I went to see Michael Pollen speak tonight and for those of you who aren’t familiar with the name, Pollen has become the modern-day Jiminy Cricket on the shoulder of the juvenile American food system. Pollen has dedicated his life to teaching, writing, and preaching about the benefits of a plant-based diet. He is the author of four NY times best selling books such as “The Omnivores Dilemma” and appears prominently in the documentaries FOOD Inc. and King Corn. Pollen has become iconic for his trademark soft-spoken manner of speaking along with his academic glasses and baldhead. He gained notoriety at Harper’s magazine writing about his garden before becoming a regular columnist for the New York Times in 1981. Pollen is a champion of the American farmer, advocating a return to a local farm-based food system that provides access to nutritious food regardless of a person’s income. He has lobbied the government to subsidize what he calls, “the perimeter of the grocery store” the area where fresh fruits and vegetables live.

In our current system, the US government provides subsidies to the meat and grain industry, especially grains that are easily processed like genetically modified wheat and corn. Foods with a limited shelf life often have the highest nutritional value but carry a high price tag due to the lack of government price assistance. Pollen created a viral video called, “Twinkie vs. Carrot” which educates viewers as to why a bunch of carrots, which require little more than being pulled out of the ground, cost more than a Twinkie which comparatively contains over 40 ingredients and must be shipped, processed and marketed. People of low-income households typically do not incorporate fresh fruits and vegetables into their diet because of the prohibitive cost. The economic obstacles to eating a healthy diet disproportionately affects low income families, making them prone to obesity and a host of degenerative diseases such as diabetes and cancer. To illustrate the point further, know that the USDA subsidizes soda (high fructose corn syrup) and they allow you to buy it with government food stamps. Ouch.

The exact lunch they served in elementary school: near zero nutritional content

Pollen has been a hero of mine since I was 18 so naturally it was very rewarding to hear him speak in such an intimate venue. Most of his work centers on the fact that the current American food system is unsustainable; nutritionally and environmentally.

If you’ve ever been to Disneyland or seen a drive thru parking lot overflowing with cars, you’ve witnessed America’s battle with obesity. As of 2012, a third (35.7%) of all Americans are classified as obese. Childhood obesity has tripled since being recorded in 1980 and now affects one in every five children. Obese children have a 50% chance of becoming an obese adult. Obesity is a major health concern not because of superficial beauty standards, but because obesity causes a person’s internal organs to shut down when they reach a body mass index (BMI) of 30. Since the average American woman’s height and weight is 5’6 and 160 pounds, I’d thought I’d illustrate the fact that she would have to gain nearly 40 pounds onto of her already unnaturally hefty frame to qualify as obese.

[I should issue a preface before this article gets personal: I am sharing the following information as someone who struggled with food from a unique and painful set of circumstances. I want other women to know that you’re not alone if you’ve battled with your weight or been written off for being “a big girl”. I did not write this article to vent about my demons, I wrote this to empower women who’ve dealt with the same bitter rejection from the world and overcome discrimination in spite of it]

Some of the things Michael Pollen had to say rekindled memories from my own bitter journey with food. Perhaps I should replace the word “journey” with battle. I’ve been battling food for the last ten years. Food and I became enemies at the age of 14 when I became a vegetarian, which is way younger than when most kids even develop a concept of what “food” is. I had never once considered becoming a vegetarian but was assigned “animal rights” as my topic for the freshman high school speech class. Topics were assigned randomly but looking back I feel like fate was testing me. Though I wasn’t disappointed to get animal rights, I knew nothing on the subject. Even growing up in a liberal haven like Portland Oregon, My parents managed to be some of the only republicans in town. Things like “animal rights” or CO-OPS, organic food, and farmers markets were shunned by family protocol.

A few weeks before my finals speech, my friends older brother came up to me with a box of VHS tapes and said, “I heard about that speech you’re doing, right on sister. Figured you could use these”. I blushed and took the box from him, inside were tons of tapes marked, “PETA: INSIDE SLAUGHTERHOUSES”. Later that week I sat on the couch to watch them, pen and paper in hand wearing my little GAP turtleneck thinking I was about to watch a NOVA series on meat farms. Boy was I wrong. These were some hardcore animal activist guerilla style videos taken with a shaky handycam hidden inside someone’s jacket. I was watching undercover investigation tapes, where PETA activists got jobs at slaughterhouses to expose the terrible reality of what conditions were like for animals. Within minutes I had started balling uncontrollably. What I had seen was workers torturing and abusing animals in ways that made the holocaust seem real to me. I was a blubbery mess. Soon I had watched the whole box: slaughterhouses, foie gras factories, veal, lamb, chicken. I had subjected myself to pure masochism but didn’t know any better -I was only 14 years old. After spending the rest of the night browsing animal rights websites, I firmly decided that the rest of my life would be dedicated to a meat free lifestyle.

Conditions at a Tyson meat farm: Are chickens naturally supposed to live on top of one another?

The next morning I walked up to my mother and proudly declared, “Mom I am becoming a vegetarian”. I remember the conversation like it was yesterday; She looked at me, shocked. “Do you know what a burden you’re placing on this family? I’m going to have to cook special meals for you, what the hell are you going to eat?!”, she became so angry that she started swearing. “You’re going to have to cook all your own food, if you want to be a freak you’ll have to feed yourself, I’m not doing it”. I could understand where she was coming from, she had 4 children to feed, and at 14, I was the oldest. But I had to admit that I walked away from my declaration feeling empowered. I was glad I had stood up for my beliefs. However, I was left with a very real dilemma- I knew absolutely nothing about cooking. So naturally I did what every 14 year old would do, I ate things out of packages. My diet became, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, toast, pasta, burritos, chips, and any other carb I could get my hands on. I was a growing teen and devoured all the sugar and starch I could get my hands on. The funny thing was, vegetarians were supposed to be skinny but I was steadily gaining weight on my petite 105 pound 5’2’ frame. I was also feeling fatigued all the time.

Getting up in the morning was a near impossible feat. My nose was always running. I carried a Kleenex crinkled in my palm at all times which earned me the nickname, “sniffles”. Since mom had decided to exclude me from eating family meals, the food I made for myself didn’t contain a single vegetable. I never cooked them partially because I didn’t know how to prepare them but also because teenagers don’t understand nutrition. One time I felt so nutrient deprived I grabbed a handful of raw spinach from the fridge and sat chewing it for what seemed an eternity.

It should be noted that my rapid weight gain was also caused by the sheer amount of food I was eating or rather devouring during high school. My mother and I had a tense relationship during my adolescence. She was angry with me for being different than the rest of the family, i.e. not Christian or conservative, and I was angry with her for not accepting who I was. We argued incessantly which caused me to binge eat. Eating became a way to relieve stress. Food was the one thing I felt I had any control over. But soon after my weight set in, the fact that I was tired and chubby made me depressed. This caused me stay in my room most of the time, hiding from her and the world. It also led me to take up reading instead of exercise as a hobby. Food became a vicious cycle in my life.

Mean Girls: Eery accurate representation of high school, I actually resembled Lindsey Lohan back then and EVERY girl at my high school looked just like this.

By junior year, I had reached 130 pounds. I was still 5’2. Despite being on the heavier side for my age, my genes dictated that weight was evenly distributed to everywhere but my waist. Having an hourglass figure isn’t so bad when you’re 16. But being one of 5 curvy girls in one of America’s richest schools where eating disorders were practically competitive, caused me to be seen as “a big girl”. Girls strove to look like Paris Hilton and did “whatever” it took to look that way. The town I grew up is listed as the 7^th richest city in the United States. Kids regularly drove BMWs, Mercedes, Audi’s to school. The parking lot was littered with them. There was even one family, the Halladays, who had 5 hummers. Each kid would drive a different hummer to school, everyday. Getting off the bus one time when I was 15, a popular girl sitting across from me said, “that’s your house? I didn’t know you were rich, why don’t you dress rich?” We had moved to this town because of my mother’s new husband when I was 10, but we weren’t from here. We were never brought up with money and everyone seemed to notice. My town never felt like home when everyone was you expecting to look like a pampered poodle. In reality I was comfortable with just being a lap dog.

I joined the feminist club my junior year of high school. I started reading avidly and arming myself with all of the intellectual tools I needed to feel superior to the rich brats around me. My room became cluttered with books, titles such as, “The Feminine Mystique”, “Siddhartha”, and “A Peoples History of the United States”, were read over and over again. My status as a social outcast, albeit an outcast with many friends, transformed me into an intellectual. I called myself voluptuous as a term of empowerment, grew my hair to my ass and wore clothes that evoked the 70s. Had the food I ate not caused me to gain so much weight, I probably would have developed into a more average teenage girl. In fact I’m positive I would have. The types of friends I had my freshman year before becoming a vegetarian were wide and varied. Girls from all different social groups would stop and say hi to me at my locker. I had an average to slightly skinnier body type. I was moderate in my opinions and dress; I was blissfully “normal”. But what I didn’t know was that I had a hidden but severe allergy to gluten and eggs, and since I becoming a vegetarian, I relied on them daily as staples in my diet. My body became bloated, tired, and emotional. Weird patches of scales developed on the backs of my arms. I suffered from extreme bouts of depression. Life went on this way for 7 years, until I met my college boyfriend, Sebastian, who like vegetarianism, revolutionized the way I viewed food.

Sebastian’s mom had lost 80 pounds and gained a whole new perspective on life after she read a book called The Schwartzbein Principle. It was a diet that an MD trying to cure her patient’s diabetes “accidentally” created. She found that whenever her patients cheated on the recommended high carb low fat diabetic diet with meat and dairy, their blood sugar went down and they were able to maintain a healthy weight. Many of her patients in addition to losing weight had also eliminated their type two diabetes on the diet alone. Since Sebastian was a mama’s boy, he insisted on trying to convert me to this spinoff Atkins diet. Given that my boyfriend was 6’2 and 150 pounds, we looked a bit awkward together even if we were in love. I agreed for vanity’s sake to take on a modified vegetarian version of the diet, although I really couldn’t see how eating Alfredo sauce was supposed to help me lose weight.

Although I still ate eggs for breakfast (severely allergic) I was steadily dropping pounds. My waist suddenly started shrinking. My thighs effortlessly fit into my jeans. Even my butt looked slimmer. I had cut out all bread and starch from my diet and started eating salads with Sebastian. We would venture to the farmers market and lovingly select over priced produce that we would then take home and nutritionally obsess over. Making a salad took an hour sometimes. Sure it was extreme but in comparison to how unhealthy I had been, it was a welcome change. Sebastian gave me a complex about food, one that never fully went away.

Norma Jean before they made her into her more busty glamorous alter ego: Marilyn Monroe

I started eating high fat low carb at 128 pounds. Within 5 days I had dropped to 125. Two weeks later i was 122. After a month I had dropped to 118 and then my weight finally rested at 115 pounds. Sebastian was delighted and admittedly so was I. I realized how differently people had started to treat me after a 15-pound weight loss. I did look better, my face looked more defined and radiant. Men gave me more attention. My friends asked me if something was “going on” or if I was bulimic. They didn’t know how to see me in a different body. One friend even said, “its weird now that you’re hot, I was always used to you being the confident chubby one”. It’s as if they felt that my curvy figure was an extension of my “politics” and maybe now everything had changed. What my friends were really doing was objectifying my body, but i didn’t know the proper vernacular to defend myself. inside I was still the strong feminist anti stick figure girl I’d always been; I was just finally at my body’s natural weight. None of my body transformation had been brought about through exercise; it was simply the food I ate. I suddenly had all kinds of energy and mental focus. I began to lift out of my depression, concentrate on school and become more confident. I even grew two inches, I was 5’4’ now.

It dawned on me that instead of being relegated to a small group of guys who would date me, I could now chose who I was attracted to from a wider variety of the college campus. It was unreal possessing what they call “feminine power”. Any girl who was once an ugly duckling that blossoms into a swan know what I’m talking about. Sebastian and I broke up. He was a very jealous person and when men started giving me attention he took his anger out on me. I began dating casually for the first time in my life. Being a bigger girl almost instantly cast me into a mode of monogamous long term relationships. Now that I could have my choice of men, i was curious to explore what I had missed out on in high school. I remember a guy once telling me a few months after I’d become thin that he loved talking to me but “didn’t think pretty girls could have brains”. It was bizarre to hear anyone mention “pretty girl” before “brains” in reference to me. I was still that brainy, feminist, vegetarian outspoken academic girl, nothing had changed- just my body.

After college, I moved to Austin, Texas. I quickly got a job as a waitress in the trendy warehouse district and began bartending. The beauty standards 2,000 miles south of home were radically different. Women were svelte to a T. Not even a women over 40 dare carry an extra pound. Beautiful women cornered me from all sides. My once burgeoning confidence would slowly be extinguished as men resembling our Neanderthal cousins thought it perfectly natural to ask me on a date. I was a bit shaken at the idea of having to settle for homo erectus just because I tipped the scales at 5 pounds over the Austin ideal. Even my first Austin boyfriend, who for lack of a kinder term was homely, had dated an enviable cadre of babes. Was it something in the water? One morning I examined myself in the mirror; I was 118 of pure muscle and shapeliness.There was nothing wrong with my body. After getting my eating habits under control I had begun to exercise regularly. My body had evolved into a leaner hourglass version of my former self. But it still wasn’t enough to get anyone above a c- in the brains or looks department to take interest in me. After a guy I was seeing in town played leapfrog over me to be with a more slender bimbo, I lost it. I didn’t necessarily want to be thinner, but I wasn’t going to let weight stand in the way of getting what I deserved.

Eating involved into a game. How long could I go before I broke down and put a calorie in my mouth? Nights behind the bar were fueled by pure adrenaline and diet coke. After days and nights spent on my feet I would go home at three in the morning and hit the treadmill, snacking on an apple just to sustain the 5 miles. Lunch consisted of salad, ordered without nuts, cheese or dressing. I’d pick the avocado off, slowly eliminating all the calories from my meal. I noticed as the pounds started peeling away that my tips began to increase. My coworkers began to say things like, “you’re getting little” and “eat a burger Barbie”.

Winehouse didn’t rest until she achieved her signature waif look, sadly she was more beautiful before.

After two months of practically starving myself, my weight read 105. My shoulders were starting to poke out into those little vulture wings that fashion models have. My abdomen was fully defined but my skin was so sallow it had turned grey. I had to cover myself in makeup every morning just to go out of the house. No one tells you that anorexia causes acne. The stress mode your body goes into from starving yourself turns your skin into an absolute nightmare. When I flew home to see my friends new baby, she hardly even recognized me, “how much weight have you lost? Are you sick?”. Everyone asked me and rightly so. I had lost 30 pounds over a two year period. I didn’t resemeble my former self. My hair had been dyed a golden halo of bleach blonde from its former chestnut brown. I assuaged their fears saying I had become a vegan and just stopped drinking. Those seemed like the only hippy friendly excuses for looking radically skinny.

Men in Austin had begun to notice me, first just moderately but the more the weight came off the more attention I got. The boy I had fallen for who’d snubbed me half a year before came back into my life. He enthusiastically conveyed to me just how much more “attracted” he’d become to me. I kind of hated him for it. But I also kind of hated myself for entertaining an experiment I knew to be idiotic and self-destructive. Maybe I wanted to prove myself that I could be like those girls in high school, maybe it was a cry for help. Whatever the reason, it made me realize that the only person whose opinion I should be courting, was my own. As weird as it sounds, my self destructive experiment in starving myself made me love myself.

The mantra & model that inspired a generation of waifs

Eventually I went mad from trying to stay malnourished. The stress of forcing myself not to eat consumed me. I’d have to work out for 2-3 hours every day before I went to my boyfriends house, sometimes showing up hours late from obsessing over each and every calorie I’d eaten. Every time I would sit down to read a book, I fell asleep from the mental and physical exhaustion of my diet. My eyes were a dull grey color. My hair was a frizzy straw pile that never looked good anymore. The man I ended up leaving my boyfriend for was someone who told me the first time he met me that I was beautiful but that I looked too skinny. He incessantly tried to get me to gain weight and in the end I did.

I’m not 117 pounds any more, I’m 112 pounds now that I quit working at a restaurant and have retired my drinking habits. I’m mostly a raw vegan with a little animal protein thrown in there every once in awhile. But more importantly, I’ve accepted that my weight is not meant to drop below 110 pounds. I don’t’ obsess everyday about not looking the same way Kristen Stewart does in a sweatshirt. Extremely low body fat is impossible for me to maintain.I’m with a man who loves my body the way it is. He’s not like every other austin playboy who wants a banana body hanging on their arm.

This article was written to document the pressure society places on a woman’s appearance and for people to understand how food can have a tremendous impact on your life. I didn’t connect the dots between my development as a teenager with my health problems or my self esteem until I listened to Michael Pollen lecture. That is what a good writer does, he connects the dots of human experience. Pollen is known for connecting the dots between monoculture to food riots in mexico to poor and disadvantaged families suffering from diabetes because of inadequate nutrition. He also helped me connect mine, just in an entirely unorthodox way.

At the end of the day, no matter how many people are telling you that you’re beautiful and don’t need to change, the only persons opinion that matters is your own. No one can make you feel beautiful or loved if you don’t love yourself. Food has become a hurdle to the 21st century woman. She is told not to enjoy it and to deny herself as much as possible. Food should be looked at as fuel. If a car doesn’t have any gas to run on, it stops running. If you’ve ever tried going day or two without eating you’ll notice your brain stops working. No one should ever be stupid enough to follow a diet so extreme that it shuts off the mental faculties that make us human. Eat foods that are nourishing and live on the perimeter of the grocery store and you’ll never resort to starving yourself again.

Samantha Sainte-James

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11/01/2012

Do children cause divorce?

Last night on Halloween I went out with a few friends and after making my rounds around town, came back to my flat to wind down the evening. I settled in with a nice cup of tea, slipped on my jammies and opened my MacBook. After surfing various news hubs I logged onto Facebook. And to my surprise, three more people I knew had gotten married. “WTF!” I blurted out loud. “25 years old and you’re freaking MARRIED!!!” I said this aloud but then soon realized I was talking to the walls. But seriously, what the hell is wrong with people that they are rushing into wedlock in their mid twenties? Do people not know that the divorce rate in america is now 50%? Why would people get married so young, has marriage become a status symbol? If you’ve ever watched the first few seasons of Sex and the City, you could play a drinking game based on how many times the 4 girls beat themselves up for not being married. Those women practically bitch about marriage the entire show. This is the 10th time I had opened Facebook to find my homepage littered with photos of my peers draped in white gowns and veils, many of whom I thought were never going to be marriage material. But the marriage bug seems to be going around lately and every time I’m on Facebook it feels like its biting everyone but me.

After Facebook, I stumbled across an article that terrified me even more, called ‘Seeing my wife give birth put me off sex for a YEAR!’ Talk about a backlash towards Mother Nature and mothers everywhere. In the article, the handsome 40 something year old Martin Daubney tells the story of how watching his wife go through a difficult labor turned him off from having any sexual relations with her, whatsoever. He stated that witnessing the birth of his child “traumatized” him and that the demands of a newborn made him feel alienated from his wife. Mom realities such as breastfeeding, having to wake in the middle of the night, and the bodily changes that accompany motherhood weren’t exactly his cup of tea. He also makes the case that it’s so common these days to dump your mate when the kids arrive that, “Diana and I have lost count of the number of couples we know who have separated after having a child”. But luckily after his wife pleaded for a year and he stopped wetting his pants at the mere idea of sex, they started making love again.

Martin Daubney, who after impregnating you will go AWOL and hide from your vagina.

The problem with this article isn’t that there’s one Martin Daubney in this world, it’s that there are millions of men like him. Men with totally unrealistic I’d like to call “Gwyneth Paltrow” like expectations of motherhood. This article was published in the DailyMail; a publication with a huge circulation, which I’m willing to bet, has many of these light in the loafers pricks as readers. Martin’s not even the worst of them; he actually stayed with his wife- most of his friends left their spouses immediately following children- for pithy pathetic reasons. As in the case of “Stephen, 41, a stockbroker, said watching his wife breastfeed turned him off sex. ‘I felt my wife’s body was no longer mine, and never would be again’”. My wife’s body was no longer mine? Was it ever yours to begin with? Have men ever been taken a Sex Ed class, like ever? DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND THAT BREASTS FEED CHILDREN? It would be terribly awkward if women went through life thinking that they owned their husbands bodies… “Carol don’t you look at Hank’s beer gut, that’s my beer gut”.

What men expect us to look like after giving birth

The expectations of becoming a woman as opposed to the carefree early twenties blonde that I am are starting to sink in. In the next 15 years, societal norms dictate that I cohabitate, marry, and reproduce all while keeping my career, body and husbands interest intact. I was becoming extremely unhappy thinking that I was marching towards a future where I worked my ass off for a life that could be taken away by a breast-milk phobic hubby. I envisioned my future life schedule: get up, get kids ready for school, make kids breakfast, drive kids to school, go to office, work all day, pick kids up from school, talk on cellphone about work, drive kids to activities, make dinner for kids, talk on cellphone about work, do homework all night with kids, collapse in heap of exhaustion or if I care about my marriage, turn on the red light and pretend to enjoy sex with husband for the 2 minutes it lasts. I then realized how amazing and self dictated my life schedule looked now: get up, eat a healthy breakfast, read articles in my pajamas, workout, pick out an outfit, do my hair, reply to a million emails, reply to a million texts, do freelance photog/writing/online store work, read a book, grocery shop for fruits/vegetables, meet up with colleagues for wine/creative collaboration, read book, go to sleep. But somehow the thought that I might not even get to experience the joyless schedule version all because my Mr. will up and leave me for having to breastfeed our child drives me insane. I would then have to be a single parent with half the income and manpower to accomplish the same set of tasks! It takes a whole village to raise a child, NOT one freaking parent. I watched my mom do it and its not pretty. Ok so I’m prematurely freaking out a little bit here but seriously ladies, doesn’t this screw with your head about starting a family?

How did I go from feeling bad about not jumping on the marriage bandwagon to being terrified about entertaining any notion of domestic life whatsoever? The Internet was proving to be a scary place. I shut my laptop and went to bed. But that night as I tried to sleep I kept staring up at the ceiling, tossing and turning, feeling ever more anxious unable to doze off. I wondered, am I going through a quarter life crisis? Is that what’s hit me? I googled “quarter life crisis symptoms” on my IPhone. “confusion of identity, insecurity regarding the near future, a sense that everyone is, somehow, doing better than you”. Undeniably I was. After a few hours of pathetic restlessness I woke at 6 to call the Wise One: my mother. My mom grew up in a family of six to a single mother, has had 4 kids and has been married twice all at the age of 48. I often defer to “mom-knowledge” in times of dire confusion.

“Mom I’m freaking out”.

“Samantha sweetheart what’s the matter?”

“Mom everyone is getting married and having babies like RIGHT NOW and I just don’t think I will ever be able to handle the responsibility of either! I’m too SELF CENTERED and I enjoy it!!!”

*Laughter* “But who says you have to have all that now hmm? Why are you putting so much pressure on yourself? You still look like a little girl”

“But MOM, if I don’t start now I’ll be too tired and busy when I’m older to have a career!”

“Samantha your generation has it all wrong, I had you when I was 22 and your sister when I was 36. I am more successful now at 48 than I’ve ever been. I don’t know where this pressure to ‘have it all’ comes from.”

“I guess the truth is mom I’m worried about the fact I might not want kids at all. I want to wake up in the morning, be able to go on a run and not worry about having to spend every waking minute of my life taking care of them! Am I evil?”

“No sweetheart you’re not evil, you’re just not mature enough to have a family yet and that’s fine but I feel like you’re hiding something”

“Well I’m also worried that my husband wont want me after I have a baby”

“Samantha I’ve had four kids and two husbands and the first marriage didn’t end because I had kids, I chose to end it because there was no honesty. Your father loved me more after I had you guys”

“He did?”

“Of course he did, he was dying to have kids”.

“He didn’t get grossed out about you breastfeeding or anything?”

“No why would he think that’s gross?”

“I just read somewhere that men find it repulsive and threatening when you breast feed and that when you have children they will divorce you right away for a hot childless woman…”

“Those men sound like jerks”

“Yeah I thought that too”

“But what if I make the wrong choice and wake up at 36 wanting kids and I have to settle for some dweeb?? Mom the clock is ticking!!”

“Samantha, you’re beginning to sound like that annoying Charlotte girl from sex and the city and you’re a lot more interesting and prettier than her. You’re just fine, look in the mirror, you still have baby cheeks for crying out loud!” *laughter*

“Sorry, mom thanks”

More articles are reporting men do not react favorably to motherhood automatically making Brad Pitt the Zeus of dads.

So good old Mom settled me on a few things, but not really. She used her suave mom powers to reassure that my deepest darkest fears were not possible of coming true. But it seems like no matter where you look, women have to pick between having a successful career or pick having a happy marriage and choose to be a stay at home moms. Look at the example of Hilary Clinton, who no matter what your political affiliation is an undeniably hardworking and intelligent woman. She is also a mother and a wife. Hilary has been vilianized by the media for her involvement in her husbands presidency despite the fact that Hilary had decades of political work under her belt before she even met Bill. She is well qualified to be in the oval office every fricken day. But the media never acknowledged her political accomplishments; they simply labeled her as “Billary” and called her a “man”. The media also focused more on her fashion choices and appearance rather than celebrating that she was a major figure in Clinton’s extremely celebrated presidency. When the Lewinsky scandal broke many political critics were quick to chastise her her for not pursuing a more traditional feminine role, implying that Bill’s infidelity was due to her masculine personality.

My mother’s final piece of advice was “Don’t judge men as a whole. You wouldn’t want them to judge women as a whole and divide them into mothers and strippers (madonna-whore complex) would you? It’s not fair to them either. There are some really wonderful men out there; you’re just going to have a very serious conversation when you get married about what happens when you have kids. If that doesn’t scare him away, then you’re good to go”.

Thanks Mom,

Samantha Sainte-James

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10/31/2012

Role Playing in the Bedroom

Since Halloween is tomorrow I thought I’d write an article about a topic that has been weighing heavily on my mind for the last week; Roleplaying. I am obsessed with Halloween, costumes, new personas, and losing ones self in the “heat of the moment”. Lets just say the idea of attending a masquerade ball like they did in 16^th century Venice and having a beautiful Italian man pull up my dress and whisper sweet nothings in my ear while keeping his mask on, drives me wild. Halloween creates a sexual atmosphere that’s so thick you can cut it with a knife, its power is undeniable. Dan Savage recently labeled Halloween as “Heteroween”, saying that straight people have adopted Halloween as their holiday where they can air their daemons, show their boobs, shake their ass, drink too much, and “let it all hang out”. I couldn’t agree more; Americans have so much puritanical sexual repression that a night to escape from our everyday selves and be sexy is just what many of us buttoned up types need. And while some girls try to find costumes that attempt to mask their real sluttiness but still get noticed by men, i.e. slutty ladybug and slutty bumblebee, there’s no shame in being sexy for sexy’s sake. But even though there will inevitably be a hot wolverine Hugh Jackman look alike I’ll want to go home with, will he really keep the act up all night if I asked him to? Confession: Roleplaying in the bedroom turns me on and I haven’t even hit my mid life crisis yet. Halloween puts me into a frenzy for that very reason, I see a million beautiful men transformed into Thor and Edward Cullen but all I want to do is bring the costume and the character into the bedroom. But in my experience, most men are too macho for this to happen. I blame an ex-boyfriend for this obsession.

infamous secret society sex scene in Eyes Wide Shut, where elites pay $$$ to consort with the beautiful under masks of anonymity.

When I was 19 and in college I had a boyfriend we’ll call Fernando who had an obsession with me wearing wigs & costumes in the bedroom, along with stockings and elaborate lingerie that would progress to talking in silly accents and culminate in letting him fuck my brains out. He was the king of the hipsters: heroin chic skinny with perfectly disheveled hair and sung in a glam rock band. All the girls wanted to date him and even though I didn’t match his style, we fell in love. His roleplaying fetish came up three months into the relationship. On a trip to Seattle we stopped in a costume shop a week before Halloween and as I was trying on a black wig, a bob with a full fringe, his eyes lit up from across the aisle, “Oh lord, please get that one. I have to see it on you, tonight” he said, “But Fernando I’m not even going to be the girl from pulp fiction why would I buy this one?” I replied, “Because IT LOOKS SO GOOD, I’ll get it for you!” he said almost out of breath. I didn’t know what he had in mind but I certainly wasn’t opposed to gifts, even random ones. Later that night at his house after a few glasses of red wine he revealed his “fetish”. He confessed in his irresistible Spanish accent, “Remember when you wore that hair earlier, in the store? Well I think you should wear it again for me tonight and um…act like snotty bitch”. I shot him back a look and laughed, “Oh do you?” He went on to explain that roleplaying was something he secretly loved and wanted to know if I’d be willing to try, I agreed under the condition that I wouldn’t have to degrade myself or act like a ditz. That night I was “Chloe”, a sassy schoolgirl who would walk into the room, ignore him and start to read a book. Fernando would then come up to me trying to make small talk and I’d act totally disinterested in him until after a million attempts he would beg on his knees for just ‘one kiss’. Obviously after we kissed things turned into a whole different ball game but I discovered that it was really fun playing a bitch. I realized after more and more characters were invented that transforming myself into a different girl and driving him wild with desire was actually empowering for me. After my first time playing “Chloe” I thought dressing up might be a passing fancy for him and that this sort of silly nonsense was normal in Europe. But as time went on and our relationship intensified, I noticed the passion of our sex life rarely peeked as highly as it did when I became “Simone” the busty blonde or “Brigitte” the raven haired French girl. It puzzled me, I had other guys after me in college who I knew loved my long auburn hair, I got compliments on it all the time and truth be told I would look terrible with platinum blonde or black hair…so why did my boyfriend obsess over me when I became someone else? Nonetheless, Fernando’s insistence on playing characters in the bedroom transformed sex from a strictly serious type act to one of freedom, exploration and fun. Roleplaying made me feel more confident in my every day life and taught me what I liked in the bedroom. Roleplaying was responsible for me having anal sex for the first time. I don’t think I would have been open minded enough to enjoy it had I not been so caught up in the moment, having an out of body experience while Fernando was playing my professor.

But even though Fernando didn’t last, my love of role-playing never died. Sadly, even though I’ve dated, caroused, and been domesticated by many men since him, I haven’t found one that say “gets off” on the level Fernando did incorporating roleplaying into the bedroom. I have brought it up with partners I thought might be open to it, but sadly their ability to convincingly portray a border guard agent who strip searches me left me feeling well…not so aroused. Which leads me to the question, if a girl enjoys role-playing in the bedroom how the hell do you bring it up to your man? I can imagine a twilight fanatic at dinner gazing across the table at her boyfriend, “hey hun, later tonight maybe we can try something new in the bedroom?” the guy looks up from his plate, eyes ablaze, “Oh yeah babe, what did you have in mind?” “Oh you know” she replies, “maybe you could wear my fangs from Halloween put on whiteface and pretend to bite me?” guy looks back at her dumbfounded. But thankfully the world has created a pseudo solution to this problem; it’s called Cosplay.

The Wikipedia definition of Cosplay is:

“Cosplay, short for “costume play”, is a type of performance art in which participants don costumes and accessories to represent a specific character or idea.”

Cosplay fans range in the multimillions and it has become one of the fastest growing hobbies in the world. Cosplayers attend conventions dedicated to celebrating a subculture devoted to their favorite characters, most often from comic books, manga, or anime where they show up dressed as these characters and stay in character for the whole convention. Conventions like “Comic-Con”, which tours worldwide, connects fans with the movie stars and animators from their favorite films and comics, along with tons of other nerds creating a potent atmosphere of nerddom/awkward sexual tension. Although most people credit Japan with starting Cosplay, the trend actually started in Los Angeles around 1983. Japan simply became HUGE fans of Cosplay and brought it back to their country where it exploded. After my best friends sister drank the “cosplay koolaid” in high school and became a social outcast, I branded cosplay as something I would never enjoy out of pride. Many cosplay fanatics are also obsessed with video games and mountain dew, two things that have no place in my life. But the Halloween spirit got the best of me this weekend and as an excuse to wear my Halloween costume all of Saturday, I attended “Comic-Con”, a full on cosplay festival.

I knew I wasn’t dressed as a superhero, a Pokémon, a dwarf skank or even anything remotely comic related as I entered the convention but a funny thing happened, everyone stopped and marveled at me. There were people dressed as Oscar worthy storm troopers and even a carbon copy BobaFet but I became talk of the town, due to the exotic nature of my costume; Marie Antoinette. It almost was as if I had taken the Delorean from the 17th into the 21^st century. I was dressed in a perfectly authentic French revolutionary era gown with a pink ostrich plume tucked into the mound of grey hair piled high on my head. My face was porcelain white and my cheeks were petal pink. I even had a fake beauty mark to boot. As I kept walking past the entrance, people started stopping me and asking to take pictures. I was dumbfounded but gracious. By the end of comic con, I had not only received over a 100 compliments but nearly the same amount of photo requests. My milky royal face is sitting on a ton of nerd laptops right now, I wonder if I’m on their Facebooks. If you know how comfortably introverted I am, you also know that I probably would’ve avoided comic con altogether had I known this would be the result. But I must admit that the attention was intoxicating and I’m worried my role-playing fantasy might evolve into a cosplay fantasy? As Leeloo said in the 5^th element, “HALP!”.

Marie Antoinette at Comic-Con=Pandemonium.

I learned at Comic-Con, that there is a large subculture of slightly normalish people who incorporate costumes into erotic fantasy. A central part of Cosplay is also taking on the persona of their costume, which is what makes cosplay such a thriving community- it allows fans to explore their fantasies, idolize their hero’s while potentially hooking up with someone who enjoys those same fantasies. And while I don’t necessarily want Yoda to ravish me, I would gladly offer the job to Wolverine. Dating communities such as maiotaku.com and cosplaypassion.com have sprung up to unite cosplay fans romantically. If you don’t believe that cosplay is heavily motivated by abnormal sexual desires, please google “HENTAI” or watch an episode of Xena Warrior Princess. That should squash all doubt. Comic Con made me feel less alone in the world of horny costumed people, and while they weren’t my kind of horny costumed people, they still made me realize that my desire to be strip searched on a train by a foreign border guard in return for my passport, maybe someday a fantasy come to life. Until then, I shall dream.

Samantha Sainte-James

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10/29/2012

Why I date older men

So since I’ve been the receiver of awkward stares/bad looks from the general public for the past four years now, I figured it was time to write an article on why I date older men. I am 25 years old but look anywhere from 18-20 depending on what I wear. Sometimes I can even look below the legal limit, which is a sweet power to have if you are not someone who likes to date men of “daddy” age. The question, “is that your daughter?” is asked so often I might as well just get a vanity plate that says, “daddys grl”. You might be thinking, my professed “likes to date older men” statement is just a cloaked term for gold digger, but truthfully my reasons for dating older men aren’t that superficial.

Ask yourself, what are the two biggest problems in any romantic relationship? You’ve heard both of them beaten into the ground by every daytime talk show host and nearly every top 40 love song ever written; “You cheated on me” and “You didn’t love me enough”. 1.Infidelity and 2. No passion in the relationship. For women, there is nothing more detrimental in love than to be cheated on or taken for granted. Women are emotional creatures that must be assured of their desirability by their mate at all times. The biggest mistake a man can make in any relationship, other than abuse, is to lavish emotional and physical affection on another woman who is not their wife. Adultery is the leading cause of divorce amongst married couples. The loss of passion and romance is the second leading cause. Men commit adultery for a number of reasons, ranging from a lack of sexual interest (from or in their wife) to power; men who have the opportunity to cheat often do because the ability to sleep with more than one woman makes them feel powerful. A large percentage of the time men seek sex outside of marriage is because their wives have lost interest in sex altogether, but I’ll go into that more later. The fact most wives who discover their husbands affairs are surprised to learn is that cheating has little to do with the attractiveness of the mistress or really the act itself, but is more based on a mans ego boost from getting any female attention whatsoever. Women on the other hand, tend to have more complex reasons for cheating that center heavily on their emotional needs not being met as opposed to a man’s “physical” needs. A man is more likely to see a prostitute for sex or engage in a casual no strings attached encounter, not wanting to compromise his home life while a woman’s infidelity is often the last desperate act before she files for divorce. Different genders cheat for different reasons, to fulfill different needs.

Bill Clinton could have cheated on Hilary with any number of gorgeous women, but instead he cheated with what was most available to him; an intern in the white house, Monica Lewinsky.

Modern gender roles for women have expanded to not only encompass the emotional demands of child rearing but to include the responsibility of financially contributing to the family household. As relationships mature, obligations such as children and work take up the bulk of a family’s day-to-day schedule. By the end of the day, a woman whose shuffled her kids to and from school/activities, put in a full day at the office, and managed to keep the house spotless doesn’t necessarily view having sex as a relaxing activity. After two or more kids and years of putting her family’s & careers needs ahead of her own, it is more than likely that she feels a bit insecure in the bedroom compared to the day she first met her husband. Men on the other hand, who’ve been thinking about sex all day- the average male thinks about sex every 6-14 seconds, come home revved up and ready to go seeing sex as a the ultimate “reward” for a hard day of work. Women, who are exhausted from their dual roles as caretakers and career women (logical and emotional facilities) simply see sex on the laundry list of demands they must fulfill in order to have a harmonious household. Where’s the joy in sex for a women if she’s too stressed out or self conscious to have an orgasm? Sex under a stressful environment, whether it be financial, emotional, or physical, becomes a male centered activity.

In the first ten years of motherhood, a woman becomes the proverbial workhorse if she decides to keep her career. Not only is she required to balance the sensitivity of being a mother with the bottom line that she remain a productive asset to her company but she must also remain an asset to her husband, which above all else means making sure his sexual needs are fulfilled. Its no surprise in the American world of sex sells marketing that women, being inundated with images of anatomically impossible supermodels, develop fears that they may not “measure up” to their partners physical desires. This makes sex a stressful activity as opposed to pleasurable one. Here lies the thesis that is the battle of the sexes: Women: I want to be a mother, wife, and successful at my job, but it totally exhausts me. Men: I want my wife to be a nurturing mother to our children while looking like a sex-kitten who fulfills my every desire in the bedroom. Clearly, this equation doesn’t satisfy the majority of couples, even if they do stay married.

In today’s culture, men and women choose mates according to a checklist of: physical attraction, similar socio economic and racial backgrounds, and compatible life cycles (age). While couples typically differ as much as 5 years apart from one another, it is societally frowned upon for a girl to marry a man upwards of 10 years her senior. I’ll admit that it’s a touch unusual to see a girl in the prime of her twenties bring home Bill who is almost 40 and has started to bald- even if he demonstrates more maturity and financial stability than men her own age. But if women chose mates based on qualities that ensured a greater success to the longevity of their marriages, the traits on that list would be somewhat different from the ones we see now. Placing importance on traits like: sexual chemistry (is sex an equally pleasurable experience for both of us? emotional intelligence (can we communicate effectively, is he a jealous psycho?), financial security (can he contribute to supporting our families lifestyle, how does he feel about me working after we have kids?), and a positive view of monogamy (does he flirt with everything that walks?); all fit the female criterion of a healthy marriage. The catch? Most men aren’t old enough to understand what maturity and emotional intelligence mean until the end of their first marriage, which usually happens in their mid forties. Another problem plaguing women in relationships is the loss of sexual interest from their partner, which is largely due to the fact women bear and raise children with little help that rob them of their body and sleep. This effect compiled over a twenty-year period can render the American woman virtually unrecognizable from her 25-year-old self. Men on the other hand tend to age gracefully. Their wrinkles add to their character, their receding hairlines can even make them look more “distinguished”. Lets face it- men start to look good at age 40, and anyone who cares to refute me can Google a picture of George Clooney. The modern woman needs to accept that the shelf life of her looks runs a shorter gamut than the male cycle because of her gender role specific demands. I am not writing this to insight anger, but to inspire knowledge. Men are visual creatures, and no matter how much bitching and moaning women do, we will never change this fact. No matter how much we hate them for their superficiality, we are attracted to their stability and their charm.

Exhibit 1: Most men get better with age. Case and point: George Clooney- an age progression.

Women need to start choosing partners that are ready for serious relationships and are able to provide emotional stability. Dating a handsome guy you met at a coffee shop that happens to be 41 instead of 32 isn’t going to radically endanger your life goals, in fact, it might make life better than you imagined. I don’t remember the last time I had a conversation with a 28 year-old guy (average marrying age) who knew his ass from his elbow. He might have been planning his “start up” company or looking to break into “wall street” but those were probably lines he made up to tell girls at the party that night. My point is, if women have any hope in the next twenty years of lowering the divorce rate from 75% towards zero, they will have to reconsider their “how old is too old” rules. Consider it “marriage insurance”. You are 24 and you meet a 38 year old guy who seems to have the same life interests as you, he’s handsome, edgy, has travelled the world, loves art and has found his dream job as the CEO of a non profit. His testosterone has gently nosedived in the last ten years and he’s tired of the bar scene. He strikes up a conversation with you and you find that you two not only have a lot in common, but also great chemistry. You’re attracted to him but feel hesitant, “what would my friends say if they knew I was dating an older guy?” The question you should ask is not, “what will other people think of me” but rather how will I feel when the guy I marry starts ogling hot young girls in 10 years from now or do I want to marry an older guy and be the hot young girl he’s still starting at? The answer should not be that hard to come to ladies.

Think of dating upwards of your age as “marriage insurance”. When you hit 35 and things are starting to “settle in” as they call it, know that your man, in his early 50s, won’t have to fantasize about being with a younger woman, he’ll be living the dream! Think of it as those pair of jeans you own that you wear at fuller times of the month that are still forgiving to your figure, call it “room to breathe”.

How many times have you heard the story of a man cheating on his wife with a younger woman? Its so cliché it’s almost painful to write. We’ve all heard it but it doesn’t make it any less true. The male ego is very fragile and predictable, and any attention from a younger woman is seen as a sign of power and virility to other men. Men’s obsession with younger women, no matter their age or homeliness, has largely to do with their primal instincts towards reproduction. A 50 year old man might not necessarily want to have children with his 31 year old cohort but he could, and that reigns supreme in his mind. Websites like, “seekingarrangement.com” and “russianbrides.com” all operate on the fact there is a large percentage of older single men looking to cohabitate and copulate with noticeably younger beautiful women. Men statistically aren’t checking the “searching for” age boxes on normal dating sites for women even ten years younger than them, they’re dropping that number down 12, 15 or even 20 years.

Something I should mention by way of a personal bias; my father is 73 and my mother is 48. I grew up thinking a 25-year age gap between married people was normal. It never struck me that it was odd until I was 13 at a friends house for dinner when her dad asked me over spaghetti, “So you’re mom’s a lot younger than your dad, how’d he hook that deal up?”. I replied, “what deal?”. It was weird to me, I never thought of peoples age affecting whether they were in love or not. Clearly, Bo Derek didn’t either.

Nowhere in the world is an age gap more prevalent than in Hollywood: From left to right, 16-25-12 years apart.

I have tried dating boys my own age. My first love was 19 and I was 17, he was in college while I was in high school. At the time my parents made a huge stink because it seemed like a big difference. But that’s the closest in age as I’ve ever come. Guys my own age just lack…interest for me. They think I’m too serious; too career oriented because I know what I want to do with my life and actively take the steps to achieve it. I go out quite a bit but I rarely drink because I care about my health, and I love to wake up early for a run and a glass of kale juice, which is an incompatible task with being a social alcoholic. I have travelled to 30 countries, speak multiple languages and am an avid reader and writer, but I’m not a recluse. I have probably been witness to more crazier nights than most 20 something year old guys ever have in their life; I just don’t care to make a lifestyle out of it. Am i required to spend ages 22-28 standing in the backyards of house parties with a PBR in my hand hoping that my romeo with a passion for social justice and literature will pop out of the bushes to sweep me off my feet? Bitch please. Men in their twenties and early thirties are too in love with themselves to attract me. They’re focused on their dreams, their ideas, their lifestyle. And that’s how they should be, they’re learning how to become men and not boys. At the same time, they think they’re gods gift to women and frankly, I find it boring. Older guys take me out, know where they’re going, ask me questions and genuinely enjoy an intelligent conversation or a heated debate. Should I have to suffer though 20 bad dates with guys my own age who 1. Don’t understand the concept of being a “gentleman” 2. Are selfish in bed 3. Bore me to tears 4. Try to make me feel weird for being successful at a young age (I understand you’re threatened by this, but get over it) just because its more societally acceptable to do so? I think not. I would much rather set my dating age at 38 years and just accept the opinions that come along with that. Sure, younger guys are really “hot”, men in their mid forties don’t posses that Ryan Gosling beefcake charm, but to me its never been worth all the bullshit I’ve had endure.

So while a million beautiful young smart girls tonight nervously facebook stalk that 26 year old bartender stud from a blurry weekend, who flirted with them in an ambiguous way, I’ll be spending my time with a man who actually takes the initiative to ask me out to when he likes me, one who doesn’t wait for whatever ends up on his lap at the end of the night. The most romantic thing you’ll hear at a bar from a 20 something year old guy is, “ur place or mine?” and if you’re really lucky (or he’s wasted) “you’ve got pretty eyes”. Wow, writing that down in my diary as most original line ever heard. Two words, JERSEY SHORE, as if I need to make my state my case further. Sites like, “hetexted.com” where tweens, teens, and twenty something’s all post iPhone captures of their latest crush’s cryptic texts, dying to decipher the eternal question, “DOES HE LIKE ME?” only exist for an audience of thirty and under. Why? Because women in their thirties don’t play text tag and men in their forties learn how to become more direct. The solution? Play grown up, even if you have to fake it. You’ll thank me years down the road when the man of your dreams turns grey before you do.

Xoxo,

Samantha Sainte-James

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Gallery | 10/16/2012

Woman as prey

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Quote | 10/14/2012

“On the day when it wil…

“On the day when it will be possible for woman to love not in her weakness but in her strength, not to escape herself but to find herself, not to abase herself but to assert herself–on that day love will become for her, as for man, a source of life and not of mortal danger.”

-Simone de Beauvoir

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10/14/2012

My biography

“I was in the winter of my life, and the men I met along the road were my only summer.
At night I fell asleep to visions of myself dancing and laughing and crying with them.
3 years down the line of being on unknown less world tour my memories of them were the only things that sustained me and my only real happy times. I was a singer, not a very popular one. I once had dreams of becoming a beautiful poet but, a plan of unfortunate series of events saw post dreams dashed and divided like a million stars in the night sky that I wished on over and over again, sparkling and broken. But, I didn’t really mind it because I knew that it takes getting everything you’ve ever wanted and than losing it to know what true freedom is. When the people I used to know found out what I had been doing, how I been living, they asked me why? But there’s no use in talking to people that have a home. They have no idea what its like to seek safety in other people. For home to be where ever you lie your head. I was always an unusual girl. My mother told me I had a chameleon soul, no moral compass pointing to north, no fixed personality, just an indecisiveness that was as wide and as wavering as the ocean. And if I said I didn’t plan for it to turn out this way I’d be lying because I was born to be the other woman. I belonged to no one, who belonged to everyone, who had nothing, who wanted everything. There was a fire for every experience, and an obsession for freedom and terrified me to the point that I couldn’t ever talk about it. That pushed me to a pneumatic point of madness that both dazzled and dizzied me.”

Every night I used to pray that I’d find my people — and finally I did — on the open road. We had nothing to lose, nothing to gain, nothing we desired anymore — except to make our lives a work of art.

….
Who are you? Are you in touch with all of your darkest fantasies?
Have you created a life for yourself where you’re free to experience them?
I have.
I am fucking crazy. But I am free.

—	lana del rey

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09/26/2012

Thank You for Touching Me by Marie Calloway

THANK U FOR TOUCHING ME

By Marie Calloway

“I’m by the Lorimer stop at M Noodle. What are you doing?”

“I’m at a hotel in Manhattan.”

“We’re going to a gig then a hotel roof on Wythe. Let me know if you swing through the hood.”

I didn’t respond, and so Kip texted me again a few hours later.

“You still about? Thinking of heading.”

“I’m around. You should come hang out.”

“Is it cool if I come in a couple or so hours?”

“OK.”

Two hours later Kip texted me again.

“Yo badda bing, I’m dancing. I’m at an incredible gig with Chris Feldman, but he’s tired and I’m full of energy. I’d like to come over later if you’re feeling up for it—your last night dread da dread dread.”

“Come! Bring Christopher.”

“What’s the hotel name and room number?”

“It’s called Radisson. Room 1709. It’s on 32nd Street and Broadway.”

“We’re on the way x. Chris’s much more lively now.”

“OK. I’m really tired by the way. Sorry if I’m half asleep.”

It was around 2 AM. I had not slept in over 36 hours. I lay on the bed, trying to keep myself from falling asleep. I wondered how I would entertain Kip and Christopher with my exhausted zombie brain.

Kip and Christopher were two Facebook friends of mine in their early 20s from London. They happened to be in New York at the same time that I was visiting, and had asked me before to hang out while I was there. It was late at night then, and although I just wanted to go to sleep, I thought that since Kip had been texting me throughout the week wanting to hang out that I should meet with him before I left, and tonight was my last night in New York.

Kip and I had talked about Scandinavia and Sheila Jeffreys and Jon Gnarr, (“I have a friend in New York who has been emailing back and forth with Jon Gnarr. Here’s what he said to me, ‘Do you think we should all move to Iceland? Speaking of comedians, I just got an email from Jon Gnarr saying he thinks Iceland could become an anarcho-socialist society but he needs all the good and creative people from around the world to come there and help…’”).

Christopher had sent me long messages about literature and politics that I never bothered to read, (“I’m writing my dissertation on contemporary experimental literature: Is there an avant-garde today? What would being avant-garde today look like? Does that term even have meaning any more etc. … I read your thing on London and found it really interesting, especially as I can really imagine that sort of guy and see them around town a lot, and it’s interesting reading about other people’s experiences of London and as a guy it’s obviously always interesting to hear about sex from the woman’s point view…”).

***

About half an hour after his last text, Kip texted me that they were here, and a minute after that the room phone on the desk rang. I walked over to answer it.

“Miss, there are two people here who say they’re here to see you.”

“OK.”

I got up to go meet them outside, and we ran into each other at the entrance to the elevator. We said hello and laughed about almost missing each other. Kip and Christopher were lively and chatty in the elevator; I felt half-asleep and didn’t say much.

I opened the door to my room and we all went in.

“This is nice. How did you afford it?” Kip asked.

“My friend, John, got it for us today, and then he went back home to Connecticut, so I have it for tonight.”

We all sat on the edge of the bed.

“Can I have this?” I asked and picked up the beer Kip had set on the desk. He said it was fine, and I drank it rapidly.

“You’re leaving tomorrow?” Christopher asked.

“Yeah, my flight’s leaving at like seven in the morning,” I said, laughing.

“Where are you going back to?” Christopher asked.

“The West Coast.”

“So, you’re not really Icelandic like you told me before? That’s a shame… I wanted you to meet all of my friends in Reykjavik… I did my degree in Scandinavian studies,” Kip said.

Christopher and Kip talked about going to Chicago. I talked about how rude people could be there.

“Get the fuck out of my way!” Kip said in an English accented tinged imitation of a Chicago accent.

“London is full of cunts, too, though,” Kip said.

“People in London can be, like, cold, I guess…” I said.

“Once late at night my friend was peeing on the street, and my friend was a girl, and a guy walked past and saw her and said, ‘Not pretty, not classy!’ So that whole night we were all shouting ‘not pretty, not classy!’”

“What have you been doing in New York?” Kip asked.

I started to laugh nervously. “I had a threesome with my friend and her husband, and it was one of the most awkward experiences of my life.”

“But don’t you think life is about those awkward moments and finding beauty in them…?”

I was too tired to formulate a response, so I just smiled.

“Are you one of those people who is really negative all of the time?” Kip asked.

“This guy who came over before you guys came—”

“That’s dread.”

“What’s dread?”

“It’s like over the top, extreme, in a good way.”

“Anyway, the guy who came over before you guys came over was like, ‘Oh baby, I was really looking forward to coming over tonight.’ And then I said, ‘I look forward to dying.’”

Kip laughed and kissed me on the top of my head. I was surprised, but then I figured that it was just a natural expression of his extraversion.

“What’s the best and the worst thing that’s happened to you in New York?” Christopher asked.

“I threw up in my friend’s bed.”

“Was that the best or the worst thing?”

“It was kind of both.”

Kip took out a bag of weed from his coat and asked me if I had any rolling papers; I didn’t.

“Can you believe that we got all of this for $20?” Kip asked.

“The weed is a lot better here, right?” I asked.

“It might be better here, yeah…” Christopher demurred.

We decided to leave the hotel and walk down the street to Duane Reade to get rolling papers. Inside, Kip and Christopher picked out beer and bought it. At the counter, Kip asked for rolling papers, but the clerk said they didn’t have any. He bought Parliament cigarettes instead, thinking that he could roll out the tobacco and use the paper.

Outside, we all smoked cigarettes on the street.

“I got you a present,” Kip said and handed me an energy shot; he had shoplifted it.

“Oh, thank you.”

Kip asked every passerby on the street if they had rolling papers. None did. I was interested in how he effortlessly, unselfconsciously engaged everyone, and charmed them. Christopher and I stood back, watching him. I drank the energy shot and made a face, but about 15 minutes afterwards I felt much more awake.

“None of these people are the sort who would have rolling papers. We need to find a tramp,” Kip said.

A disheveled looking man approached us and asked Kip for a cigarette. Kip gave him one.

“What kinda cigarettes are these?”

“These are Parliaments. You know, the crackhead cigarettes with the extended tip.”

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from London.”

“You sound like you’s from London.”

“Yes, I should hope so,” Kip said.

“I heard ya’ll call cigarettes ‘fags’ in London. Is that true?”

Kip confirmed that it was.

“I’d like to bum a fag,” Christopher said in an imitation of an American accent.

The man took the cigarette from Kip and walked away.

“I feel like the accent doesn’t matter much in New York. Too cosmopolitan or something. Don’t they know who we are?” Kip said.

“Yeah, how important we are…” Christopher added.

After a few more rejections, Kip said, “Let’s give up.” Christopher and I followed him back to my hotel room.

I sat down on the bed because I felt so tired. Kip sat down next to me and without hesitation pressed his body against mine and kissed me. I felt confused as I had gotten the feeling that he wasn’t attracted to me. I had thought that the idea of anyone being attracted to me then, with my tired face without make-up, messy hair, and old, wrinkled clothes was unthinkable.

“Can I use your shower?” Kip asked.

“Go ahead.”

Kip went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

Christopher sat down next to me on the bed.

“What ethnicity are you?” he asked.

“I’m part Korean and part German.”

“I can see the German in you. Germans are always funny.”

We talked about London and different places we had traveled to and how much we liked Japan.

I was slightly drunk, and liked the idea of making out with Christopher while Kip couldn’t see us, so I moved to kiss Christopher.

“We don’t have to kiss,” he said, but I pressed and we began to make out.

Kip came fully dressed out of the shower and looked over at us. We stopped kissing and Christopher got up and went to sit in a chair across the room and went on his phone.

Kip sat down on the bed next to me. As I began to talk he kissed the top of my head and then he kissed me on my mouth. And then his hands were under my sweater and then reaching under my bra. He fondled my breasts and then unbuttoned my shirt and took off my bra. He kissed my breasts for a long time. I heard Christopher shuffling around the hotel, moving things around awkwardly. Is he really doing this in front of his friend? I couldn’t tell if I was more uncomfortable or excited.

And then Kip’s hand was under my skirt and he rubbed my clit through my underwear. I felt uneasy that Christopher was there—he was obviously very uncomfortable. I felt confused as to what was happening. Are we really just going to have sex in front of his friend?

Kip slid his fingers inside of my underwear and began to finger me. I moaned softly. I was amazed how unlike most guys he wasn’t at all afraid or nervous. He wanted me and so he sat down next to me and started to kiss me and feel me up. He didn’t care that his friend was there. Kip pulled my skirt down. I felt incredibly embarrassed to be almost naked and fingered in front of Christopher.

“Look at me,” Kip said.

I looked into his eyes, which were bright green. He had a truly beautiful face. I blushed from the intensity, from being forced to realize he was looking at my tired, naked face from only a few inches away.

“Is this alright?” he asked.

I shut my eyes and nodded.

Kip got up and walked across the room to look in his bag.

I lay on the bed totally naked except for my underwear. I looked and saw Christopher now lying on the other side of the bed, looking at his iPhone.

“Chris, would you pull them down, please?” Kip asked. Christopher looked up from his phone. I wondered what was going to happen.

Christopher crawled across the bed and slid my underwear down.

Kip went down on me while Christopher kissed me and then my breasts. The feeling of having two men touch me at the same time was strange; it was pleasurable and interesting because it was a totally new sensation, but it was also overwhelming to the point that I sought to disassociate. And it was tainted by the worry that afterwards they would think less of me. It was interesting to me, the way that two men could, with their bodies, actively create a reason to respect me less, that they could transcribe shame onto my body with their own. Christopher put his fingers into my mouth.

Kip kissed me on the mouth and then my ears and neck and Christopher immediately went down on me.

I looked up and saw Kip handing an unwrapped condom to Christopher. This excited me; I felt like I was a present being given to Christopher by Kip.

Christopher put on the condom and penetrated me and lifted my legs high into the air. Kip made out with me. I struggled to kiss him because I kept moaning. He stuck his tongue so far down my throat that I gagged, which I liked.

“Look at me,” Kip said.

I turned my head to look up at him, but didn’t open my eyes.

“Very hot. Very sexy,” he said, forcefully.

I wondered if I seemed like I needed to be consoled about the way I looked… I was no longer insecure about the way I looked. I felt incredibly embarrassed yet excited that I was being fucked while Kip watched, and on a deeper level I felt scared because of some more intimate fear, insecurity that I didn’t understand that Kip and the situation in general tapped into. Perhaps I was just afraid of him.

Kip motioned to Christopher, and he immediately stopped fucking me. Kip put on a condom and then penetrated me. I moaned loudly. He was much rougher than Christopher had been. I felt embarrassed, knowing that now they had both seen me fuck two guys in a row. Had they talked about how I had written about being a sex worker in London? Had they talked about how I write about sex? Had they thought I would be so easy and that they could do whatever they want because they know that I write about sex…?

I turned my head to look at Christopher, and saw him looking at Kip’s cock going in and out of me. He looked fixated yet dumbstruck. I wondered what it was like to be a straight male and to watch your friend penetrate another woman, to see his sexual performance and his cock. I wondered if he felt aroused, excited, disturbed… I imagined asking him later about it over Facebook chat.

“Turn over,” Kip said.

I rolled over onto my stomach and got onto my hands and knees. Kip took me from behind and Christopher came to stand in front of me. I realized that Kip had directed the scene so that I would give Christopher a blowjob while Kip took me from behind. It was interesting to me how Kip was controlling not only me, but the other male, and how he did it subtly, without any force.

I heard the sound of them pecking each other on the lips.

I wondered what they would say to each other about it later. I wondered if they would make fun of me after they left. I imagined them imitating the sounds of my moans to each other and laughing. Part of me wanted to cry. I felt like they saw me as, and were using me like, a machine.

Whenever I allowed myself to be used so blatantly I could never reconcile my excitement and my curiosity, my desire to experience, with the feeling of being dehumanizied and uncared for.

Kip wanted to switch places with Christopher, and so they stopped and began to circle around me. I lay on the bed, half-curled up, panting. I could tell that I had a pained expression on my face, and I didn’t try to hide it. Part of me wanted to cry, but it wasn’t overwhelming and so I could ignore the desire to. Christopher looked at me and then he said to Kip, “Do you want to take a break? We can all spoon or something.”

Kip nodded and went to go sit on the floor and began to roll a joint. Christopher lay on the bed.

I felt an impulse to write, partly because I was upset and overwhelmed with feelings. Wordlessly, I walked over to the desk across the room and on the provided hotel notepad wrote in a stream-of-consciousness:

I felt like they were having sex with each other through me. The handing condoms & asking the lube, the desire to eat me out immediately after the other one had, and of course the desire to pass me around… Two penises in the same vagina as close as touching as could be allowed. Homosociality. English accents. The kiss during.

I tore the paper I had written off from the notepad and walked over to put it into my purse.

“Marie, are you OK?” Christopher asked.

“Yeah.”

“Are you really OK?”

I nodded.

***

Kip finished rolling a joint, and we all went still naked into the bathroom to smoke it. Christopher stuffed a towel under the door so the smoke wouldn’t get into the room.

“Do you guys say ‘hot box’?” Kip asked.

“I think that’s just called putting a towel under the door,” I shrugged.

Kip and Christopher conversed. I looked at myself in the mirror.

“Your areolas would be lighter if you were Icelandic,” Kip said suddenly to me.

I blushed.

We all passed the joint around until it was gone.

“Can I smoke another one?” Kip asked.

“It’s getting really smoky. There’s like a $200 fine if they find out you smoked in the room…” I said.

“I don’t know. I’ve smoked in a lot of hotels and it’s never been an issue,” Kip said.

“It’s your room, though,” Christopher said.

“Is it OK?” Kip asked.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t…” I said while nervously smiling.

Christopher opened the door to the room and Kip and I followed after I washed the ashes down the sink.

***

“It’s almost 5 AM,” Christopher said, implying that he and Kip would have to leave soon.

But I didn’t want them to go. I wanted him to finish what he started; I wanted him to cum in me or on me—I wanted to see what would happen if we kept going with this. It felt like something that I had to experience. I wondered if I was being driven by a self-destructive impulse.

I looked at Kip. He kissed me and we made out for a while. I tried to very gently pull him towards the bed. He pushed me onto the bed and violently pulled my shirt over my head and tugged my skirt down.

Kip kissed me deeply and began to finger me.

I wondered if men ever considered how having long nails makes fingering painful for girls. I thought about how with most men I would tell them to stop because it hurt, but with Kip…

“You sound so fucking sexy when you moan.”

“Does that feel nice?” Kip asked.

“Yeah…”

He asked me repeatedly if it felt nice, even though I was moaning loudly and had responded affirmatively three times. I used to hate it when men got off mainly by getting women off; something felt humiliating and dishonest about it. But I had changed my way of thinking recently to enjoy the humiliation and control of being used in that way, though afterwards it left me feeling extremely used. I had actively adjusted my sexuality so that it was more compatible with a common male sexual urge. I was overwhelmed with embarrassment and shame and excitement.

Sometimes I would open my eyes and look up at him and see him looking directly back down at me, grinning.

“You like getting girls off?” I asked.

“Yeah, I love it.”

“You know what would really get me off? If you were mean to me.”

“Mean? I’ll be a fucking cunt.”

He bit me on my neck, thighs, arms, and breasts so hard that I yelped every time. I still had red bite marks on my skin days later.

“Fuck me… Fuck me… Fuck me…” I moaned. I wanted to excite Kip, to push him in order to see all that he would do to me. I felt like there was something that I was seeking from this situation that I hadn’t experienced yet.

“Chris, would you fuck Marie, please?” Kip asked.

I wondered why Kip wouldn’t fuck me.

Christopher looked up from his phone and came over to the bed. He jacked off violently, trying to get an erection. “Fuck me,” I moaned again. Christopher was able to get an erection and penetrated me from behind. Christopher slapped me hard on the ass. I wondered if because he was in front of another straight male he felt the need to act more dominating than he normally would, or if because Kip had obviously controlled and dominated him in a sense that Christopher felt the need to assert power over me.

I turned my head backwards to look at Christopher. His eyes were only slightly open, and he was smiling.

“Do you like it?” I asked.

“It feels really good,” he moaned.

We had sex for a few more minutes, and then Christopher stopped so that Kip could fuck me.

Kip softly pressed a spot on my back in such a way that I fell flat onto the bed, and then he turned me onto my stomach. He penetrated me and then slapped me across the face. I moaned loudly in response.

“Do you like it?” I asked.

“You have a hot cunt,” Kip said.

I had never been fucked so deeply in my life. I covered my mouth with both of my hands to stop from screaming out, and also to provoke some sort of control from Kip. Christopher grabbed my arms roughly and pulled them down so that I couldn’t help but scream out loudly. I kind of feel like I’m being gang raped right now.

It was like he never tired. Kip alternated between fucking me, fingering me, and going down on me, and he did it all with incredible energy, even long into it. Finally I had to say, “Stop doing that. Stop,” and smack Kip’s hand away until he finally stopped and sat down next to me.

I felt Fucked To Death. Laying there I thought about a dream I had the night before where I had been criticized by people for writing a story with a scene that was meant to excite the reader by describing my sexualized murder. I thought about how my friend had texted me about how she wanted to sunbathe on a giant, ancient sea turtle. I thought about how I had drunkenly curled up half-asleep in my friend’s lap a few nights ago at a party and how he had stroked my hair and said, “Oh Marie, what are we going to do with you?”

“Have you done that before?” I asked.

“Not with two boys,” Christopher said.

“Not with Chris,” Kip said.

“You’ve done it with another guy before? With two girls is fun, too…”

Kip decided that we should all share a cab, they would drop me off at the subway station and then take it back to Brooklyn where they were staying.

***

Kip and I stood outside of the hotel while Christopher stood in the street, waiting to hail a cab. Kip hugged me and kissed me on the head and then my cheek.

I felt upset and irritated. I didn’t want him to be affectionate towards me, to pretend to feel any sort of emotion towards me. I didn’t understand how I felt about Kip then.

“I hope that was OK,” Kip said.

“How do you mean?” I felt like acting coy. Or, I didn’t want to concede that what had happened hadn’t upset me.

“I hope it was more fun than awkward and weird.”

“Was it for you?”

“For me, definitely.”

He asked me where I was from.

“I’m from Portland.”

“A lot of lovely things come from there. You have a lot to live up to.”

“I don’t want to live up to anything. Like, I don’t know…”

We talked a little more, and then Christopher finally stopped a cab. We all got in. I sat in the middle. Kip lay his head on my shoulders, and I leaned against Christopher. I wondered when I would stop abusing myself for the sake of new experiences, new sensations. No one talked during the cab ride.

When it arrived at the train station we all got out. Kip said that it had been lovely to meet me, and hugged and kissed me. Christopher hugged and kissed me, and said, “Have a lovely trip back to wherever it is you are going.”

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