Monthly Archives: March 2011

Hesbians of the World: Unite!

I thought I would wait till Friday to rant on this upcoming bit — kinda give you V’s lil’ Week in Review then — but the venom is rising quicker than I predicted.  This morning, it choked the living breath out of me before my alarm had a chance to wake me with its hideous drill at the regular five o’clock; then crowded my brain as the first waking thought.  And I pinky swear:  I’ve even started blackening my smooth electronic page with the tale of a girlfriend’s woes:  she loves him, he can’t commit, she’s torn, “Where is all this going?”, etc, etc, etc.  But a discussion of these valid and delicate and somewhat vague struggles in a heterosexual couple seems a tiny bit gratuitous when nearly every day of this week, I’ve hung my head with painful despair at the injustice and pure violence placed upon the men and women of homosexual orientation.

The week started with my introduction to an atrocious event I’ve never even heard of before.  It came as link on a Facebook page of a woman mentor I adore so much that every word she utters and every choice she commits I lap-up as my personal, private sermon.  That badass chick has devoted her life to traveling with her three gorgeous adoptive sons in tow, settling in primarily Third World Countries and teaching.  She is currently working with children and women in South Africa, blasting her always poignant, sometimes political and often humorous observations on the newsfeed.

“You go, with you badass self!” I always think when I read her words, wishing I could be just like her when I grow up.

So when the following link came to my attention, I treated it with immediate empathy:  https://secure.avaaz.org/en/stop_corrective_rape_6/?rc=fb.  To break it down for you, my comrades, it speaks of nearly a year old series of continuous attacks on South African lesbians by men on a mission to cure them of their homosexuality via “Corrective Rape,” and in the case of Eudy Simelane, murder — acts that the country’s government refuses to “prioritize as a specific project.”

“Corrective Rape”?  ‘Scuse me:  I gotta go hurl my guts out!…

…Okay, I’m back.

While dripping venom onto my keyboard, I hurry to acknowledge that you, my magnificent comrades and readers, aspire to comprehend humanity already.  Just by the response of those of you courageous enough to handle my rants on the daily basis, I am willing to conclude that, just like me, you prefer to see this world be dominated by kindness and compassion; you choose to understand it and, what’s most crucial — to learn about it.  So, you don’t really need my venomous heaves on the subject of rape — the most heinous crime the human race could think up.  But to violate a woman due to one’s overwhelming hatred, ignorance and lack of tolerance, and then to treat that act as one of public service — that’s hubris beyond all comprehension.  And since you, my magnificent walking proofs of goodness, are already on the same page — my fuckin’ page! — I call upon your awareness:  http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/africaandindianocean/southafrica/4982520/Lesbians-subjected-to-corrective-rape-in-South-Africa.html.  If mere knowledge is not enough for you, however:  Go do something about it, my glorious badasses:  https://secure.avaaz.org/en/stop_corrective_rape_6/?rc=fb!

On the hump day of this week, the world regurgitated another piece of info that got V all riled-up:

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/30/us/30immigration.html?_r=1&ref=us.

Considering my liberal mindset and my own history of immigration-related strife, the news of deportation of foreign-born partners in legally married homosexual couples — is a double whammy.  Yep, I hear some o’ ya’, comrades:  Gay couples can finally get married in, like, six states already!  So, shouldn’t that be enough?  As another magnificent mentor I admire says:

“Fuck no!”

(Well, actually, he’s Russian; so, “Fuck nyet!” — he said.)

Now, I’ve already cast my vote in favor of this country when I took on its citizenship; and, by now, Shiva knows, I’ve taken full advantage of the freedoms that it has granted me.  (Read my “ranty-cunty” blog at:  fromrussianwithlove.wordpress.com.  Spasibo!)  But, when it comes to tolerance — it is never enough.

How does that one-of-a-kind, world’s youngest phenomenon’s Declaration go:

“WE hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal…” (Fuck da!)

“…that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.”

(Mmm-hmm, I just copied that out of my own personal booklet I was given with my American Citizenship Certificate, at the standee of my first brown President!  V — be very, very proud!)

“Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.”  Now, doesn’t the mere founding theory of this country give you a hard-on?!  I got me one!  So, as the world continues to throw-up the tales of human inventiveness in ways to hurt each other, may we continue living-up to the better principles and the basic human rights that started this magnificent experiment in the first place.  May we continue to grow and change; and as in any relationship, in the one we have with the rest of the world — may we affect it in all the right ways.

Single White She-Male

Ladies!

Let this wild cat on her eighth life tell you how it is:  A successful relationship is the hardest thing you’ll ever do. Take my word for it.  For most of us, our lives haven’t been ravaged by war or incurable disease or poverty.  We aren’t oppressed on the daily basis into a category of borderline servants in a male-dominated culture.  We are free to choose the cities of our residence, the degrees on our diplomas and the length of our hair.  So, if you happened to live in the First World Country — such as this ever-so-fascinating experiment of the U.S. of A. — that allows for enough leisure time to entertain the concept of CHOICE, you’ve got yourself a complicated task on your hands.

CHOICE. My favorite word.  Ever!  Maybe it’s because in the country of my origin — my badass Motha’ Russia — I wasn’t granted too many of choices.  Or perhaps, the hellholes of my previous six lives have prevented me from making “love” my favorite word.  But to me, a choice is the highest privilege a free man and woman can have; and if it’s been granted to you by birth — well, then:  You’re one lucky mother fucker!  No, wait.  I spoke too soon.  Now that I’ve finally advanced my station in life beyond survival of a mere immigrant, I am starting to understand that one’s right to choose comes with a responsibility.

The very purpose of my humble existence, I believe, is too collect the stories of humanity — and then, retell them; and my favorite subjects — are the magnificent creatures of my own gender.  So, as one of those coolest Amazons I’ve adopted for a sister has once told me:

“It is our responsibility — to live a good life.”

She herself was born into a culture in which women better fit into a category of things.  Having been thrown around enough by her family, she got her wits together at a criminally young age (for, I believe, NO child should inherit the suffering of his or her parents!) — and she fled.  On the coast of her new and democratic country, she spent decades molding herself into an independent, powerful woman with an income that beats most men’s, allows her to explore the world and grants her access to every possible opportunity that arouses her curiosity.  Bare-handedly, she wrangled with her — ah, here’s that word again! — choices of partners, and to this day, has refused to settle for (drumroll, ladies!) less than what she deserves.

Say, you’ve finally found “The One.”  (I cringe here a little, my lovely ladies, because I would be so very, very, very careful with granting that title to anyone other than your self.  There is no more crucial relationship in life than THE one you have — with YOU! And if you haven’t invested in that honest and intimate and most important love of your life, then you will neither be a happy partner nor make a partner happy.)

So, back to “The One.”  You’ve done the legwork and the self-examination.  You’ve explored your choices.  You’ve suffered enough in bad match-ups to live up to your better expectations; and here you are:  coupled up with a partner that suits you best.  You’re done!  You’re on the threshold of your Happily Ever After.  Hallelujah!  Right?

Nyet!

I must break it to you, ladies, but the tale of your Happily Ever After will demand continuous commitment and work.  Here is my beef with fairytales:  After an epic search for love by their heroines, these tales we’ve lapped up as little girls cut-off abruptly once the match-up finally happens.  No one tells us about how Cinderella deals with moving into the Prince Charming’s bachelor pad and handles his messy living habits.  Or whether or not the Pea Princess welcomes all the other hard things her man presents in bed due to his insatiable sexual appetite.  Does Snow White agree to her in-laws’ demands to change her last name; and is her Prince chill with her having a multitude of male friends?  When Rapunzel pops out her babies, gets a job and decides to cut off her hair, how does that sit with her lover; and how do they get past the negotiation?  See what I mean, ladies?  The questions, the work, the communication and the diplomacy required for a successful relationship — are never-ending.

So, I wish you courage in pursuit of your fairytales, the gorgeous sisters of my gender; because courage is exactly what it takes to remain in love with yourself, another person, or this whole living deal. May you stay curious, continue changing and may your partner have the balls to keep up.  But here is my most crucial spiel:  Pah-lease, remain authentic to yourself in your own story writing. Don’t follow other women’s choices, especially if those choices haven’t been examined, but predetermined by fear, laziness or the majority’s dogma.  If you are lucky enough to have choices — don’t take them for granted. You are free to write your own fucking fairytales, my Amazons; and besides that being a privilege — it is your bloody responsibility to do so.


My Russian Badass

As any immigrant, I suffer from a dual personality.  Actually, I’m a bit of a special head case and the list of my personalities seems as endless as the line to Moscow’s first McD’s back on the verge of Russia’s democratic regime; but if you’re one of those purebred Americans (do those even exist?), you should know that in the head of any emigre reigns a border-line schizophrenia.  I’m kinda like that Nina chick from Chekhov’s Seagull:

“I’m a seagull — I’m an actress.  No, I’m a seagull!  Nyet:  an actress!”

In my head’s case, the endless tug o’ war is on the topic of my identity.  When it comes to the tales of V as a child — she is a Russian little bugger; and those memories and dreams happen in a whole different language.  But as a woman, I’ve built my history here, in the U.S. of A.  My first love, my first sexual partner, the first heartbreak, the first loss of a loved one — all happened here.  So, when it comes to my consciousness as a lover, I doth speak English.  In other words, when things get hot ‘n‘ heavy between me and my boos, my tongue communicates in the language I’ve adopted by choice.

So, the hardest question from an American that I can ever answer (besides:  “Do you guys have TV’s over there?”) is this MoFo:

“Which country do you prefer?”

Fuck me!  That’s the hardest toss-up ever.

There is no pride stronger — or devotion more realized — than the one an immigrant feels toward his or her chosen country; especially if the country they’ve left behind gave them some tough lovin’ back in the day.  Some of my fellow ex-patriots, for instance, react to Motha’ Russia’s name with dry heaves:  So impossible is their forgiveness! But seemingly, I’ve finally reached the very delicate balance of being able to not only fully participate in my American life, but to cash-in on my Russian-ness.  By that I mean that, for the very first time since I’ve switched continents, I am able to speak of Russia with forgiveness and admiration.  Now, I am not blind to the irony that out of all the choices of my potential homelands, I had to go choose the largest mother fucker after Motha’ Russia; so that I could continue my gypsy bounce without having to switch visas.  Also, I don’t need the help of my shrink to point out the element of rebellion in the Soviet child’s selection of the country her father spent his entire life opposing.  (Papa was a Soviet Army officer.  ‘Nough said.)

When I encounter my fellow Russians on this fast American land of mine, I gotta say:  They are kinda badass! I now reside in a close proximity to the Soviet Emigre Central, otherwise known as West Hollywood — still the most liberal ‘hood you can find yourself in LA-LA Land, in my opinion.  So, I tend to run into a few of my former country’s comrades.  Yes, I’ve seen the type of the middle-aged, purple-haired woman who looks at you as if premeditating ways she can kill you.  I’ve passed the line-ups of male retirees playing dominos on park benches — all unanimously wearing tracksuits — while they maintain their stoic silence despite the shortness of my dress.  In Hollywood clubs, I’ve picked-out the cluster of young Russian males, in black leather jackets, telegraphing their attraction to me with no more than an eyebrow raise.  But those types are usually guarding a handful of decked-out, made-up, pretty and very expensive Russian girls with demands of such high maintenance, you’d think they’ve never lived through deficits of toilet paper or winter-long power and water outages.  (See my rant about dem Russian girls:  https://fromrussianwithlove.wordpress.com/2011/02/16/from-russia-with-love-very-very-expensive-love.  So, yep:  I usually stay away from those.)

Recently, I’ve even encountered a couple of Russian business types.  By “business,” I don’t mean they handle those jobs that a real-life Tony Soprano would be helpless to do himself.  Here, I am actually speaking of Russians who are in pursuit of some honest livin‘ — and some American dollars.  (Although, if a Russian “businessman” ever threatens to kill you — I recommend to just take his word for it:  It’s just safer that way.)

From this year’s encounters, I began to wonder about the source of my pride I feel toward the better-equipped, better-integrated generation of Russian movers ‘n’ shakers in the midst of their American professional careers.  First of — and most importantly! — these types are always well-educated.  Even if most of their college life unfolded in this country, my dear ex-patriots maintain a very high standard of learning.  There is no such thing in Russia’s educational system as “an elective subject,” you see, my comrades:  You bust yo’ ass and pretend to enjoy soaking-up every science, every art and every humanity.  So, it’s been my experience, that usually, my peeps know what they’re talking about.  The second reason for my pride for my fellow ex-patriots has been better articulated by the previously mentioned Boss Soprano:

“You Russians, you got all the angles.  You come over here, you bust your ass.”  He did manage to get himself some Russian ass at the end of this pep talk, but still:  Russian emigres are some of the hardest working people I know.

And then:  there is the cultural heritage.  I’m not just talking about the again mandatory exposure to the richness of Motha’ Russia’s arts.  I mean:  The national strength that originates from one’s ability to bear and persevere. As we all know, Motha’ Russia has got herself a long and tumultuous history.  Oh how inventive She’s been in the ways to make her children suffer!  Famine, political unrest, centuries of oppression and dictatorships; wars and invasions; inflations and poverty; exile and holocaust — She’s got it all!  (She sounds like a lovely place to visit, doesn’t She?!)  And still, the people of my old country refuse to settle down.  No matter the forever-looming danger of persecution, they insist on practicing their right to an opinion and the pursuit of change. (Here is a tale of one recent Russian whistle-blower:  http://soviet-awards.com/digest/pavlichenko/pavlichenko1.htm.  And I thought, my blog was controversial!)

“Now is the winter of our discontent,” the bard once sang.  Considering the length of those damn Russian winters, the unrest of my former people seems never endless.  But just as my own Russian motha’ prefers to love me from afar, something tells me it is better to practice my affection for my former land from a distance as well.  And still, whether they choose to suffer back home or excel in their pursuits on the American land, I have to hand it to my Russian comrades:  May your stubborn courage and high expectations of your Motha’ country finally deliver a summer of rest and prosperity.

“Where Dem Girls Talkin’ Trash?”

Mornin’, Haters!  Rough night?

I’ve been watching you, you inconveniences of the human race!  You interferences en route to the happiness of my own!  I’ve caught you sticking foreign objects into the spokes of my fellow dreamers’ rides, for reason you don’t even know yourself.  Around this town, you slither, dropping banana peels out of your back pockets as if they were horse shit.  I’ve heard you hiss and gloat at others’ defeat, chiming in your hateful sounds into the collective white noise that hangs above LA-LA like a toxic rainbow.

What?  You think life’s unfair?!  You think you deserve better?!  Perhaps.  Most likely, yes, actually; for life could always be a lil’ bit better, or easier, or more just.  But you’ll be getting bupkis, if you continue to reach for a piece of someone else’s happiness.  You gotta make your own, you see.  Play your own game.  Place your own bets.  Cast your risky ballots.  So, let me do you this favor and tell you what you look like; because no matter how pretty the wrapping, a hater — is always a nature’s disgrace.  Now, you don’t wanna be that, do ya?!

As for you, my magnificent dreamers:  Take notes!

—  A single hater — is easy to pick out; for whatever smoothness they may possess in a social setting, they are always accompanied by a slight stench of discomfort. It may be disguised behind a narrowing of their eyes or a hideous, strained smile.  Beauty always sets off a certain discomfort in their skin.  So, they start shooting the comparing looks and tagging on their own clothes.  That’s the moment in which their self-hatred becomes so unbearable — they better start looking to blame someone else for it.

—  When they speak — insincerity is their spiel. Some of them think they are so suave, with their forced compliments and eager nodding!  All you gotta do — is do The Fake Walkaway. Besides sex, it’s my favorite sport, my gorgeous comrades, and it goes like this:  You wrap up the chat, excuse yourself and swing your proud head in the direction of your fake destination.  Then, count to three and quickly look back.  The spiteful stare that you’ll witness will make your skin crawl, so brace yourself, my dreamers, and start groping for your own forgiveness and esteem.


—  A ballsier hater will address you with a pet name. See the following list:  “honey” or “hun”; “missy” or “Miss Thang”; “look atcha” or that annoying “aah” sound, as if they were looking at babies.

—  Female haters — a special category. To me, it’s the most fascinating and heartbreaking one.  They glare at beautiful girls from behind the rims of their martini glasses.  If confronting beauty face to face, they linger before smiling (if at all!); and even then, that smile is so painful, their faces appear pumped-up with Botox or novocaine.  It is beyond their ability to pay a compliment that’s not back-handed.  Here are some samples:

“Pretty dress,” — (sometimes, they start pecking with their hands at the mentioned frock) — “Whereja get it?  Forever 21?”

“I love your eyebrows!”  They squint and lean in.  “But they’re a bit crooked though.”  And then:  THEY TOUCH YOU!  Some haters are big on touching:  It’s their way of testing just much they can violate your boundary.

“Nice hair!”  “Nice” is a female hater’s favorite adjective; and they say it as if whining a bit.  Sometimes, a “nice” is accompanied by a raising of eyebrows, or a rolling of the eyeballs, or a chuckle.  Other times, they may even pat your shoulder blade.  But on the receiving end of it, these gestures always make you feel like a leper.

—  Some haters hang in packs, kinda like hungry hyenas, waiting for the scraps of a lion’s dinner.  You can always observe them congregate:  hissing at the same round table at Starbucks, or hugging the walls of a dance floor, or giving tiny blow jobs to their cigarettes while being quarantined from the healthier mortals.  In packs, they’re slightly braver and maybe even sadistic.  So, beware when passing them:  Hold your own and be prepared to retaliate!

—  Speaking of a comeback:  The only way to handle a single hater — or a pack of ‘em — is to call ‘em out. Here, the good news is you needn’t be mean or vindictive.  What freaks out a hater the most — is honesty.  So, you see, my glorious creatures, it’s not about defending yourself.  It’s about confronting atrocious human behavior with self-possession and truth. All you do — is call it like it is:

“You sound condescending,” or “Is that a back-handed compliment?” usually gets a hater to panic, for they’re weasely fuckers.

“Is there a problem?” or “Do you have something to say to me?” just might give ‘em a heart attack.

But I must confess here:  It’s a little bit fun to watch them scramble for excuses and less than eloquent explanations of their original meanings.  It’s the only pleasure I get out of handling a hater, bare-handedly.

Besides that, my beautiful boys ‘n’ girls — you dreamers that make this fucking planet worth treading! — I treat dem haters like a herpes-infected piece of chewed-up and discarded gum:  Avoid touching ’em with my hands, scrape ‘em off the bottom of my fancy shoe and leave ’em on the side of the road!


“If You Feelin’ Like a Pimp — Go ‘n’ Brush Your Shoulders Off!”

Good morning, you courageous creations of Nature!  You Herculeses of fate!  You wander-lusty Amazons of the world!

My beloved quirky dreamers stepping into the spot normally occupied by my Inspiration (for that Amazon wander-lusts a lot on my bohemian ass!).  My gypsy friends with messy heads of curls telegraphing your love via the Northern winds.  You curious hearts refusing to give up on charity or love.  You soldiers willing to rest only in my company while stretching your exhausted thighs underneath my pine table loaded with a homemade feast.

My Angles, my Black Birds; my Peter Pans and Wendys; my Little Princes and their Brave Roses.  My Shivas.  My Bad Asses.  My Hearts.

Where in the frigging fuck are we all running to?

“Gotta do something!  Gotta be somebody!” you tell me.

I bet it is your ambition and your courageous pursuit of your dreams that makes me adore you.  But I have seen some of you slip up — but never crumble — on the way to your conquests; and in those vulnerable seconds I could NOT have loved you more.  Because it is in the way you chuckle when you pick yourself up; the way you rise up again, albeit embarrassed; the way you mend your torn-up clothes — with dignity of kings!; the way you bite your lower lips when I tend to your scratches; and the way you brush off your shoulders from the hail of the words of haters — in all that you teach me the merely invisible line between pride and dignity.  And then you take off again, pushing yourself with your impatience, or your fear of not mattering.

“Gotta get somewhere!  Gotta become something!”

Last night, a beloved woman best compared to my personal Mother Teresa was beating herself up in our phone conversation.  She has experienced motherhood late in life, and instead of living for the sake of her daughter alone — she went back to school.  Astonishing!  Off she went, my kindest LA-LA heart, pulling along a full-time job, a full-time class schedule — and a frigging stroller.

“I’ve got to do this for my daughter!” she flagellated the soft skin of her back with her frustration at the current, undeserving employer and her impatience with the world’s injustices; and the self-imposed pressure to be a better parent.

The last time I’ve encountered that mentioned girl-child, born so smart she conjugates her verbs better than most grown-ups she meets at her play-dates, she wasn’t asking her mother to become better.  Her mother’s time — was all she wanted.  And who could blame her:  In the company of my girlfriend, every person feels fully received, understood and unconditionally accepted.  Oh so many times, my red-headed Mother Teresa had gotten an earful from me about the errors of my underserving men or my own sins against my self-worth.  Yet, she remained nonjudgemental, kind — just the way a mother is supposed to be.  So, the only thing I miss about her these days — is her company.  Her time.  Her very being.  To me, she is perfectly enough; and I bet that little brilliant child of hers feels the same way.

“Well!  I’ve gotta do this, for myself!” my favorite redhead concluded last night, after a couple of my meek objections.

A’right!  NOW we’re talkin’!  The most stubborn advocate of learning, I shall not disagree with this woman’s ambition to better herself — but she better not pull that sacrifice card on me, or on her child.  Do it for yourself, your own high expectations of your humanity.  But in the mean time, please:  Treat yourself with a lil’ bit more kindness, will you?

Now, I wish I would live by my own sermon, my comrades.  Having skipped out on sufficient sleep for a month now, I am tearing through time that passes way too quickly while my dreams seem to move way too slowly, crashing the face of every clock I encounter on my way like a petulant child who’s not fond of hearing “Nyet!”.  With each new wrinkle underneath my exhausted eyes, I’ve been chalking-up the sacrifices committed for the sake of my future, accomplished and seemingly overall better self.

Gotta, gotta, gotta!” I mutter in my lover’s bed; and he — Shiva bless him! — tangles up his callused, manly hand in my hair and whispers me to sleep.

Okay!  I promise:  Tomorrow I shall rest!

…Yet already, my to-day’s heavy schedule is scratching at the front door, like a homeless, scrawny cat I’ve made a poor choice to feed every once in a while.  The sound of everything I’ve “gotta” do is speeding-up my heartbeat and making me slightly nauseous with anxiety.  Just like always, I bet I shall accomplish every one of my “gotta’s” with grace and efficiency; and when I do, I promise to celebrate with a cup of brutally-brewed black Russian tea, with brown honey.  And during my rest stops — my breathing breaks — I shall let my beloveds remind me of my magnificence and demand my time and company; for it is in the shared moments of slowness that I tend to feel most accomplished and merely enough.

But tomorrow, my beautiful dreamers, my curious bystanders and compassionate witnesses — tomorrow, I promise to do this, all friggin’ day:

 

Sisterhood Our Asses

This one is gonna fire out of me like a sniper shot:

Ladies!  Ladies, ladies!  Must we go on hating on other speci-women due to our own lapses of self-esteem?! We all have issues at times, I’ll give you that.  The fucking ego is a tricky mechanism; and as much as it’s beneficiary when propelling us forward, if not handled — it will drag down our otherwise fabulous selves.  But the thing is, my womanly comrades, I tend to solve my shit BEFORE I step out into the world every day.

It goes like this:  Wake up.  Brush the teeth.  Check-in the ego.  Then, I proceed with marinating my brain in caffeine for a couple of hours while I clock-in for the sake of my career; so that as the day progresses, god forbid I begin to despise the people I work for, who, incidentally, pay for what little freedom I have to pursue my art.  So, you see, by the time I lock-up the doors of my home where no one witnesses the exorcism of my own private garbage-baggage, I’ve brushed-off my shoulders from the dandruff of self-manufactured self-hatred.  To cause the least amount of distress or pain to a living thing — including myself — is my motto for the day.  It is my grace.  So I gotta do the work, for no other human should suffer from the echoes of my unhappiness.

What started this lovely rant?  I nearly got eaten alive last night.  Out on the town on my traditional Saturday-night story hunt, I dared to show up in a place that, for whatever coincidental reason, served as a stage for human sadness.  Normally, a swanky joint, last night my spot attracted a demographic of tragically insecure white women.  (Forgive me:  I say “white” because brown ladies tend to leave me be — unless I’m out with a brother.)  With a glass of cranberry juice on the rocks, I slithered in between the crowd, waiting for the late night festivities to start.  I made my way to the my regular observatory in the corner of the patio, right by underneath an open fire pit where no other human dared to chill.  I leaned the balmy skin of my naked back against the exposed brick wall and started to warm up my venom glands.

It felt like darts, I tell you — darts hurled by well-practiced hands — and they struck into the brown areolae of my braless nipples.  The feeling of being watched hit me head to toe, and it suddenly felt as if I got drenched with a bucket of ice-water, head first.  I looked in the direction of the stares:  a table of five females of various types was studying me in a bone-chilling silence.  They must’ve just sat down, for their plates still had the appeal of clean slates, with no evidence of their unhealthy relationships with food.  Four out of the five broads were… hmm, how should I say this?… on the heavier side.  Not that I would care, my dear comrades:  for I find women gorgeous no matter their size!

But these four were obviously tangled-up in a vicious circle of I Eat Because I Hate Myself and I Hate Myself — Because I Eat.  The syndrome, I assume, has been already activated when in the company of their girlfriends; and by the time a basket of bread was delivered to their table last night, they began to compete in non-eating.

Now!  I don’t tolerate diets, my ladies!  I don’t even want to hear it from my girls about their beef with their own weight.  My spiel is:  be active, eat healthfully — and leave your body be.  You’re perfect — so don’t you dare fuck with your gorgeous self. Obviously, my lifestyle choices show up in my appearance — and that very appearance did not sit well with my sisters last night.

Despite my returned stare — I mean, I even raised my eyebrow into a What’s the Problem Here?! arch — the unhappy broads carried on their deconstruction of V.  Finally, one of them leaned over and in very well calculated volume said:

“I would never wear that!”

What was I wearing?  Does it even matter?  Obviously, it was not my choice of clothing that awoke the insecurities of my female comrades:  It was my very being! If it weren’t for the dress, they would’ve fished for other evidence with which to tear me down; for that is the only way — at the expense of other women! — that the voice of their self-hatred is soothed, at least for a little while.  Would it be better if I buried my feline curvatures underneath on oversized sweater?  Not really.  It would be better — if I didn’t exist at all!

While the other broads chuckled like hungry hyenas, I unglued my back from the wall and made my way toward the pit of their unhappiness.  The author of the bitchy remark had no other choice of action but to take on a sarcastic sneer that disfigured her face into an even more unattractive look.  I evaluated the situation while watching the hater from behind the curtain of my hair; and by the time, I reached the table, my ballsy stare made the women get serious and obviously uncomfortable.  As I passed, I lifted my glass at the idiot-in-charge in a gesundheit gesture.  I mean:  What else could I wish her but a better, healthier self?

Only when my eyes left the field of the table, did the broads shifted in their seats.  Oh, I could hear them.  They were gearing up for further exorcism at other women’s expense.  Yet, they still had to wrap up my case.  Which they did:

“What a bitch!”  The last dart was hurled my way, except it missed its target; for I was already slithering between males dumbified by that same backless dress of mine who began calling me by the name of “Wow.”

Funny, I thought:  In either case, I didn’t even say — or do — anything.  Alas.

Pardon You?!

Dear Ex-Whatevers:

I’ve had you on my ego’s mind lately.  Blame it on the current era of my life in which I’ve finally stepped up to my self-copyrighted standards and reached for what I’ve deserved all along; but my ego’s little trip these days is to be witnessed by those that have tripped me up before.

“See!  I’m still walking!” it wants to throw over the shoulder at those I’ve left behind.

While I was never the one to lack dreams, these days I’ve finally harnessed the courage to get me to them.  Although the manifestations of success are still audible primarily to me — there are no manuscripts published yet, no dream jobs to speak of, no gypsy journeys committed around the world to reunite with my heritage — but oh how close I am to becoming what I was always supposed to be!  (The bitchy irony here, of course, is that my lacks, my insufficiencies were self-manufactured all throughout.  I am the reason I’ve slowed down before.  I am the one to trip myself up.)

“See:  Still standing!” my ego wishes to telegraph to the past players who had no comprehension, patience, or — let’s just be honest here! — acceptance for the girl I was always becoming.

But why?!

“Why the hell are you dwelling on the fuckers?” the stronger, wiser girls of mine bitch-slap my slower Self who, truth be told, can be a real sucker.

They are correct:  The memories of the past losses — and the last asses — tend to slow down my step.  But there is “a method to my madness,” I realize:  FORGIVENESS.  Fucking forgiveness!  The bitch is high-maintenance, isn’t it?!  One can earn herself bloody blisters and very high bills from her shrink when chasing it.  Forgiveness demands work, and it is the type of work that comes with no owner’s manual.  It is only between you and you; and despite your girlfriend’s or mother’s endless advice, only you can do the heavy lifting of brutal honesty and self-knowledge.

But what even I didn’t comprehend, despite the three decades of fucking around and being fucked with — is that forgiveness is a bloody chameleon.  Not only does forgiveness vary depending on its owner and that owner’s past; not only does it take an encyclopedia of diverse methods to access — but it changes along with you. If, immediately after the loss, it feels right to be angry while maintaining a distance between you and the wrongdoer — then, at that moment, that is all forgiveness is meant to be.  After months of copying, it may change to a feeling of lightness (and maybe an occasional nausea at the sound of your ex’s name) — then, that is forgiveness at that moment.  For some, eliminating all contact with an ex is the way to go; and that little imaginary death is their way.  I always aspired to be the fuckin’ Mother Teresa with my ex-fuckers — tending to our friendships for the sake of the lessons, and the stories, and the blah-blah-blah.  No matter how idiotic it appeared to my girls, that — was my forgiveness.

Oh sure, I wish I were the type of a girl to let Beyonce simplify my emotional baggage via her lyrics of arrogant feminism or angry regret:

“And keep talking that mess, that’s fine!

But could you walk and talk at the same time?!”

Uhm-hmm:  to the left, to the left!

But you see, though, my comrades:  I like digging through the mess for answers — sometimes doubled over because the pain has taken the wind out of me — and get my hands nice ‘n’ dirty.  I’m more of a Nina Simone gal:  well lived-in, well-used, wrathful, self-sufficient and little bit insane; writing her lyrics with a nose-bleed and a foaming mouth:

“I hold no grudge

And I forgive you your mistakes.

But forgive me if I take it all to heart

And make sure it doesn’t start again.”

But alas!  Here is a little “aha” moment for V, as of very recently:  Despite the ego’s desire to be witnessed by those whose mistakes have gotten me here — I want no part of them. For a change, I’ve lost all desire to carry the baggage.  Can’t I just check it in somewhere?!  Yes, I can:  on my bloody pages!  Commemorating my exes on the blank canvases of my own is my way of honoring them; and I may even feel a pinch of gratitude for those tales of defeat — but that, my dear ex-whatevers, my fuckin’ ghosts, is as far as we go.  I’ll let the ego telegraph my successes when the unconscious is activated at nighttime, behind my closed eyelids; but those smoke signals shall be the only ones sent your undeserving way.

So, take it away, Nina:

“I’m the kind of people

You can hurt once in a while.

But crawling — just ain’t my style:”

Why the Fuck are You Bleeping the Shit Outta My Art?

The other day, my comrades, I had to register my blog’s profile for this thingy that would grant me a quicker access within the blogging community.  Yes, I said “thingy” because if you knew me at all you’d understand the tragic degree of technological retardation from which I suffer.  Still, it blew my mind to know there were millions of us out there — hard-working, fast-moving doers, courageous and dynamic writers, who’ve comprised their world via the screens of their laptops; and that way — create changes in it.  Instead of freaking out about the competition — my artistic penis got erect:

“How fantastic!” I thought.  “The opportunities to produce AND distribute your art are limitless via the mighty, and not so long ago ephemeral for me, WWW-dot!  And we can all do our thing!”

So, back to the “thingy” I had to create.  To present myself to the rest of my invisible but audible blogging comrades, I had to choose a rating category to which my writing would belong — a point I somehow didn’t foresee when taking my career into my own control just a few months ago.  However, there I sat:  rereading the ratings system.  Am I composing R- or X-rated material over here?  I am obviously nowhere near PG-13.  Right?

Very quickly, I remembered a recently viewed documentary on the hypocrisy — and if you ask me, idiocy — of the Motion Picture Association of America, This Film is not Yet Rated.

Now, my dear American comrades:  As someone who escaped the butt-rape by the unimaginable consequences of my home country’s former dictatorship, the very topic of censorship sends chills down my back.  But, as they say, “When in Rome — watch your language!”  (Or however that saying goes.  I’m a foreigner, you see:  Cliches, for us, are harder to learn than the new country’s hygienic rules.)  So, I’ll immediately agree that, as the mighty and anonymous (gulp!) members of MPAA preach, we all must look out for the safety of our children.  ‘Mkay, I can live with that.  So, in the name of the children, the other night I chose the R-Rated category for my site, despite my fear of soon getting spammed with porn and dating services ads after the process was complete.  I never aspired to attract a younger reader anyway, I shrugged — not with “sex” in the very title of my blog — even though the topics of birth control and self-esteem I myself could’ve used quite a bit at my own tender age of thirteen.

That’s all fine and dandy, but can someone please explain to me why are we much more concern with sex than the bloodless violence splattered all over our film screens and daytime television?  (By the way, it’s bloodless due to yet another MPAA regulation; which adds to the anesthetization of the American public — and children — about the look and the consequences of violence.  As if this country’s geographic isolation from other war-torn countries or the lapses in its educational curricula haven’t contributed to our children’s ignorance enough.)  As the above mentioned documentary quotes, according to the censoring apparatus’s admission, “Nearly four times as many films received an NC-17 for sex as opposed to violence.”  So, a stunning piece of art like Bernardo Bertolucci’s The Dreamers was tagged with the harshest label of NC-17 — which consequentially affected its distribution and exhibition, and therefore, its profitability — due to its menage a trois scenes (or was it the insinuated male homosexuality?)  Aha.  But then every other piece of action crap starring, shall we say, our state’s former Governor has earned a more tolerant rating of PG-13.  I’m just trying to figure this out, my American comrades, so I know what awaits me as I continue to pursue further publishing opportunities.

As an artist, I AM concerned with the way my new country’s system of censorship is going to affect my income.  Am I going to have to bleep out the meatiest portions of my writing in order to be heard — and to be paid — on a larger scale?  (Have you heard the censored version of Enrique Iglesias’s Tonight I’m F**ing You? Not as fun as the original:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sQziQCvu8CI&feature=related).)  And will I be urged to apologize to my publishers for the “rawness” and the “courage” of my material for which thus far I have been praised by my readers of both genders, every age or marital status alike?  On the one hand, it is a huge ego rub to think of my trials and tribulations similar to the ones of Bertolucci; but then, I better start meditating on the possibility of having to self-publish — if I ever want to earn my dough via my art.

In “Da” Club

Wakin' Up, Russian Style

Good morning, comrades.  Oh, wait.  Is it afternoon?  V’s on Russian time today, after a 10-hour hibernation post a night of heavy partying that would make my gypsy ancestors very proud.  With my feet feeling non-existent because I insisted in ripping-up the dance floor for 5 hours in my 10-inch stilt-like stilettos, and my mouth dehydrated and venomous — my words are slow on the uptake.  With a cup of tepid, black, straight-up, sugarless coffee at my right hand, I’m starting my Sunday morning at half-speed.  But the tongue is heavy, just waiting for the mind to regurgitate an image or two that would unleash the words, V-ness style.

I will say this though:  Last night, I did it all in the name of research.  Oh yes, my comrades!  When I wasn’t balancing on stilts or shaking that compact, yoga-toned booty of mine to my favorite brown girl Riri, I was a student of human behavior.  The joint was dark and packed.  The male specimens were highly intoxicated and blinded by laser lights.  So, the Russian’s undercover research was conducted safely when she either slithered between the unknowing subjects or when she rested her tortured feet in the most corner booth with the messy glassware of the club’s bottle service.

In the midst of mayhem, I didn’t wonder about the motifs of my subjects’ behavior.  Instead, I jotted down their images, as if my words were photographic; and left my judgements for later.  Oh, don’t get me wrong:  I am aware that I’m an opinionated cunt.  But last night was different, for I merely observed the behavior of males.  I soaked it up because I would never be able to think up the following gems on my own:

— ASAP!  Something must to be said about the men who strut in through the front door of a club with toothpicks in their mouths!  How dare they scan a crowd of beautiful women for their prey when there is an actual object sticking out of their teeth?  Or what about the type that after ordering his drink from a gorgeous bartender, pays his tab, picks-up the rocks glass — and sticks his gum underneath the counter?  Classy move, buddy.  No matter how discretely he can conduct this disgusting habit, something tells me:  The man has never flipped through a single issue of GQ or Esquire — in his pathetic lifetime!

(What?  I’m not judging.  I’m just warming up my venom glands.)

— How about the defensive boy in a crocheted beige beanie hat, who otherwise would be pretty if it weren’t for the permanent sarcastic smile or too low of a cut of his V-neck?  He threw a lil’ tiff with the giant bouncer who’s asked him — quietly, yet forcefully — to keep the pathway clear.  The man of service was doing his job, while this boy-child (who better grow out of his hippie fashion sense if he’s at all interested in joining America’s workforce) held up the traffic and pouted at the fact that he wasn’t being courted properly.

(V — movin’ on!)

—  The fat boy, loud and utterly unattractive in his insecurity, who so obviously compensated for his shortcomings with a repertoire of behaviors that would look much cooler on him if he weren’t 1.  white and 2.  so chubby.  I mean:  Why the gangsta handshakes and the bad-ass chest pumps with your buddies if you can’t even keep your face straight or your drink unspilled? ‘S okay, we all know who you are:  You’re the Seth Green type.  So:  be that! Be the nerdy, chubby nice guy who is smarter than his non-Jewish friends — and better educated — and in about a decade will be making twice, or thrice the dough.  I promise:  There are girls who dig that!  Oi vey.

(Mkay.  So, I am judging.  I can’t help it — I’m a cunt!)

—  Hello, Mr. Short Guy!  Why are you hiding inside that oversized, buttoned-up up to your Adam’s Apple shirt and your vintage hat pulled down to your earlobes?  If you must be funky — embrace it.  Find some comfort in your physical traits — select better complimentary clothing for your body type — and chill. I can see the potential:  you are quite magnificent, past the bullshit.

(Well, I’m on a roll now!)

—  The white boy who doesn’t know how to dance; neither has any sense of rhythm nor swagger:  Why do you demand my attention during the uncensored version of Enrique’s Tonight I’m Fucking YOU!?  I was just standing here, boo, perfectly content in my lack of male escort this evening.  You tap me on the shoulder — twice! — in some poorly practiced, self-invented shtick; gesture that I should keep my eyes on you during the lull post Ludacris’ bit; and when the music crescendoes, you start jiggling your white body as in a fit of epilepsy.  Truly though:  I don’t give a flying fuck if you don’t have the skill to move your body with coordination.  But please, don’t request my company or my watch!

(Watch out!  The venom’s dripping into the coffee now — straight up!)

—  You just seem sickly, sir, leaning your clammy forehead against the cold mirror.  So, I ask if you’re alright.

“Oh yeah,” you respond automatically; but when you realize you like what you see, you give me one of those How YOU Doin’? grins.  “I’m the heat of a text,” you say, demonstrating the cellular device you’ve been groping underneath the mirror.

“Well, I hope she’s cute,” I nod and turn on my stilts to start walking away.

“Not as cute as you!” you throw at me, like an ice cube against my naked back.  Oh, c’mon, honey!  Why gotta do that?  You’ve obviously got a girl — you just said so yourself.  So why do you go offending me with an assumption that I’d settle for leftovers? And the cheesy line!  Really?!  So, you’re embarrassed now, pushing yourself through a line of defensive males waiting for their turn to use the bathroom.  Why do all that?

(Where is the next victim?  I now scan my last night’s notes for a memory…)

But oh!  What’s this?  A man in a suit?! Shit.  I shut up and study.  He’s in his late 20s, standing at the diagonally opposite angle of the bar.  A headful of jet-black Indian hair.  A crisp shirt with erect collar-stays.  Not even slightly tipsy, he’s buying a beautiful girl a drink.  His gaze is sharp, and despite the absentee tie — the boo’s on point.  I swear, comrades:  It’s as if a search light came down on the playa, and I think I heard the angels sing.  An Esquire man — is always noticeable. But besides that, I bet a good suit is sold with a pair of extra balls; because no matter the man’s genetic inheritance, when well-dressed — he acts like fuckin’ George Clooney.

On that sight, I wrap up my night, my darling boys ‘n’ girls.  There is hope for the male kind yet.  If only, they’d stop seeking solutions at the bottom of a rocks glass or at the tip of a joint.  If only they had the balls to live in their own skin — to tell their authentic stories — and to dress up the rest.

Good night, my darlings.  Or is it:  Good morning?

Yoga Orgasm? Anyone?

“If you don’t experience an orgasm here–in dance–you won’t experience it in life.”

Last night my brown, stunning yoga teacher gave me an ultimatum in a class she was invited to substitute.  Or perhaps, she spoke to the other four women who, just like I, had no idea what just hit them.  Because you see, we were expecting to be in the midst of level 1/2 of bending and twisting ourselves past the mind’s resistance, just so some of us could land in our bodies, while I very much desired to step out of it:  Out of the mind that has been thrashing about like a captured wild cat for the last–oh, I don’t know–lifetime.  Instead, there she stood:  killer looks–a fucking Kama Sutra goddess, picture-perfect stunner; clad in jewel tones, with her Indian hair cascading down the perfect caramel-colored skin in waves that her arms would soon imitate; with her magnificent chest thrusted forward–as was her heart–with zero shame, apology or self-negation.  Her bare dancer feet clasped the Mother Earth with every sinew like roots:  With those alone, she could kick the living lights out of an opponent–or to hold her ground like no one’s business.

When the goddess began to speak, her hands mirrored the poses of Shiva the figurine of which overlooked from a shelf suspended above her head:

“I mostly–(always)–work with women.”  She jotted out of one of her hips to the side revealing a silky, hip-hugging pair of underwear that made me drool; then shot her eyes in my direction and cracked a smile that bitch-slapped my soul with memories of my Indian best friend and every other woman I have ever loved.  “So:  Welcome, Amazons!”

“Shit.  You gonna be like that, huh?” I thought, already feeling the itch in my tear ducts.

From that point on, I didn’t even have enough time, my comrades, to conjure a resistance in the form of fear or embarrassment; for I was already smitten into submission.  As were the other pale, exhausted women in the room.  Where ever this Indian dancer-turned-teacher would lead us–it surely could not be a place of depriving our best interests and needs.

She began reminding us to breathe–alas, so simple!–from the very ovaries; and on every exhale, she demanded to hear our voices.  At first, the choir was timid; but how could we disobey the force and the beauty channelled through a core of a woman who has obviously suffered enough to devote her entire life to suffering no more?  Eventually, the voices grew.  Some women moaned.  Others–yelled hysterically past the tension of their exhausted vocal cords.  (How the fuck did we all become so appropriate?)  The young girl on a mat behind me, who seemed imprisoned by her self-pity, yelped even if mostly out of frustration and misunderstanding–but at least she made a noise.  I–hollered!

On her hands and knees, the goddess cat cowed her strong back; and with every vertebra’s shift, her magnificent behind lifted up and apart.  The thong rode up her back and imitated the arches of her hip bones.  I thought of motherhood.

“Remember that 5-year old girl before your parents told you to be an adult?” the goddess read my mind.  “Or maybe they were right–and told you you were magnificent.”

In the child’s pose, she spoke of the Mother.  In the chair pose, she reached her arms forward and wiggled her fingers while writing metaphors of rain and petals of jasmine that the women of her country braid into their hair.  Everything about her–was woman.  Every transition–was sex.  She made us pulsate and jive.  Thrust, ride, release.  Touch, caress, hold, clasp, reach, fall down.  In dance, she ordered me to take down my hair.  In stillness, she taught me about the perineum.  (Who knew there was a yoga pose for that?!)  When breathing, she demanded awareness toward the pelvis and the womb–a loaded area inhabited, as I am convinced, by my own issues with motha.

“Yoga is a very masculine practice,” the cutie gave a brutal breakdown from her home front.  What cultural barriers did she have to overcome to be here?  to be this?  “Everything is about resistance.  I want you to unleash.”

No problem, honey.  From day one of this fucking year has been about unleashing.  This year, I, myself, have been all woman–all sex–all hair, and substance, and sweat; finally and fully. I have shaken off the corpses of the past relationships that have slowed down my step for the last years of my second decade.  Why am I carrying this shit around, I thought; then deleted, unwelcomed, cut out–cut off–and finally said my au revoirs to the dead weight.  When lighter, immediately the art began to happen.  As if past the broken levees, the words have flooded in.  Who the fuck am I to hold myself back?  Who the hell gave me the right to fear?  to resist?  to worry? And:  I have been unleashing ever since.  Speaking up and out.  Resurrecting the 5-year old who had no problems with her voice.  Writing songs and odes and pamphlets on the topics that make others wince or giggle, or, better yet, to run the fuck away.  Yet, I continue, for the sake of the honorable few that stick around, listen up, and even change; and those few make it all worth it.   So, yes, my earthly Shiva:  because I have called you out, I shall obey your command and unleash–and embrace my orgasms, wherever they happen.