Susie Bright's Journal

Mad Men, Ft. Hood, & the Stupak Amendment: Connect the Dots

 I can't be the only one to make the connection. 

For those of us who who are devoted to the American tele-novella Mad Men, the recent psycho-shooting at Ft. Hood had an eerie plot echo.
 

(Spoilers ahead).

In Mad Men, which takes place in New York of 1963, there's a fictional character named Greg, an aspiring surgeon who disgraces himself so badly in the operating room that he is forced to go into, shame of all shames, psychiatry. 
 

Since I've placed my life in the hands of a therapist more than once, this reaction came as a surprise to me! 
 

Yet among Greg's colleagues at the hospital, the psychiatry career path is considered a "fail." The deep background on Greg is that we already know he is a messed-up dude, a rapist with serious issues who is the LAST person you'd want to be talking to on a couch. 

As the season closes, we learn that Greg has joined the Army where they're desperate enough to take a loser like him and give him a surgeon's scalpel and a badge.
 

 He's so ignorant he doesn't have a clue that Vietnam is his imminent destination.

Meanwhile, in real life, Nidal Malik Hasan, the deranged Army psychiatrist who went on a shooting spree at Ft. Hood, also turns out to be… a failed surgeon. The detail that caught my eye was the anecdote revealed by his uncle, who said that Hasan went into psychiatry after he FAINTED in the O.R. during a routine childbirth. The sight of a baby emerging from a woman's vagina sent Nidal over the edge.

With that clue, something in me snapped.

This was a guy, who by all accounts so far, has never been on a date, and routinely complained to his mosque's imam that he couldn't find a woman "pious" enough to marry, a virgin who would wear a veil around the clock.

Hassan is being scrutinized for any potential ties to espionage, fanatical religious beliefs, and vicarious PTSD from treating so many broken soldiers.

 But this man's craziness is more clearly understood in the context of his severe and distorted sexual repression.

In the midst of this reality-fantasy convergence, another piece of patriarchal-creep rocked the country— this time, affecting more people than Ft. Hood and Mad Men's viewership combined. We witnessed the Orwellian "health care reform" process become derailed by what I call "The Stupid Amendment," a wildly successful Vatican intervention to make sure that whatever health care plan comes out of Congress, it will be engineered to control women's wombs. 

 In other words, health insurance for men, not for women. 

The Stupak Amendment is ostensibly about preventing women from using their insurance coverage to pay for abortion procedures. But making a rule that women's healthcare below the waist is subject to moral review is outrageous. 

Would any of these politicians consider making a health care exemption to the complications of a man's penis? His prostate? His semen? His scrotum? His urethra? Would urologists, like abortion surgeons, be treated like criminals whose entire knowledge base should be wiped out of existence? Would any man be put on parade to prove "rape, incest, or imminent death" in order to prove that he needed a procedure about ANYTHING?

"Pro-life" rhetoric is now used across the aisle, with even the President proclaiming that the federal government will never fund abortions. 

 

Afghanistan annihilation, yes! Abortion, no!
  
 

 Our war-lovin', misogynistic culture cares so little about "life" that the candlelight vigil for the Hasan's victims at Fort Hood had the air of a rote exercise. Here's Wade Goodwyn, from NPR, talking last week: 

The thing I was struck by was... that the vigil was a well-established routine. 

 

I mean, this was a pretty big moment for me, but I could tell that the attending crowd had done this before. 

And when we interviewed people, the soldiers and the families, after the vigil was over, they'd tell us, "I've been to too many of these already."

This country cares little about killing all life forms and even less about the welfare of its children. Our atrocious infant mortality rates, hungry children, uneducated children, children with birth defects and developmental disabilities treated like trash… my blood's turned cold.  Watching Congressmen gleefully cheer on the passage of the Stupak amendment, for me, was like watching Greg rape Joan— and worse, to witness her acceptance of it.
 

It reminds me of something I wrote in The Sexual State of the Union:

American boomerangs from "Fear of a Black Planet," a Youth Revolt, a genderfuck coup, to the opposite horror: that of a lone man with a big gun. 

Meet the older, privileged, "had-all-the-opportunities" kinda guy who comes equipped with a bomb, no dates, and a pathologically self-centered attitude. Oh, we'll wish he had only been in the Crips! If only he'd been a drag queen, if only he'd pierced his dick and gotten high on dope! Any of these would be preferable, a million times more humane. 

We can diss a counter-culture, but what are we supposed to do with a counter-human? We can't stand to look at the cult of alienated masculinity and wonder how we got here.

The Great Before and After

When I look back on this year, 2008, one event besides the election will stick out in my mind: my physical transformation. I lost thirty-something pounds in the last six months.

It's been quite a jolt.

Last weekend I was a co-star of the halftime hula hoop show at the Roller Derby. The weekend before that, I walked 30 miles down the shore from Brighton Beach to the Monterey Wharf. And I bicycled to the hardware store this morning and didn't even think about the big hill that leads to my house.

Any of you who know me personally, are probably dropping your fork.

I turned 50 in March. Over the winter, I'd watched a couple of friends, just a few years older, suffer serious setbacks. High-risk knee operations. Diabetes diagnoses. Heart attacks! Whatever happened to flaming out young with a good-looking corpse?

I couldn't get over how some folks in their 50s are struggling to stay alive, and others are climbing Mt. Everest.

I wanted to be one of the latter— or at least their cousin. I'm not planning on sticking around forever; I want to have more adventures and intrigues, and I can't do that if I'm staggering around moaning, "Oh, my aching arse."  I have "Seize the Time" embroidered on my jean jacket— and  it needs to be put to use.

Nothing is terribly wrong with me; knock-knock. But when I went for a physical at my doctor's office— and I laid out all the little hassles and bothers that confine my sloth-like existence, tears rolled down my cheeks.

What sedentary cramp had overtaken me the past twenty years? Well, I wasn't alone. Writers like myself spend endless hours in bad chairs, typing. We lie down and type, to tell the truth. We like bon-bons, and whiskey. My only callus is on my pencil finger. We get lost in our story-telling and forget to engage any gears below the neck.

I don't remember what put the notion in my mind, but after the doctor's visit, I lay down, as usual, with my MacBook and looked up WeightWatchers to see where the closest meeting was. A friend of mine recommended a group leader down here, Jennifer Barley, and promised she wasn't a diet robot— but a real teacher with charisma.

Good; I needed a shot of transference.

It was weird, the first time, to seek out the shopping mall that housed the WW meetings. The last meeting I went to that dealt with weight issues was the “Fat Liberation Consciousness Raising Group” at the Ocean Park Women's Center in the 1970s.  I was slender then, but damn, was I ever fed up with the diet-military complex... I still am! If this WW meeting had even a speck of antifeminist bullshit, I was going to march right out the door.

I didn't know what to expect. I've never altered my eating regime in my life, except to savor a new treat. Furthermore, I'm a lifelong powderpuff. I hid out from PE classes my entire school career and was bullied out of any interest in team sports. I was so bony as a child people offered me sandwiches to fatten me up, like Hansel and Gretel.

For me to go to a meeting about "getting fit" was like a Math Phobic signing up for Sleepover Calculus.

I knew in advance that WW was like science class mixed with a 12-step meeting. They have a little equation to keep track of what you're eating every day: Calories plus Fat plus Fiber equals a certain number of "points." It's an engrossing game. You eat whatever you want, but you journal your points. If you keep within your target range, you lose pounds; the natural consequence is inevitable.

 
My doctor, Flash Gordon, had already inspired me  when I read his latest book, about whipping motorcyclists into better health. (He drives a Beemer). It's a great read... I don't ride, but I easily transpose his advice!

He wrote a chapter about "wide in the seat," where he recommended journaling about what you put in your mouth. (Read the whole thing here).

By simply taking pen in hand, whenever you eat something, you make rational what is usually an unconscious activity. You can't write down your daily intake, without spectacular— if awkward— awareness.

But I couldn't do this in solitude— I'd delude myself too easily. The support group part of WW is my favorite part of the whole shebang. People have so many "issues" with their food that just going out and eating sensibly is a Herculean task. There're a million ways to self-sabotage, and virtually none of them have anything to do with physical appetite.

One of the mottos that came up in the first meeting I went to was: "If being hungry isn't the problem— then eating isn't the solution." Such platitudes become soulgasms of epiphany as I listened to other people's rites of passage.

At the first meeting, the woman next to me, was asked what her motivation was to maintain her goal. She's been a member for a long time, and had lost forty pounds. She was very quiet when Jen spoke to her. Finally, she  replied, "Really, it’s just the frailty of life."

That sent me over the edge.

My reactions surprised me. I always thought weight loss— on my part at least— would only be motivated by vanity or neurotic insecurity. I'd moaned in the mirror plenty of times. But neither my ego nor my hangups prompted me to do anything. Wishing I was more of a fox didn't move me an inch.

No, it's the physical pain that pushed me, the feeling of my life getting smaller because I felt semi-cruddy most of the time. I was watching my peers, people who I thought were Adonises in high school, suffer in ways that scared the piss out of me. I could see where it was all heading. I sobbed.

Once I "got with the program," I started losing ounces and pounds without that much strain. I think the first flush of my success is because I was so clueless, that the small changes I made to my refrigerator had a big effect.

Nonfat milk... what a concept!  Walking to the corner instead of driving... no shit! It was like waking up a Dormouse from a long winter's nap.

I don't mean to make it sound too pat. I'm an inquisitive person, and I drank down all the new information in great gulps. I’m just as much of a slow food gourmet snob as I ever was.

(The recipe writers at WW are on a different planet from the group that does their processed foods division- the frozen dinners and cookies. The former you'd find plucking their own chicken and growing their own organic fava beens; the latter would be figuring out a low-points binge at KFC).

The "get moving" part of the WW program, however, has been more of a challenge. The very word "exercise" makes me scowl.

I've practiced fooling myself, and playing the fool. If I do things I associate with my childhood, or a destination,  like riding my bike, stone-throwing in the quarry, dancing, hooping, tromping off in the wilderness, jumping in a lake... I don't realize that I'm putting my breath and muscles to work. And the more I can do, without pain, the more of a  triumphant smartypants I become.

Would you like me to tell you for the fortieth time about my star turn at the hula hoop roller derby?

It has troubled me to decide whether to blog about this, or talk about it at all. What if I have some spectacular fall from my twenty pounds of grace?

My appearance also sets off so many different emotions in my friends, I'm not sure what to prepare for. It pains me to stimulate any negative reactions. 

I cringe if anyone who’s one cracker short of anorexia says, "Oh, I need to lose too.” I'm as nauseated as ever with the emptiness of Thin Materialism. Strength and well-being don't have anything to do with the fashion industry or the insurance claims adjuster. I don't want my silhouette to act as a reproach, a threat, or scolding.

What I do like is when a friend of mine says, "Do you want to go— ?"   and I say, "Yes."

I go!

No more shooting pains up my knees. No more tummy aches and GI hangovers. What I thought was arthritis just... went away. I warmed up a few degrees, My last periods have been... no big deal. I don't have to wear mittens on a summer day, and I can literally bicycle myself out of almost any dark mood.

I wake up, and to my amazement, I feel like... MOVING. Virtually every complaint I listed at my doctor's visit has either disappeared or receded.

I picked up a friend’s baby the other day, and when I said, "Wow, how much does he weigh now?"

The mom said, 'Oh, he's past 20 pounds," and I thought... I carried that? How did I stagger around?

I am still new at this. My pink balloon of idealism and cheer might go POP at any moment. My mortal coil is certainly not stopping the clock just because I ate a few less chips.

I have a soft spot for my dark side, and if I have to eat more chocolate to keep my edge, I won't hesitate.

But at the moment I'm spooning mouthfuls of plum applesauce, and my PF Flyers make me feel like I can jump higher and run out of words before I run out of breath.

The last dog days of summer are so sweet, and last night I walked to the movies without my sweater, because Santa Cruz and my very own chemistry were having a balmy spell. It's a moment I'd like to cultivate.

Update, 1/1/09: I am now Sporty Spice. Circuit training, kayaking running, mountain biking, road biking, swimming in open water... my parents would die all over again in disbelief if they were here to see me! I have never been strong before. Ever. I'll have to write another story just about that!

 
Photos: All these are original ads from vintage American magazines, which are sold, appraised and traded on Deco Dog site. I actually remember this exact "Ayds" one from my childhood.

Getting Real... On Brain Tumors and Ted Kennedy

When I heard Senator "Teddy" Kennedy had a seizure last week, I stopped breathing for a moment.

Part of it is my generational response: if you're an Irish Catholic like me, who was alive for John and Bobby's assassinations,€” you grab onto the nearest rail whenever you hear something calamitous has happened to the Kennedys. It's like they're first cousins to our entire immigrant group.

Yet my eyes teared up for another reason: if Ted's seizure wasn't a stroke, it was probably a brain tumor, and a glioblastoma, to be exact, if it was the typical BT diagnosis.

This is what my dad, Bill Bright, died from, a couple years ago. He was diagnosed in the summer, and died in October.

Today, in the NYT, we learn that this is Kennedy's ailment as well.

The little-publicized fact about brain tumors is that our medical community doesn't know how to screen for them early, as we do with some other cancers. By the time a doctor finds a tumor in your head, it's probably very, very bad.

What the newspaper isn't saying, and what Kennedy's family might be encountering, is that the prognosis for this cancer is dismal— and mysterious. He will be encouraged to have surgery, chemo, and radiation, but the sad fact is that these procedures will do little or nothing for him, and are more for the research and benefit of others.

Doctors, by and large, are reluctant to take the initiative with you, and say, "It's over, let's talk about pain and seizure relief, and the dying process."

Why not?

It "does harm" to raise false hopes by not being frank. I had to pry the truth out my father's nurses, first. The nurses are more candid, because they don't take the heat for the treatment process or the prognosis.

But even with them, if  I hadn't said the word, "hospice," it wouldn't have come up. Once I spoke the secret word, it was as if I entered a new world, where health care professionals could be honest with me.

Why won't physicians address the realities of terminal illness, particularly around cancer diagnoses? The notion and expectation that there's a cure, survivability, and that you're going to be the statistical exception... it's dishonest. 

Pain management and comfort will take on giant meanings in the days to come for the Kennedy family. To die free from pain and distress is what we would wish for ourselves, and what we need to offer for everyone.

Are there experimental cures? Oh sure, you can read all about them in the voluminous comments on the NYT Kennedy story. I wish more people realized how science-fiction it is for one of these "experiments" to pan out-- and if one did, it would become mainstream virtually overnight. There is no conspiracy to keep successful brain cancer treatments underground.

The greatest advantage that could help Kennedy now is youth, which he does not have, and no alternative treatment will change that. It's tragic.

If Kennedy's tumor is a typical case, his life expectancy is in weeks, maybe a few months.  He will change radically every day now. Whole abilities will disappear in a matter of twenty-four hours. Aspects of what we think of as someone's "character" and "soul" just go POOF. You realize, "Wow, that was the brain, a part of the brain that is gone."

What would I wish for Ted Kennedy? Well, this is a big order for a devout Catholic family, but I hope they pass on "fighting for his life," and instead, fight for his dignified and loving death. There's a lot of visionaries among his relatives, so maybe they'll be willing to break a few rules.

What do I mean by fighting for one's death? Well, it starts with calling the hospice caregivers in their community, and embracing their philosophy. It's palliative care, not curing care. It's midwifery for dying.

Instead of taking a meeting for a new procedure, or figuring how to "beat this thing," I wish Kennedy could take his apparently good spirits and figure out how he wants to go. I hope he says the most important things today, not a moment to spare. I hope he has family who will stick up for him enjoying his last days with the music, memories, and affection he enjoys.

I mention music, in particular, because one of the weird things about brain tumors is that you'll sometimes lose your primary language or speech, but music still makes perfect, beautiful sense to you. I sang to my dad when he couldn't form coherent sentences anymore, and he finished the lyrical line!

Brain tumors have gone from being one of the rarest illnesses anyone heard of, to a more common cause of death, and Kennedy's high profile is going to bring a lot of controversy out of the closet. Everyone who's lived through this is asking about the environment, our food, air and water supply, our technology. Brain tumors aren't in a massive upswing because there's some new hereditary link--€” it's a modern way to die.

To my amazement, when I was seeking information about my dad, I only found ONE web site for families of brain tumor patients that had a "get real" attitude, with resources and explanations of what you can expect, day by day. It's called: Seeking Peace, Brain Tumor Hospice Care, which sounds like a platitude, but by the end of this  ordeal, you will realize the title is literal:

THE JOURNEY with a brain tumor is an emotional roller coaster for patient and care-giving family alike. Anyone who has been a part of this experience understands the difficulty of these ups and downs. But no matter how long or hard the journey...no matter what the grade or type of tumor...when the road narrows and it is time to think about end-stage comfort, no one feels truly ready for the letting go.

No kidding. I'm still in shock from what happened to our family and friends, and this is why Teddy Kennedy's announcement presses in so close. He's been such a personal figure with a very big public message. If his story can now encompass a national discussion about environmental causes of cancer, and the right to die with self-determination, it will be a heartbreaking, but overdue look at the truth.

Illustration: Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts

What Our State Legislators Can Teach Us About Barebacking

No wonder Larry Craig feels like a choir boy.

Tap-dancing in airport stalls is nothing compared to the wasted nights of homophobic Washington state legislator Richard Curtis, who had one hell of a depraved bacchanalia before his inevitable resignation.  —Lingerie, cell phone photos, casino bingeing, tight rope, cold stethoscopes, cheap barebacking, and blackmail. He was only one diaper short of a Vitter.

By the time I finished reading about Curtis' Wild Ride, I felt like he'd given the entire Roman Empire a run for their money. Still, I insist on finding the educational value of these sad stories—  and I'll use any excuse to talk about  the much-maligned topic of ethical barebacking! Take a listen to my latest audio show...

  Listen to an excerpt 

Listen to the whole show at Audible.com: LINK

Get the show free for a month: LINK

 

Finally, in my Try This at Home mailbag, a devout and religious listener makes the case that, although he's horny and loves kinky sex, he's not feeling the least bit guilty.

Don't forget, you can send your confidential questions, feedback about the show, and requests for free show coupon cards to susie@audible.com. (Episode 318, November 16, 2007)

Photo: The delightful Mr. Germany, by Ralphboy

The Fat Vagina Monologues

I read a midwife's blog the other day, about a topic you don't hear much about: How being obese changes a woman's vagina, her sexual response— and her pap smear exam!

In Bed with Susie Bright 291: The Fat Vagina Monologues

The "navel-gazing midwife," as she calls herself, speaks both from her personal experience— before and after gastric-bypass surgery— and from the vantage point of her patient care.

Navelgazer isn't talking about a vag that's large or small or loose or tight— rather, the nature of the fat and cushy kind.

Her post generated many interesting comments, from women with "fat" vaginas, their partners, health workers, and people like me who'd never thought about it before.

It definitely reinforced my belief that the average "modern" doctor pool knows nothing about female sexuality.  You read about this, and you think, "What else does no one have a clue about?"

And here's a thread from readers who are outraged at Navelgazer's conclusions: Link.

Listen to the whole show: Link

In the second part of our show, we critique the recent Times "Science of Desire" special section... And, in the Try This at Home mailbag, I answer a letter from a woman who married an old flame only to find out he has some strange ways of expressing his needs.

Thanks to Janet from Greenery Press for turning me onto the Navelgazer...

Photo from the magnifico VaginaLady.

Don't forget, you can send your confidential questions, feedback about the show, and requests for free-show girly cards to susie@audible.com. (Episode 291, April 27, 2007)

My Greek Love Life

When the Delta Zeta Sorority "who-put-the-dogs-out" scandal ran its course, I wrote an outraged editorial, which attracted the hackles of one virtuous DZ member, who insisted that the blight of elitism, and the duties of the fabled "sorostitute" had never tarnished her Greek experience.

She demanded of me, "Susie, do you even know anyone in a sorority?"

What a set-up! I answered, "Yeah, some of my best lovers have been sorority members."

But her question haunted me: How do I know what I think I know about the sexual lives of Greek sisters or brothers? That's what I decided to muse upon today in this week's In Bed podcast:

Listen to an excerpt:

Get the whole show:  Link

On the second half of my show, I share the newest way to join the Mile High Club: at a tiny airport in Georgia, where the pilot has outfitted his small plane with a red and pink decor "Love Nest" and will take you out into the great blue yonder for a little "once-around" while you muss up the sheets. Strangely, I find the prospect of boarding an airplane without being searched and interrogated as scintillating as getting nude inside the cabin!

Finally, in this week's mailbag, a woman writes me who wants to help her sister come to terms with having herpes.  As an only child, I have to ask, do siblings routinely "help and advise" each other when it comes to sex, or do you think it more often a case of rivalry and avoidance?

Don't forget, you can send your confidential questions, feedback about the show, and requests for girly cards to susie@audible.com. (Episode 286, March 23, 2007)

My First Solar Post

Attention Toxified Earthlings: This is my first solar posting. I am writing to you by the grace of sun power. My southern exposure is reeling the meter backwards as I write.

It is: intensely satisfying. Please do come over and turn something on.

I'm on a roll. Where is my next biodiesel hippie schoolbus? Call me now! I feel so impatient to revamp everything.

As ecology diarists may remember from my earlier post, I left Al Gore's Inconvenient Truth movie with more of a whimper in my heart than an ecstatic bang. I needed stronger stuff!— where could I find it? 

I know many of you have found the movie a great turning point for disbelievers, or kooks who think there are "two sides" to global warming... I'm all for their conversion.

But for myself, I've been searching for a radical ecology documentary that would lift my spirits and give me some fresh spunk. Mainline me, baby!

Well, I found it, courtesy of Andrew Leonard at Salon.

Meet community architect and designer William McDonough. Behold his video from a speech he made at the 2000 Bioneers conference.

It's the complete opposite of Gore's movie. The production values are terrible— it's someone's camcorder set up in a dreary conference room. The view alternates between dull-colored charts, and John's un-made-up face, the talking head.

What is he says, however, is electrifying. His ideas: mind-expanding. His wit: sheer bliss.

He's thrillingly controversial, and global in a whole new way: "When are we all going to start thinking of ourselves as indigenous people?" he asks.

He pooh-poohs "sustainability"— "If I asked if you were married, and you said 'Yes,' and I said, 'How is it?' and you said, 'Sustainable' — does that sound very promising?"

McDonough wants to go way beyond sustainability. He wants a fecund, thriving ecological life force. He wants to make "large!" thumbprints— that leave vast wetlands. Instead of telling you to bike or pray harder, he talks about his case histories with companies and communities that take on vast undertakings where their whole culture will be changed for an environmentally sensational, (not just sustainable) future.

You know, I bet environmentalist Al Gore privately thinks this guy is remarkable too... how 'bout making another fancy movie and talking about these ideas?

I'm posting the film here. It's a half-hour or so... which i realize is a long time when you're web surfing.

It's largely a listening experience, where the visuals are not that important. (Although some of his "charts," like the one on "stuff and time," are very funny). Bake a cake and listen in!

       

Men Who Love Burgers: But Aren't So Sure About Sex

Advertisement One:

A hunky guy stares at a sexy babe who appears before him— she seems to crave his attention. He sees  she would jump in the sack with him at the slightest encouragement!

Yet, in the corner of his eye, he sees a brand-name beer waiting for his pleasure at an adjacent table. The beer wins his complete desire and attention; the foxy lady doesn't stand a chance.

Advertisement Two:

A young man repeatedly chooses a big juicy taco over the invitation to score with willing and available girls.

Advertisement Three:

Another young man is being observed in a laboratory environment. He is offered the pick between a delicious cheeseburger and a gorgeous, sexually-available wench. Overcome with his good luck, the boy gasps, "You mean I get to chose between a girl and a burger?"  After a moment of suspense, he picks the girl.

One of the lab observers turns to the other, and remarks, "What an anomaly!— no one's ever done that before."

Welcome to the new breed of healthy young men who rate sex way beneath their other appetites. In this brave new world, girls are a pain, a disappointment, and rather dangerous to the soul. Self-preserving boys would rather be satisfied with a brew and bit of beef than an erotic tide of reckless passion.

Advertising agencies are capitalizing on our current generation's penchant for irony—  and yet there's a kernel of authentic confession in each of these promotions. There are lots of guys today who have sexually retreated, or soured on the mating game altogether, and you don't have to search out “Miller Time” or Taco Bell to find them.

Traditionally— say, since the dawn of sexual stereotypes— men have been the ones who were horny all the time, thinking with the little head instead of the big one; a heterosexual fool for Chantilly Lace and a pretty face.  It was women who were supposed to say "no," who  put the brakes on erotic interest in favor of their virtue or climb to success.

A woman who made an ass of herself over a sexual affair wasn't unheard of— but she learned her lesson quickly, with a quick “Rules Girl” kick in the pants to join the feminine ranks of the sexually-reserved and pseudo-chaste.

When feminists and sex researchers started talking about women's sexuality in the 1960s, it became clear that one reason women didn't feel connected to their sexual self interest was because so many of them had never had sexual satisfaction to begin with. Finally, many liberated women spoke up, admitting that they'd never had an orgasm, and didn't know where to begin.

Sex is the one area men are supposed to excel in, by default. Their penis is so obviously "there"; their masturbation practice practically demands itself. They get an added helping of testosterone, and the same amount of encouragement to be virile that girls get to be virgins.

So when we see men today, non-plussed with sexual companionship, is it because they too, are losing their orgasmic pleasure, or because they lack desire altogether?

Let me make a brief caveat that this is not the experience of the majority, but the fact that it even exists as a tiny trend is noteworthy, because it is such a departure from the past. Sure, there are still plenty of horny men who will bark like a dog to get laid, but the big news is that so many young men in particular, are as ambivalent about sex as any pre-orgasmic housewife ever was.

Some say that relief from their desire is a thing to envy.

These men say that (a) having erections is not automatic, (b) sexual pleasure can be elusive, and (c) having the drive to "score" is not their birthright. For some of them, coming out of the closet with their erotic alienation is a burden lifted from their balls.  That burger is looking damn good.

The sensational event that has made so many unsatisfied men visible is the unbelievable sales of the erectile dysfunction drug, Viagra. 

But what's so interesting about Viagra is the number of pills being popped for performance enhancement, not erectile dysfunction. Viagra in this case is used like a one-night insurance policy, a facsimile of a porn-star experience. These users aim for sexual performance the way they NEVER had it. These aren't men looking for dreams of youth, they're YOUTH who've discovered sex, in the prime of their lives, to be disappointing and even humiliating, because their penis didn’t “behave” the way they believe it’s supposed to, or because the pleasure it afforded them seemed less than the hype.

They aren't doing it for a thrill, they're using the drug to defend their reputations and their lovers' expectations. They know they're expected to produce wood, on contact, and that it won't be pretty if they can't. They fear their lover will feel scorned and unappreciated, and the backlash might get ugly. This anxiety is what promotes their use of Viagra, not their search for ecstatic sex. Not a very erotic or romantic picture, to say the least.

Why is sex problematic for men now, when such a "problem" was only women's in the past?

Sex research about men's erection dysfunction is woefully inadequate—and Pfizer, Viagra's manufacturer, isn't sharing their trade insights.

Instead, what we have is the gossip that has affected many American bedrooms. Ask a single woman who’s dating— and you're likely to get a story from her about how men aren't as sexually yearning, or as aggressive as they used to be. Are they shy, or is it something more? Chastity pledge blues or Paxil script? Ask the married woman who says she doesn't get it on with her husband at all without a dose of “V” in advance.  And as for the porn industry– well, don't even ask!

The most alarming possibility as to why cocks are sagging is that something poisonous is in our water— or our air, or our food— you take your pick. Anyone who watches the cancer epidemic we're living in, or who takes a look at dropping fertility rates, has had the distinct nightmare that the human race has ensured its own destruction by creating our own ecological putsch.

The silver lining is  the sensitivity argument, which would be a kind alternative: that men have had it with women's inane stereotypes about their bodies and minds. After all, men can be turned on without erections; they can achieve orgasm without a raging hard-on, and their emotions and minds are just as tied to their cock as any woman is to her clit.

Many men are exasperated with women thinking that boys can be satisfied with a warm hole and a squeeze.  These are the guys who appreciate their own sense of foreplay, they dream of being seduced, and they want to be treated like an individual between the sheets instead of a stroke-by-numbers cartoon.

I like this theory as a philosophy, and its feminist impulses. But physically, I don't think it explains our current predicament.

My chief indictment at present, the one we can prove, is Pharmaceutical Abuse. Many of America's favorite medicines depress the libido, and ironically, the most notorious ones are used to treat depression. Prozac, Zoloft, Paxil, and all the rest have made a lot of people feel "happy" at the expense of feeling horny.

Desire, along with sadness, anger, and other deep feelings, don't feel so pressing anymore with the new mood levelers. Men and women who got rid of their depression have told me that they miss their sex drive, but they find their new contentment to be enough compensation.

What saddens me is that a person would have to choose between their sexual passion and their will to live— we used to think of those emotions as being part of the same joie de vivre.

And what infuriates me is that young people are being treated with this crap as if their libidos were expendable.

Advertisement Number 4:

A group of buddies have gathered at one member's house to watch the big football game. They don't understand where their pal "Doug" is—he hasn't arrived yet, and they know him to be a true fan. Everyone one of these guys is in their 20s and 30s.

The story cuts to Doug, coming home with groceries and a bouquet of flowers in his arms. He busies himself about the house— making dinner, plumping pillows— to delight his wife, who steps in from work a few minutes later. She is utterly enchanted with him, and the music swells with their desire.  A voice-over breaks in to tell us how many men don't realize what erectile dysfunction is, or how common it is, and what can be done to treat it.

Meanwhile, back at the football party, we see the dudes shaking their heads and worrying about Doug's no-show. But now we realize, that this is not just a bunch of sports fans— they're a room of guys who haven't been laid in ages, and it’s their decision to refrain from the marriage bed, not their wives’.

Pfizer's name flashes on the screen, and the narrator encourages us to contact our physician and ask for details. The name "Viagra" is never mentioned.

I find the spectacle of men's declining sexual self-interest disturbing. I never would have guessed that this would be the threat I'd be confronting thirty years after the modern gender liberation movement began. I'm an advocate for men being sexually sensitive and discriminating, but what I see in the erotic arena is mostly men who feel disconnected from their bodies, from the "dating game," and who feel terribly pessimistic that anything is going to change. 

Like women who pine for an erotic revelation, they will often cherish romantic dreams of a "Princess Charming," a lover whose innocent gaze and mind-reading touch would deliver them from their despair and disconnection.

Until then, that bit of beef and brew are looking better all the time.

Reprinted from Libida, by Susie Bright. Burger Comic illustration.

When the Third Leg Sock Doesn't Work

Here's an eloquent speech from Melinda Gates on why "for many of the world's women, marriage is not a refuge from AIDS. It's a risk factor."

I am so RIGHT THERE READY for these microbicidal gels which we could put in our vaginas and vanquish all nasty STD's on the spot.

Of course I'm worried about the side effects— women have learned that hard way that even Mr. Bubble can give you as nasty itching and burning sensation. But the implications for this method of self-protection are enormous.

Men transmit STDs through intercourse to women far, far more easily than the reverse. Semen and blood are the two transmissive culprits that  outweigh all others.

If we could equip women to stop HIV in its tracks— that's the end of AIDS propagation as we know it. 

Of course there will be those who claim that such a lifesaving prophylactic will inspire "teen sex cults."

I say, bring them on. Save Africa, save worldwide public health, save your daughters future, and save me from sanctimony. I'll take a million lives saved for every teeny weenie party.

Gee, the worst thing that could happen is that having sex might be less physically dangerous, something that women are not terrorized by... kinda like things were heading 30 years ago.

I tried to get my hands on microbicidal jellies a while back, when there was a medical trial that recruited porn stars in the Valley. I was once a porn actor for about three minutes, so I tried to get in on the study, but failed. Whatever happened with that? If it turns out to be lemon juice and cayenne, I'm going to be so mad!

Billboard photo from Namibia/Botswana border.

The Rhinovirus That Ate My Sex Life

Happy New Viral Load! And A Very Good Post-Nasal Drip to you, too.

If you are one of the millions staggered with the flu, who wonder how anyone can have a “stupid cold” for a month or more, please do join my bitch-club.

Don’t even mention your sex life... let’s face it, this virus is worse than saltpeter. Even though an orgasm will open your sinuses for a brilliant flash of relief, it’s over in seconds. You feel crabby, selfish, doomed. Nothing seems worth the effort.

We are in the midst of a viral epidemic that is like something out of a sci-fi novel— a nation of sickies who limp from one phony cure and lame recovery to the next. It’s a  scandal of toxic proportions, and unfortunately, we’re left on our own to cope.

The only way I want to be touched when I'm sick is a hot oil massage performed by a silent geisha. I suppose, if someone came in quietly and serviced me with no needs of their own, who didn’t care how many times I interrupted sex to honk into my tissue or wipe away my weeping nose... oh forget it!  I like to feel sexy when I’m having sex, not like an pathetic invalid.

I got over one round of flu in December, but due to the number of germ-filled students in my life, I am now battling #2. 

I have some advice, and I’ll start with the most radical:

Strength, sheer physical strength, is the key in your ability to fight these viruses. If you don’t have the advantage of being under 18 and thriving, you are in for a nasty time. The only thing that makes a difference in your time down, is how fit you were in the first place. I am a girl-sloth and hate to admit this, but it’s true.

Antibiotics are useless if you don’t have a bacterial infection—  you probably don’t— and they make it harder for you to recover and resist infection. For all of us who grew up on antibiotic-loaded meats, and penicillin for every sniffle, we’re screwed.

If you feel a little bit sick, go out and exercise, as counterintuitive as it seems. As you recover, the minute you feel like you can get out of bed, exercise again. Get your blood pumping. You want to be steaming hot and sweaty, like you just had an orgy in a sauna. Neti Pots are brilliant for sinuses, but aerobics are the miracle cure.

Saunas actually are a fantastic idea (notwithstanding Tom Cruise). The way viruses are going, everyone should have a sauna in the home. Add it to my presidential platform.

The big thing about wet heat: the rhinovirus cannot replicate in warm, humid environments.

Taking the occasional hot shower doesn’t do much. Going to Puerto Rico would probably be BEST. If that is not possible, get an energy-saving oil radiator in your room, turn it up high, and then get a warm mist vaporizer and turn your room into a bathhouse flop.

Don’t just sleep in this environment, BE in it as much as possible.

Drink hot liquids all the time. Don’t even allow yourself a glass of cold water. You want to drive this thing out with HEAT. You have to be like Johnny Storm, the human torch.

I think sex toys and masturbation are perfect for a time like this... non-reciprocal sex. Have your orgasm,  throw the tool on the floor, fall asleep. Be a total pig.

You can’t wear a heating pad around your neck, but you can take a bandanna, spike it with Tiger Balm, and tie that around your neck like a circus pony.

This virus is the pinnacle of contagion. Wash your hands like Pontius Pilate. Every time you pick up the phone, George Bush is listening and some other filthy germ-infested homo sapiens has left their mark behind. Goddamn this evolution... “intelligent design” would have taken care of this, right?

If you have to speak for a living like I do, learn to douche your throat... I learned from Dr. Flash Gordon,  rock ‘n’ roll doctor par excellence. You will feel like Linda Lovelace at first, but it’s the only thing that can get you out on stage and audible.

You have to sleep; treat it like a military operation. All distractions must go. Sleep alone, with tons of pillows and your favorite sheets. I believe in sleeping aids, and rest-hygiene. Play your favorite tunes, take your Valerian root or Ambien, and Nighty-NIGHT you go. Plugged in next to your bed: heater, vaporizer, heating pad, vibrator.

I have a lot of new moms among my friends and I feel the worst for them. Their bodies are so vulnerable. Their children are germ-vectors. Their kids are going to pull through this flu, but the moms will be haggard, sick, pissed-off, and allergic to sex for the next ten years if they don’t get militant about their health NOW. Someone else has to take care of that baby while Mommy sleeps for eight hours. Someone else has to make the meals. Yes, you can be a martyr, but you might as well file the divorce papers now. Your family needs you well, not half-alive.

I've received thousands of complaints from new parents about their sex lives, and I would say 70%  of them trace back to chronic pain and illness afflicting the mother. Get Mom well, and you are going to see a sexual revolution.

I’m painfully aware that my suggestions all take various amounts of money, time, and support from loved ones. But I find usually I have one out of three of those, and it’s amazing what happens when you ask for help.

I am so sick of having things ruined because of illness. I have a new book coming out this month!  And Valentine's Day is my favorite day of the year.. I want to be a Scarlet Woman at her finest. Pass me the Tiger Balm and let’s do it!

Sick Girl, by Mark Ryden, and Demon Tending a Sick Girl by John Lysak, both here.