A thesis thanking me for my "carnal devotion." I'm not sure I appreciated any of it as much as I should have. We always think it will continue. But I have a hunch that in time, these expressions dry up, sapped by bitterness, hindered by insecurity, overlooked in the name of "not enough time." Or maybe age just strips us of that youthful optimism that makes romance fun.

I've considered bucking the emotional trend - giving and giving and giving until I'm broke or chafed, whichever comes first. At least that way it's almost guaranteed that you can feel vindicated when things go ass-up, knowing you gave it your all.

So maybe I should call my mother and tell her to write that name on a scrap of paper after all. It certainly wouldn't be the first time she's had to scratch out the name on a gift and add a new one before putting it under the tree. Then some unsuspecting victim can open it and feel special and tell me how nice it was of my family to think of her.

"It's nothing," I'll say nonchalantly, probably meaning the opposite. "Really." @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who is not bitter. Really. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]

On the Couch: ... With the Other Woman

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 19 Nov 2007 17:46:00 GMT

A WHILE BACK, I began this "On the Couch" interview series with people willing to reveal intriguing or unique aspects of their sexual lives. I suspended it for some time after freaking out one unsuspecting subject. But I revive it now with a friend who has had an on-and-off sexual affair with a married man for quite some time. Perhaps you've always wanted to pose these questions to the Other Woman.

Q: So how did you meet this guy?

A: I was living with my boyfriend outside of Boston and was unhappy. So I started searching people [on the Internet] for fun. And I started looking for guys who lived in Beverly Hills (apparently after too many reruns of 90120) and just randomly started chatting with him. He wasn't married then. [We didn't meet] until years later.

Q: So you kept in touch electronically for years? When did you finally meet?

A: I had broken up with my second boyfriend, and I was heartbroken. I was then living in Boston, and he had business in town. With the push of some of my girlfriends saying I needed to get laid and get over my boyfriend, I marched over to his hotel.

Q: Did he have a girlfriend then?

A: At this point he was married.

Q: So the first time you had sex with him, you knew he was married and that didn't bother you?

A: It did, because I knew it wasn't ... honest. And it was also a little sleazy. I definitely say I don't completely respect him, but I liked the freedom of fucking him. And I guess I kinda liked the sleaziness, too. And I was heartbroken.

Q: So you don't respect him for cheating on his wife. Do you respect yourself for sleeping with a married man?

A: I don't respect him for cheating on his wife. That is true. I respect myself. You can rationalize anything. I'm sure he does.

Q: So how do you rationalize it?

A: There have been two occasions where I said ‘No, no, no.' Those times I say no is because there is something in me that says ... no. I don't know why. I know it's not right.

Q: Do you think the allure of having sex with him would be as strong if he weren't married?

A: Hmm. It's weird, like, if he were single, I'm not sure it would be as easy. If he were single, I would be offended by him, I think.

Q: Offended by the way he treats you or by the way he behaves?

A: I am not the only woman he sleeps with other than his wife. But then again, how do you know that with anyone?

Q: True. Do you have any idea how many people he sleeps with? Does he admit certain things to you about his sex life?

A: Well, yes. He tells me about who, and when he has sex. He's into anal play and masochism. But we talk about it in more of a ‘boys in the locker room' way. I have no jealousy, more curious.

Q: If you know you're a nasty horn dog, why bother with the whole marriage thing? Why not just be a whore and be honest about it? (I'm talking about him.)

A: I know.

Q: You WHORE!

A: He has a very large penis, and his wife can't handle it.

Q: WHAT?! So they were sexually incompatible when they married?

A: He is extremely thick, like, I can't handle it. I am saying ‘Ow' when we have sex. He's porn-star big.

Q: So he basically told you his own wife can't handle his cock?

A: I think he has this dark fetish. And he married the woman he loves. After sex she has to soak in the bathtub.

Q: Yeah, because her husband is filthy!

A: I don't think she's giving it up often. I know I wouldn't be able to handle it on a regular basis.

Q: Have you ever seen pictures of her or know what she looks like?

A: I know her name and that she has red hair and that she works in fashion.

Q: She sounds hot. Do you think she'd date me? My penis is tiny.

A: Maybe. She's moving to [the same city] soon. And this thing ends then.

Q: How many people have you told about this affair? What are their responses?

A: Four people, maybe five. My [friend] the school teacher - appalled. Immediately assumed we were also doing drugs. He's never done drugs and never had an alcoholic drink in his life.

Q: No wonder he's fucking a dozen women at once. Get the man a drink, for Christ's sake!

A: He doesn't even have caffeine. He's a vegetarian. My God! He is a freak.

Q: So if you started sleeping with someone who was single, do you think you'd still have the urge to fuck this guy?

A: No way. And there is no urge. It's more like ... convenience.

Q: Have you ever slept with a married guy before? Someone's boyfriend?

A: Yes. I hate you.

Q: Why?

A: I have because I wanted to. I didn't really think too deeply. Oh my God. I'm a jerk. (My sister's ex-boyfriend.)

Q: WHAT?! That's terrible. I won't print that.

Q: What would you do if you were his wife and you found out about you?

A: I have no idea what it's like to be married.

Q: What about being cheated on?

A: It depends on their relationship. I've never been cheated on - that I know of. I'm not really the jealous type. I would be really hurt. Everyone has different views of marriage. It's easy to say "I would divorce him."

Q: So, if you know how you would feel, why would you put another woman in jeopardy of feeling that way?

A: If I knew he was fucking truckloads of women, yes, I would dump him. I'm not married to her. I didn't make that commitment. I've made no commitment to him, either. We are not in love. I really don't even care if he never wanted to see me again. I don't care if I ever see him again.

Q: Do you believe in this whole logic that women have a responsibility to one another, to respect one another's relationships?

A: I think that's a nice idea. But women treat each other horribly.

Q: And you're a perfect example, you WHORE! But seriously, you say women treat one another horribly, but aren't you just perpetuating that?

A: As I said, I didn't marry her. He did. He is the one that is disrespecting her. Would I be pissed at the woman for screwing him? No, I would be pissed at him.

Q: That's very easy to say. But Amy Fisher didn't shoot Joey Buttafuoco in the face; she shot his wife.

A: Well, if you have a guy who begs to stick his dick in your ass and you don't give it up, there's gonna be a problem.

Q: That's ridiculous! There are plenty of women who don't have anal sex with their husbands. Doesn't mean the guy is going to go hunting down 10 bitches who will.

A: I think they might. Men are different beasts. Look at Clinton.

Q: So you think it's merely certain sexual proclivities that drive people to cheat if their relationships are otherwise emotionally stable?

A: I think if you have an unsatisfactory sexual relationship, there is a big chance someone's gonna cheat. Everyone who I know who gets out of a relationship, it's due to the sex being bad.

Q: So how would you respond to women who think you're an evil homewrecker?

A: I think that they need to reevaluate things. If it wasn't me, it would be someone else. If someone wants to cheat, they will cheat. It's the type of person. I have never cheated on anyone, which makes me an angel. @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who wants to explore your sexual psyche. To get "On the Couch," e-mail her at jeannieg@comcast.net.

[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]

Coming out in Carolina: A journey through my journal

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 05 Nov 2007 16:30:00 GMT

TEN YEARS ago, I was entering my junior year at the University of South Carolina, having just returned from a semester in Los Angeles - the city that made me gay. Actually, it was my Asian roommate, with her plump lips and cashmere sweaters, who made me gay. After our brief and sordid romp in the City of Angels, she promptly wiped the tryst clean from her mind, chalking it up to a rare form of dementia that afflicts sorority girls. For me, it was the catalyst for my coming out and a kind of pain that my young, tender heart had yet to endure.

In honor of Stuff@night's 10th anniversary, I decided to dust off an old journal from 10 years ago to see if I've made any emotional progress in the last decade. Considering how wise and contemplative I was back then, I'm not sure my callous adult mind could ever compete.

(This is best read with dramatic flair and a suicidal soundtrack playing in the background.)

THEN
"I felt my life come to a new low today. I went to bed crying last night, woke up crying this morning, cried all day, and will probably go to bed crying tonight. Last night I was crying at the thought of not knowing where she was, why she hadn't come home, who was she with, what was she doing. This morning I cried at the confirmation of all of these thoughts."

NOW
I've learned that crying over a lost love is a big old waste of time. The last time I did it was sometime around the Fourth of July, and my friends still affectionately refer to it as "my emotion." You wind up looking like you've been beaten in a dark alley, all puffy-faced and blotchy. And now who the hell wants to date that hideous face staring back at you in the mirror?

THEN
"I'm driving myself crazy and I'm sure I'm doing the same to those around me. Unfortunately I can't tell anyone what I'm thinking and can't even begin to explain what I'm not sure I understand myself. The only thing I am sure of is that I am sure I am in love. I've never had these feelings of hate, lust, nausea, and disgust all balled up together into something that is so beautifully miserable."

NOW
Isn't it sweet how I make "love" sound like a list of the side effects of an intestinal medication? Apparently I forgot "diarrhea," "heartburn," "occasional night sweats," "tremors," "vomiting," and "hair loss."

THEN
"Everyone says to write down what you are feeling as if you were saying it to the person and then just keep it for your own good. ‘It will make you feel better!' Well, I think I'm going to make a first attempt at this. But I might actually give it to the person if in the end I feel it will do any good. So I'm going to start a fresh page. If later this page is followed by frayed pages then I guess that will determine how my first attempt went." [Frayed pages here.] "Well, I guess the binding of this book answers the question."

NOW
Fuck a stranger. That's the advice I'd offer to people today. This whole faux-letter-writing thing is a psychological trap. You spew all these pathetic, sappy thoughts that are meant to be kept private. Then you fancy yourself a romantic scribe and send the thing. Madness! One-night stands open up a whole different world of neuroses and problems. And you're so busy worrying about that new bump on your labia, you don't even have time to obsess over what's her name.

THEN
"We went out for coffee and I asked her if she read my letter and she said she had read it several times. And? Between the silence and stares into watery eyes I finally understood the finality of her words. ‘I just don't have those feelings anymore.' I guess that was it, that was what I had asked for, that was what I needed. I didn't want to hear it but I needed to, for my own sanity, for my own state of mind - to move on."

NOW
Thank goodness for e-mail. Imagine if we actually had to have these humiliating conversations today? Now closure is just a click away. Instead of worrying your mind, you can leave it to your opposable thumbs as they write off lovers for five cents per text message. You spare your feelings and your wallet - because you know that if she dumps you in public, you're still going to pick up the tab to prove you're the bigger person.

THEN
"I guess now it is time to cherish the past, to appreciate what the two of us once had, to love her for what she gave me, to know deep down how much I gave her, to remember the comfort, to think back on the sweet kisses, to reminisce on the days that we would go to bed in each other's arms and wake up beside each other."

NOW
My parents really should have encouraged me not to attend a state school. Three years of college and this English major was still using the words "sweet kisses."

THEN
". . . I have to move on. I guess this is one thing in my life that will help me in struggling toward a happy future. I guess the main thing that is inhibiting me from being my happy self is all the confusion. The twisted concepts of man and woman, femininity and masculinity. I feel like I'm struggling with two polar identities: one that loves the softness, the neatness, and allure of woman; the other feeling a tie to the comfort, the roughness, and power that is man. When I'm one way I don't feel as if I fit in, and when I'm the other I feel as if others sense my difference."

NOW
The "power that is man"???

THEN
"Me, Casey, and Homan did mushrooms the other night and I began to have this weird feeling that I was someone else, that I was my true self, that I was trapped inside of a body that didn't belong to me."

NOW
Phew. Drugs. Okay, that explains it.

THEN
"Much of the problem is that I can't define what I'm looking for and I have a hard time defining myself from day to day. Sometimes I feel like I shed my identity with the change of clothes, assuming a new and different person with each outfit."

NOW
You were a big goddamn homo. Of course you changed your identity with each outfit. How do you think they would have reacted in rhetoric class if you had worn those assless chaps and the feather headdress?

THEN
"Psychiatry! Is that the answer? Maybe I need someone else to tell me what is wrong with me. Or maybe it will make me feel better to spill all of my thoughts to someone who has no clue, who doesn't know my past, who doesn't know me as Jeannie Greeley. I think the important thing is my perception of myself. Unfortunately I have no idea what I think anymore, and most of the time I don't know who I am!"

NOW
Here's a good idea: write down your thoughts, Jeannie. But don't send them. Read them and see if they're any good. Then publish them for an unknown audience that might actually identify with that sad shell of the person you once were. Screw the shrink: nothing but wasted money that could be spent drinking away your sorrows. Your pen is your therapist, Jeannie. And no, it doesn't want to have sex with you, either. @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who has fully recovered from all that Cock at the University of South Carolina. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]

Post-Coital Paranoia: A little time with my subconscious

Jeannie Greeley — Wed, 17 Oct 2007 18:23:00 GMT

UNTIL RECENTLY, I had been - give or take the random drunken mistake - consistently sleeping with one person for quite some time. We were enjoying all the comforts of familiarity. We knew how to pull off the quick orgasm, the protracted one, the filthy one, the romantic one. Costumes were used and discarded as if Halloween was a weekly holiday.

Then, THWAP! Chapter closed. New scene.

This is how sex lives work. If I think about it too much, it completely boggles my mind. You go from sharing the most intimate moments with a person to having her scream in your ear that she hates you. And just like that, she becomes a memory, a past to cling to until the finer details fade to a vague recollection. One day a stranger's perfume might tug you right back into an imagined naked entanglement, but it evaporates as quickly as it had overwhelmed.

Then suddenly you re-emerge single, cast paranoid, insecure, and vulnerable back into the teeming world of dating. What does my butt look like from this angle?, I now wonder, straining to catch a glimpse in the mirror over my shoulder. Where did that wrinkle come from? I've got to get to the gym, read more, better myself, and catch up on all that lost time spent growing comfortably numb with someone. While I might share the average girl's insecurities when it comes to intelligence or body image, I think I'm hypersensitive when it comes to sex.

"They probably think you're some kind of expert!" my friend laughed, mocking this miscast journalism job of mine.

If you think I'm displaying some sense of false modesty, allow me to recount the 24 hours of my first post-relationship sexual foray, told by my subconscious mind. You tell me if you're not a nervous wreck.

***

"Sorry, my place is a mess." Just close your eyes and go directly to the bed. "My roommate's away." Roommate. I'm such a loser. Total revelation of poverty way too soon. At least there isn't any underwear on the floor. Well, at least they're mine.

Wow, these lips feel good. Different, but good. No teeth clacked together on initial contact. Always a good sign.

"You're tired?" I should totally respect that and let her go to bed. But I won't. Who knows? This could be a one-time opportunity. I should tell her how good I am in bed. That usually works.

"Really good?" she asks.

"Yeah, really good." Wait, you're rushing things. Too late. (Awkward wrestling of tight jeans from over knee caps.) "Yeah, I'll let you do that."

Huh. That's different. She must really be enjoying herself. I am good in bed. Wait, I'm not even touching her. Is she getting off on the sound of her own voice? My God, I'm totally silent. I should start making some type of breathy noises. Breathy noises, good. I should tell her that's hot.

"Freaky?" she asks, her brow furrowing in response to my botched compliment. Holy shit! Did I really just call this girl "freaky" in bed? She's gonna leave. What's the complete opposite of freaky? Quick. Recover.

"Quiet and demure?" she says, just as dumbfounded by my feedback. Why does the stimulation of my clitoris cause the complete dulling of my brain? "No, like, freaky good freaky."

"And this is me tired," she laughs. I will be destroyed.

"Water? Yeah, I'll get you some." I really need to quit smoking. My mouth probably tastes like an ashtray.

My God, that stupid chicken carcass is still in the fridge. I am a bachelor. Water, water. Oh, I know! Ice cubes. I love ice cubes. I hope she likes ice cubes. Wait, are ice cubes like the 1997 of sexual apparatuses? No, she'll like ice cubes. Just be inconspicuous with them.

(Her eyes bulge nervously as I remove a cube the size of Rhode Island that I've nearly dropped down her throat.) "Oh my God, I'm sorry!"

Wow, I don't think I've ever slept with a girl with this much hair on her head. It seems like it's multiplying by the gyration. Actually, it's sort of getting in my way.

"Really?" she asks. "Most people say they like it." Most people probably aren't getting it caught in their permanent retainers at 31 years old. I should really get that removed. I'm sure my teeth wouldn't move at this age. Or maybe they would and then I'd look like . . . oh! What's she doing?

Should I tell her I like that? Should I tell her I don't like that? Maybe I do like that. Ride it out. I do like that. I really like that. Oh my God, Jeannie. Breathe. She's going to think you're a piece of cardboard. Say something. Okay, okay. Too intense. Bring it down a notch. Say something sexy and sensitive.

"Call me when you want a good time."

"So, no strings attached?" she answers. My sensitive sounds more like a raunchy Prince lyric. No, that's not what I meant. What do I counter with? "Strings attached"? That's just creepy. Aww, fuck. Just let her sleep and worry about it tomorrow morning. And afternoon. And evening.

"Bye."

"Have a good day."

"You, too."

(Bolt door. Grab hair in fists. Pound forehead for being such an awkward and insensitive idiot.)

***

Most people tell me that their first sexual encounter with someone new is usually a little uncomfortable. If you think about it, you've probably spent a cumulative six to 12 hours with the person before you find yourself wondering which of his or her orifices are off limits. But personally, I tend to overthink things until I kill them. I needed reassurance.

"Honey, I know this is going to sound so stupid," I pathetically confided in an ex-girlfriend, "but . . . would you say I was good in bed?"

"Baby," she laughed. "We had amazing sex. I thought our first time was sweet and nice. You're the one who freaked out. Just calm down. She'll call."

***

Oh, look: a text message. "Blah blah blah blah loved last night blah blah blah." Loved last night? What does that mean? Does that mean she loved last night? Or does that mean she's texting because she doesn't want to pick up the phone and have to discuss our encounter? Go to bed. Tomorrow is a new day. If she doesn't call, she doesn't call. At least you can laugh about the one that got away because you called her freaky in bed.

Work. Stop looking at the phone. You have a busy day ahead of you, Miss Greeley. Focus. (Phone rings.)

"Oh, hey, Mom."

(Phone rings.) Ugh. Not getting that one. Finish that article. Form sentences on the page.

(Phone rings.) Breathe sigh of relief. That's the newly familiar number I wanted to see. Let phone ring a few times. Act completely composed, self-assured, and confident. That's the impression she might once have had.

"Hey there!"

"Hi!"

And so it begins. Or it doesn't. @

Jeannie Greeley is an emotional train wreck of a freelance writer who might get tossed on her can after this is published. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]

In the Sack: Negative Nancy, small demands, dysfunctional designer, and more

Jeannie Greeley — Wed, 03 Oct 2007 18:28:00 GMT

DESPERATE GAYS. Angry gays. Latent gays. They all came out of the woodwork this month looking for a healthy dose of therapeutic advice. Who am I not to deliver? As always, letters have been edited for brevity and clarity, but not for sensitivity.

As a gay male in the dating scene, it can be quite an arduous task to find that special someone you click with. Gay men are generally more interested in the tightness of your abs and what brand of jeans your tight little bum is squeezed into. I'm at the point where I'm just so tired of dating losers. I recently took a proactive step in my life and signed up for Match.com. Jeannie, I have been on at least 10 first dates. Not one of them was suitable. They were too boring or too prudish or too dorky. I just couldn't win. I've started to think that it's me. I've gone on dates where guys have told me that they don't dig my "negative vibe." This came from a Disney World-fleece-wearing 24-year-old, mind you. I don't know what has happened to that sort of fabulousness I once possessed, but it's gone. Perhaps we should just resign ourselves to a life of simple spinsterhood, sitting in our living rooms eating frosting out of the container while our litter of cats parade across our trash-strewn homes.

Negative Nancy

Dear Negative Nancy,

I don't know who these bright-siders are that you're hanging around with. Negative is the new black. Don't let anyone tell you that your pessimistic and gloomy outlook on this shithole we call a world is even one bit bad. You just need to sit tight and wait for the perfect abuse survivor to come your way. Then you two can live in perfect masochistic misery together.

Maybe I should know such things, but aren't there still A-cup bras too? How do you think your column is making those women feel? I sure hope you're wrong about no more real-breasted women in the future. I not only prefer a real breast, I demand it - I wouldn't date fake! And I actually prefer B/A to C or D - though a female friend was once convinced I had to be gay to prefer a smaller-than-average breast. (F her, I haven't spoken to her in years.)

Small Demands

Dear Small Demands,

I am those women to which you refer - the A/barely-B-cupped fading minority. Having recently returned from Israel, I thought for sure I had unearthed the Natural Titty Holy Land. Hell, they even have lingerie stores called "C-Cup & Up." But my hopes were dashed when the women revealed that the majority of those plump breasts are, in fact, fake. Compared with Americans, at least they have an excuse. In a positive development for the "war on terror," one Israeli woman's life was recently spared when shrapnel from a Hezbollah rocket lodged in her implant. No joke. Good thing Bush is on his way out or implants might've become a national security measure.

What happens when you're over 30 and all your friends are married, and some with kids, and you don't want to hear about the family all the time? I start talking about the cool club I went to last night, and they talk about how many months little LucyLou is. There should be a [club] that I can join that has weekly meetings with burnt coffee and stale doughnuts. "Hello, my name is Bob, and I have been alone for almost eight months." "HELLO BOB!" Clap clap clap. What is funny is that I work for an online dating company creating Web designs to get people to sign up. I do banners of people in love and cute girls that I will never meet just to get lonely people to sign up. I also get to do some sweet tag lines, like "Happiness is easy to find!" It's very funny, but hard to do being single.

Dysfunctional Designer

Dear Dysfunctional Designer,

Please let me have your job for just one day. Think of all the havoc you could wreak on desperate singles everywhere with your uncensored honesty. Banners could read "Fat and busted since that 1978 photo" and "Happiness is an elusive joke." If you're going to be single at this point in your life, you might as well enjoy destroying the hopes of other optimistic fools out there. At least that way you know you're adding to your pool of prospects.

I had to write to tell you how much I enjoyed your latest musings [on sex lingo]. I feel you left out a couple of important ones like "Map of Hawaii" and "Pearl Necklace." I will let you figure out what they are.

Lascivious Linguist

Dear Lascivious Linguist,

Even though I've never worn one, I thought the "Pearl Necklace" so widely known that it didn't need explaining. The "Map of Hawaii," however, is a new one to me. According to the Urban Dictionary, it's "a pattern of semen deposited on the body (especially a featureless, fairly flat part of the body, like the back or stomach) of a sex partner. Named because the drops of semen appear in a chain like the Hawaiian islands." My God, I feel so stupid. All these years I've been writhing in excitement and begging for the "Caribbean." Thanks for schooling me.

I was intrigued and amused by your ["Grin and bear it"] column in Stuff@night [8.14.07]. It brought back memories of when my partner and myself unknowingly booked several nights in Provincetown during Women's Week. I suspect you'll agree that the situation with political correctness has gotten way out of hand. We can no longer acknowledge rampant stereotypical behavior. God knows, I'm a gay man who loves opera, Broadway musicals, Judy Garland, Martha Stewart, fashion, and cooking, and I keep an immaculate home. Imagine our surprise to find Commercial Street teeming with obese women in tight clothing with butts that would give an IMAX screen a run for its money. We were as horrified and amused as you were during Bear Week. I suspect that if I wrote a column reporting on these observations, I would be chastised by the lesbian community and forced into a diversity-training program. I'm just somewhat surprised at your insensitivity when a large faction of your community can be observed in the same light.

Bad News Bear

Dear Bad News Bear,

Clearly you've just now stumbled upon my column. Over the years, I've done my duty as an equal-opportunity offender - and have the death threats to prove it. If it weren't for the popularity of the fat lesbian, I'd still be making potshots at white Republican males. @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer hard at work fortifying her bulletproof cubicle. Anthrax-free letters can be mailed to jeannieg@comcast.net.

[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]

Rotten Eggs: Pondering procreation

Jeannie Greeley — Wed, 19 Sep 2007 18:41:00 GMT

I USE THREE forms of birth control: my sister's children, homosexuality, and my other sister's children. To date, all have worked perfectly fine. (And though I'd love to rankle the Catholic church, I'm not sure I'm the candidate they have in mind for immaculate conception.)

I view this small effort at population control as my contribution to the world. But actively preventing pregnancy and admitting that you don't want children are two entirely different beasts. Say that you don't want children - just flat out tell people - and they look at you as though you assassinated one of the Wiggles.

"No, you don't really mean that," they say. (That would be crazy and inhumane, not wanting to have a human head squeezed through your vagina.) They say you just haven't met the right person to spark your maternal instinct. They argue that you're too young to be making such foolish decisions. "But you're so good with kids," they continue, while you stare at their offspring, wondering how one can love something that produces so much mucus.

The truth is, I think the no-kids admission makes people uncomfortable. They don't know what to do with folks like me. Where do we fit in a world full of spit-up cloths and baby joggers? If we're not here to procreate, what are we to do with ourselves? Shall we just slink away at 40 and populate a deserted island, where our ovaries can dry like cowhide in the scalding sun? Or are we going to hang around like mirrors, reflecting life's roads that breeders didn't travel?

Until I turned 30, I never realized how deliberate humans are about the course of life. For me, that birthday was just another excuse to throw a party. For others, it became a benchmark for making "important decisions." Engagement rings quickly slid on fingers, pregnancies were announced, condos were purchased. And I suddenly realized I was becoming a rare breed whose lifestyle would have to be defended to the oh-so-very-normal masses.

So, not wanting to repeat my rationale one more time, I decided to write down my top 10 reasons for not wanting kids. (I didn't include "sex" because that's so goddamn apparent, I didn't think it needed noting.)

1) Fashion. "You did not just touch auntie's shirt!", I said to the three-year-old niece in my lap. She raised her frosting-covered mitts as if preparing for arrest. "Get down," I said, dropping her to the floor. It is this instinct to preserve my garments over human flesh that worries me. Most mothers have their clothing destroyed by heaps of poop and spit-up and other unidentifiable fluids until they learn not to wear nice things anymore. For me, this slippery slope from cashmere to Crocs is not one I'm prepared to travel.

2) Freedom. I want to climb mountains while my knees are still good. I want to quit a job if I hate it. I want to drive cross-country in a VW van. I want to say yes to spontaneous weekend getaways and no to nine-to-five employment. That would all seem so selfish with my starving baby at home alone.

3) Sleep. With all that sleep deprivation, it's hard to distinguish new mothers from Abu Ghraib detainees. I don't even know what the world looks like before 8:30 a.m., unless I've yet to go to sleep from the night before. My fear is that I just wouldn't lose sleep for the poor kid. I'd be more apt to build a sound-proof dungeon and let it cry itself into a coma while I got my rest.

4) Conversation. If my vocabulary ever gets reduced to gleeful monosyllabic terms spouted in the face of a tiny, bald mute, shoot me. I have no desire to revert to baby talk, or to look at a child that's doing absolutely nothing while cooing, "What?! What?! What?!" as if it's suddenly going to articulate its gas problem. And I'm about as interested in hearing about your kid's new habit as you are in hearing about my recent European adventure.

5) Money. Who can afford kids these days? I priced a couple of standard baby items just to get some perspective on this. Baby Bjorn: $80. Graco infant car seat/stroller: $190. Delta Chelsea crib: $371. Evenflo breast pump: $99.95. (Tits that don't sag after having the life sucked out of them: priceless.)

6) Nerves. I've smoked enough pot to make me afraid of my own shadow. Never mind unformed skulls in close range of the sharp edge of a mantel. I am a nervous wreck around kids and have no desire to incorporate this feeling into my daily life. They say it wears off after your first kid. Yes, because by then your mental faculties are as burned-out as Greece.

7) Vanity. I work hard to keep my body looking like this. I'm not about to flush it all down the drain for one little human life.

8) Travel. Where can you go? You take babies to restaurants, people hate you. You take them on an airplane, people hate you. You take them to the beach, people hate you. You take them to church, people love you. Scary.

9) Age. They say life begins at 30. So technically I won't be even close to adulthood until sometime in my 60s. Personally, I have no desire to be in diapers at the same time as my kid.

10) Nieces and nephews. Let's face it: the act of child-rearing is a selfish one. You make a conscious decision to have children and then blame them for everything they prevented you from doing in your life. In return, you expect them to be indebted to you, and to wipe your ass when you're old. The other day, when my sister was contemplating giving one of her ill-behaving children up for adoption, I reassured her with this: "At least you'll have someone to take care of you when you're older." She replied, "Don't worry. They'll take care of you, too." Look at that! All the rewards, none of the effort.

(If, in 10 to 20 years, something in my life goes horribly awry and I'm saddled with kid and cargo, know that Mommy loves you, sweetie. She didn't really mean all this nasty stuff about kids. She was just young and stupid and carefree.) @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer and, according to Hallmark, "the world's greatest aunt." You can reach the heartless wench at jeannieg@comcast.net.

[Illustration by Corey Smigliani]

Fun blonde brings home bi-guy: welcome to the Xciting world of XTube

Jeannie Greeley — Fri, 07 Sep 2007 16:12:00 GMT

I first heard about XTube — YouTube’s naked, well-hung, slutty stepbrother, with even less talent and more ego — weeks ago from a friend, who gasped at my unfamiliarity with the sex site. I promptly went to my computer to begin my one-handed research. By then, XTube already had an entry in the Urban Dictionary (“A Web site like YouTube, but for porn. I saw your mom get fucked by your dad on XTube”), along with more than three million users. Its Canadian creators are rumored to have already purchased a $25 million island. (Canadian dollars, but still.)

Expecting some hack, amateur site, I was floored to discover a seemingly endless supply of every kind of porn imaginable. You could make raisins of your fingers getting off to this stuff. Videos are divided into straight and gay, then subcategorized into everything from “Swingers,” “Hairy,” and “Shemale” to “Daddies,” “Fisting,” and “Muscle Worship.” There’s even an anime section which, frighteningly, has more videos than the “Bisexual” and “Swingers” sections combined.

One minute you can be enjoying “Blonde amateur footjob babe,” and the next be glued to “Screaming housewife gets rammed by her first black cock.” The options are endless. And the best part about XTube is that it’s free.

But as the old adage goes, you get what you pay for. Though littered with links to DVDs and paid porn sites, the site that dubs itself “The Greatest Thing Since the Orgasm!” is essentially user-run. XTube video quality ranges from high-end, professional-looking scenes to shaky bathroom jerk-offs. (It’s also proof that many men will do anything to flaunt their meat.)

Though many users have complained about the site crashing or providing sluggish videos, my complaint is of another order. What the hell is a girl to do with 19 seconds of porn? Come on, people. If you’re going to make a frothing whore of yourself for millions of viewers, at least make a video that’s long enough to be worth it. Though the rare XTube video streams for longer than five minutes, the average one is somewhere between 30 seconds and two minutes, which can make for a frustrating, albeit prolonged, experience.

Of course, if the user-contributed videos aren’t enough for you, XTube also has thousands of photos for viewing and purchase, plus chat rooms, community groups like the “Nasty Byches” and the “Strap-on Lovers,” and a store selling everything from anal lube to XTube ballpoint pens and boxer-briefs. For addicts of another kind, XTube has even partnered with Grand Nevada to present live nude gambling, with a dealer working in real time. And XTube offers its amateur contributors the opportunity to make money from their photos and videos through a revenue-sharing equation based on a contributor’s number of page views.

So what does this mean for the future of porn?

Reactions seem mixed. Some people with whom I’ve broached the subject have seemed disgusted, others intrigued, and still others as dumbfounded as I was when I first learned of the site. One guy was ecstatic at my newfound familiarity with XTube. “You know XTube?” he screamed, before whipping out his iBook, logging into his XTube account, and showing me a video of him screwing his boyfriend through a split in the seat of the guy’s pants.

As much as my mother is dying as she reads this, I like the idea of XTube. Something about professional porn makes me cringe a little bit. There’s always that glimpse of desperation or pain I see in a woman’s face; I lose my buzz thinking of the abusive dad and trailer-park past that led her down this road. At least with XTube it seems the participants are happier to be involved. And they’re certainly not making millions from their 20-cents-a-minute rates. It’s nice to see real women, sans implants and two-inch talons, actually looking like they’re enjoying sex with their boyfriends, girlfriends, or husbands. Last week I watched a black chick completely destroy her boyfriend. And though her moves made me feel like less of a sexual being, I enjoyed the refreshing role-reversal.

Like journalists fretting over the proliferation of blogs, I’m sure some porn stars are shaking in their silicon about this organic, amateur competitor. No doubt some of the folks involved with XTube will achieve cult status. Some of its more popular stars have already been featured in men’s magazines, and at press time, Canada’s Fab magazine was trolling the site for gay men interested in being interviewed about their XTube popularity. The porn industry will likely follow suit, swooping in and snagging the site’s most popular players to cast them in feature-length films.

But there’s another byproduct of XTube that seems less explored: it offers a window into someone’s sexual soul. YouTube and MySpace have essentially allowed us to discover everything about a person before we meet them. We know their likes and dislikes, talents, hobbies, quirks, even all the famous bands with which they’re tight. Now, with XTube, we can check out the goods, watch them in action, see if we think we’d be compatible in the sack. We can hear the noises they make, learn about their stamina. We can check to see if they dub themselves “kinky man” and snap clothespins on their penises, or go by the screen name “slutwife” and have regular gang-bangs with their friends.

Welcome to a world where nothing is private. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go change my pants. @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who likes to “Log On. Get Off” at www.xtube.com. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

Get Real: Venus Envy prepares for Prime Time

Jeannie Greeley — Mon, 27 Aug 2007 16:38:00 GMT

LADIES, LOCK up your girlfriends. Boys, break out the hand cream. The lesbian version of the TV show The Bachelorette is coming - and it promises to be as pathetic and unrealistic as its straight counterparts.

"For the first time ever, a major cable network is applying the lipstick, revving the Harley, busting out the wife-beater, and turning dating inside-out," promised the casting agency in its posting for the show.

Lipstick? Harley? Wife-beater? That's the best they could come up with to turn the lesbian dating world "inside-out"? Clearly this copy was written by some straight girl who watched two episodes of The L Word to school herself in gayness.

Tentatively dubbed Venus Envy, the show is set to air this fall on MTV. It is, of course, the only natural progression we could expect as we gays gain greater acceptance in the world. The L Word has made tribadism chic. Jackie Warner's Work Out has convinced millions of people that lesbians are not only buff, but that straight girls are throwing themselves at our feet. It's acceptable social behavior for straight girls to get "gaysted" and feign homosexuality until they sober up. Of course we need our own version of The Bachelorette.

And who better to represent the lesbian population than a former Maxim model? That's all the casting agency would leak when I called to inquire about the show. A former Maxim model? You don't say! That's about as realistic as a one-legged dwarf taking to the fashion runway to showcase Victoria's Secret's new lingerie line.

Or is it? I bitch all the time about the tired stereotypes plaguing the lesbian community. The cargo shorts. The Birkenstocks. The bad mullets (not to be confused with the good mullets). The nesting behavior. Perhaps a smokin' former Maxim cover girl is just what we need to drag us out of the dumps and raise up the ratty-lesbian reputation the world over.

Wait. We already have that. We already have the lipsticked, fake-breasted "lesbian" gaining notoriety while she jabs her co-star's labia with fire-engine red talons. Those are the lesbians people love. They're grotesquely gorgeous by male standards. And they're fucking lesbians, dude! How cool.

I'm not saying this former Maxim model couldn't be a lesbian. Certainly there must have been that one photo shoot where she was asked to pour sudsy water over another female model's white tank top, revealing just enough of a darkened areola to make something tingle downstairs.

Using this centerfold as a representative of the lesbian population, though, is a bit of a stretch, even for a "reality" show. But those are our choices: we either get Rosie O'Donnell and her football field of a head, or we get Barbie dolls who like to touch tongues.

What we don't get is a representation of that enormous gap between the flat-topped lesbians of yesteryear and the over-femmed porn stars of today's Girls Gone Wild culture. And I mean "real" people, as opposed to the actors who play gay people on television. And it would also be cool if they weren't all crazy and consumed by melodrama.

Apparently I don't even meet my own standards. When the casting rep suggested I send in a tape, I assumed the best way to make an impression would be to dance around in a blow-up doll costume and make goiter jokes. I even included a missive about crazy ex-girlfriends, complete with footage of one straddling a mechanical bull. My perception of what constitutes "reality" is as warped as everyone else's. And considering I haven't heard anything from the casting agency since I mailed in my entry, it appears I won't be competing to date a supermodel anytime soon.

But come to think of it, I'm not too sure the TV executives would have been wowed by footage of me in my underwear, editing the same line of this column 10 times over. Or of me on the phone with a friend, bitching about my unrequited love for some straight girl. Or perhaps they just looked at my photo and went, "Blah." Too average. Too normal. Too real.

The show will work much better with all the requisite lesbian stereotypes. They've already got their supermodel. I'm sure they'll throw in a porn star or a stripper. They'll have the gorgeous Southern homo who's been ostracized by her Republican family. Hopefully they won't sabotage the show with straight contestants, as they did on Bravo's Boy Meets Boy, using the program as some type of homosexual litmus test. Of course they'll toss in some big butch for good measure, or a good laugh. And I'll treat Venus Envy like every other "reality show": as a joke.

I guess I should look on the bright side: we lesbians can enjoy the trickle-down effect of yet another pop-culture phenom. If Venus Envy works the same as every other sprinkle of gayness in primetime, it'll make loads of straight girls hip to being a homo. They'll become more open-minded and curious. They'll have too much to drink one night and start asking questions about what it's like to be gay. Then they'll wake up with their clothes in a ball on your bedroom floor and realize their boyfriends have been texting them all night. They'll gather their stuff and sneak out the door, shaking their head at their silly exploit. That was fun for the night. But it was just an experiment. It's not for real. @

Jeannie Greeley is a freelance writer who misses the days of Pedro and Puck on The Real World. She can be reached at jeannieg@comcast.net.

[Illustration by C. Smigliani.]