Olga Wolstenholme

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Going in for the Save

After my parents split up, my brother and I followed our mom from a very small village to the suburbs of Montreal. I was six years old at the time, about to start the first grade, and my brother who’s five years older than me was starting the sixth grade. We went to the same school, but our recesses weren’t at the same time. My brother had declared himself my bodyguard. Although I don’t remember any of this, to hear my mom tell it, he was rather dedicated to ensuring my relative safety, always making sure to hold my hand when crossing a street. The school officials found it a little odd that my brother insisted he and I have recess at the same time so he could keep an eye on me. Apparently, it caused quite the fuss.

Last night, my brother and his girlfriend were shopping at their local grocery store when a drunk came in and started quite the ruckus. This man had entered the store with the sole purpose of harassing someone and has it happens his victim was the sixteen year old son of the store’s owner. The drunk in question started bullying the kid, calling him a faggot and hitting him over the head.

A lot of people would just standby in these types of situations. Hell, I’ve done it myself. Sometimes you want to ensure your own safety above all else and you let the storm pass, clenching your jaw, pretending that nothing is wrong and hoping that the situation doesn’t get worse.

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Bring a Little Sparkle Into Your Life

I was browsing the aisles at the pharmacy the other day while waiting for my prescription to be filled, when I stopped in front of the hair removal section. They were out of the wax I usually buy, so I was looking for something else that could do the job when I noticed a box of pre-made wax strips that contained glitter. Let me say that again, glitter. Yes, glitter. The first thing I asked myself was why? I don’t know about you, but glitter body wax doesn’t exactly spell out high quality product to me. With all of the problems that can be caused by waxing: ingrown hair, bruising, etc, you would think that last thing on someone’s mind would be adding sparkles into the mix.

A few more thoughts ran through my head while I stood there in disbelief, “are they trying the make the experience fun?”, “are they trying to attract a younger clientele that just go crazy for anything that sparkles?” Whatever the reason, it just rubs me the wrong way. I mean, if sparkling green wax somehow makes the entire process more enjoyable for you, I’m not here to judge, I just wonder about the meaning behind it all. Can’t you just imagine some execs sitting around a table all pondering the next revolutionary idea when one guy speaks up and says “why not add some glitter?” The entire room wakes up like a roar had just rippled through every fibers of their beings “Yes! That’s it! Glitter, why hadn’t we thought of it before?”

And then I remembered something else, something my friend Liz had brought to my attention just a couple of weeks ago. Actually, if I remember correctly, she demanded an investigative report on a new trend: vagazzling, which, no kidding, is a combination between the words bedazzle and vagina. Yes, yes, that’s right, the bedazzler is the home appliance that was marketed to young girls who wanted to apply gems, beads and rhinestones to their clothing and accessories and now the same principle applies to your vagina.

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The Little Coochi Snorcher That Could

I’m watching The Vagina Monologues on HBO right now. I’ve read the book, but I never saw it being performed. It’s a good show, I like how this particular adaptation has mini interview with Eve Ensler and a group of women between each monologue. No matter how many times you hear these stories, they never lose their power to move.

The Little Coochi Snorcher That Could

Memory: December 1965: Five Years Old

My mama tells me in a scary, loud, life-threatening voice to stop scratching my coochi snorcher. I become terrified that I’ve scratched it off down there. I do not touch myself again, even in the bath. I am afraid of the water getting in and filling me up so I explode. I put Band-Aids over my coochi snorcher to the cover the hole, but they fall off in the water. I imagine a stopper, a bathtub plug up there to prevent things from entering me. I sleep with three pairs of happy heart-patterned cotton underpants underneath my snap-up pajamas. I still want to touch myself, but I don’t.

Memory: Seven Years Old

Edgar Montane, who is ten, gets angry at me and punches me with all his might between my legs. It feels like he breaks my entire self. I limp home. I can’t pee. My mama asks me what’s wrong with my coochi snorcher, and when I tell her what Edgar did to me she yells at me and says never to let anyone touch me down there again. I try to explain he didn’t touch it, Mama, he punched it.

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Gender Specific Small Talk

I went to a party the other day where their happened to be one single person for each couple, all of which were straight and in their mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Topics of conversation were typical; ranging anywhere in between work and how do you open a beer bottle with a lighter. I was stone cold sober as per usual and although I was enjoying the company of others, I was in a quiet and observing mood.

At one point in the evening, I was leaning against the wall in the kitchen listening to a couple guys enjoying some small talk. The event that spurred on this specific little tidbit of conversation, which I’m going to tell you about in a minute, was some sort of superficial dispute between one of the guy’s and one of the girl’s present. The girl in question had just left the kitchen and the guys were doing their whole shtick where they express their exasperation at apologizing to a girl about something the have no idea about and still finding themselves in the dog house without a clue as to why they’re there in the first place.

The conversation turned to the general as opposed to the specific rather quickly, and could only be described as gendered posturing. I felt like I was in an American sitcom staring Jim Belushi and Courtney Thorne-Smith. I’m not a relationship expert having been in a rather minimal amount of them in my short twenty-eight year span and I just had to ask, “Is that really what it’s like?” The answer I got was, “No, it’s not.”

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Between Two Stops

I was taking the bus the other day, every day now since my license was temporarily  suspended because of unpaid parking tickets, and I noticed a sign advertising the fact that at night, if asked, the bus driver will stop between two stops in an attempt to make it safer for women taking public transportation at night. On one hand, I think it’s an interesting service, but on the other it kind of annoys me as well.

It annoys me that we live in a world where such measure are needed. It annoys me that it is a service designed for women. Oh, I’m sure they would also stop for men who would like to stop closer to where they live or to where they are going, but I wonder how many people actually make us of this service. I mean, the underlying assumption is that the person making the request is in need of extra protection and by definition weak. I think it’s hard for anyone to ask for that extra help, to show that they are vulnerable to exterior circumstances that may or may not come to be. I know I’ve always tried to play it cool, to pretend that it didn’t matter that I’m a woman and that I could go anywhere or do anything alone.

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Story of the Eye & Thinking About Pee

Ok, so I’ve never peed on anyone nor has anyone ever peed on me. I have however peed on myself, but I was young so it might not count. I do however remember what it felt like. Wetting the bed was always a strange experience, I thought anyways. First there’s the urgent need to pee that somehow weaves itself into your dream. You’re frantically looking for a bathroom and when you finally find one you release only to wake up to the odd sensation of warmth and wetness spreading across your legs.

The thing is, and this is the odd part (at least to write about openly), that it wasn’t exactly unpleasant. You’re a kid, you’re half asleep and you suddenly feel warm. Sure, you’re lying in a puddle of your own piss, but it never bothered me until the wet spot became cold. Meaning, that I would go back to sleep until I had laid there long enough for my own piss to turn cold. At which point I would drag myself out of bed change my pyjamas and take the sheets of my bed so I could go back to sleep.

Now, I’m not sure if that says more about my love of sleep or my acceptance of my own bodily fluids. I think the scale is leaning towards love of sleep, but when thinking of people using pee in their sex play I invariably think about what it was like to piss the bed when I was a kid. Not only that, but back when I was a budding alcoholic there were a few times where I was so drunk I considered just taking a piss right where I was instead of dragging my poor soul to the bathroom. Thankfully, I never succumbed to my own persuasive arguments and social etiquette always won.

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Pelvic Floor Potential Defined

I wonder if I could get my ass sued if the authors from whom I reprint passages found their way to my site. Oh well, copyright infringement be damned, I’m doing it anyways! After all, it’s not like I’m making a profit here and if anything it actually promotes their work and might even encourage someone to buy themselves their own copy, righ? At least, that’s how I’m justifying it to myself.

With that in mind here’s another definition from the pages of The Encyclopedia of Erotic Wisdom: A Reference Guide to the Symbolism, Techniques, Rituals, Sacred Texts, Psychology, Anatomy, and History of Sexual.

Pelvic Floor Potential

“If the pelvic floor muscles are slack and you do not know how o use them, you are missing out on one whole aspect of sexual  experience.”

                               - Sheila Kitzinger, Woman’s Experience of Sex

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The Darker Side of Pleasure

As an add-on to my post Masturbation as Meditation, I would like to share with you guys another excerpt from Betty’s Dodson’s  Sex for One: The Joy of Selfloving that I really like.

While I continue to believe that my spirituality and sexuality are closely connected, if not one in the same, I don’t want to go overboard and turn sex into a religion. And I don’t want all my orgasms to be sacred, ecstatic, ritualized communions with some divine purpose. There are times I just want a “maintenance orgasm” with a scuzzy, low-down fantasy. For me, being in the limelight on a full-time basis becomes unreal and I’m dehumanized. I don’t want to deny or ignore my dark side; that mean little person who’s envious and angry and who flirts with evil thoughts and plays with fantasy violence. When we ignore the dark side, the light of our spirituality becomes dim and we’re in danger of turning into mindless automatons willing to follow a false leader.

Aren’t books great? I could sit here all day and share with you all some of my favorite excerpts.

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Two Definitions For The Price of One

If you’re a frequent reader, you may have noticed that a few weeks ago I wrote about a book I recently bought: The Encyclopedia of Erotic Wisdom. I had transcribed their definition of orgasm and today, I’m going to give you two more definitions. Hopefully, like last time, you’ll feel compelled to share your thoughts or your experiences when it comes to these words. Here we go…

Sexual Imprinting   The Islamic, Ishmailian “heretics”  known as Nizari Ishm’ilis were apparently masters of sexual imprinting, binding their “initiates” to them by creating an unforgettable erotic experience, using drugs and multiple sexual partners to create a kind of erotocomatose lucidity. Apart from such consciously designed imprints, most members of our species are subject to incidents of sexual imprinting of a less obvious and more unconscious type: our education and first sexual experiences. The techniques for, and the abuse of, sexual imprinting are described in detail in the works of Timothy Leary and Robert Anton Wilson.

Hermaphrodite   The mythical figure and/or symbol that combines the God Hermes and the goddess Aphrodite into a double-sexed personality, thought it is sometimes interpreted as being neutral and nonsexual. This must not be confused with the  concept of androgyny, in which the male and female poles do not physically coexist, but are seen as existing in an integrated way on a psychological level, with repression of neither and the one complementing the other. To the ancient alchemists, the hermaphrodite represented perfection. Symbolically this image can be compared to those of the hexagram Chi Chi and the Chinese symbol of yin and yang.

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When “Feminist” Became a Bad Word

Back in September I wrote a post called When Did Being Called a Feminist Become an Insult? I didn’t really have an answer at the time, I mostly wrote about my personal musings on the questions, but after reading the first Chapter of Naomi Wolf’s The Beauty Myth I have or rather she has an answer to the question. It might be pretty obvious to some, but she wrote about it so well, that I’m here to share it with you all:

The caricature of the Ugly Feminist was resurrected to dog the steps of the women’s movement. The caricature is unoriginal; it was coined to ridicule the feminists of the nineteenth century. Lucy Stone herself, who supporters saw as “a prototype of womanly grace… fresh and fair as the morning,” was derided by detractors with “the usual report” about Victorian feminists: “a big masculine woman, wearing boots, smoking a cigar, swearing like a trooper.” As Betty Friedan put it presciently in 1960, even before the savage revamping of that old caricature: “The unpleasant image of feminists today resembles less the feminists themselves than the image fostered by the interests who so bitterly opposed the vote for women in state after state.” Thirty years on, her conclusion is more true than ever: That resurrected caricature, which sought to punish women for their public acts by going after their private sense of self, became a paradigm for new limits placed on aspiring women everywhere. After the women’s movement’s second wave, the beauty myth was perfected to checkmate power at every level in individual women’s lives.

This book is AWESOME. I’ve only read chapter one and it has pretty much blown me away. You should all get your hands on a copy from somewhere. I borrowed mine from my neighbor. Seek it out! Spread the word!

Crossposted from Cuntlove.

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