Tag Archives: Amazons

If Angels Must Fall…

Oh boy!  Oh boys, rather!  This shawty woke up ranty in the morn’!

Just for the sake of your wild imaginations, my rougher creatures, I shall confess that in the midst of my sleep today — while naked, with tan lines slowly marking their territory all over my skin — I had a thought.  Well, actually, I had a muscle cramp first, in one of my calves.  It came from marching in 12-inch heels yesterday eve, while strung out with endless pearls and whipping my boys with my askance glances.  But after the cramp passed, the head had a moment of clarity; and then, I tossed my caramel-colored bod into a diagonal angle across the bed, and went back to my dreamin’.  (I don’t have much height on me, so I tend to terrorize every bed I sleep in by assuming the least economical positions.  It’s what I do:  I toss ‘n’ hog.)

The thought was tiny at first:  a lil’ echo from one of my Amazon’s words I read yesternight.  But by the time I awoke — in my bed that looked like a war zone — the thought had grown into a Wild Thing.  It had been hanging onto a plank of my canopy because that was the only space unoccupied by my petite frame; and when I opened my yes, it began swinging above my head in some silly acrobatic act that was suppose to both entertain me and to terrify.

Now as I write, the Wild Thing is still here, running around my single girl’s apartment, rummaging through the drawers of my memories, reshuffling the books of my library in search of inspirations, and braiding my Martha Stewart’s ribbon collection into its hairy body.  It’s demanding my time.  I’ve tried to calm it down with a saucer full of milk ‘n‘ coffee on the tiles of my kitchen floor; but it ain’t having it.  It’s climbed upon the window sill in front of which I rant every morning and proceeded to stick is stubby fingers into a bottle of my honey; and as it started to gnaw on my gypsy earrings and dry-hump my still aching calf, I can ignore it no longer:

“Alright, alright you silly thing,” I pet it funny face.  “What is it?”

And thusly it growls:

“Do you realize the fortune, dear gentlemen, of having the love of a woman?  And if you do, how dare you waste it on your fear, or on some hideous spiel of your ego about your readiness; or a presumptuous idea that if you let that love depart, you’ll be worthy of more of it — and better kind! — in the future?

Does it stroke your egos — and your penises — when you finally get the girl you’ve been chasing?  And if it does, why do you must you daydream about deserving better than what you’ve got?  

And when, due to whatever juvenile bullshit your ego whispers to your mirror reflection during the morning shaving routine, when you break an angel’s heart, does your manhood grow when you watch her weep for the loss of your love?  Do you feel more like a man to have a woman’s tears soak your chest?  And if you do, pray do tell me, does your heart ache for her, in that very moment?

And when your angel finally gathers her belonging and the shards of her broken self-esteem and walks away, does the lingering perfume of her hair make your heart wince with missing her?   

And when another woman breaks your heart by being underserving (karma’s long term memory — is a bitch), do you remember us:  An army of angels who’ve made you better men; and for the risk of having your love, committed themselves to falling?”

Damn, you Wild Thing!  You growl with poetry!

Ow!  And there it goes, onto the next thing.  It’s gotten a hold of my old, tortured flip-phone and started flossing its fangs with it.  I got my hands full with this Thing, so I show it how to work it.  Now, it’s scrawling through the archives of my messages in search of some tender words from my recent lover.

“Oh, he’s gone, my darling,” I respond to the disappointed little face now confronting me, “and so are the messages.”

It whimpers.  I know, baby.  I know.

I take over the phone and download the words that birthed this Wild Thing into being in the first place:  The words from a co-hurting angel who’s been letting me borrow her halo while I healed:

“[Men] must chase, hunt,” she’s written, “and as soon as they feel they’ve caught you, had you totally… sexually, emotionally… as soon as you’re theirs for the taking, they no longer want it.  I fucking hate it, and it terrifies me.”

Amen, my darling.  Such is the sad coincidence in too many tales I’ve overheard from other angels, fallen for the sake of love.

Men must hunt, in pursuit of better opportunities, situations and loves.  In this day and age, they no longer need to do it on women’s behalf, for we are often capable of doing it for ourselves.  But if they must carry-on hunting, how I wish they wouldn’t get greedy — even if only for the sake of their own selves!  Because an angel’s love does not take away their freedom in pursuit of beauty — it opens their hearts to comprehending it.  It forgives the past mistakes of their mothers or resuscitates the futures they may have given-up on due to previous heartbreaks.  So, I wish our glorious men would learn to recognize their angels when they see them — to be wise enough to unload their bows and guns, to land their messy heads upon their bosoms — and to give this whole hunting act a rest.

Shh.  The Wild Thing has fallen asleep, still clutching my useless phone in its paw; and suddenly, it looks like the little thing that woke me in the middle of the night.  There, there, my darling.  There, there.

“Catch Me if You Can — But You Ain’t Man Enough”

Gentlemen!

Hold on to your balls!  This broad — is coming out swingin’, and it’s gonna hurt a lil’.

Because I’ve gotten a bloody earful of grievances from my girls (and none of them are the dainty types, waiting to be rescued by the way); and because, although my gender has a shit load of its own faults, when with a guy, women aren’t typically the ones to own-up to the following question:  Just how laid back — and just for how bloody long! — do you think you can remain about commitment, without eventually coming off as a playboy or a boy-child?

Now, look!  If acting either like George Clooney or Peter Pan is your shtick, that’s cool.  No, really:  IT IS!  Just be honest about it — with yourself, but most importantly, with the women you’re shagging.  If you are, I swear you’re gonna save yourself a lot of headache; because when clearly aware of your own intentions (which you then just as clearly communicate with your sex partner), you’ll get paired up with the most suitable girl (or girls) for your needs.

“Oh, but you women will never go for that!” some of you might say.

Uhm, hello?  I’ve been known to go for that.  And so have some of my girls.  Because you see, our dear creatures of the opposite sex, this is the time in the history of humanity when women are just as ambitious and independent as you — and they have an equal amount of opportunities to which to apply that ambition.  Even those of us who are interested in an eventual marriage tend to spend most of our 20s in pursuit of additional dreams that aren’t directly related to the best possible pairing-up with a penis owner.  (Sorry to break that to you!)  And while we chase those dreams, some of us do look for sexual gratifications with a moderately nice guy.  I repeat:  I and most of the women I know either have been or currently are in a pursuit of that type of a relationship.  We want sex.  Just like you do.  Yourr velkom!

Now, of course, you still have to work for it (that is the only catch!) — even if just for the mere symbolism of it.  But what are a couple of nice dinners and extracurricular activities in exchange for a beautiful woman to satisfy you and then — get this! — leave because she is just too damn busy to stay and cuddle with your ass?

What sparked this cunty-ranty blog of mine?  Well, one of my Amazons, with a body of a warrior queen and a career on a rise, has been confiding in me on her dating life as a single woman.  Having recently dragged herself out of a relationship with an official asshole by her own luscious hair, she’s been taking it slow, while recuperating and playing the field a little.  But not in any manipulative or gold-digging way, mind you; because, you see, this kitten — has dreams of her own and those dreams take time.  So, in between her producing, and screenwriting, and acting, and traveling, and yoga-certification ambitions, she just wanted to have a little fun with a few nice guys, while remaining completely honest about with them about her priorities.

All was hunky-dory, until one of her players started to take the lead.  And when he did, he, albeit timidly, requested for a monogamous upgrade of their relationship.

“Fine,” said my girl, because she was starting to like the guy as well (and because she is not a female douche).  Besides, regardless what you may think, dear gents:  You too can be quite high maintenance, and a girl has just so much energy to spend on building you up — or stroking your ego, or nurturing, or feeding, or mothering you — let alone on performing these, may I say, partner-like duties for several guys.

So, our couple made a step closer to their official coupling.  Now:  No one started dropping hints about marital commitments, I swear.  Neither has anyone rushed off to update their Facebook status yet.  They were taking it slow — still — and my girl was perfectly fine with that.  And you gotta be when you are being flown all over the world to shoot commercials and films; and when you start getting calls from major agents in this town to suggest their talent for the independent film you’re about to produce; and when you spend an hour a day negotiating SAG contracts for the actors you’re about to hire for your web-series, right?!

But after about two months of this laid back routine, the player seems to have laid so far back, he leaned right out of the relationship.  Any relationship!  Yep, I’m talking even sex!  So busy and blase this man has been acting — even when scheduling shag dates with my girl — you would think he was indeed the very George fucking Clooney!

Time for newsflashes, boys:

One:  The majority of you, dear gents — are not George Clooney!  Nor will you ever be! Because if my girl ever complained about her Clooney’s lack of commitment-worthy behavior, I would be the first to tell her to stop being a dumb bitch and summon her gratitude.  But since she is shagging a regular guy — a struggling actor type with little cash to spare for their extracurricular activities, let alone on any ambition to save the world — his act of a man with a line-up of panting bitches at his leg is quickly becoming ridiculous and offensive.  Mismatch!

Two:  Just how many good women do you think you gonna come by in your life? Seriously.  From your own dating experience, you must know that this town of LA-LA is filled to the rim with money- and opportunity-grabbing bitches.  So, when you meet a chick cool enough to be your go-to pussy — without displaying any needy or greedy behavior — you better start counting your blessings.  And when that chick turns out to be Girlfriend Material, you would be the biggest idiot to let her slip away.

“Oh, but I’m not in ‘that stage in my life’,” you might say.

Fine.  Excellent.  Do take your time.  But then, don’t get all insecure and possessive when your girl continues to see other men.  If you have the balls to demand monogamy from your pussy-on-call, be man enough to keep up with the necessary progression of things that permits you to keep having the first dibs on it.

Yep, it will take courage and a leap of faith for you to grow.  And oh, it will be petrifying when you start falling for your girl.  But (and this is just my observation):  As the world’s masterpieces of literature, and films, and songs, and fine art tell me, this whole love experience might be if not utterly magnificent, then life-changing for you.  Because loving a woman will introduce you to your own humanity. It will teach your about your heart, and about your past (and how to forgive it), and it just might graduate you into your manhood.  Congratulations.

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.