I appear to have neglected this blog again but for once, it’s not because I was too lazy to update. I’ll have you know that finals are kicking my ass hard right now but more importantly, I’ve been busy writing for an ACTUAL PUBLICATION. That’s right. Though by ‘actual publication’ I mean the school paper. One of the school papers. Regardless, I’m quite proud of myself.
You see, ever since I began studying journalism, my peers and teachers have repeatedly approached me and gushed, “Melissa, your writing is fantastic! You simply must write for the school paper!” OK, maybe that never happened. But even if it had, I was a jerk back then and would have said no.
Anyway, my friend Adam did some paintings for a bar on St-Laurent and so I decided to interview him about it. You can check out Adam’s previous work here and read my article here (or pick a copy up at Concordia). Let it be known that I am in no way responsible for that cheesy headline – the editor, who is coincidentally also named Adam and also quite awesome, is.
I remember watching Love Me, Love My Doll around this time last year when I interned at Vice. I’m not sure why I was told to watch it, but I remember it being interesting and I randomly felt the urge to watch it again. It’s a documentary about men who share their lives with Real Dolls, which are life-sized dolls that look and feel similar to actual women. Everything about them is customizable, including cup size and pubic hair. They cost several thousands of dollars. They’re anatomically correct in the way that no doubt matters most – they have vaginas. That you can fuck. They’re sex dolls, basically. But to the owners featured in this movie, they’re more than that – they’re companions who are often treated with the utmost love and care. A strange yet seemingly genuine emotional bond ties these men to their dolls, kind of like the one depicted in Lars and the Real Girl, although, big surprise, these men are no Ryan Gosling.
Many of them believe they are incapable of meeting human women (for whatever reason, be it their looks or their social awkwardness) and have settled for synthetic versions. As crazy as that seems, this might seem a little crazier – I think I understand these men. I refuse to judge them. Yes, it’s bizarre to watch them shop for skimpy outfits for their dolls, it’s off-putting to view them delicately apply makeup to inanimate eyelids and lips and it’s certainly uncommon to see a grown man admiringly looking into a doll’s eyes and whispering, “I love you.” You will see all that and more in this movie. It’s kind of fascinating.
This is the closest thing to ‘love’ these men have ever experienced. It’s not socially acceptable, but somehow, it’s real. Some of the men realize that a doll could never provide the companionship and affection that a real woman could; others simply don’t care. They communicate with their dolls in their own way and appear to believe it to be reciprocal. They seem to realize that deep down, this is totally weird – but they’re still happy. And more importantly, they aren’t as lonely. One could probably argue that for some, spending a lifetime alone may be more psychologically damaging than having a relationship with a doll that looks exactly like a woman (well, a woman with a perfect, unattainable body).
Here’s a screen grab of a doll’s vagina. It’s OK, I was curious too.
P.S. If I didn’t embed the video properly, which is possible because I’m an idiot, click here. It really is interesting.
I’ve had an unusually dramatic weekend. It’s been brought to my attention that someone from my past has been going around calling me names. Apparently, I’m a sex fiend and a slut. She’s said other immature, hurtful things as well but none of them offended me as much as those comments. The girl’s omnipresent cattiness is one of the many reasons I’m happy to have cut her out of my life, but I feel I need to say something about the “slut” thing on behalf of women everywhere (that’s just how I roll).
People absolutely need to stop judging women based on the number of sexual partners they’ve had. Social constructions of sexuality and gender have deemed it ‘natural’ for a man to want and seek sex, whereas when a woman does the same, it’s labeled ‘wrong’, ‘disgusting’ and of course, ‘slutty’. A man who has lots of sex is a player; a woman who has lots of sex is a whore. This double standard has been around for a long time but because it’s never affected me personally, I’ve never bothered dissecting it.
Why has it never affected me personally? Well, I don’t know what constitutes a “slut” in this specific girl’s eyes but, at 24, I can count the number of men I’ve been with on one hand. I’ve only ever been with guys I liked and truly cared for. I’ve never had a one night stand or a fuck friend. In terms of numbers, I’m probably the least sexually experienced girl I know.
However, I firmly believe that even if I had an extremely large pool of partners and countless anonymous experiences, it would still be no one’s goddamned business but my own. Really, no one should be discussing or making up lies about my private, personal sex life. I may be nowhere near the kind of person she’s described me as being, but even if I were, accusing a woman of loving and having lots of sex shouldn’t be an insult. When you think about it, it pretty much sounds like a compliment. So, uh, thanks, I guess.
I used to read Cosmo mags all the time when I was younger because I stole them from my work. I was a 16 year old virgin who hadn’t ever seen a dick, yet I couldn’t resist the promise of juicy sex tips. What were the 194 new ways to please my man? What was the secret sex move that drives 72% of men wild? What could I tell about his personality from his bulge? There was so much I needed to learn! Of course, the magazine’s intrigue wore off after just a few issues. I recall reading one particular article suggesting women show cleavage to land that promotion they’re after. I couldn’t believe it. If I remember correctly, a photo of a model wearing glasses floating near the tip of her nose, a leopard print bra peeking out of a mostly-unbuttoned shirt, a form-fitting pencil skirt and unbelievably high heels ran alongside the article. Coincidentally, that is what I wear to the office every day (except on casual Friday – that’s when I break out the ol’ PVC corset). All jokes aside, I was fuming. I convinced myself I’d start a petition – or at the very least, write a letter – in hopes of shutting this bullshit magazine down.
Well, I got lazy, but on the bright side, the article served as a wake up call. After that, I was able to see the magazine for what it truly is: formulaic crap designed to generate mass profit off women’s fears and insecurities. OK, so that wasn’t exactly the revelation of the century, but trust me – millions of women read this thing every month, from cover to cover, and use it as an instruction manual.
Let’s have a look at the January 2010 issue, shall we?
I am extremely ambivalent towards porn. God knows how many arguments I’ve had with past boyfriends and their late night habits. Porn is cheesy, laughable and usually unrealistic.
I love SexTV and they often have segments on feminist/alternative porn. I was curious and decided to check it out for myself. So here’s my Top Alt Porn Picks, a collection of amateur & fetish websites. As you may have gathered by now, this post is obviously NSFW.
I thought this needed to be done as a parallel to the penis size post. Guys sometimes defend themselves by adamantly claiming that it isn’t their dick that’s too small, it’s their lover’s vagina that’s too big. I guess that seems like a plausible argument. Especially when Larry David delivers it.
Based on the clip, it’s pretty clear that the nurse has a gigantic vagina, but in all fairness, Jeff doesn’t really seem like he’s packing a particularly big one, either. Plus, he fucks retards. Wait, this post isn’t about Curb Your Enthusiasm. What was it about, again? Oh yeah.
There it was, on the third page of this morning’s Gazette, staring up at me in big, bold letters – a headline asking, “Does Size Matter?” Interested, I read on. Sadly, it turns out they were referring to the number of kids in a classroom. I did what I assume everyone who attempted to read the article did: I walked away and got a bagel. I felt duped. They led me to believe they’d be talking about penises.
Nonetheless, my curiosity was piqued. I asked a few of my girl friends if they thought size mattered (and yes, in this case, I’m talking about dicks) and they all hesitated and said no. Liars! The answer is yes.
I mean, it’s not like we’re hunting for rare sausage. Most women are more than happy with an average size and actually prefer girth to length. Problems tend to arise when you’re seriously lacking in one or both departments.
If you’re fooling around with a girl and she reaches for your crotch and feels that you’re packing a really small one, she’ll be disappointed. I can guarantee you that. But will she leave? No. Well, probably not. See, we care about penis size, but it’s not the only thing we care about.