Oct 292014
 

Questions:

1) Why are you sucking my cock?
2) For how long will you suck my cock?
3) Why will you stop?

Correct Answers:

1) Because I can?
Because I need to.
Because you asked (told) me to.
Because it’s really fucking fun.
Because you like it so much.
Because it’s my turn.

2) Until you tell me to stop.
Until you make me stop.

3) Because, even though I’m still trying, your hand is pulling my head away.
Because it’s what you want.

Incorrect answers:

1) To make you come.
Because it’s your turn.

2) Until I get tired.
Until you come.

3) Because I’m tired.
Because you came.
Because it’s my turn/your turn.

Oct 282014
 

N hasn’t been so active lately. There has been a tale or two I’ve not told you about, but honestly, not a lot.

You’d never know it to look here, but I have been writing a lot lately.

What I write where, for what audience(s), is a constantly shifting target, but, lately, there’s been much less here, and much more elsewhere.

I don’t know if this is a short-term thing, or if it bodes ill for the future of “My Dissolute Life.” I like it here, so I hope it’s just temporary. Meanwhile, and as always, if there’s something you want me to write about tell me. That always seems to provoke some writing….

Oct 282014
 

She’s tall. Maybe 5’7″. Slender. But curvy. Her waist is tiny, but her hips flare out wide. Her hair – black, with blonde highlights – is pulled back, tight. Her eyebrows have been plucked into narrow strips, and they rise sharply over her glitter eyelids and long eyelashes, over almond-shaped brown eyes.

Her cheekbones are impossibly high, so high that her cheeks slant down to her chin in a “V,” punctuated by deep dimples on each side.

Her nose is Semitic, her lips, plump.

She wears a black leather jacket over a grey sweater. Black leather boots, knee-high, over the bottoms of her tight, olive-green khakis.

Her lips twitch back and forth, pursed, almost like a rabbit’s nose, over and over.

Oct 242014
 

Among the things adults need to talk to kids about is, for better or worse, how to interact with police. Kids, teens, adolescents often experiment with authority, challenging it, rejecting it, respecting it.

I’m white. My son is white. That makes this conversation somewhat less complicated, at least as regards him, but it’s important nonetheless. The other day, a white busker was arrested in New York. This video, taken by a bystander, captures almost eight minutes of an interaction that provided tremendous fodder for conversation in our house.

The audio is frustrating at he beginning, but it improves as the video progresses. Here are some of the things I did, questions I asked, both as we watched the video and after having watched it. (We’ve watched it twice from start to finish. I suspect we aren’t done.)

I pressed pause, repeatedly, asking, “What do you think the busker is feeling now?” “What do you think the cop is feeling?” “What are you feeling?” “Who has more power now?” “Who is more scared now?” “Who’s afraid of what now?” “What’s the worst thing that could happen right now?” “What’s the best?” “If you were the busker, what would you do right now?” “If you were the cop, what would you do right now?” “Why do you think he did that?”

At the end of the video, I asked, “What do you think the busker’s next ten minutes looked like?” “His next hour?” “His next 24 hours?” “What do you think his next two weeks will look like?” “What about the cop’s?” “What are the worst possible answers to those questions?” “What are the best possible answers?”

I think it says something about the circumstance depicted, as well, perhaps, about our parenting to date, that it was very hard to get my son to imagine the cop’s perspective, to travel any significant distance from his visceral sense of right (busker) and wrong (cop).

But here’s the speech I gave at the end of it all. As with this entire series, I don’t believe there’s a “right” or “wrong” – this shit is complex – but I present my approach both because many readers have expressed interest in how I think and because I find hearing how others think endlessly interesting. Particularly when those others find how I think interesting. ;-)

The speech:

Cops have a tough job. They sign up for it generally believing they’re joining the team of “good guys” in a battle between “good” and “evil.” They put their lives at risk regularly for the benefit of what they believe to be good. Often, they feel unappreciated, underpaid, overworked, exposed. And they’re not wrong. Very few cops wake up wondering how they can abuse their power that day. Most of them wake up feeling happy, or frustrated, or sad, or scared about the day that awaits them as they go to work to protect and serve me and you. We could talk about the role of police in a capitalist economy, about the culture of police forces and the problems they present, but for the purposes of this conversation, none of that matters.

In addition, and importantly, cops have two things most other people don’t have: guns, and a nearly infinite supply of friends with guns. And the nature of the job they do, and the culture of police departments, is that cops almost always believe other cops over civilians reflexively. And they rarely spend time questioning that trust. The truth is, they can’t: their lives often depend on that trust.

Next, people in general, and men in particular, don’t like to feel disrespected. When we do, it tends to make us either run and hide or stand and fight.

For all these reasons, when a cop asks me to do something, I almost always do it. Because if s/he feels disrespected, it’s very likely that I will feel her or his wrath. One way or another.

That doesn’t mean that there isn’t, or wrong be, justice for you in the long run if a cop misbehaves. It means that if a cop’s misbehaving, the best, safest, and most effective way to counter that in the long run usually doesn’t involve challenging the cop, defying the cop, in the moment.

And, if I’m not going to do as a cop asks, the mere fact that I’m right and s/he’s wrong isn’t reason enough. I also have to believe that whatever risks I’m assuming in defying the cop are worth the benefit – for me, for society – that awaits me and/or us of my defiance.

Civil disobedience – breaking an unjust law, or a just one in protest of an injustice – in anticipation of being arrested and punished – is honorable and courageous, and, in the U.S., generally safe. In part, this is because cops, and their authority, isn’t the target, is being respected throughout.

Challenging the authority of cops head-on, though, is rarely something I would do. Because guns.

As I watched this video, as I imagined the adrenaline coursing through both men’s veins, I found myself terrified of what the cop might do. An adrenaline-fueled, disrespected man with a gun is not a pretty thing. As a father, I’ve lost my temper, yelled, said things I later regretted. I even hit you, whom I love, when you were far too young to be hit, even if I believed in hitting (which I don’t any more and for which I have apologized, and do again apologize). This is a guy interacting with a stranger, in a setting in which he feels radically threatened (I imagine) and disrespected (I’m certain).

And he has a gun. And a bunch of friends with guns on their way.

The busker was enormously lucky. This all played out well for him, as well as it possibly could have. But it wouldn’t have surprised me if it hadn’t.

Oct 232014
 

She’s 25 or so.

Ginormous brown eyes. Ginormous.

Fake eyelashes. Improbably, impossibly long.

White lace patterned Muslim head-scarf, over a black cotton head covering.

Elaborately shaped and trimmed eyebrows.

Meticulously applied rouge, mascara, eyeliner. Shiny lip gloss. Also meticulously applied.

Semitic nose. Perfect skin.

Carefully applied black nail polish.

A blue silk top, over C cups. Under a black leather jacket with silver, triangular studs. Under a white cotton button-down sweater.

Tight, faded jeans.

Black leather boots, ankle-high.

She’s talking with a friend, also in a Muslim head-scarf.

They’re animated, joking, laughing.

They REEK of perfume. Cheap perfume.

“I’ve smelled that perfume,” I think.

But where?

“I got it!” I think. “Strip clubs!”

Oct 222014
 

Today featured three micro-rejections.

Nothing big.

Well, that’s not quite true: once upon a time, all three would have qualified as big. But today, none feels that big. Two, by women in a sexual context. One, by a woman in a non-sexual context.

Once upon a time, there would have been a clear course of action that followed a wound to my narcissism like any one of the three rejections I suffered today: I would act out sexually. Most likely, by calling a massage parlor and booking a handjob. Right now. (I had the time.)

If all three happened? I’d be sent into a tailspin, descend into a vortex.

But not today.

Today? I aimed for a coffee shop and sat down and wrote.

And I have to say, I think I wrote pretty well, pretty productively. So there’s that. Winking smile

Plus, I have a smile on my face. While each of the rejections stung – I’m not capable of receiving a rejection and not being stung – the sting was more like that of a gnat than that of a hornet.

All good.

Wicked Wednesday