My Mom

One thing about humans that is true for everyone is that we all have a mom.  That’s not to say that we were all mothered, or that you were raised by your mom, but we all most definitely were born from a woman who became a mother upon delivering you to the world.

It wasn’t until I became a mother and went through my own hardships that I could understand the kind of mother I grew up with.  My mom didn’t have friends (by choice), in fact, I can only recall a few times in my childhood anyone coming over to our house to spend time with her.  She didn’t attend any school functions, she didn’t ask me about my homework, she didn’t throw parties for my birthday, she really didn’t like anyone but our family to come into our home, so I spent most of my time away from home.  My mom rarely said “I love you”, or hugged me, or asked me what I was up to.  I compared her to other moms a lot, it was confusing to know if I was loved, according to how other children were with their mothers.  I couldn’t see it then, I couldn’t see where the love was.

You might be thinking I had a shitty mom based off of societal norms that have been created for mothers.  There’s seems to be an unspoken, assumed and exhaustless, super hero expectation for what makes a good mother.  I’ve been a mother for 12 years now, and the feeling that I am not enough of a mother has never subsided.

My mom wasn’t a societal norm, nor did she wish or try to be.  When all the ladies in the 80’s had big hair and pop rock make-up, my mom swore off hairspray and curling irons, and kept her face bare most of the time.  She made almost all of her own clothes in deep earth tones accented with just a bit of color in the buttons, or the stitches.  She used the remnants of the fabrics to make mini-me culottes and little tops that buttoned in the back.  I remember being disappointed that they were not made with trendy hot pink and neon colors of the time, but also proud to say my mom made my clothes.  She never stopped teaching herself a new skill, she was always making something, always trying to be of value in the way that she knew how.  My mom is an artist.  The sounds of paint brushes on canvas, knitting needles clacking softly against each other with amazing speed, the diligent churn of a sewing machine was white noise and comfort in my memories.  She would never be a career woman, she would never hold a job for more than a couple of years, it exhausted her spirit to be confined to someone else’s schedule, and it would push her into deep depression when it was necessary.

When my  mother worked, my brother and I were left alone.  We would advantageously invite all of our friends to meander through our home to look at all my mom’s artwork.  In our house were oil paintings of me and my brother, several drawing pads filled with charcoal drawings of us as babies, crocheted blankets and tablecloths decorating our furniture, and so much more.  We subconsciously knew this was where her love was, and we proudly wanted to show people what she was capable of.  When she would find out that we did this, she would become angry and annoyed at us, but somewhere in her face, I sensed she appreciated it, too.

For years and years I wished my mom to have friends, to be in love, to show her art.  I wished for her to be different, until finally, I realized how much my wishing for her to be different must have hurt her.  The truth is, she has always been the same, she has never changed from this woman, nothing was ever taken from me in this regard.

So I love my mom, I love her for who she is, and I see her love everywhere, in her art, in my art, in my kids art, in my independence, in my guts.

I see you, Mama.


A Year of Magic: A modern romantic episode

It has been a month since I fed the life line of passion that has been fueling and consuming my womanly spirit for over a year.  I can’t tell yet if it is too early to reflect on this, as my heart still hurts from feeling neglected and unloved, and my ego is still purple and yellow from all the ways I have pressed on my wounds to ensure that they are real, and my lust still yearns, from the deepest curves and hollows of my woman, to be filled by his man knowing full well I’d instantly forgive him if he were to present himself in this very moment.  Damn him.

So, perhaps it is still too soon to tell if I should make any conclusion of this mini voyage I just returned from, so fresh off the Love Boat.  And yet, it is with urgency that I write this so I don’t forget any details of the spontaneous ways we would entertain each other (or truth be told, that I entertained him), or even the long periods of time I would sleep next to my phone patiently waiting for it to light up with just one wave from him…my spirit animal, keeper of my woman, my man to my “wo”, Him!  Who will open me up and free me…or just text “Hi”, anything.

He appeared out of the blue like magic, direct messaging me on one of the few social media outlets I express myself on.  Appropriately, I bestowed to him the endearment “Magic Man” or “Magic” of which I will continue to refer to him as.  Originally, Magic inquired to work together on a visual art project where I would be his muse.  Feeling an immediate and curious energy in his every word, I quickly Google searched his name, as most people do these days, to see what sort of work he did, unaware of who he was and his current success.  It turns out Magic Man is quite esteemed in his art and craft, and not slowing down any time soon.  The opportunity to create something with his level of talent and recognition was an exciting honor.

It took but a heart beat to feel our mutual attraction, and soon I was divulging all of my life motivations, super grand ideas, endless optimism towards humanity, and above all, my open beliefs about sexuality, women, and men.  Magic’s particular project that he invited me to muse in was meant to present a strong sexual woman, sort of shameless and unafraid of it.  I felt like an eager student in class, hand erected high above others “Me me me, I’ll do it!  Yes indeed, I am all of those things, you’ll see.”  That he called to me at my ripe age of 37 (at the time) inspired me to dig into my woman, pull her out of me and show him everything.  And I did.  I did for over a year.

What the fuck does that mean, “I showed him everything?”  Like…everything?  Basically, I did show him everything I could think to show him.

“So what?  Like you peed and poo’d on camera?” Poo, gross, never!  Not our thing.   But pee for each other we did often, indeed, that was one of the few visual teasers I received back from him.  Magic liquid gold. Yum, I drank it up….over the phone, of course.

It can NOT be forgotten for a moment that 99.99% of this entire years interaction was done on my IPhone.  My woman lived in the pocket of his pants.  Every time he told me to get naked I stopped what I was doing and found an opportune place within seconds of his request, and I would drop trou’, bend over and spread, pull up and off, whatever needed to be done to show him all of my lady bits.  It came easily and naturally for me to reveal myself to him.  I grew in love with the playful, adventurous person I felt when fueled by Magic.  Our connection didn’t stop with our sexual friskiness.  We spoke excitedly about our ideas on art and community, and more so, the similar ways we process life, process art, process love, and respect the process.  It was THAT that I desired to express myself to him, do something different with a man, feel him in a different sort of way, by sharing all of my process in the rawest, most organic way that I could muster.  I knew already, living in different cities only close by air, that I would never be able to want him around all of the time, would never think to imagine being in his every day existence, which I remarkably did not do in the time that I spent pining for him.

I imagined that we were that rare connection when energy meets it’s true match and magic is created.  That we were made up of moments filled with brilliant truths and beauty… on my phone, on this fucking phone that illuminated everything I wanted to believe in wholeheartedly.  My phone became him, this precious thing I would love and feed, and feed, and feed, so that he, it, would grow to love me.

Did it?  Did it love me, did you love me, Magic?  Sometimes.  Sometimes just when the static silence pierced like micro needles injecting self doubt and hopelessness into my spirit, like an elixir a single line from Magic Man would appear like words from God, and it would part the clouds and shed warm light into my dark places.  I would be lifted to the point of flight, and with this electricity between us I was compelled to be creative, produce any sort of random thing every day to have something to show for this precious space we shared.  My process became my everything and it was all I could do to keep myself from throwing it all at his feet.

My shares were like dares to myself.  How far am I willing to go?  Is there a limit to which I will reveal myself?  Aware of  his exposure to the rich and famous, and the wealth of talent he has at his finger tips, I dared to be as natural and real as I could, not hiding my imperfections or always submitting perfectly filtered images of myself.  I vowed to be authentic, so that some day when we meet, I would be exactly as I presented myself, but better.

Looking back, Magic shared very little with me.  For every 50 images or videos I sent to him, I received one.  I never expect anyone to be as wordy as I am, but in truth, I did most of the talking.  It was through his validations of my heart and mind that I felt I knew him.   He told me he loved my mind, and how I think, that I am the closest he has found to how he thinks.  *melt*  With those words alone I was in his clutches.  That would remain to be the best thing any man has ever told me. He would deliver accolades that would confirm our likeness, but not really tell me much about him.  In reality, my birds eye view was not much different than any other Instagram follower of his.  I was able to rationalize this obvious fact, even when lengths of silence would drive me down a rabbit hole of Google searching more about his life, exposing the family he is committed to, and the history of his success.  I would find myself in moral conflict over whether to continue interaction with him knowing that I am his phone mistress, simultaneously wondering what that means about me.  *cringe

There were rounds of moralizing over the fact that I was a secret in his life (or a magical little treasure in some rationalizing), whereas he was not a secret in my life.  Part of me felt convinced that as long as I am being true to myself on my end, I shouldn’t feel morally wrong, that what is happening on his end is none of my business.  I was well into an open marriage, self discovery, my art, and learning to have a healthy mom-self balance when Magic Man sniffed me out.  There’s a shitty feeling that comes with being someone’s mistress (basically a secret lover), and it’s simply that I felt disposable.  My partner pointed out once after a night where I confessed my love for Magic Man, and all the wonderful, glorious ways I have been exploring and feeling, that while he genuinely felt happy for me I’m just “extra”, not a factor in Magic’s life.  I beat myself up a bit about the fact that I knew I could be knocked out by Magic’s silence at any given moment, that I was setting myself up to be the loser in this.  But still, this space had what I wanted…to be anything.

The .01% of time that was not spent on my IPhone with Magic, was the one hour that I spent with him when I visited his studio.  I bought a plane ticket and waited around all day in a city I didn’t know, wandering in and out of shops enjoying that no one knew me, feeling a little mischievous and hungry for what I had waiting for me.  I arrived mid morning with plenty of time to enjoy watching a man search for treasures in the sand at the beach, with the use of a handy metal detector.  Aside from worrying about my phone staying charged, I felt free and invigorated there.  At last, in the late afternoon, Magic invited me to visit his studio where he warned I would be met by his crew.  While I was slightly disappointed that I wouldn’t be able to reach out and feel his body with wild abandon, I was content in knowing I would be breathing in his air.

And then he was there, approaching me from the other side of a gate.  He never said my name.  In fact, I’ve never heard Magic say, text, or mutter my name the entire time I’ve known him.  In this moment, that didn’t matter at all.  His eyes glowed behind all the whiskers on his face, and even though he held an air of bold confidence, there was a subtle shyness in those eyes that made me want to kiss the lids of them (and then lick them).  The playful woman in me was certainly ignited by the vibration in our air.  With people around, I spent much of my time trying not to touch him.  I wasn’t able to make the eye contact I so desired for fear of being so obviously smitten by him around his creative team.  Instead, I watched Magic’s hands, their every gesture, how they lifted small objects, how they fingered different surfaces, how they sent waves of electricity through every vein in my back when they would guide me through his space.  His beard smelled like my best girlfriend and wood fire, which made me feel warm immediately.  Had I known this was going to be the first and last time I would ever see him, I would have climbed him like a tree, and then grabbed that beard by it’s thickest tuft, and I’d slap his face hard, and kiss and nibble through his whiskers, then leave a bite on his chin identical to the one he has taken out of my heart.

I don’t want to go on to do the thing of finding ways to hate my Magic Man.  I don’t want to start peeling open every little interaction and find myself crying mad, and embarrassed at myself for sharing these moments with him.  I wanted to do it.  I wanted to tell my phone lover everything.  I wanted to tell him stories and make him laugh.  I wanted to explore the kind of natural woman I am and show her to him.  I shared with him a week I spent in my own menstrual flow, refraining from all modern day feminine care products just to feel my bleed.  And then took self portraits of my bloody kitten covered in wild flowers, and captured the tender moment on video, when I sat up after my pussy had filled with her own blood and poured out into a puddle onto my living room floor.  And when I sent that to him with abandon, I wondered if that was too far?  And it never was.  So I kept digging and digging deep into my woman, coaxing her to expose all her desires, all her fears, all her urges with Magic as the reason to come out.  But I see I did it for me, I did it all for me.  He gave me nothing, but I gave myself my woman.  Magic.

My Morning Thoughts 6/8/2017

My Morning Thoughts:

I’m not a religious person, and I understand why people are. I don’t think that people are wrong for having or believing in a God/religion. The power of belief is beautiful and real, we all need to believe in something. So this is just my belief.
But while binging on a slew of documentaries about sexuality, strife, rags to success, our lovely planet….I thought of something. In my viewings, often there was a call to God for strength, comfort, and guidance. Or a feeling of failure or confusion about God, when tragedy occurred.
In the case of children, it is told to them by their parents and trusted adults to pray to God in times of need, to ask for his love, strength, and forgiveness.
Having been raised in a Godless (not loveless) household, and now raising my own children this way, it seems to me that what we ask our children to ask of God, they should feel safe to ask in us as guardians of their youth. Religion seems to create complacent parenting.
I realize how offensive that sounds, and how defensive a religious person might become reading this, it sounds accusing and awful. But by complacent, I don’t mean that religious parents don’t do everything they believe to be good for their children, that they don’t diligently involve them in the teachings of their Lord, instilling the community of their church and neighbors, that they don’t create a foundation on which they feel their children will grow into good people.
What I mean, is religion creates an emotional complacency, that you don’t have to personally deal with another’s pain, fears, or innate sexual nature. That these are God’s children, so he will make it right, so long as you ask Him and do right by Him. A child doesn’t have years of life experience to have the faith in something so fantastical, no more than the tooth fairy or Santa Claus. They are doing what their parents want. Children know what is physically there, or whose existence is still engrained in our walk of life that it is obvious that something was once there, but no longer, like the Wooly mammoth.
But if every time your child is afraid, or has been emotionally or physically harmed, or has lied or stolen, or has experienced an erection and can’t stop exploring that, or is drawn to the same sex, or falls into addiction, or is working their ass off toward their dreams, why do we send them straight to God? Why don’t we give them the love, the support, the guidance that we have in ourselves, as parents, and grownups who have lived a life so far, who have their experience to share?
The separation of oneself from their emotions creates shame, shame to do wrong and that someone will find out, and that everyone and God will be angry. Shame is not a natural feeling, shame is manmade, created to control our behavior and emotion. It is a debilitating tactic to keep us from exploring beyond. Animals do not feel shame, they do not worry that all the other animals will be angry at them for the things they have done.
Many religions are fear and shamed based, which means to me, that God is manmade.
The spirit of anything is forever, and those to me are the angels that keep us human, and they are forever passing their knowledge onto us the more we live. #freetobelievewhatyouwill


Re: sexism unveiled in the USA

Re: Clinton running for presidency unveils deep-rooted sexism.
That’s right about these issues coming out of the woodwork; not only has sexism reared it’s over-privileged and grossly ugly head, for some, it has also exposed some deep-rooted PTSD from being sexually violated, or taken advantage of as little girls (and boys) by neighbors and relatives. And the fact is, I don’t know a single woman who hasn’t been violated in some way or another. This isn’t because men are inherently more perverted than women, TRUST ME!! I’m not shy to kinky fun and have my own consensual pervy ways. However, the culture of male bonding over objectifying women, high-fiving for the crudest remarks about her body, or looking at young girls as future playthings…that’s where men need to make changes. And the truth is, only a man can push for this change.
Females have endured the wrath of man’s ego, control, and lust for centuries, an accessory to the man’s legacy and success. Fuck that!
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not really even a full fledged feminist, I love men. I love them so much I feel bad for them. They have had to maintain a manly bravado, they have not been as much a part of their families lives, their worth has been determined by their bravery, strength, or wealth. They are victims of a mindset that gives them no sense of ease or appreciation, they only have sought power and control. Women are rising and men are humbling…it’s a hell of a lot harder to step down.

Stupid Love

A friend of mine recently told me that “love is a priviledge.”  Granted, this was in the context of how distracted Americans are by the antics of our Presidential debates, meanwhile there are more impending, big picture issues like WWIII …

This statement has been festering in me since, and I want to dig into it a bit.

First of all, I couldn’t disagree with my friend more.  My initial response to this statement was to say that not everybody can focus on the possibility of WWIII, and that by not doing so one hasn’t chosen ignorance or bliss, but rather nurture and hope.  Particularly mothers and fathers have to maintain a minimum level of hope at all times when raising our young, and when you have something so vast and out of your control like war in your forethoughts, that hope can quickly diminish.

But to me, this is less about social issues and politics, but more about our disregard and undervalue of love.  How dare you call it a priviledge.  I believe to the core of my existence that love is innate, that everybody possesses this from the start.  Every living being has a purpose, a contribution to the existence of this earth.  Even the mosquito, who could disappear forever and will have no real impact on the earth…EXCEPT, the rainforest would have been long gone by now.  Because of the mosquito, humans have not been able to survive the rainforest long enough to destroy it.

I’d like to believe that humans are more exceptional than the mosquito, though we’ve managed to spread disease and take out entire populations just like they have.  But what do humans do that no other living being does?  We ingenue fantastical ways to exist with each other, and be on top of the food chain.  Why?  Why do we do all of this?  Because we want to go to war?  Because we are so controlling as a predator of this earth that we would be willing to take out entire regions through nuclear warfare to prove our power?  This is our purpose as humans?

No.  Power is Loves ugly head reared and on full display.  It is the disllusionment of what our purpose is about.  The crux of a fight is love.  Love of this beautiful land, love of your spiritual beliefs, love of your family, love of your lover; LOVE is why we fight.  Money doesn’t have love but it has become the motivational force behind all of our fighting, the thing that jades humans of our purpose.

Love is not our priviledge, it is our purpose.

One American Woman’s Fauxlitcal Understanding:

As of late, I have felt this niggling in me, this sort of freakish call of duty, like that of lifting a car off of a trapped child in a moment of sheer adrenalin-driven heroism. Simultaneously, I have felt a tugging at my lady bits, not in the sexual way you might assume from me, but in this way that I feel like pounding my chest and gnashing my teeth, and gathering all the children and building a refuge so we can START OVER!

Look at the 2016 Presidential Campaigns, for example, a bipolar event driving a mind-numbing divide into the nation; Democrats and Republicans, rich and poor, Black and White (and Blue), Us and Them… How are we really going to get to the crux of any matter?  The idea that any president is going to “get done” every agenda within 4 years of presidency is absolutely absurd. The time President Barack Obama has spent in the White House is a clear example of how we need to change our way of thinking, and our expectations, and that a term as President of the United States isn’t about carrying out a certain party’s agenda, but about continuing the legacy of our country’s ability to be the great leader of the world; ever-evolving, a truly free country, free of judgement, free of prejudice.  But, starting over every 4-8 years before we’ve had a chance to see any hard results is counter-productive, and makes Americans seem reactive and flimsy in character.

Dem. Hillary Clinton, is clearly the more educated and well spoken of the two presidential candidates, but can’t seem to shake the semi bitter, semi self-righteous Ice Queen with a personal vendetta to fulfill. And quite simply, she just doesn’t reach me as a fellow woman.  And then, of course, there is the 3rd Grade buffoon, Rep. Donald Trump, who is constantly bullying the other kids on the playground, who is the loudest person in the room at all times, but doesn’t actually have anything substantial to say, ever.

Hey, I love that we are such a random country, just making this shit up as we go.  We are creative, we are driven, and we are cunning.  American soil, particularly, is cultivated with hard competition and spit in the wind. I rather like that we find challenge and humor in everything we do, but it’s gone too far. When an action is done for the sake of doing something, then we have lost our purpose and we need to repurpose.  Fighting just to keep fighting, building just to keep building, arguing for the sake of arguing…does not equal understanding, growth, or progress.  This is what robots were designed to do.  Are we just a bunch of idiot robots malfunctioning in this chaos?

I’m sorry to say, but The United States of America presents itself like a daytime talk show. I suspect any moment Maury Povich will make an appearance and announce that Hillary Clinton has been having an affair with Donald Trump this entire time. Why not, right? Would that even surprise anyone at this rate?  It’s like when you’re dating someone, and you let it get more serious than you really should, even though you know deep down it’s a bad idea but you do it anyway, and all you can do is hope that you’ll eventually find some reason to like that person.  And the only reason we do this to ourselves, the only reason why we suffer the insufferable, is because we don’t think we can do any better.  So, looking at our government, goons in every corner, every speech, every ad, every day a reminder of “Fear! Fear! and more Fear!  And plenty more of “Blame!!”  I start to think…”Americans suffer from low self-esteem.”  People with low self-esteem either overcompensate or hide.  I’d say we have excelled at both. American men are the kings of overcompensation, and where the fuck are the women in all this madness?

The truth is, I’m not well versed in politics and all the agendas that are on the table, especially when it comes to foreign affairs.  I know, that’s awfully ignorant of me, as we are in bed with so much money and political agenda overseas.  But there’s so much to fix, so much grim reality at home, that it’s all I can do but focus my love and care here.  As an American woman, as a mother, a working middle to lower class citizen, I am thinking from this platform, this place that I know…home.  I’m hearing little in these debates that has hit home for me.  I think we can do better, I think we can do better than what either presidential candidate stands for.  I don’t think we can feel it from the top at this point, I think we need to feel the strength from where we stand.

I believe that the only way to get anything done anymore is to organize from the ground up; build nonprofits, coalitions, any sort of group that represents our true American grit and values, and who will rally for them, peacefully pushing agendas to achieve the needs of common Americans…meaning the rest of us.

My ideas are simple, therefore I don’t understand how they can’t be done.  As I said before, my focus is directly at home, but this can be relative in the big picture as well, if projected properly and can be seen for its true intent and potential.

One example, the homeless.  Many of our urban cities are plagued with an increasing homeless population.  Americans are torn every day between their empathy and disgust. Many of the homeless suffer from addiction, mental illness, disabilities, disease, some are criminals, some are none of these, simply people with nearly nothing.  We haven’t come up with very many successful ways of helping the homeless, and I mean really actually helping them.  I don’t mean displacing homeless people so that wealthier people don’t have to look at them, I mean helping them back into the communities as respectable citizens of this country.  There are two subjective feelings that have immeasurable curing and motivational powers:  Joy and Pride.  No matter how many clinics you schlep together, no matter how many shelters you erect, none of it matters if the people who you made them for never feel joy or pride.  How do we help our homeless feel joy and pride?  What about giving them purpose?  I live in San Francisco, where there is a shit ton of money everywhere you look, we are surrounded by some of the most successful corporations in the world…surely at least one of these corporations can create a giant, non-profit housing community that establishes free communal living for the homeless, whom in return work directly for the city’s street cleaning department, therefore earning proper health and retirement benefits, while instilling job skills and opportunities for achievement and growth.  When you are productive and learning you inherently begin to feel joy; which increases one’s motivation, not only improving the quality of one’s life, but also by increasing one’s chance of overcoming addiction.  There are win-win situations that may not make companies money, but can be self-serving and self-generating, and is just the right thing to do; but not without the help of large companies with large tax write-off capabilities to help sponsor housing programs like this.

What about education?  I honestly don’t know what the right thing is as far as private or public, I just know what IS, isn’t working.  There are not enough families and educators making the decisions and voting on what makes up our public school systems.  I am not a school teacher, I’m not even a very good student, but I can tell you that by vicariously reliving grade school through my daughter’s education, I am disdained.  The teachers are exhausted, underpaid, and highly under appreciated, and their resources are becoming more and more restrictive, diluted, and for some teachers, all but eliminated.  In the way of education, I feel we need to be reaching out to other countries that have had success, especially those that have turned their education around in recent years, such as Finland. Why are we so proud that we can’t let others be examples of their excellence?  Why can’t we take notes on values that others can teach us?  Why have we not taken extensive survey and asked our American families and educators directly what WE want, and then do everything in our power to achieve it?  The more opportunities we offer all American children to achieve greatness, the more probable we will stay the leaders of the free world. Every American child should have the same opportunity to be great, no matter what their economic upbringing looks like.

In regards to my question, “where are the women?” While that question is rather accusing, as it implies that women have been absent, I think it’s valid in these recent times of political ego, violence, and fear among the people.  In the past 10, fuck it, 100 years, how many Americans have died at the hands of a woman?  How many women have performed acts of violence fueled by rage or hate ?  How many wars are women currently leading?  I don’t need to even provide you with any numbers to back me up, or statistics to prove how inherently more peaceful women are, because there’s no need to.  Right?  It’s just, like, not even close, women are not so violent.

But this isn’t to say that American men are rabid savages either, sword fighting, and ball busting, and resorting to old world ways.  I’m saying that American men are finally cracking at the pressure of being a leader in a world that is too big to handle…alone.  More women should be involved in policies and budgets that affect the common people.  When it comes to taking great risks, women should consciously be seated among the great minds, weighing in for the people, and sure, heed caution when needed.  The mentality of protecting women and children is slightly dated.  In recent shootings, or acts of terrorism, I don’t think there was any real concern, specifically, in protecting women and children, so why all the bravado?  It no longer feels like a chivalrous concern, but a means to keep women out of important decision-making that affect families directly. I’m not really a feminist, I really do love men and empathize with their positioning in this time in life.  In some ways I feel a sense of purpose in easing our men, giving them safety through support and kindness, ingenue and execute ideas in areas that women have historically excelled in, like education, health, and law.  Women can support and have greater impact within our country, taking on the nurturing of this great land once again.

So, again,  where are the American Women?

The Guise of the Lumber Sexual

I got asked this question and I had a fun time dissecting it.

What makes a man manly? (And the guise of the Lumber Sexual, or is it a woman’s dreamt up, make believe ideal?)

Well, I could certainly tell you what makes a man not manly, but I’d like to keep this on the up and up, so I will stay focused on the actual question. What is manly?

I suppose we would need to first recognize a Lumber Sexual, and most people, having now just read the words “Lumber Sexual,” have an image in their head of who this person is. When I think of Lumber Sexual, and indeed, there is an immediate attraction to this aesthetic, though not limited to men as there are plenty of lesbian Lumber Sexual’s out there, too, I think of a natural man. A man with true grit, and just the right amount of fucks to give. A man that looks good in everything because the man wears the clothes, the clothes don’t wear the man! That Lumber Man. The general head-to-toe look of a Lumber Sexual consists of a minimum of these 5 key components:

1. The Beard. You cannot be Lumber Sexual if you cannot grow a beard, the exception only being if you’re a lesbian. In San Francisco, it is probable that in any trendy coffee shop serving $5 drip coffee, you will hear a beard-centric conversation pertaining to the amount of time it took to grow that beard. Very, very interesting… The juvenile in me thinks of Roald Dahl’s crude depiction of the beard.

“…a hairy jungle around his mouth, he was always able to find a tasty morsel here and there to nibble on.”

Alas, I am a dirty girl and a huge fan of them. I find The Great Beard incredibly manly. I love to sink my fingers into a man’s beard and pull him toward me for a kiss. Every man has a signature musk in his whiskers. Some are beautiful, filled with so many colors and patterns. For me, beards turn me feral and growly. They make me more sexual and I want to rub my most womanly scents into them. I worship the beard.

Sooooo, Fella’s, when you don the Great Beard and you don’t make me feel like a cat in heat, it’s such a bummer. Those are the moments when I feel bamboozled, when I realize that I was attracted to an aesthetic that had nothing to do with who the person is, and that is what makes it a disappointment.

2. The Hair. Honestly, it’s a 90’s throw back with more grease and pomade. Long on top with some sort of product worked into it, clipped down short on the sides, and that one pendulum of hair that, not by accident, swings between his eyebrows. It’s like a 1950’s, sexier version of Zack Morris from Saved By The Bell.

I can take it or leave it. I can pull your hair or I can lick and bite your head, doesn’t matter to me at all. If a man has kind eyes that can hold my gaze and tell a thousand playful thoughts without saying a word, that is manly.

3. The Flannel. This is not to be confused with the type of flannel that Kurt Cobain wore, loose and thrifted, and covered in cigarette holes and stale nicotine. These flannels are crafted and made of fine wool. They can be worn under a 3 piece suit, and probably have. These flannels have never touched a grain of sawdust, let alone covered the back of a man who has cut down a tree. These are sensible shirts to keep men warm. They are no longer outback to me, they are universal, practical, classic tartan that have no association with nature.

What I love to see is the broad curve of a man’s shoulders under his shirt. That beautiful shape of a man who still holds himself up. But this is a man who looks best in a white t-shirt, or nothing at all. This is a man who still lifts me up when he gives me a hug because he likes the weight of my entire body on him, which sends a deeper message that he’s strong enough to hold the weight of my world and can keep me safe, at least for 5 seconds. It’s not the flannel that keeps this man warm, it is the abundance of love he allows in.

4. The Denim. A Lumber Sexual wears quality materials, less is more which is a sign of maturity, refinement, and financial stability. Often this denim is $400 Japanese selvage, zero stretch, cuffed about 1.5”-2″ above the boot exposing an intentionally colorful sock beneath. If this Lumber Sexual is a true denim connoisseur, then he never washes them. Instead he spot cleans and freezes them to kill any bacteria and scent, then hangs them outside to freshen up, so to preserve the physical idiosyncrasies of the man inside them; the wallet imprint, the shift bulge, the whiskering in all the creases, and the faded highlights of his leg muscles.

I absolutely approve these jeans for men. This can only be done with a well made pair of quality denim. I rather love the idea that no man could wear another man’s pants. Women are generally softer, so our fade marks don’t have the same definition that men have. Women need the stretch in denim to keep their squishy parts from looking flattened. I secretly want denim that I can wear almost every day without washing, that bear my womanly essence; but sadly that essence can also be known as the all too infamous “crotch rot” (which is an embarrassing combination consisting of dried up pussy juice and possible menstrual tracks…for those that didn’t know, now you do…sorry.) So, I am envious of the relationship men have with their denim, just as I am of their ability to write their name in the snow.

5. The Boots. The boots are typically qualified the same way the flannel and denim are; something of the hand made variety, sewn together with industrial thread, soft hide, and stacked wood. They are usually about ankle high and worn with colorful or printed socks. They’re meant to last and be resoled again and again, his foot so embedded in the shoe that you could cast a mold of his foot out of it.

I, myself, love boots. As a woman, one shoe does not cover the spectrum of moods I present myself in. I could never be satisfied with one image. But, if you are going to commit to a look, then I think, at the very least, own it. I can respect anyone that breaks in a boot, because they can’t just be any boot, they have to be “the one”. You get a gut feeling when you know you’ve found the perfect pair, and there is always a grievance period when it is truly time to replace them. You don’t have to be Lumber Sexual to have this kind of relationship with your shoe, this exists with lots of people and lots of types of shoes; the same can be said for a trusty pair of Chuck Taylor’s or Vans Half Cabs.
But a lovely pair of leather boots age and wrinkle with the man, they can reveal a thousand miles of life, they are an extension of the walk he walks. The boots I am attracted to are not the steadfast boots that stayed the course, creating a seamless and smoothed out route leading to clear destinations and boundaries. And mind you, there is nothing wrong with this pair of boots, they are by no means less honorable, but I would grow tired of the trench they have created. Okay, so what does that mean? Does a man with boots covered in nicks and dings in the leather, and soles caked in mud and grease really live a more ruthless and carefree life? Do these boots really will him to step into any situation and toe the line no matter what obstacles are put before him? Probably not.

And if I haven’t confused you with so many metaphors, then you might find yourself wondering how many other expectations we have placed on someone just by the trend they got onboard with, or the ideas we’ve created around that image. Just the same that a man dressed as a lumberjack should be strong and rugged, self-assured without a need for validation, to smell of eucalyptus and cedar (and maybe a touch of pipe smoke), and to embody a calm and warm spirit that puts my restlessness at ease; it can be equally assumed, at this rate, that a woman dressed with done up hair, flawless make-up, a body hugging dress, and stiletto heels is an excellent lover, body confident, witty, flirty, and sexually diverse.

Sometimes liking what you see isn’t really seeing what you like. As I grow older, I find myself more deeply attracted to traits that cannot be bought. Traits like humility, a sense of humor, patience, an open mind, and kindness. If you possess these in addition to a rugged aesthetic, then you are winning, otherwise, you’re just another trend representative with some explaining to do.