Fuck you Father, I figured it out.

So in first grade my good friend Lisa and I discovered that if you did it right, when you'd climb a pole it felt suspiciously, deliciously, tantalizingly good. Like better than anything, better than a nighttime backrub from your mom, better than the wind in your hair on your purple banana seat bike, better than pink cotton candy melting on your tongue, better than a gigantic Orange Sherbet ice cream cone from Byerlys.



Lisa was my little friend who gleefully (and rather innocently) played "stripper" with me when we were in first grade. So we were definitely on the same page. That was only the first of our sexual escapades.



It never occurred to me that lasciviously mounting poles was not okay to do in public, that it was indeed sexual, and best done alone on one's own swingset in the dark of night. Granted we were SEVEN, but well, good thing I eventually figured it out. We just knew it felt great, really fucking mind-tinglingly awesome. We actually tried to recruit other girls into our pole climbing society, happy to share our amazing discovery. However nobody else experienced the feeling we were having, much to our bewilderment, either that or they new better than to admit it. So Lisa and I were left to our own debauchery at recess time, opting to molest poles rather than play on the swing set or chase boys. Who needs boys when there are poles to be had?? Those other little girls didn't know what they were missing.


Soon enough we discovered we could get our fix anywhere, hell, we didn't need to wait for recess or be anywhere near a playground! The streetsign on the corner near my house worked just fine, as did the railing post at the top of my stairwell in my house. I was in orgasm heaven, regularly pumping out 7-10 in a day. What a lovely discovery, this feeling. Definitely better than the ice cream cone; like Serendipity dusted with cocaine.


And then, whoa. Suddenly came the divine realization that I didn't actually need to be hanging vertically from a pole to get the feeling! Although, bonus, I did beat every girl in the school except Lisa in the bent arm hang, thanks to those poles. Eventually I found out my larger sized stuffed animals were just perfect. And soft, and warm, and hell, I could say goodbye to my callouses! I remember once my sister walked in my bedroom to put away the laundry as I was riding away on my big panda bear. By this time I realized it was private and I was mortified. I froze and immediately laid down upon him, pretending I was sleeping. Soooound asleep. In my underwear, nothing else, I was just feeling a little toasty, that's all. No stuffie humping going on here!!! Oh, and pillows, too. Pillows were lovely and a perfect sendoff to dreamland everynight. Somehow they lacked personality, though. PandaMan had all the right moves.


Ha, suddenly I remember I gave away my panda to some kids I babysat. I remember eyeing him at their house and thinking 'why the fuck did I give him away'. When the kids were asleep I showed him how much I missed him. I think I was feeling like an alcoholic must, just get the booze out of the house and I can handle it. Remove the temptation, oust the panda bear. Didn't take long to replace the drink - I forgot him when my pillows presented themselves as a perfectly mountable. Fuck. I couldn't escape it. The possibilities were endless.


Case in point; in 6th grade I discovered the shower massage in my parent's shower. Oh yeah, that was insane, a whole different gig entirely. Like 7 orgasms a shower, I thought for sure I was going to hell, but it certainly didn't stop me! Set that thing on pulse and aim it right and it was a veritable gift from the Goddess. At this point I KNEW it was sexual and kept it under wraps. No problem getting me into the shower!


For some reason I never figured out I could do it TO myself rather than rubbing myself upon something for many many years. I think I had to be in my 20's when that dawned on me. I also wonder how much of that had to do with the general theory impressed upon young catholic school aged children THOU SHALT NOT TOUCH THYSELF. I think it was infused into my brain over the years of CCD classes. Fuck you people, I figured it out.


And lastly, toys. Toys started in my 30s. I remember when I was 24 my boyfriend gave me this huge dildo, looked like the real thing. I was horrified and was rather unclear how much I could learn to LIKE that thing and got rid of it, stupid me. Panda Bear and that big boy. Long gone. Can someone get me a tissue?


Eventually I succombed to hormones and went for the boys instead of poles, eventually understanding their pole could potentially be even better. Oh, if that naughty little Jim could see me now. Teasing me all those years, little shit. Maybe he'd like to see me climb a pole today! Hmm?


I still fantasize about being a stripper. Or at least trying it out. It'll never happen, but still. It's one of my little fantasies that is just that. Fantasy. I think.


:)



A

Boys for Breakfast.

Mr. Rising and I went to breakfast the other day, and I was enjoying my gluten free crepes with gusto (gotta work on my emaciated state) until it was time to leave. As we departed, I was walking toward the door and noticed a group of 4 younger guys sitting at a table nearby.

I do catch men looking at me, but not as often as my husband does. I think he eye-fucks them when they do, he won't fess up. Anyway, that group of men definitely looked at me, like they all got quiet, started noticing one by one what the others were looking at, opened up, leaned back, and looked at me. I saw them look at my jeans, even. One guy was crazy cute, he kept up the assessment, eyes flicking over me, then Whoopsie, back to my tall, dark, and probably menacing looking husband following me and undoubtedly noticing the appraisal.

I also notice women checking me out. But that just makes me paranoid and defensive. This is likely due to the type of shit I deal with on a regular basis, a la previous posting. I'd never know if they were interested in me sexually. Never know. How the hell would I know if it was admiration, lust, or criticism. How in hell I'd go about finding a date with a woman is just beyond me. How do you do that. Men were easy, it was easy to navigate them, it was all testosterone and of course I want to have sex with you. Simple. Women? Well, I guess I'd be frequenting places that cater to lesbians and all that. I guess I'd figure it out. I had lesbian experiences as a child, but with odd boundaries. I'll get to that soon.

Anyway, on the ride home, discussed lascivious look from admiring cougar fodder with darling scary looking husband. He did indeed notice. I asked if he eye-fucked them. He claims not to. I doubt his honesty, he knows I'd be irritated. I'm an exhibitionist, remember. Look at me. Let me flaunt my sexiness. It feels good and turns me on.

Husband pipes up, "What do you do when you catch the eyes of a man ogling you? Usually women will smile." Whooooopsie. Apparently husband goes about ogling other beautiful women and they smile at him. He noticed his slip immediately, tried to deflect it, minimize it.

Darling. I could care less. I'd care if it went beyond that.

Good Goddess, sexuality is fascinating shit.

Oh, and yes, I did indeed smile at Mr. Cougar Fodder. Of course I did, Mr. Rising. I smiled at him with my tall, dark, and menacing knight in my wake. :) That's kinda fun. Were I in a dark alley by myself, no, I wouldn't smile at them. It's all about timing!

Daddy's Playboy Collection

Good Goddess I was a sexual kid.

Horny little pervert, desperately wanting to feel that good feeling, but raised Catholic and well, you know what that means. There were times I thought something was wrong with me. I have been fascinated by sex all my life.

Pedophiles, please go away, this is not fodder for your perversion. But I do want to explore this part of who I am, what influenced my sexuality as a young girl.

What came first, the chicken or the egg? Was I inherently sexually inspired, or was I influenced?

I like to think it is just inherently part of who I am. I don’t think the things I experienced shaped me, rather I was initially sexually inclined and therefore sought sexual experiences. Gleeful at the salacious serendipity of discovering what I craved. It was probably a combination of the two. Nature and nurture, together, I get it.

Again, I grew up in an upper-middle-class conservative Midwestern neighborhood, catholic as could be (church EVERY stinkin’ Saturday, and CCD EVERY stinkin’ Wednesday – that’s like seven years of wasted time!!!!). But there was a smorgasbord of sexual stuff hiding around, if you knew the lay of the land.

My sweet, inner-city high-school principal dad (the kids LOVED him) was a boy from “the other side of the tracks,” so I had him to balance out my mother’s puritanical avoidance of anything sexual. He was a dirty joke slinging party boy. They, people, did not have sex. Except for the one time I caught them, which scarred me for life. Gag.

She wanted me to be the first female alter girl. In complying, I hoped to even out my evil rampant humping of anything I could mount with a bit of service-to-God time. But as her effort failed, I went about securing my perverted seat in hell.

So what sexual things occurred in my childhood to influence me? I will clarify that I was never molested, was never abused in any way. A bit of emotional rollercoaster with my adoptive mother’s mental up and downs, but outside of that it was very loving, good over all.

The thing that first comes to mind was the stellar collection of vintage Playboy Magazines my dad had. Chicks with real tits, unreal. Beautiful women with shape. 1969 playboy is very different than todays version. They were cleverly stashed in a tattered, non-descript cardboard box jammed underneath other boxes back in the ramshackle bar in the darkest corner of our damp basement, just where a curious kid was sure to look.

There was not a corner of the house I didn’t scope out. I knew where everything was. All my friends knew if you wanted a peep at nudie mags, go to Aphrodite’s house. She’s got the goods. There must have been 70 Playboys in there, and I looked at them all. I’d dig them out and surreptitiously page through them; they were stiff with years of being compressed, smelled dank and musty.

And they were exciting, and beautiful, and profoundly sexy. I found, and still find, nothing wrong with them. But my personal little treasure was the rare find of a picture of a naked guy with a lovely hard on. I tore that one out and kept it hidden it under the turntable of my record player in my bedroom.

Sex Ed, indeed. So my mother’s lack of direction led to exactly what, I am not sure. But I like myself today, and I like my sexuality better than I ever have. And I understand it, thanks to a solid education. Were my mother to have had a part in it, I'm sure I'd have been a nun. But I'd be one of those clandestine naughty nuns, and we all know what they do. I'd have been fucking all the other nuns in the asylum, er, nunnery.

WHAT did you say to me??

I am Aphrodite's seething irritation.

Women can be so critical of other women's bodies. It makes me crazy when other women call me skinny. It's a derogative word in my opinion. It implies a certain need for more body fat. I know some women think it's a compliment, but it is not. When someone calls me skinny I feel defensive.

I want to clarify that I'm thin and extremely athletic, I do not have any wiggle room to lose any weight were I to get sick, but I do not look ill. The picures I post are recent. In fact I was at a doctor recently for an injury and he grabbed my arm and said, "Wow, you look great. Are you a marathon runner?" So a medical professsional or two have said I'm in great shape. Thin and athletic. Not skinny.

I also find it amazing that people feel the need, indeed, the right to comment on my physique so often. And let me tell you I get a whole gamut of comments ranging from "emaciated" to "rocket of a body." Everyone has an opinion and for some reason when you're thin it's okay to voice that opinion. If I were chubby nobody would say dick squat to me about it. Or perhaps they'd say soothing things like,"Oh, come on, you look great!" Nobody would say to me, "You're looking a little thick, Aphrodite, are you okay?"

Older people, too, love to comment that I need to eat more. I fucking eat, and I eat plenty. I'm very careful about not losing weight. Fucking keep your comments to yourself, fat ass. I'm starting to get bitter about it if you can't tell. Although my loving Russian grandpa used to grab my arm and say, "koosh aye!" (forgive my lack of Russian skills - I do French, Japanese, and Spanish, but not Russian.) But I was 8. Not 40. All immigrant grandparents want their grandkids to eat.

Men, well, they say nothing except positive stuff. No wonder I've formed few trusting relationships with women over the years. In fact the few true friends I have never ever said I'm skinny, only positive things. And they as well have gorgous bodies. I mean gorgeous! Not skinny, so they of course feel some need to be thinner, which confuses the crap out of me because they truly look fantastic. Societal pressures, perhaps.

Last night at a girls party for make-up products at my neighbor's house, one of the women was saying, kindly, that I look like someone famous. I laughed, said I've heard that before, " Is it Denise Richards?" and she was like "YES! That's who! You look so much like her!" Well, another neighbor girl piped up, "Oh, sure, an emaciated Denise Richards," aat which everybody dropped their jaw and gaped at her. I said,"WHAT did you say to me??" A few sweet ones there immediately jumped in and said "She is NOT emaciated, J!" And she backpedaled like crazy, explaining that to HER that is a compliment, she's do anything to be considered skinny/emaciated, yada yada.

My comment back to her?

"Whatever, Chubby."

OOPSIE! It slipped out. For the last 10 years when some likely jealous woman has called me skinny or asked if I'm eating enough or some stupid shit that women who are heavier than I am like to say, I've fantasized about saying that, even though they are not chubby. And last night I did it. She took it in stride, saying she deserved it, that she's just jealous, etc., I went on to say you're about as chubby as I am emaciated...your a runner in great shape, blah blah.

I find women of all shapes attractive. Well, I admit, not obese women, but that's just unhealthy. I find women who are full shaped stunningly womanly and curvacious. Beautiful. I also think Paris Hilton looks great. In my opinion there is a whole range of beautiful shapes.

But for some reason everybody likes to evaluate my physique. Particularily women, and usually it's not exactly complimentary.

I guess I'm just tired of it. Sorry, J. (she doesn't read my blog, but oh well.) You are not chubby, you look great, and I mean it. I hope you'll see that, too, someday.

Poor, emaciated Aphrodite.

testing 1234

Just a test...my last post didn't publish...I got a new netbook, problemsolving....

Aphrodite the Eight Cent 'Ho.

Freaking hilarious. I have officially made eight cents blogging.

To anyone who reads my blog, I apologize for the annoying ads I allow. I actually only use the feature that goes along with "adsense" that tells me how many page impressions my blog has had and when. I'm watching you watching me, *shittygrin*, in a way. Ah, in the end the exhibitionist is the voyeur. I see you! I just have no idea of knowing who the hell you are. Unless you comment, but few do. I like comments, I'm not real self-motivated but am a pleaser to the end. I'm like a dog that way. Good girl, Aphrodite.

So, using the adsense function, it's rather fun to see that people read it. Or perhaps just beat off to it. I don't f-ing know. I have a select few regular commenters, but no other way of finding out if anyone is reading my shit. I like knowing people visit it. That it is a little bit more than simply a journal.

So today, as I spied on you peeking at me, I noticed to my grand surprise that Google has paid me a whole EIGHT CENTS! One of you clicked on an ad, and I got paid (or my great-grandkids will, in 2090 when I get enough clicks to warrant payment). Again, not my intent, but damn, I think it's funny. I'm officially your whore through Google. The rules state I must not request people click on ads. I'm not, and haven't, never did. I just want to see who is looking in the end. If anyone knows a different way to track that stuff, let me know.

Eight whole cents. And I thought I was one of those 4000 dollar escorts. I'm in the wrong stinkin' profession! I shoulllld make you pay for this, but here. I'm too lazy to implement a paypal function. Nevermind the fact that I'm an exhibitionist in the end.

In celebration of my momentous 8 cent day....a freebie for you.

"Secretary and the Boss" Aphrodite.

Churches, Phalluses, and Cherries! Oh my!

So I had another day out, with a different friend, this is she and I at the sculpture garden.

I think I have a dirty mind. Well, I know I do. But here are some pictures of things that positively delighted my sleazy brain cells that day. Sexual innuendo galore.

I love this piece in the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden.

I particularily love this shot, juxtaposing that luscious cherry and the Basilica behind it. Sex and Church. Good and evil. Yes, in that order, in my opinion. The sugary sweet slippery wet cherry on the spoon, all delicious and seductive looking, lined up with the truly architecturally beautiful yet somehow ominous Basilica of St. Mary in the background. I should have Stevie Vai's Sex and Religion playing in the background.


This different angle, a tongue on that prim little cherry.

It's really the spoon, yes, but the unmistakable allegory is remarkably palatable. And that it's here, in what I consider to be conserative Minnesota, is just thrilling. Of course it's in an art center near uptown where the locals are far less conservative, but still. It's here. And it's just a cherry on a spoon. But it's also oh, so, much, more. And the (separate and different!) church witnessing the cunningly lingual composition just makes me jump for joy (not to mention the phallic ditty beneath it - not pictured). Sex and religion. Two ancient things that are so irrevocably interwoven in the end (in my naughty mind).

Anyway, we came home and I washed up some of my own cherries to savor. Whoa!

This cherry had a phallus! Spectacular! Then I cut open a pepper later to discover a penis lurking inside, like a present just for Aphrodite. He's uncircumcised, I think.

I think I'd like to make a book about sexual vegetables if it hasn't been done yet. Like that one person who created the veggies with emotions - gave them faces and all that.

Dirty mind. Can't help it.