Sex & Sox

My passions: Sex and the Boston Red Sox!

Sunday, October 31, 2004

There's a smile on my face, for the whole human race....

... even Yankees fans!

I still haven't stopped smiling.

Last night we went to visit some friends for dinner, and as soon as we walked in the door I exclaimed, "Hi! The Red Sox won the World Series!" and proudly pointed at my (pink) Boston cap. They smiled and nodded, not being baseball people at all (they mountain bike), but I couldn't have been happier. I want to share it with the world: I am a fangirl of the World Champion Boston Red Sox.
I've written up a Christmas list of all the Red Sox paraphenilia I want. I want the "Pigs Can Fly" shirt from desperately. Flying pigs is a running joke (hehehe) in my family, though the manmeat doesn't get it. I want the adjustable cap (since it's dark blue, I could even get the man to wear it), polo shirt (even though for $50 + shipping I'll never own it), and the girly gray sweatshirt (again, $50 + shipping so I'll never own it). If I had a job, I'd so splurge, but I don't, soooo... I'm dependent on other people's kindness!

Insofar as the 'sex' part of this site goes, well, I'm still not quite sure how I want to handle it. I think talking about sex and sexuality in a general, opinionated way is better than getting into details about my personal sex life. We'll see.

Thursday, October 28, 2004

Try this on for size:

Feels fuckin' good, doesn't it? I don't know what else to say. I know that I'm thrilled with our boys, and that I am a proud fangirl of a World Championship team. I know that I didn't all of the sudden lose my reason for existing and curl up in a fetal position, now that an 86 year long drought has been broken. As much as my boyfriend has expected me to, I'm fairly certain he's pleased that I didn't. I'm so happy for my uncle, who years ago said to me, his voice thick with yearning, "I just want to see them win it before I die." Well, Uncle Vic, you've still got half your life ahead of you, and they did it. I'm so happy for my fourteen year old brother, who after the Nomar trade was furious with the team, not understanding why his idol had been shipped away, but who can now don his World Series 2004 cap and know he has an entire organization to idolize. What fan could not see and hear the admiration of those players for us, in all the post game interviews? What fan could not feel their relentless gratitude for our support, for us keeping the faith? There, Jared, is something to aspire to: a brotherhood of appreciation.

I started crying after the second our of the ninth inning. The camera cut away from the field to show David Ortiz, pointing with both hands up towards the sky, shaking his fingers slightly and smiling broadly as he whispered. He held up one finger, and a sparkle came to his eyes; he raised his other hand again and spoke once more. How sweet, I thought, he's praying! A moment later, I realized he wasn't "praying" in a traditional sense -- he was talking to his mother.

We have a World Champion team in every sense, people. They are not just sports icons, but role-models of a personality, a lifestyle, and a fortitude that we should all aspire to.

It's time for a dynasty.

Wednesday, October 27, 2004

Albert Who-Holes?

What a weekend! Could we possibly have asked for more?

We're up 3-0. In the World Series. The Boston Red Sox.

With that said, and with my delight understood, I have this to add:

It's not as exciting as I thought it would be.

It hasn't been a challenge thus far, and while I fully expect the Cardinals to come out fighting and fiery tonight, I expect our boys to play eighty-six times as ferociously as they have. I don't think that the history we just wrote will repeat itself against us; while I'm certain that would be "poetic justice" in the mind of Yankees fans, it would be unnecessarily cruel to anyone with a heart. It's not that I don't want this World Series win; I do. I want a fucking dynasty. I want a win for those people who have been living and breathing this team for longer than I have -- I only became a rabid fan last year, though I've loved them for longer than that.

I've been embarrassed by our errors, and amazed when we won despite them. I've been cheering when we capitalized on the Cardinals's errors (Suppan, nuff said), but I've sympathized deep in the pit of my stomach with the blank-faced fans sitting in the stands staring with disbelief at the field.

I feel for the enemy. God help me, but I do. I love our team and I bleed for them, and I want desperately to see a fourth win for us in this Series, but I really and honestly do wish this were more pleasant for the St. Louis fans to be watching. Not so pleasant that Red Sox Nation is moping, mind you.

Just... not like this.

We've held their offense down and we've broken through the weak points of their defense. Tonight, I want to see a battle. I don't want to see us handed the game on a golden platter by Edmonds wearing a French maid costume. I don't want to see Rolen bend over at the plate, smiling, and hand Tek the lube. I don't want to see the Cardinals win, but I want to see them battle.

I want intensity. I want this to feel like a World Series.

Side note: I'm not reading any blogs or visiting any Red Sox fan sites (including Simmons!) until this Series is over. It's a suspicion: I didn't do it while I was gone, and we won three games. Hopefully, this means I'll be back on them tomorrow.


Friday, October 22, 2004

Integrity & Peace

This is humbling, disgusting, and a rude slap to the face.

We are better than this, Red Sox Nation. Victory does not necessitate nor validate violence.

I encourage everyone to visit and fill out the form, which is the online feedback for the Herald, expressing your disdain for their "shock and awe" tactics of publishing a picture of the dying Victoria Snelgrove on their front page. Certainly, let us honour her memory, but let us not glamourize her final moments.


No Sex In My Own Bedroom!

Confession! I can't have sex at my mother's house, and that's where I'll be this weekend. The manmeat and I are leaving for the 9-hour, international (Ontario to Connecticut!) drive sometime around 11pm tonight and returning on Tuesday; we'll be staying there. I miss my family, as I haven't seen them since the beginning of the year, so I'm really looking forward to it.

However. Sex. In my teenage-self's bed. Next to my sister's bedroom. In my mother's house.

We've done it before, and it was just totally freaky. Though we were quiet and it was very slow and subtle (too much so, for my tastes!), there was still that nervousness that someone from my family could walk in. It happened before, the first day we met; my mother decided to drop by at 9:30 PM and there I was, riding him on the couch, and I had to roll off him as he went racing upstairs naked and locked himself in the bathroom, while my mother ran after him. My bathroom was right there, so I managed to put it on before I had to literally block her. It was quite the dramatic experience (all of his clothing was, well, thrown behind the couch, so there wasn't time for him to grab it and talk face-to-face with her. You should've seen the look she gave him when they actually "met" -- she put friggin' nuclear missiles to the head to shame), and it's not one I think we're keen to repeat. Especially when my mother asked me, "Please don't have sex while people are home."

I should also mention that my mother once told me that when my man and I look at each other, you can tell that we just want to devour each other. It still makes me smile.

Anyhow, I won't be around til Tuesday, so sayonara!

Thursday, October 21, 2004

Free reign of the credit card, WHAT!?

So, this afternoon as my boyfriend left for work, he gave me his credit card and made me practice signing his name (it's quite easy). I've been complaining about needing razors and the dog needing treats and such; just before he closed the door to leave, he said, "Just use that to get whatever you need."

Like... World Series tickets? We'll be in the area....

He'd kill me (I'd probably kill myself too), but wow, the temptation is there. It's strong. It's a love for twenty-five men and their organization that just can't top the love I have for my man, but it sure is trying to!

Oh, and...

Curt Schilling, in reference to the Yankees said, "mystique and aura, those are dancers in a nightclub". Fuckin' right.



Between innings, I was pacing. Desperately. Wearing a track from my living room to the dining room, through the kitchen and back again. The first few times, Mannybear followed me, thinking he'd get a treat out of it; he stopped.

My heart was residing somewhere near my tonsils, fluttering wildly. Everything the Red Sox did was both beautiful and terrifying; I gasped "Thank God" at every catch they made, every throw they finished up, every Yankee that they got out, every bloody positive thing that happened, no matter how routine.

Because nothing tonight was routine. The magnitude of every action in that park (where I saw my first Red Sox game, an 11-2 drubbing on July 5th 2003, with the man I plan to spend my life with) is amplified a thousandfold.

Our season is one inning long. This resonated within me still. Hell, I feel like our season is one breath long; every moment is to be cherished. I watch Derek Lowe with a deep-rooted goodwill: it was not 'his' year, but his 14 wins were eclipsed by Schilling arriving and Pedro "maturing". He won't be back with us next year, but I hope he finds a place to enjoy. I do. I hope his performances in this ALCS warrant him a big, fat, contract.


See you Saturday!


Wednesday, October 20, 2004

ALCS, 3-3, Yeah, Baby!!

Tonight, I will have multi-purpose sex. Now, usually, when my boyfriend comes home, he is tired and doesn't want to have sex; I will sway up to him, wearing just one of his t-shirts and a pair of lacy panties, eyes bright and pupils large, smiling, sliding my hands up under his shirt, then down to his pants, and drop to my knees.

How's that multi-purpose? Well, to start with, it's always nice to have sex just to say "I love you". Which I do. However, I also fucked up my knee somehow earlier and it's felt like it needs to be "popped" for the last 10 hours; I figure if we get some doggy style going on, that's bound to work my knee and hopefully get whatever tendon's out of place back where it belongs.

Third, and most overwhelmingly, the Red Sox won!!! Now, I'm not going to talk about tomorrow's game... I'm going to let that come as it does. I'm going to keep my feelings about that stored closely to my heart, and just bask in how I feel right now. And right now? I feel amazing.

A-Rod has absolutely no class. I'll admit that there have been times this season that I wished he were on our team. Usually these transgressions in sentiment have been straightened out by seeing Manny, who would have been gone; tonight, I'm positive that I will never feel them again. After his childishly batting away Bronson Arroyo's glove and knocking the baseball out, trying to weasel his way onto first, I am convinced that he is Derek Jeter's evil scumspawn twin. They can rot in hell, together.

God, there's baseball tomorrow. I can't believe how good it feels to know this.

Monday, October 18, 2004

ALCS, 3-2, Y*nkees

Two wins. Two more to go and we're there. We're that much closer.

So this is what it feels like to fly...

ALCS, 3-1, Y*nkees

But what a sweet one win that is.

I spent the last four innings of the game last night (this morning) staring at the TV, hooting and hollering and pumping my fist the way I'd imagined only NASCAR fans to do but apparently segues perfectly into Red Sox lovers. My boyfriend was laughing at me, my puppy bouncing excitedly around me, but I was not here... I was at Fenway. My heart was filled with love and hope and fear, excitement and tension and faith.

Ninth inning. JD's running to first and Lando's about to come up. I'm cringing inside, but outside I'm cheering him on as though he's the best offensive bat in the history of baseball, an amazing clutch hitter. I grab my pink Red Sox cap and turn it inside out. I ask my boyfriend (who has come to sit beside me) where his baseball cap is, and he glances behind me and says, "I don't know." I reach behind me. It's right there, on top of the couch. Not looking away from the television and Lando's warming up, I turn the hat inside out and hold it towards him. He refuses, telling me it looks goofy. This warrants him a ferocious glare, but I put his hat on top of mine. Two rally caps. Good mojo, right?

Um, no. Apparently, it's bad mojo. Lando strikes out in record time and I throw my boyfriend's hat across the room in utter disgust, just as I realize who's coming up. My breath catches in my throat and I manage to choke out, "Manny. Honey. It's Manny."

Manny Ramirez, "Just Manny being Manny", Manny-fest Destiny, the only man with that kind of face that I have ever been sexually aroused by, the only one I would let fuck me, and hard at that. "Manny."

My toes are wiggling, the fingers of one hand drumming on my fleece pants, the others digging into my boyfriend's leg. God bless him, he puts up with it.

Manny gets on base. I am screaming, "BIG PAPI! BIIIIIIIIG PAPI!" I wonder if my neighbors think I'm having sex. So few people watch baseball in Canada that I bet ours is the only apartment in the building that is, but I've got enough passion in me to put all of these Maple Leafs lovers to shame. "We haven't won a Stanley Cup since" *sniffle, sob* "1967! For shame!" For shame is right.

"C'mon, Ortizzle." I can't believe I called him that. He looks like a behemoth at the plate, his eyes displaying a ferocity and intensity that makes me firmly believe he is going to blow this game open... or more accurately, shut it down. I pick up my chihuahua and rechristen him "Mannybear Ortizzle the 45th" by smearing some Kool-Aid on his forehead... he just tries to lick it off.

They battle. I wish I could remember exactly how it went, but I know that at some point when there's two strikes, my boyfriend says, "His ball!"

What?! I think. Then I remember. Ortiz's ball. He gave me one, at the "Roy Halladay bobblehead doll" game we went to at the Skydome; I was standing behind the Sox dugout during warmups and he was stretching. He came over and tossed a ball along the top of the dugout towards me; the guy next to me snatched it up and I almost killed him (behind me, I heard my boyfriend say, "That's it, buddy..."). Ortiz glanced at the guy, picked up another ball, pointed at me (I can't even imagine what a despondent look must have been on my face until that moment, where it changed into the world's giddiest grin) and gently rolled it over the top of the dugout.

"Last time I held that ball and prayed for him to do well he didn't do anything!" I protest. And stand up, sprinting over to my computer desk to grab it. I caress it. I whisper to the ball that while it was destined for me, the one coming towards Ortiz is destined for greatness.

Ortiz strikes out.

Extra innings.

I could go on and on about what happened during those innings, but the 9th was the most intense for me. Papi making the hit that won the game made me smile: that was the hit he'd wanted in the 9th.

I hope he slept well and dreamt sweetly. I hope they all did. We've got some baseball to play.


Sunday, October 17, 2004

Game 3 Log

Simmons-esque (but neither as funny nor as coherent), I kept a log last night while watching the game. Since I can't sleep and I smell like rum, I had the time to type it out at an hour that I haven't been awake for in QUITE awhile. Here it is, for your perusal.

8:15 -
Immediately preceeding Jeter's walk-off walk, the FOX announcers remind us that the Yankees are up 2-0 in the series. Thanks. I didn't know that. Assholes.

8:16 -
Manny is slow. I hate the run-Jeter, who was "sensing it, sniffing it" (man, these guys are poetic). Ass-road is on 2nd. I wish him death -- what's up with unlucky #13?!

8:17 -
Sheffield fouls off the 0-2 pitch and I wish it'd conked him on the nose. I'm feeling violent. As we were walking back from picking up Pepsi (I don't do Coke with my rum), my man started to talk about how I, and all Red Sox fans, have an inferiority complex. Despite the fact that he's joking, he should know better than that, tonight. I called him "an asshole" and let him know that "we're not friends anymore".

8:22 -
I just threw up in my mouth. Seven times -- once for every time I screamed FUCK! watching Matsui's ball fly.

8:25 -
What they do to us, we can do to them. I HAVE to keep the faith.
*I HAVE to keep drinking.
*Double play -- but I still hate them all.

8:29 -
Kevin Brown had an "intestinal parasite"... teehee!

8:31 -
As has been said elsewhere... don't worry, Tito. You can watch Wapner after the game.

8:32 -
Mark Bellhorn strikes out. There's no noise from the crowd. It's funereeal. Manny comes up -- I hear a few shouts.
*More rum goes in my drink.
*FOX: Really? You want to get batters out, as a pitcher? AMAZING!

8:34 -
I can't believe Manny got on base.

8:37 -
As I'm shouting, "YOU ARE NOT FAST, MANNY!", he gets tagged out.

8:41 -
Leadoff double for the Yankees.
*Replay shows SVEUM WAVING Manny to third. Someone make him an amputee. Please.

8:53 -
Oh, thank God!! Nixon's home run just lifted the weight that's been on my heart since the first loss. He's a God. Someone put him in a toga and laurel crown.

8:55 -
"If you don't think you can lift a ball that's low..." YOU'VE NEVER WATCHED BASEBALL!

8:58 -
I have no idea what the Fenway Faithful are chanting, but I love them for it.
*A-Rod is an ass monkey.

9:01 -
Jesus is in the house. Keep the faith.
*My boyfriend tells me I sound like I'm having an orgasm. Why, yes! Yes, I do. And isn't it fucking lovely?!

9:05 -
Full count to Bellhorn. I would give my left tit to be at Fenway.

9:08 -
Yup. I'd definitely have given my tit for that. Maybe all of our blowjob mojo works?

9:10 -
Jesus was clipping his toenails. The hell?

9:14 -
This is a Major League breaking ball? Really? I thought it was Little League -- I was wondering why the kids were so tall!

9:28 -
I don't understand a "balk" but I intensely dislike it. A ton.
*Francona arguing is... futile. And disturbing.
*I'm tired of chasing the Yankees.

9:41 -
The phrase "streaking Patriots" makes me giggle the way the thought of Lowe does not.

9:44 -
Tek's gyrations to stay on third are oddly arousing. I am THRILLED that they switched Billy and Lando in the lineup.
*I don't dare to hope, but I keep the faith.

9:53 -
Billy out at the plate. Man says, "Some weird fucking plays in this game, I have to admit." I smile and continue drinking my rum & coke & rum.
*I hope that Jesus's newly-clipped toenails help him hit better, cause that's what I care about.
*They don't.

10:01 -
Boyfriend's response to me saying, "How can you not hate Jeter, I mean, just look at him!" is a stunning "I dunno, I think he's kinda cute."

10:07 -
Sheffield's home tun. I ask my man if he will kill me. He launches into a diatribe on how "it's just a game" and how I "take it too seriously". Needless to say, I write this off as him not understanding and start plotting a glorious death that implicates all the Yankees.

10:15 -
"This game may never end" -- yeah, that's exactly what I feel like. This is like an eternal, never-ending nightmare.
*Not nightmarishly at all, my mother is on the phone with me -- she's hilarious, bitching not only about the FOX announcers but the ESPN ones as well.

10:30 -
Big Papi gets tagged out on Tek's broken bat. I tell my mother, "I hate the Yankees with a passion that burns hotter than the fires of Mount Doom." She agrees: "Me hates the Yankees!"

10:34 -
Top of the 5th, Lando's "brilliant play" is reminiscent of Nomar only in a "that's more beautiful than anything Nomar would do" kind of way. I realize this is the first time I have thought such a thing about him, and smile.

10:38 -
"Fantasy Player": Clemens. I can't control my gag reflex and I'm sure Mike Piazza, if he's watching, feels the same. These FOX announcers so fucking love Yankees and ex-Yankees cock.

10:42 -
13-6: Why does God hate us? We are not a bad team. There is a divine hand at play here. I am not a "serious" Curse believer; that is, I jokingly refer to it, but I do not believe it.

I'm literally in pain. I can't comprehend this endless chase; my love for the Red Sox is as deep as my fury at their betrayal of that love. I TRUST them to win. I LONG for them to win. When they lose, I bleed for them; when they win, I breathe for them. I know they want to win -- after all, who would want to lose? I can't cant understand why it is that we forever succumb to this team.

I wonder if the Yankees delight is in defeating us, or simply in winning. After seeing their lacklustre (in comparison to the Sox reaction) "celebrations" when they won the ALDS this year, I'm uncertain that it's either.

10:52 -
Still 13-6. What the heck, we challenged this deficit in Game One. We can do it again!

10:58 -
I tell my boyfriend, "I'm trying to get drunk, but it's just not working. All I want is to drink away the pain." I realize I sound like an alcoholic, and don't even care.
*They praise Clemens. I feel like tarring and feathering someone.

11:02 -
Between the top and bottom of this inning, I go to the lav. I think deep thoughts. I come out and stick my picture up against the corner of the TV, using the static to keep it there. I'm refreshed, eager, and confident.
*"C'mon baby, you can do it," I keep repeating.
*Stephen King's response to "How horrifying is this for a Red Sox fan?" rocks. All of his responses are awesome and the FOX reporter is a moron. He's quite silenced and I am ferociously proud of Kin. I've never read one of his books, but I will have a copy of 'Faithful'.
*I immediately wonder if my support of him is a bad thing. And remind myself I don't believe in the Curse.

11:14 -
D. Lowe has a chip on his shoulder, they say. I'd like to see him prove us wrong.
*Oh, and I am definitely drunk. Gloriously drunk.
*I would like to point out that Bellhorn's error would not have been Pokey's.
*Tim Wakefield's gaze is wounded. But utterly captivating.

11:18 -
Hey! A Maple Leafs team has come back from an 0-3 deficit in a best of 7 series! My man loves the Leafs! If... IF... we get down 0-3, we could win. Karma rocks!

11:22 -
I bet Jeter and A-Rod enjoy anal sex with one another. I enjoy anal sex.
*I bet Matsui does not get any sex. That's why he hits. He has a lot of sexual frustration.
*I love sushi. I hate Japan for loving him.
*When my mom suggested that we pursue him, I nearly hung up on her.

11:25 -
16-6. My heart aches. I want to commit seppuku. I don't blame Jesus. I just ache for him.
*Fenway. Please. Cheer on our boys. My god. Give them hope. Please.

11:28 -
17-6. I can't even describe it. I don't need to. You know. And you know what else? I STILL BELIEVE in our boys.

11:32 -
In my drunken stumbling, I lose my purple pen, god fucking dammit. I am positive that this is a very bad omen. I scream at Sgt. Dan Clark as he sings "God Bless America" to just yell "Go Red Sox!" when he's done.
*I can't see straight. Hell, I can't see crooked. I'm delirious and completely still optimistic. Every Red Sox hit is greeted with a childishly-voice "Yay!" and every Yankee hit with an emphatic, un-lady-like "FUCK!"
*I want to marry Captain Morgan.

11:36 -
Home run Tek! 17-8! There is hope! He is such a beautigul man. Fenway, cheer like they're only one run behind.
*FOX, don't talk about Ortiz being hurt. It is so not funny.
*My toes are so cold.

11:39 -
I can hear a child yelling "Let's go Red Sox!" That is what we all need: that youthful exuberance and faith. Believe. If not today, tomorrow. If not tomorrow, next year. "These boots were made for walkin', and that's just what they'll do, and one of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you!"

11:47 -
Tek and Lando, on 2nd and 1st. I delightedly inform my man, "If Jesus hits a home run, we'll only be 6 runs back!" He replies, "Cool!" and I think he pities me. I'm going to get "I'm sorry you were stressed tonight sex!" (Author's note: I didn't; I ended up passing out.)
*"7th inning of a 17 day game." That was actually kinda clever!
*I telepathically communicate to Matsui that he doesn't want to catch Damon's fly ball. He does not comply. I hex all of the Yankees fans that sent him the opposite message.

11:51 -
I'm watching the game on a Canadian station, so during breaks in the game, there are commercials about hockey. Man. They miss their hockey up here.

11:53 -
The Belli? I love the Belli! He has the most beautiful eyes, so soulful. And hey, I'm a woman, I can talk about a man's eyes without it sounding homoerotic, obviously.
*Myers's pitching was sublime. Literally sweet. I'd so fuck him.
*Saying "Byung-Hyun Kim" when you're drunk can be a really fun experience.
*And, FOX, my glass is half-full.
*Lowe's smile actually comforts me. Comforts! Lowe! Amen. I hope he does well tomorrow. And if he does, I hope he gets a big fat contract (elsewhere) next season.

11:57 -
"Never been done. Why not?" Why not, indeed. I smile, but the man laughs. "We can still win," I let him know. I believe it. Being pickled is awesome for a game like this.
*He asks me if I'm going crazy when I flip out at him for changing the channel to SNL. I tell him we can still win. He says I'm delusional (but I win anyways). We make an out on Jeter. I stick my tongue out at him (my man), which my chihuahua apparently takes as an invitation as he immediately hops into my lap and starts licking my face off.

12:04 -
This is awesome. I don't care for the circumstances, but I'm thrilled to have watched my boys for this long. I also found my purple pen. I had stuck it in my ponytail, so it was with me the whole time.
*I hate FOX. Why had they not shown any celebratory fans during their shitty montage? Because they are Yankee cock-suckers, that's why. Fuckers.

12:07 -
We can still win. I am insisting on this, lest I lose my sanity.

12:09 -
The Toronto sportscasters have no faith. Unrelated, they talk about St. Louis and Houston and say "Pujols". I giggle and chirp, "Poo Holes!" My boyfriend doesn't get it, but I find it to be an unguent. Something. Tomorrow. Four in a row. Believe it.

12:11 -
Despite how numb my head is, I say, "Words cannot even encompass how I feel about him." (Matsui)

12:18 -
I recommend drunkenness as the ideal state in which to watch a game. This is the only post-season Sox game for which I will be in such a way. It sure is like wearing rose-coloured glasses, ones that make you laugh! (Author's note: And rather wryly, I must admit that it is NOT the ideal state in which to write something that you later intend to read. Good grief!)

12:24 -
Bottom of the 9th. One out. Nixon up. I know my faith is unfounded. Pitch #400.
*"We can change history. Believe it." I don't. But we can create the future. We can own tomorrow. The day is ours. Let's hold it, and savour it. In the end, after all, the good guys always win.

Saturday, October 16, 2004


I registered with Halospot and set up that commenting system instead of the default crappy Blogspot one. Sorry to my very first commenter... your kindness has now been lost to the ether!

I'm on Mint's side!

Well, since there's no game news to talk about (which could, in and of itself, be a good thing, though God knows I'm desperately anticipating tonight's game), I thought this was worth note: An article on the relationship between Alex Rodriguez and Doug Mientkiewicz. I remember hearing someone referring to the fact that they'd played sports together in high school, but hadn't realized that it wasn't just ANY sports teams: the football team was excellent and the baseball team, national champions.

So tell me this, now: Those shots of Doug on the FOX broadcasts, where he's gazing longingly at the field... don't they mean so much more now? What must it feel like, to be part of something that's so much in the public eye and yet remain in the background, watching your high school buddy be in the limelight? It's kind of one of those "so close, yet so far away" feelings, which I'm certain blows.

C'mon Tito, give him a chance. Put him out there. I don't care if it's the seventh inning and you can bet your ass he doesn't either. He just wants to play.

Friday, October 15, 2004

Pondering Sex Workers...

Global Sex, pg 113: "This is not to deny the very real abuses and exploitation which surround the sex industry; it is to recognize that moral indignation is inadequate when people are forced into selling their bodies to survive and uncalled for when people enjoy a real choice."

Sometimes I wonder what it is that draws people into the sex industry (being a prostitute, an escort, and almost, a stripper). Is it a "last resort", an option when you feel like you have no others? I find it difficult to believe that the choice has anything to do with feeling desperate and worthless; certainly, it might be related to wanting to feel wanted, but in those professions you are patently labelling yourself as something that has worth. Those professions are ones wherein you offer your body and your services to someone for a price (whether this be a customer or an employer): you are worth these people's time, and worth their money.

I've thought about being a stripper. God knows I don't have quite the body for it: men do not want to see the girl next door with small breasts and a soft belly, but rather the porn-star candidate with a pillowy bosom and rock-hard abs (my boyfriend told me that one of his exes "had a body like a Barbie doll, long blonde hair, big tits, tiny waist"; needless to say, I was quite intimidated when we met). Now, I should also note that while I've never been to a strip club, nor encountered a prostitute, nor requested the services of an escort, I harbor no illusions that women (and men!) in these professions are all 'perfect' by Western standards; however, I'm certain that they don't have 20 extra pounds and ant-hill tits.

But that is a choice, and people in those professions, in North America at least, certainly have a choice as to whether or not it is one they will pursue. In places like India, no, choice is not always an issue: if you are a thirteen year old and your father is pimping you out, there's nothing to be done but to cope. However, I'm not writing from that perspective (not that it is unworthy, simply that it is not my current concern); I'm writing from the perspective of someone who lives where we do have choice.

Governments try to restrict it, of course, as they do so much else in the personal realm. I think this is a vast oversight that will become apparent in the following years, as the sentiment of "my body, my choice" comes to encompass far more than the abortion debate and reaches into the realm of sexuality as a whole, affecting such issues as virginity reconstruction, female genital mutilation, and homosexual marriages.

In any case, I believe that legalizing prostitution and regulating it as an industry rather than persecuting it as an abomination when sex is the most natural and primal of human urges is a wise move. Women and men in North America choose to be sex workers and rather than looking down our collective nose at both them and their patrons, we would do a far better service to ourselves and our country by recognizing their work as worthwhile. Someday I'll write an actual dissertative essay on this, but for now, this'll do!

Sensual Massage

The Sox game is rained out *groans* so I decided to do some "rainy night" reading. I've been wanting to learn a bit more about massage... since the man always appreciates massages. With the way he groans and his eyelids kinda flutter when I rub his feet, I think I'm doing well there. With this in mind, I decided to visit (which this week features a very non-sexual image of a large naked woman on the front page) and read the guide to erotic massage. "Perpetual Penetration" is a winner in my house and I'd suggest it to anyone!

I'm really feeling like I'm going to go stir-crazy waiting for Game 3. God, I don't want to wait; I just want it to happen. Tomorrow I have to pick up a two liter bottle of Pepsi and mix it up with some rum; I think I'm going to need it.

We Love Hair, Not Baseball!

Good grief. I'm so over hearing about the Red Sox hairstyles. There's a link to an article on the GODDAMNED FRONT PAGE of that's all about the boys' hairdos. Okay. Whoever the hell the weirdo out there is that cares so much about these baseball players' hair, could you please stop? It's really quite disturbing. None of us care that much. We really, really don't. Pedro could have a curly ponytail that fell down to his ass and as long as he could still pitch, I'm fine.

Besides, anyone that doesn't appreciate the beauty that is Johnny Damon's thick, dark, glossy, Native American hair is just lying to themselves.

Mmmmm... !

Concensus on the Surviving Grady thread devoted to "dress up" (gosh, it's like playing with dolls) seems to be that JD should be a pirate. I agree. A pirate, wearing a kilt. And nothing else but a tricorne.


Thursday, October 14, 2004


It's bloody pink here, eh? Why not?! I love pink, and I'm girly, and hence, my blog is too.

The Red Sox 2004 season is almost (!!) over, but that doesn't mean there won't be plenty of news to talk about; and besides that, my other passion, sex, is not only constant, but universal!

On that note, I'm currently reading Robert Altman's "Global Sex". It's pretty interesting thus far; it's an examination of how economic political issues effect sexuality, and shows that there are very similar manners in which people in different countries are coping with things like the AIDs crisis, the prevalence of Internet access, and the 'labelling' of different sexualities (with all the expected identity traits that come with that label).

Tomorrow, the Yankees will be at Fenway; it's time for our boys to blow them out of the "dirty water". Arroyo, our Saturnalia god, will show them!