The Congressman and the Shirtless Photo

I don't think there's anything wrong with sending half naked washroom mirror pictures of yourself to those you wish to impress eh?

Or remind how much they miss you.

As long as you keep your shorts on. As long as you can keep the pictures off the web.

And most importantly, as long as you are not a "family values" crusader, and a married Republican Congressman.

Yesterday, we reached out to Rep. Lee, whose support for "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" and vote to reject federal abortion funding suggests a certain comfort with publicly scrutinizing others' sex lives.

"The Congressman is happily married," said Lee's spokesman when pressed for answers to our questions. "The only time he or his wife posted something online was to sell old furniture when they changed the apartment they keep in DC."

Or a total Con nerd.

More importantly, if you’re going to send an enchanting temptress a shirtless photo over the Internet, don’t do so wearing dress pants and a belt while semi-flexing your biceps. It sends mixed messages. There’s only one man who could ever pull that off: Patrick Swayze, and he’s gone (but not forgotten).

It’s also, in my experience, quite difficult to be “relaxing at home,” as he says along with the pic, in dress pants and a belt. It screams desperate liar.

Or desperate HYPOCRITE.

And of course now UNEMPLOYED teabagger.

Oh boy. I hate love stories with unhappy endings.

But I really enjoyed this one.

Play him out Mr Koala...



Recommend this post at Progressive Bloggers.

Sex and the Harper SoCons

You know I couldn't wait to link this picture of Mrs Harper hiding her provocative female sexuality from the eunuch eyes of the Pope.

To this story.

And join in the general condemnation.

But I have used that Munster photo before. And first I want everyone to know that I think Le Regroupement des femmes de la région de Matane has got a bit of a bad rap.

You see while the Conservative communique says this:

This project aims to promote equitable, non-violent behaviour in the romantic relationships of adolescents by targeting the hypersexualization of girls as a ROOT CAUSE of dating violence.

The Regroupement's website says this:

Il n’y a pas de doute que la sexualisation précoce des filles est une conséquence de l’hypersexualisation de notre société et que cette hypersexualisation est un FACTEUR CONTRIBUANT aux agressions sexuelles.

There is no doubt that the precocious sexualization of girls is a consequence of the hypersexualization of our society and that hypersexualization is a CONTRIBUTING FACTOR to sexual assaults.

Which I think makes a difference. Especially since this apparently excellent feminist group also makes it clear that it is working to teach young couples how to love each other as EQUALS. And that includes teaching boys not to treat girls like sex objects.

Which leaves me wondering are the Conservatives so incompetent they can't even translate French into English?

Or are they trying to impose their SoCon views on Canadians, to please their rabid religious base? Once more.

Gawd. That's a tough one. But you know what I think.

I hate that photo of the Pope and the Munsters, but I think I'll use it again.

And isn't it time we found out...

Who is REALLY running Canada?

The Bad Sex Awards and the Worst Animal Video

I realize that most Canadians are probably not interested in the Bad Sex in Fiction Awards. Gosh. We don't write about THAT...and except in Quebec and Newfoundland...we hardly do it either.

But of course I do, and I love them.

And I have to say this one is my fave.

Sebastian was lying across his bed with the blinds drawn wearing nothing but a towel, hands lazily laced behind his head as he watched the cricket on a small flickering television screen in the corner. His chest was the size of a South American country. A slanting tongue of lamplight lit up his lap and I could see the outline of his large appendage.

After agonizing for, oh, about two-fifths of a second, I straddled him on the bed, pinning his arms beside him with all my body weight. 'Remember what you said about chastity being curable if caught early enough?'

Especially the part about his chest being the size of a South American country...let's say Brazil. Which would make his large appendage about the size of Alberta.

Which seems strangely fitting.

Although I have to admit this one was pretty good too.

Inside, the room was dark, lit only by the lurid scarlet of the electric stars atop each of the eight spires of the Kremlin outside the window. They backed on to a bed that sagged in the middle, the sheets rancid with what she later identified as old sperm and alcohol in a cocktail specially mixed for Soviet hotels. She wanted to struggle, to reprimand, to complain, but he grabbed her face and kissed her so forcefully that a lick of flame burned her to the core.

He's a madman, she thought as he made love to her again. Oh my God, after twenty years of being the most rational Bolshevik woman in Moscow, this goblin has driven me crazy!

Gobble gobble...

Which reminds me... it's also time for the Bad Animal Video Awards.

And this year I'm nominating this Argentinean internet ad about the duck who adopted a dog.

With the sweet beginning.

And the bittersweet ending....



Yikes. It's true. Eh?

Animals, like humans, are meant to be loved when they are ALIVE.

And sex should be DONE not written...

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P.S. I think we have a runner-up....in BOTH categories.

I'm just waiting for the video....

Now This is What I Call a Sex Scandal

I'm pretty French when it comes to sex scandals. As in ooh la la. Shrug. Good for them.

But even by British standards this one is humongous.

Max Mosley, one of the most powerful men in world sport, was under pressure to resign as boss of Formula One’s governing body last night after he was exposed enjoying a Nazi-style orgy with five prostitutes.

And of course the tabs are having a field day.

FORMULA One motor racing chief Max Mosley is today exposed as a secret sado-masochist sex pervert.

The son of infamous British wartime fascist leader Oswald Mosley is filmed romping with five hookers at a depraved NAZI-STYLE orgy in a torture dungeon. Mosley— a friend to F1 big names like Bernie Ecclestone and Lewis Hamilton— barks ORDERS in GERMAN as he lashes girls wearing mock DEATH CAMP uniforms and enjoys being whipped until he BLEEDS.

Yikes. Whip me with a wet noodle. I LOVE racing cars and I'm all in favour of orgies. And FIVE hookers does make Eliot Spitzer's little whore hump look like a lonely wank.

But blood, pain, and fascism is such a turnoff. And the choice of costumes simply grotesque.

Although it does raise an interesting question.

If Max's dad was a famous fascist... who married his mother in Joseph Goebbels's drawing room.... while Adolph Hitler looked on.

Does that mean fascism isn't just a contagious disease?

It can also be congenital .... or a birth defect?

You know the way some right-wing bloggers have been carrying on.

And after checking out this loser

I wouldn't be surprised...

Getting Ready for Global Orgasm Day

First the bad news: there are still FIVE greedy, anxiety filled days to go before Christmas.

Now the good news: there are only TWO days to go before yummy Global Orgasm Day !!!

"Our minds influence Matter and Quantum Energy fields, so by concentrating our thoughts during and after The Big O on peace and partnership, the combination of high orgasmic energy combined with mindful intention for peace could reduce global levels of violence hatred and fear."

Mmmm....you know I've always wanted to make a significant contribution to peace. Instead of just talking about it. And I guess the chance has finally COME for me to HARDEN my resolve, GET OFF...my ass...and just DO IT.

Because let's face it ... this country NEEDS a collective orgasm right now like plants need sunshine. Or Stephen Harper needs an enema. Very very BADLY.

The number of people out there taking themselves seriously is just about out of control.

And millions and millions of orgasms does seem like a good way to shake the world. To try to make up for killing it in Bali.

So I'm ready to do my part. To be on time for once in my life. And ARRIVE...as we say in French.... at the stroke of 1:08 AM Eastern Standard Time.

All I need is my boyfriend .... and a stopwatch.

















EXCEPT... I've got a problem. We're having a PARTY at our place on Saturday night....and instead of just moi and Sébastien. There is going to be quite a CROWD.

Which leaves me with a really HARD question: Is it even humanly possible for eleven men and seven women..... to come at the same time? Let alone millions. Huh?

Oh well. It's going to be fun to find out. Especially if they're REALLY drunk.

And I have asked some European friends to help me synchronize things.

Because ...as you know....when it comes to coming in concert.

Nobody can DO IT like they can...



Oooh la la. Don't you love that fried egg? Now I KNOW we can do it.

In a quieter way of course. No animal noises please... we're CANADIAN.

Ten...nine...eight...oooh...ahhhh...

Have a good O everyone!!!

The Bad Sex in Fiction Awards

When you see an author being humiliated for writing about sex like this:

“Her hand opened me. Then her hand became a wing. Then everything about me became a wing, a single wing, and she was the other wing, we were a bird. We were a bird that could sing Mozart."

You know it's time for the Bad Sex in Fiction Awards. My faves!!!

And how DELIGHTED I was to see the late Norman Mailer take home the piggy biggy...for this priceless shite:

Uncle was now as soft as a coil of excrement. She sucked on him nonetheless with an avidity that could come only from the Evil One - that she knew...The Hound began to come to life. Right in her mouth. It surprised her. Alois had been so limp. But now he was a man again! His mouth lathered with her sap, he turned around and embraced her face with all the passion of his own lips and face, ready at last to grind into her with the Hound, drive it into her piety.

He so richly DESERVED it. For everything the sexist lout ever wrote. Although after looking at this year's short list....

I thought Christopher Rush's impersonation of young Shakespeare deserved an especially dishonourable mention.

O glorious pubes! The ultimate triangle, whose angles delve to hell but point to paradise.Let me sing the black banner, the blackbird's wing, the chink, the cleft, the keyhole in the door. The fig, the fanny, the cranny, the quim - I'd come close to it now, this sudden blush, this ancient avenue, the end of all odysseys and epic aim of life, pulling at my prick now, pulling like a lodestone.

For daring to suggest that the glorious bard would ever write poop like that.

And that if there was any justice... Gary Shteyngart should have SHARED the prize with Mailer:

Her vagina was all that, as they say in the urban media - a powerful ethnic muscle scented by bitter melon, the breezes of the local sea, and the sweaty needs of a tiny nation trying to breed itself into a future. Was it especially hairy? Good Lord, yes it was.Mountains of kinkiness black as the night above the Serengeti with paprika shoots at the edges - the pubic hair alone must have clocked in at half a kilo.

"Yeah, do me," she kept saying, after issuing a few grunts so male and assertive they startled me into a brief homosexual fear, a fear compounded by one of her sharp nails digging into my tight rectum. "Do me, daddy," she said....

You know...... the more I read that hairy prose....the more I believe that if Mailer didn't have the "coil of excrement" ....Gary woulda WON. Isn't life shitty?

But then could ANYTHING this year beat some of last year's entries like this ode to culinary sex from David Mitchell?

If Dawn Madden's breasts were a pair of Danishes, Debby Crombie's got two Space Hoppers...Tom Yew got on her and sort of jiggled there and she gasped like he was giving her a Chinese burn and wrapped her legs round him, froggily.....
Now her grubby soles met like they were praying. Now his skin was glazed in roast pork sweat. Now she made a noise like a tortured Moomintroll.

A tortured Moomintroll? Moominmamma...how AWFUL.

Or how about this lyrical orgasm by Julia Glass?

And then before her inner eye, a tide of words leaped high and free, a chaotic joy like frothing rapids: truncate, adjudicate, fornicate, frivolous, rivulet, violet, oriole, orifice, conifer, aquifer, allegiance, alacrity ... all the words this time not a crowding but a heavenly chain, an ostrich fan, a vision as much as an orgasm, a release of something deep in the core of her altered brain, words she thought she'd lost for good.

Hmmmm....

Violet....oriole.....orifice..... CONIFER?

Sex. A bird that can sing Mozart? Not.

But isn't it GREAT to see decent authors making asses out of themselves? I can hardly wait until next year!!!

In the meantime my advice to anyone thinking of writing about sex is just DO it instead.

It's much more fun and a LOT easier....

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Speaking of authors....a great Canadian one has died.

Jane Rule. Proud, independent, prickly, brilliant, annoying, but always inspiring.

Her contribution to gay culture and gay liberation in Canada will never be forgotten. Before everyone else arrived she was there...the lesbian they couldn't ignore.

Sleep well sweet Jane. You earned it.

Thank you...