What’s with all the spitting?
I was talking to a woman the other day about her use of porn movies
as training films to awaken her to new things in the bedroom. So what
have you learned, I said, ever curious. Well, spitting, my friend said. I
do that a lot now. That’s hot.
Spitting, I said, somewhat incredulous. Spitting, to me, is nothing
new. I first noticed it when I was reviewing adult films in the early
‘90’s, which is so Last Century. I suppose you could almost call
spitting Old School. But this was a nice suburban lady I was talking to,
and I realized she probably was new to watching porn, so spitting to
her was unique and original. What she likes about it, she said, was that
spitting on a cock, or having her vagina or rectum spat on seemed
really dirty and nasty, nasty sex being her obsession. Her one
question/problem to me was how did the porn performers manage to have so
much spit. How do they have that much saliva? she asked.
I told my friend that a lot of the spit you see in a porn movie is
like styled food. In other words, it’s not real, or it’s been enhanced
by an artificial spit substance. That’s why spit on film it’s always so
viscous and foamy, I added, knowing all the tricks of behind the scenes.
I reminded her that spitting was not a romantic act; in fact, in some
states, spitting is a crime. It’s considered a kind of assault, and not
so long ago in Florida, a woman who spit on someone was even charged
with a hate crime.
If it’s down and dirty sex you’re after, you can’t go wrong with
spit. It’s aggressive. It’s assertive. And it’s the world’s cheapest
lubricant. Don’t have enough natural saliva to make it work? So far no
sex toy or aid manufacturer has marketed anything resembling artificial
spit. And you do know silicone based lubes taste terrible and shouldn’t
be put in your mouth! The solution is simple glycerin which can be
purchased in any drugstore. Not only does glycerin have the added bonus
of being a natural tooth cleaner, it also has an antibacterial
potential. That makes using it a win-win. So spit away.
Eve Marx
Eve Marx is a professional ‘sexpert,’ and author of “101 Things You
Didn’t Know About Sex,” “What’s Your Sexual IQ?” and “The Goddess
Orgasm.” Log on to her website or check out her blog.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Thursday, April 5, 2012
"50 Shades of Grey" sends a wrong message
Lately I’ve been barraged by women asking me what I think about “50 Shades of Grey,” the erotic novel the New York Times deemed fit to write about on their front page. As a professional sex writer, the assumption is I’ve read the book and love it. It’s undoubtedly unfair for me to be so opinionated about a book I’ve barely skimmed; what fascinates me the phenomena of so many women embracing an open fantasy about sexual subjugation.
“50 Shades of Grey,” is the story of Ana, a young, unsophisticated girl who, surprise, surprise, succumbs to the attentions of an attractive older man. It’s basically “The Story of O,” a novel about dominance and submission first published in 1954 by French author Anne Desclos, writing under the pen name Pauline Reage. In “50 Shades,” the man, called “Grey,” is consumed by a need to be controlling. As he and Ana’s relationship progresses, Ana discovers a taste for punishment and discipline.
Thirty five years ago in her ground-breaking, nonfiction book, “My Secret Garden,” feminist author Nancy Friday who writes about female sexuality and liberation, noted that a significant number of women entertain erotic fantasies of being raped and forced to perform sex acts against their will, which they enjoy despite their protests. Unfortunately, many women who have been raped for real are accused of having enjoyed the experience, if not having asked for it; for decades it wasn’t uncommon to call raped women whores, and allow accused rapists to roam free to assault and rape other women.
How you feel about “50 Shades of Grey,” could be construed as political. As a feminist who for years edited and wrote for sex magazines, I find myself upset and repelled by its message. In a restaurant the other night a young woman eagerly handed me her copy. She said she was only a third of the way through the book, but so far, found it thrilling. Skimming through the first few chapters, "Grey,” seemed a simple formula of chick lit crossed with romance genre. Then I got to an appendix which had a questionnaire inquiring what kinds of torture could be enjoyed/inflicted as a route to orgasm. The check off list included “biting,” “slapping,” “hitting,” and “nipple clamps,” the last a medieval tool of torture designed to wrest confessions from prisoners. Driving home from the restaurant, I wondered out loud if fans of Rick Santorum find the novel compelling because it reinforces those old traditions of feminine docility and men in power. From Santorum’s position, you could argue the story is almost biblical. And it’s not just Republicans. Explain to me how the same women who claim they stand for reproductive choice, and who don’t want men telling them what to do with their wombs, at the same time yearn to be controlled and dominated in the bedroom? Talk about a disconnect.
Another troubling thing about “50 Shades of Grey,” is that while the book is fiction, reality is not so far away. Right here in Pound Ridge, for years a man kept 3 women as sex slaves in his home before one escaped and he was brought to justice. The Northern Westchester Shelter and Hope’s Door and My Sister’s Place know all too well how many women in Westchester County are abused and subjugated by men who forcibly control them. The majority of domestic violence cases are never reported. With violence against women on the rise, I don’t think we need popular fiction to encourage it.
I’m not a prude. I’m all for sexy books. I’m a huge fan of John Updike, Phillip Roth, Erica Jong, Terry Southern, Henry Miller, Anais Nin, to name a few. I was practically weaned on Jackie Susanne and Jackie Collins. I still vividly recall the sexy passages from books like “Candy,” and “Boys and Girls Together,” and “The Sensuous Woman.” But none of those books had a theme of sexual violence.
Be careful for what you wish for, I say to women who fantasize about a sexy controlling master telling them what to do. You could find yourself like the heroine of another seductive, kinky novel, “9 ½ Weeks,” who after lovemaking stood in front of the bathroom mirror, applying ice to her split lip. “50 Shades of Grey,” is an important demonstration of the power and commerciality of ebooks, self-marketing and promotion. But as erotica, I find it scary.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Friday, February 24, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
Forget St. Bart's: the action's in Bedford
It was another whirlwind weekend in Bedford, which is an amazing thing to say in January, when you’d think the entire town has been shuttered. It’s long been said that if you own a retail business in Bedford (or Katonah, Bedford Hills, or Pound Ridge) you should schedule your late January vacation to San Cabos Lucas or Tulum, Mexico, a destination I had never heard of which the New York Times Style section revealed is way cooler now than St. Barts. The Times referred to it as “the anti-St. Barts,” which interests me since I call Bedford the anti-Hamptons. Anyway, for years in January all the chic people in town went away, but apparently that’s the not case anymore as the place to be this weekend it turned out was right here in Bedford. Hip hip hooray.
On Friday night, Mr. Sax and I attended the tres chic party that kicked off Art Show: Bedford, the 39th annual contemporary art show to benefit local charities. The party and the show took place at St. Matthew’s Fellowship Hall on Cantitoe Street and it was absolutely the place to see and be seen. First place artist Ashley Andrews was on the scene to talk about “Maya One,” her winning picture. The show featured the work of 37 artists and was both exhibition and sale, and the party, which was very well attended, was a lively mix of artists, show committee members, show patrons and benefactors and angels and donors and friends of St. Matthew’s and fans of art. I chatted for awhile with one of the show judges, Neal Watson, director of the Katonah Museum of Art, and his beautiful author wife Jude, and their daughter Chloe. There was a wine and beer bar and yummy snacks catered by Table Local Market. Bedford is not Soho, but the assembly were very stylish. I complimented one woman on her sexy, black, ornately patterned hose and she gaily replied that they belonged to her daughter. “This is the real Bohemian Grove,” I overheard one man say, a sly referral to the exclusive, secluded campground in California’s Sonoma County, site of an annual select two-week gathering of men including every Republican president since Calvin Coolidge. Few journalists have been admitted into the Grove and allowed to tell the tale, but here I was at Art Show: Bedford, throwing back glasses of Pinot. It was a great show, an even greater party. I loved it.
After we’d looked at our fill of art (and of course anything with a horse I found enchanting ), we adjourned for a late supper at the Farmhouse at Bedford Post where to our relief we could still get a table for two on a Friday night at short notice. Well, it was after 9. I love the main dining room of the Post. It’s so wonderfully country chic and elegant. It being rather late and having already eaten plenty of the Table appetizers, we went directly to ordering our entrees. I had the smaller portion of some delicate knots of pasta stuffed with what I believe was fontina cheese, pureed chestnuts and squash and served in a buttery bouillion broth. Mr. Sax had fish, turbot, I believe. The exquisite winter menu, conceived by my favorite local chef, Jeremy McMillan, is entirely seasonal and dependent on what’s fresh and in the market.
An added value to the tastebuds are the several amuse bouches the chef sends out. Not being a lover of goat cheese, Mr. Sax did not care for the one featuring goat cheese and honey (I ate both mine and his), but we both exclaimed over the soupcon of soup, which was pumpkin-y and rich and warm and hearty. For dessert we shared an amazing deep dish dark chocolate gelato served with whipped cream and a peanut brittle crunch. For class and sass, hands down, The Farmhouse is my favorite restaurant. The wine, even by the glass, is great, and I’ve always had excellent service.
Saturday night, after being pinned in the house all day due to snow, we ventured to Via Vanti where the Katonah Studio Jazz Band was doing a show. Mr. Sax, in case you haven’t guessed, is in the band. He plays sax. Also playing that night were Robert Kessler, a Grammy-award winning composer, audio producer and pianist; bassist Lester Harper; alto saxophonist Emily Tabin; and drummer Eric Katz. The room was packed; a much ordered dish on that chilly evening was a tummy warming concoction of escarole served over carrots, celery, cannellini beans, tender chicken and roasted tomato. As I’d had too much to drink the night before, I thought it wise to stick with decaf cappuccino. Via Vanti makes an outstanding one. It’s hot and strong and foamy enough on its own, but even better paired with one of the restaurant’s many handcrafted gelatos.
It is a trial on these dead of winter nights to rouse oneself to leave the house. When it’s below 30 degrees, I realize the siren call of watching back to back DVRed episodes of Andy Cohen’s “Watch What Happens,” or even a Lifetime movie is compelling. A friend I inveighed to join us Saturday evening laughed me off at 8 p.m., saying she was already tucked into bed in her jammies. Having spent most of the day snuggled in with my dogs, including Rinaldo, our recent Chihuahua rescue, I got her point. But considering the level of culture I enjoyed both from the art show and an evening of live music, I’d say it’s worth tugging on your daughter’s panty hose and getting out some winter nights.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Welcome to Katonah, Rinaldo
I did not, I repeat, want another dog. We’ve already got two dogs and a cat -- and a pony. I knew one day we’d get another dog because Gigi is old and I know poor little Basil will need company. Since I’m not a person who seeks out breeders and I vowed to never again patronize a pet shop, I made it a New Year’s resolution to only rescue or adopt from a shelter.
I repeat, I was not actively looking for a new dog. I was only doing my usual third-party Facebook rescue thing of posting likely candidates. Unwanted animals, be they dogs or horses will always need new homes and I like helping. But there he was on the SPCA Westchester site, a black and white Chihuahua described as “an older gentleman looking for a lap.” Mr. Sax had been bugging me about a Chihuahua for years, even though I know the only things he knows about the breed he’s picked up from “Beverly Hills Chihuahua,” or the Taco Bell talking pup.
The dog came with the name Poppi. But since he didn’t seem to know this name, and certainly wouldn’t answer to it, we swapped it for Rinaldo, which has a nice ring to it. Rinaldo is a name you can say dozens of times a day. Immediately one friend thought we named him for Ronaldo de Assis Moreira, the celebrity Brazilian soccer player. Someone else said Rinaldo is the name of the George Raft character in the original “Scarface,” and the name of the dwarf in “The Bride,” the adaptation of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, starring Jennifer Beals and Sting. There is also Chief Inspector Rinaldo Pazzi in the 2001 film, “Hannibal,” played by Giancarlo Giannini.
Our Rinaldo is quite the character. And he is kind of a dwarf. What we know about him is he was surrendered to Animal Control and Care on E. 110th Street in Manhattan and a kindly vet tech took him off death row to foster him. A few weeks later she brought him to the Briarcliff SPCA. He came in to the facility a day or so before Christmas and we adopted him a few days later.
It’s amusing to try and guess Rinaldo’s back story. Since he’s not a talking dog, we can only dream. In my version he was living with a large Hispanic family who loved and cared for him, but had to move to a new place that didn’t allow pets. One of our friends opined he might have been the macho “No mas” pup of a drug dealer. My husband thinks he belonged to a young woman who was forced to choose between the dog and her boyfriend. All I know is someone did an excellent job housebreaking. He’s perfect, although when it starts to snow, he may need wee-wee pads.
Rinaldo is tiny, but he is tough and confident. A friend who rescues pitbulls said “Chi’s are just tiny Pitties.” He is bold as brass, and when we got him, very hungry, trying to break into the garbage can. He is not finicky about his food and is, unfortunately, food aggressive, so we started feeding him last and separately. His primary vocal communication is growling. Just because he looks and sounds like a toy, I reminded Mr. Sax not to underestimate him. Chi’s are thought to be descended from an early breed known as the Techchichi, popular during the Toltec period in Mexico during the 7th century. Legend has it Chi’s were part of the Aztec religious worship, and that the breed was presumed to have mastered the scariest portions of the underworld and had the power to lead the dead.
Within a day, Rinaldo had thoroughly explored our underworld, figuring out the softest places to take a nap. Like a cat, he follows the sun. Very prideful, he does not lower himself to beg, but knows where we keep the dog treats. He’s a fabulous greeter, wriggling with joy upon your return, and a party animal who enjoys company. At night, he snuggles under the covers, shimmying his little body deep down into the bed.
I have to say I am a major fan of adoption and particularly of adult dogs. Every one loves a puppy, but puppies require lots of training. Older dogs are often calmer. They’ve been around the block. They already know how to get along with people and be part of a household, and they often get along well with other dogs. Plus adopted dogs are grateful. You hear that all the time. Any dog who has spent any time in a shelter knows how harsh that is. The SPCA shelter in Westchester is probably one of the nicest, kindest, most humane shelters I’ve seen. Rinaldo is very lucky to have gotten moved there. Animal Control in the city is by necessity a place where they euthanize as there is just a tsunami of abandoned, sick, and abused animals coming in all the time. It’s also incredibly noisy. The din of barking, scared, and angry dogs alone is soul shattering. When we met him at the Briarcliff shelter, Rinaldo was well cared for but depressed. He was wearing a clean little toy dog t-shirt and curled up on a towel nest. His demeanor telegraphed to me he was close to giving up. But look how his fortunes have turned. He’s our little prince, our coddled darling. There. Look at him burrowed inside my mother in law’s ancient mink jacket. Isn’t he just the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?Eve Marx
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