See Jane Give Up Dick

My Adventures in Celibacy:


Sometimes a girl just has to walk away. I might be running. But that's for you to decide.

twitter@seejanegiveitup

What, is this fun for you?

Fun like a roller coaster
Big and enticing
With scary drops and turns
And neck breaking speed?

Fun like a crazed dance
Two partners whirling as one
With impossible rhythms 
And no one takes the lead?

Or fun like a treasure hunt
Lost on the open seas
Tossed mercilessly about
Fueled by blind ambition and greed?

Perhaps its fun like a merry go round
equipped with grotesque and familiar beasts and tunes
moving continuously in on itself 
pointless and helplessly crude?

Fun tempts your boundaries
Fun meets you at first blush
Fun puts your cares on hold
Fun is almost always a lush

Drunk on power or lust
or carelessness
Fun enjoys every last drop 
No limit to what his gluttony encompasses

Fun preys on your sensibilities
Fun provides the bind
Fun shackles your guts
Funs chains up your mind

Fun kisses you on the elbows
Fun tickles your toes
Fun dances around your naval 
Fun nuzzles your nose

Fun disrupts order
Fun upsets the sheets
Fun tousles one’s emotions
Fun never sleeps

Fun laughs for hours
Fun ignores the time
Fun has healing powers
But Fun can never be mine

Fun can come at a moments notice
But leaves with no notice at all
Fun has its own schedule
Fun never shows up when you call

You can’t count on fun
Fun has to be in the mood
Fun is fickle
Fun demands to be wooed

Fun takes everything for granted
Fun won’t listen
Nor will fun ever understand
Fun has limited attention

Fun is free
Fun can’t be tamed
Fun doesn’t give a *uck
Fun is lame

Fun is crippling 
Fun breaks me in two
Fun is for others 
Fun pretends to be only for you

Forget fun
And fun sulks and pouts
Deny fun 
And fun screams and shouts

Fun breaks the rules
Fun forgets
Fun can be cruel
Fun never pays its debts

Fun has no obligations
Fun has no time or place
Fun has no home
Fun will occupy any old space

Fun over stays its welcome
Fun is uncouth
Fun never stays long enough
Fun always leaves, and that’s the gospel truth

Fun sweeps in
for fun can’t resist the chase
And Fun slinks out 
for fun doesn’t care to embrace

Fun only wants more fun 
Fun, nonstop, forever and always
A reasonable expctation for fun
As long as he keeps quiet about the rules by which he plays

Keeping secrets can be fun
Fun has no answer for “Where have you been?” 
Well, he has one, but you won’t like it
So Fun just stands there and grins.

Fun won’t hold your hand
Fun sometimes forgets your name
Fun is bad about things that are planned
Fun and uncaring are one and the same

Fun still promises forever
Fun always falls short
Fun won’t ever remember 
His promise or how much it hurt

Fun won’t hold you when you are blue
Fun has better things to do
Fun won’t heal you when you catch the flu
Sadness and sickness are all on you

Fun fights to get free
Fun won’t be defined
Fun wriggles out of constraints
Fun will never be mine

Fun has taken off
Fun likes to go missing
Fun is no longer yours
for hugging and kissing

Fun is fake
Fun is fleeting
Fun only takes
Fun has no meaning

Fun evaporates
Fun leaves not a trace
Fun exacerbates 
your life
leaving you with egg on your face

Fun can not be held
So don’t even try
Any hope you had
You now know is a lie

I remember fun
I remember good times too
They frankly no longer seem worth it
All I have now is my disdain for you.

The Virgin Mary I wanted to share this religious iconography, not to be offensive, I promise. The approach of easter got me thinking about our virgin mother. Is it just me, or does she look incredibly unhappy? Poor Mary. Lovely and virginal. For my money, she probably would rather be the non-virgin mom of an ordinary carpenter than the holy virgin mother of the son of god. Or am I a victim of a little transference?  Think about it? All that pregnancy and birthing and mothering with no bonus sex to at least balance all that work with some pleasure. Being a virgin is no fun. Or maybe what I mean to say is, being a celibate is no fun. Virgins have no idea what they are missing out on. They can only imagine. And they either get to be eternally wedded to god, who I bet makes a good husband or give birth to the savior. After further thought, virginity is actually quit nice. God’s looking after you and you don’t have to interact with men at all if you don’t want to.  Celibates, however, are the ones worthy of a downtrodden expression. They know what they are missing. Intimately, in fact. And for whatever reason, have decided to refrain. What was the reason again? I’m sure it was good, I just can’t really remember what it was. Ha. I’m only half kidding. And hopping, secretly, that the easter bunny has his way with me.  Fuck chocolate eggs, I need to get laid. There is something quite lovely about the idea of virginity and purity. The pretty in a girl’s face before she has known a man. There is a beauty in that innocence. An unmistakable openness and yearning for understanding written in her smile and pudgy dimpled cheeks. I understand why it has been valued and idolized in society for years. I still whole heartedly believe it is something young girls should protect. I’m not saying wait until marriage or join a nunery. Or, have all the sex you want in your early and mid twenties only to give it up completely in your late twenties in order to finally find that love you were searching for. They are all quite crazy options. I just would like to offer that the amount of sexual saturation in society isn’t making the experience any less intense. Or more safe. Or less effective at creating kidos.  Navigating the transition into sexual activity should ideally be done with a person who genuinley cares about you and your well being. Fuck, that is the ideal situation for all sexual interactions. Right? Or has a year and a half of celibacy turned me into a frigid prude? Sitting at my computer longing for my own virginity back, so I could loose it correctly this time. (Instead of merely flinging it blindly into a gang of boys, hoping one, anyone, would pick it up.) Sigh. If Mary could wait to be impregnated by the hand of god, I think I can manage to hang in there and choose to make babies with a decent and caring human man. Until then, this twisted easter bunny fantasy will have to sustain me. Happy Hunting!

The Virgin Mary

I wanted to share this religious iconography, not to be offensive, I promise. The approach of easter got me thinking about our virgin mother.

Is it just me, or does she look incredibly unhappy? Poor Mary. Lovely and virginal. For my money, she probably would rather be the non-virgin mom of an ordinary carpenter than the holy virgin mother of the son of god. Or am I a victim of a little transference? 

Think about it? All that pregnancy and birthing and mothering with no bonus sex to at least balance all that work with some pleasure. Being a virgin is no fun. Or maybe what I mean to say is, being a celibate is no fun. Virgins have no idea what they are missing out on. They can only imagine. And they either get to be eternally wedded to god, who I bet makes a good husband or give birth to the savior. After further thought, virginity is actually quit nice. God’s looking after you and you don’t have to interact with men at all if you don’t want to. 

Celibates, however, are the ones worthy of a downtrodden expression. They know what they are missing. Intimately, in fact. And for whatever reason, have decided to refrain. What was the reason again? I’m sure it was good, I just can’t really remember what it was. Ha. I’m only half kidding. And hopping, secretly, that the easter bunny has his way with me. 

Fuck chocolate eggs, I need to get laid.

There is something quite lovely about the idea of virginity and purity. The pretty in a girl’s face before she has known a man. There is a beauty in that innocence. An unmistakable openness and yearning for understanding written in her smile and pudgy dimpled cheeks. I understand why it has been valued and idolized in society for years. I still whole heartedly believe it is something young girls should protect. I’m not saying wait until marriage or join a nunery. Or, have all the sex you want in your early and mid twenties only to give it up completely in your late twenties in order to finally find that love you were searching for. They are all quite crazy options.

I just would like to offer that the amount of sexual saturation in society isn’t making the experience any less intense. Or more safe. Or less effective at creating kidos. 

Navigating the transition into sexual activity should ideally be done with a person who genuinley cares about you and your well being. Fuck, that is the ideal situation for all sexual interactions. Right? Or has a year and a half of celibacy turned me into a frigid prude? Sitting at my computer longing for my own virginity back, so I could loose it correctly this time. (Instead of merely flinging it blindly into a gang of boys, hoping one, anyone, would pick it up.) Sigh.

If Mary could wait to be impregnated by the hand of god, I think I can manage to hang in there and choose to make babies with a decent and caring human man. Until then, this twisted easter bunny fantasy will have to sustain me.

Happy Hunting!

mapleleaves:

Camera Obscura - “French Navy” official video (by 4ADRecords)

ohmygoodness.

The things this video makes me want to do:

1. make out.

2. spontaneous dancing.

3. wear purple tights (now!)

on another note, Love rules, then love sucks.

I like this video also because if it exists, and others relate to it, maybe I am not the only one who is so lost when it comes to this crazy thing called love.

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Martina McBride

—Safe In The Arms Of Love

The first song to randomly play on my pandora this morning. I wish I was kidding. 

Yes, “Safe in the arms of love”. By some country western group I have never heard of. Ballie and the boys. Who are, in fact, so obscure I could only find their cassett tape on amazon. True story. This is Mrs. Martina McBride. 

Please listen to as much as you can to experience my journey this morning. But I totally understand if you only get to the first chorus. 

Wasn’t sure if it was a sign.

A sign that I will one day be safe in the arms of love? That the universe knows I am nowhere near being in the arms of love, let alone safe there? And thus is mocking me? That I need to move back to Texas and become a country western singer who devotes her life to making young twenty something woman cry on their way to work? Or that maybe, just maybe, it is time to stop listening to my cheesy country station “9 to 5” on the way to work. That song only plays every 30th song, after all. And, obviously,  is the soul reason I created the station. That, and my secret love for steel guitar. 

Better yet, I could just download Dolly’s “Working 9 to 5”, celebrate the universal “role out of bed and stumble to the kitchen.” Join her in a single toast with my “cup of ambition” and save myself the embarrassment of openly laugh crying on the way to the train, still too tired to protect myself from the deceptive powers of a twang and pain filled country ballad. Complete with soaring bridges and key changes. 

“Safe in the arms of love”? If you say so pandora. If you say so.

Speaking of Benders

Alcohol seems like the answer for lonely people. Well, alcohol, hard and soft drugs, or the heavily attended meetings that help you anonymously recover from your dependency on said substances. It’s hard to feel alone fucked up out of your mind or in a room full of people who know exactly what that was like for you. 

My go to drug of choice, in case you are new to this blog, and missed the title, is male attention. Which is monetarily less exsspensive than some other addictions, like coke fueled shopping sprees for instance, but the unforseen emtional costs are just as high. Believe me.

I’m strangely no where near as picky as I should be when it comes to the source of said desired attention, either. And celibacy seems to just be exacerbating this the pre-existing condition. Basically, being in posession of a penis is all you need to play. Ancient or pre-pubescent, obese or scrawny, bald or hairy, straight or gay, dapper or douchy, put together or falling apart; my taste is tremendous. No designer drugs for me. You get just as drunk on cheap beer and box wine as you do on 18 year old scotch, don’t you? So, why be picky? 

As an equal oppurtunity attention seeker, negative and positive attention also hold the same value. A smack on the ass or a tender hug are as equally effective a fix. The violent degrading recognition is sometimes preferred, however, because it doesn’t require any open reciprocation on my part. Frankly, it allows me, in turn, to continue hating men, which is the wonderful and slightly ironic paradox of this magical disorder. As long as I can brand them(all members of the opposite sex) as assholes and blame them (every male) for not taking the time to really see me, I don’t have to look at all the coocky (which is a nice way to say crazy) things I am doing that could be causing them (men) to miss me. 

Before the genesis of this blog, I went to much greater lengths to attract and hold male attention. Stopping at, well, nothing. Honestly. Especially when it came to holding male attention. I liked holding it the most. Mmm, holding it. This got me high. Made me feel powerful. Desired. Dangerous. In control. Loved.

Wait. Strike that. It never made me feel loved. Ever. And control was only an illusion, because I was clearly out of control. It maybe helped me forget about how unloved I felt. Which is what all of our addictions “help” with. No? Ultimately, I had lost sight of my authentic self because all, and I mean every last bit, of my energy was spent seeking and maintaining male approval. 

Which brings us to the present. I thought it would be “funny” to give up sex last year. Unheard of in today’s sex crazed world. So novel and inspired. And a great way to get attention. I was so busy constructing the joke that I missed the truth underlying the hilarity.

I only thought I had to hold out for one calendar year to be “better” and capture all the material I could possibly need for a book, stand up routine, and one woman show put together. So, two days into 2011, I slept with a man I had been seeing for three months. And the pattern of behavior was right where I left it. Surprise, surprise. Little to no change had taken. I was the same male pleasing monster I had always been. Except my appetite was insatiable because I had been starving this sex demon for twelve full menstral cycles. If I was smarter, I could have predicted that that relationship would end badly. Because it did. Not happily ever after. Because it didn’t.

But it landed me back at square one, not on my back (for a while) and vowing to give up sex until it is an expression of the love we (me and whoever) feel for each other. Or at least a year. Which ever comes first. But it won’t be me. (bad cumming joke) Because I am celibate and this time I mean it.

So, I fell off the wagon. Had myself a little bender. And it has opened my eyes to the severity of the situation. Is it still funny? Yes. My frustration on this road to change amuses me to no end. And I hope if you can’t see yourself in the challenges I face, you will at least feel free to laugh openly about them. 

Because laughter is almost as fun as sex. Almost.

What’s more fun than sex?  Novelty coffee mugs. With animals dressed like pop icons? That’s what. Way more fun, right? Okay, so they won’t guarantee an orgasm. But, no dick I know comes with one of those guarantees. A goofy grin, however; hours of amusement, something to look forward to waking up to in the morning- these mugs have got all that covered. And you can easily hide them in your cupboard if you don’t want company knowing exactly how you get your jollies. ( They might qualify as more telling than my Safari history these days) Plus, unlike a young silly boy, I somehow have yet to get tired of them. The novelty still hasn’t worn off. Also, they haven’t disappeared on me since I’ve made my strong feelings towards them known. I love them and they are still there, in the cabinet, waiting to brighten my day every morning. I would like to say that they love me back. But that’s just nuts! Only crazy people believe things with no ability to love can be made to love them if they (the crazy person) just loves them (the thing incapable of love) hard enough. And I’m not that brand of crazy. Anymore. I’m really simply using my ridiculous mugs for fun. Which is okay. Because they are mugs and not people. Plus, I’m trying not to make them my primary mugs. Just part of the mix. One, among many things in my life, that have the ability to make me deliriously happy. Keeping life interesting. The way a one night stand can, but in a much more wholesome and celibate manner.

What’s more fun than sex? 

Novelty coffee mugs. With animals dressed like pop icons? That’s what.

Way more fun, right? Okay, so they won’t guarantee an orgasm. But, no dick I know comes with one of those guarantees. A goofy grin, however; hours of amusement, something to look forward to waking up to in the morning- these mugs have got all that covered. And you can easily hide them in your cupboard if you don’t want company knowing exactly how you get your jollies. ( They might qualify as more telling than my Safari history these days)

Plus, unlike a young silly boy, I somehow have yet to get tired of them. The novelty still hasn’t worn off. Also, they haven’t disappeared on me since I’ve made my strong feelings towards them known. I love them and they are still there, in the cabinet, waiting to brighten my day every morning. I would like to say that they love me back. But that’s just nuts! Only crazy people believe things with no ability to love can be made to love them if they (the crazy person) just loves them (the thing incapable of love) hard enough. And I’m not that brand of crazy. Anymore.

I’m really simply using my ridiculous mugs for fun. Which is okay. Because they are mugs and not people. Plus, I’m trying not to make them my primary mugs. Just part of the mix. One, among many things in my life, that have the ability to make me deliriously happy. Keeping life interesting. The way a one night stand can, but in a much more wholesome and celibate manner.