How about you try using your prick for good instead of evil…

September 13th, 2014

A couple days ago I had a bit of a startling revelation. While doing my usual Thursday night grocery shop, I had caught the attention of a local man (as I so often do), and it wasn’t long before he flat out groped me as I passed him in the kitchenware aisle. The startling revelation was not that I had been grabbed in a sexual manner, but rather that I had hit the point in my Middle Eastern adventure where incidences like this no longer fazed me. Instead of yelling at him or thinking to do anything about it, the whole thing just seemed comical, “Yep, here we go again.” And that, I realized, was the most fucked up thing of all.

My usual line of defense in these situations is to pretend to take a photo of the men who attempt to “sin” with me with my iPhone. Usually this causes them to panic and run away, as a photo would be proof that they were not being virtuous…but not this time. It wasn’t long before the man was fully stalking me throughout the store as he planned his next attack. This time my friend saw him coming and attempted to head him off at the pass by wedging her shopping cart between us as she screamed, “DON’T TOUCH HER!” The cart, however, was no match for a man possessed by lust, and he honest-to-god Olympic-style dove over the cart in a successful attempt to grab me again.

After the second attack, we managed to find a group of the store’s employees so we could report the situation. As you may have guessed (if you know anything about this country), the employees simply waved us off saying, “We’re sure it was just an accident.”

You see, this is a society that believes first and foremost that men cannot control themselves. This is why all these restrictions are placed on women who live in this country. This is why we can’t try on clothes inside stores at the shopping malls. This is why we are forced to drape our bodies in shapeless, sexless cloaks before we step out our front doors. Men can’t help themselves, so women must restrict their lives and movements to keep the men from sinning against their will.

Of course, this way of thinking is more than a little fucked up, but before you blame their culture, country, or even religion, you should probably take a look in the mirror. Since I have moved here I have seen a lot of disgusting parallels between this way of thinking and the way many idiots continue to think at home. For some reason, at 29 years of age, I am still often met with outdated ideas about what women’s sexuality is supposed to be like. At home, if I’m not interested in sleeping with a particular guy it is because I’m uppity, full of myself, or a prude. If I’m not interested in sleeping with a particular guy because I’m sleeping with a guy that I actually like it is because I’m damaged, loose, or a huge slut. Either way, it shocks me that guys my age still believe that women aren’t allowed to choose who they want to fuck and when they want to do it.

Sure, you can say they try to knock us down because that feels better than sexual rejection, and I’d believe that. The biggest thing that alarms me is not that I’m (we’re) called names for things (read: men) I did or did not do, but rather that the “men just can’t help themselves” mentality in this region is also the popular mantra of the western male.

Maybe it seems crazy to you that a man would see me (in full sexless robe) and lose his mind like what happened on Thursday, but how is that any different from the guys at home who instantly go gaga for ice girls, models, or anyone else showing even a tiny bit of skin. What do you say to your date when she catches you checking out every girl who walks passed your table on what was supposed to be your romantic evening out? Oh, I know. “Babe, I’m a guy. I can’t help it.” Actually, you can.

Some of the expats I meet in this country are actually worse than the local guys who grope in grocery stores. I’ve met American guys here who have straight up told me within seconds of meeting me that they had the means to get away with fucking me in the desert, like that didn’t sound rapey at all, and totally would make me want to go out with them. And pretty much every guy has come here with the fantasy of taking down (read: taking advantage of) a local woman, which probably doesn’t seem fucked up to you at all because they’re guys and can’t help it, right? “Yeah… my dick is god’s gift to oppressed women.”

I’ve never quite understood why, in 2014, the outdated fantasy of the virgin is still a thing back home. I’m not quite sure why men believe that women are somehow better in bed when they have absolutely no experience whatsoever. That’s like giving someone who has never picked up a hockey stick an NHL contract. Now, I’m not saying there is anything wrong with being a virgin, just that there is no logic in that fantasy. Just like there is no logic in saying a sexually experienced woman is damaged goods and somehow worse in bed for her experience.

Anyway, that is the end of my rant for this weekend. I will close by saying that I urge all men to start using their dicks for good instead of evil. If you aren’t part of the solution, you are part of the problem. Oh, and sorry to burst your bubble, but the next time you see a woman wearing a niqab (veil), I need you to remember one thing. She’s not “eye-fucking” you, she’s just looking at you. Don’t let the eyeliner fool you. I also don’t think I need to tell you that sexualizing these women is no different than how my grocery store groper sexualized me and probably other women just like me. Yeah…let that sink in for a minute.

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The City (in need) of Angels?

August 20th, 2014

Tell me your troubles and doubts, giving me everything inside and out…

Los Angeles, CA “Thank you for all the work that you do, angel,” he said as he kissed me on the forehead and walked out of the bar. He was a disgruntled New Yorker, who had made the move to L.A. years before to pursue tinsel and other shiny things, and he seemed pretty pissed off about it. However, despite his disillusionment regarding all things Hollywood and people in general, he had spent the better part of an hour explaining to me that what I do for a living is changing the world by giving a voice to women who don’t have one (in his opinion). It was pretty heavy stuff for a girl to listen to, especially when she was just trying to have a beer in West Hollywood in peace. I guess, for a brief moment that night, the angry New Yorker renewed his faith in humanity, and maybe that’s exactly what he needed.

You see, once I made it to the Southern California portion of my west coast tour, I noticed a bizarre trend. I had somehow become a shining beacon of light for complete and total strangers. They would just flock to me and unload all their troubles and worries on me, which led me to believe that the City of Angels was, in fact, a city in desperate need of them. But why me? I’m no angel. I mean, many would argue that I am the total opposite – a demon, sinner or, dare I say, “sinister type.” So, what exactly was going on?

Sure, a single girl on the road makes friends easily, but this was different. The New Yorker with all his disillusions wasn’t the only person to unload all over me (and not in the good way). There was also the waitress at a diner in L.A. where I was having breakfast one morning. The place was packed, and she was the only one working. You could tell she was really overwhelmed, and she was snapping at anyone if they tried to order anything to drink besides coffee or orange juice. Pretty much everyone in the joint was not getting the breakfast they ordered. Something would always be wrong with it or missing from the plate. I could tell the place was falling apart from my little table-for-one in the back corner. Finally, she pulled up a chair next to me and slumped against the wall. She began to tell me how the other waitresses didn’t bother showing up that morning, and that the manager wasn’t doing a very good job actually managing the situation. I told her she was doing a great job keeping it together, and that I was sure the other patrons at the restaurant understood. I mean, who goes for a sit-down breakfast if they are in a rush anyway? You gotta McMuffin that shit! Anyway, the waitress somehow knew the way to my heart and gave me free bacon and coffee (deliberately).

However, that come-talk-to-me vibe I was emitting didn’t just reach the land of the living, apparently. My last night in San Diego I did one of the city’s haunted tours. They are a guilty pleasure of mine when I travel. This particular tour ended at a cemetery. Once the other tour attendees dispersed, I lingered awhile to check out some of the historic graves. That was when a guy walked in from off the street and headed straight for me. It was just the two of us in the isolated and nearly pitch-black graveyard, and I noticed that he immediately started following me around the graves. As soon as I stopped moving, he approached me, “Excuse me, have you ever had a ghostly encounter?” It was such an odd question to ask a total stranger, and he delivered it in an extra creepy tone, which confused me because he was good looking! I told him I didn’t know, hoping he’d go away, but instead he proceeded to tell me about the time he was ass raped by a ghost at a hotel in the Gaslamp Quarter. He claimed that when he was child he was paralyzed, and that the doctors told him he’d never walk again. I can’t be sure what he said, because my mind had wandered to trying to formulate a plan to politely get away from the guy who cornered me in a deserted cemetery in the middle of the night, but I got the impression that due to his superhuman ability to repair his body, he had somehow become sensitive to all things supernatural.

Anyway, I had managed to get us out of the cemetery gates and onto a well-lit street corner, where I half expected to turn around for the big reveal. You know, the punch line was surely to be that he was, in fact, the ghost, and I had now had my ghostly encounter as per his initial question. But instead of disappearing into thin air, the guy just wandered off down the street. Unfortunately, he went in the direction I needed to go, so I naturally had to go the opposite way. The strange thing was, earlier that night, in one of the haunted spots on the tour, our tour guide distributed those EMF devices for our use to measure “ghostly” activity around the house. I’m not sure how those things work, or if they actually measure anything at all. What I do know, however, is that my device wouldn’t stop going off, and the tour guide even remarked, “Wow, they must really like you. Not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, though.”

From ghosts to people having bad days, it seemed like everyone had something to say to me. My first night in America’s Finest City, I went out to a Spanish restaurant. I decided to sit out on the patio and people watch, but it wasn’t long before guys were walking up to the railing trying to chat me up and/or ask to come home with me. The table next to me finally decided to intervene and told my potential suitors that I was part of their party and that there just wasn’t room at their table for all of us. It seems in that part of the world, eating alone is considered both pathetic and dangerous, and so is driving alone! People would walk up (or drive up) to my car and start talking to me the second I came to a stop. The best time was when a guy approached me to ask me if “daddy” bought me the car I was driving. Didn’t realize I looked like a spoiled little rich girl, with my million dollar super sweet sixteen birthday parties or whatever the kids are doing these days. And speaking of kids, little children followed me around the San Diego Zoo like I was the freakin’ pied piper of Southern California. I don’t think I ever once paid a bill or checked out at a store without someone making a comment about my looks – and not always in a positive way! One beach blonde carded me at a bar in Orange County and her eyes practically fell out of her face, “You are NOT THIS OLD!” I guess in Southern California people think that 29 y/o women are supposed to look like the Crypt Keeper. That’s probably why guys my age used to want to date girls my age, but now all they want to do is date girls who are the same age as my students (a.k.a my babies)! Creepy.

Perhaps it wasn’t an angel these people were actually seeking, maybe it was just a connection. I found myself thinking a lot about chemistry and connections when I was driving back to L.A. from San Diego on Friday. I had decided to take the long way back and hug the coast, which got me to thinking about my first trip to California. It was back in 2009, and I was there for a Ducks/Coyotes game. I met a guy during the game, and he asked if I wanted to grab a drink. Well, that drink turned into 3 days of us driving up and down the coast – stopping only to eat, gas up, and, well, you know. Now, I’m not saying he and I had a particular “connection,” but he was a guy who was willing to come along for the ride, and that’s all I could ever really ask for at that time. All I really remember about him now is that he had a Scorpio tattoo on his leg, brown eyes, and that he over-used “PHAT” and “the bomb,” which was already outdated even back then! Anyway, I wouldn’t have even thought about him, if I hadn’t begun retracing our steps up the Pacific. I realized that given the debacle in the Bahamas, this 3-night stand still held the record for the most interesting first date I’ve ever had, and I started to wonder why I hadn’t really had any truly adventurous dates since then.

I had a theory. Back in 2009, I was all about the pursuit of that “connection,” which probably meant that I had opened myself up to experiences like that. But then once I lost faith, I closed myself off to the things and feelings I couldn’t understand, and started going for the safe option – banging hot guys! 5 years later, however, banging hot guys is starting to get old. I mean, they are all the same at the end of the day, if you think about it. Anyway, I promised myself that afternoon to consider the next guy very carefully. Sex is just better with that “connection” and a little chemistry, anyway. I guess you could say San Diego made me believe in the existence of that “connection” again, and so I suppose I made my own vow to be more of an angel that day. Yeah, we’ll see how long that lasts…

So what happened as soon as I swore off meaningless sex? Well, I naturally got invited to a full-on orgy within an hour of me arriving in the City of Angels. Maybe it was my yoga pants and school teacher cardigan that made them think that I should be let in on the secret. Nothing says “good in bed” like dressing like your mom, right? But this “sex party” was the real deal. They gave me a copy of the “rules” and they were very Fight Club-esque. I was tempted to go for the sake of the story, especially since one of the rules stated that participation wasn’t mandatory, but I decided it was better for me not to get my amusement at the expense of others. I mean, I would be there thinking everyone was ridiculous, when that’s just the way they are, and this party was essentially their “safe place.” Could it be? Am I maturing?! I also figured it might have just made me sad about life, especially since I had just promised myself to stop being so disconnected. Could that be why all these weird things were happening to me? Could it be that I had flipped on some switch and now I was attracting people instead of repelling them? Anyway, I thought that whole orgy thing was funny, though, and definitely “very L.A.” Especially since the State of California posted a giant billboard at LAX which basically said, “Get tested! California has A LOT of syphilis!”

Skipping that sex fest is how I ended up in the company of the disgruntled New Yorker in West Hollywood. His friend, however, was kind of a dick. He told me I looked like the “typical trophy wife, who takes advantage of men,” which kind of shocked me since I was in the land of Real Housewives and bikini models, so I really wouldn’t have put myself in the same category as those types… Yeah, once again, school teacher cardigan… However, before he douched out, he did say something almost profound and most definitely rehearsed. He said, “L.A. is limitless. L.A. is possibility. It’s the only place in the world where you are free to pursue your dream and no one will think you’re an idiot because they are trying to make it too.” It’s a nice statement, but what I heard is “courage in numbers.” Everyone is doing the same thing, so why would anyone be scared? But people are still scared of things there. They are scared of deviating from the norm. They are scared of what their “friends” will think of them. They are scared of ruining their “image” by shopping at the wrong grocery store or dating the wrong person or having the wrong nose. Hence the need for super secret orgies – no one is really comfortable with themselves. They just hide in the shadows or behind digital screens, even though they should know that they have nothing to be afraid of. Maybe these insecurities are just a few of the many reasons why the citizens of the City of Angels are desperate to figure out where all their angels are actually hiding…

…Or maybe these people were actually MY angels. It’s no secret that I’m heading back to the Mid East on Friday, and I know that I am at risk of falling back into my rut once the internet becomes my only portal to the outside world again. Perhaps all these people from the town with the shallowest reputation on the planet, and all their stories and problems will help keep me sane in the desert this year. Maybe now I won’t see them all as bimbos and modelizers, but rather people who work four jobs in hopes of landing a small role, people who get stuck serving 30 tables at once because their co-workers are irresponsible, and people who upgrade me to a suite at the Hard Rock just because I commented on their favourite band. Of course, maybe there isn’t a deeper meaning here, after all. Maybe these experiences are just more proof that I am both insane and continuously proving the theory that crazy simply attracts crazy…

Follow me on Instagram for photos from my west coast tour and my up-coming adventures.

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