When love comes to town

I no longer remember when I first realized I was in love. It was many years ago, when I was still a teenager, and consumed with childish things. And then, one day, probably through a friend, we met. And that was that - for many years after, U2 was it for me.

"The Unforgettable Fire" showed me that music could be about something and not just be pretty boys in pretty videos singing songs I could 80s dance to. And on a hot summer day, in my parents' rec room, their performance of "Bad" at Live Aid made me want to be the girl in the crowd more than anything in the whole wide world. In some ways, I think it's my musical litmus test - if I reference Live Aid, and that performance, and you don't understand why I feel the way I do, a tiny piece of me will always be a mystery to you. 

Oh sure, we weren't exclusive. I had flings, meaningful relationships even, with many others. The Waterboys and I had something really special, REM and I had a situation, Crowded House very nearly split us up. Even the Sisters of Mercy and I kept company for a while, until it became just too much work to take that damn eyeliner off every night.  But always, there in the background, like a favourite t-shirt, waiting for me to realize I could depend on them, were Bono and the boys.

"The Joshua Tree". My God, I loved that album. The first three songs on that record are probably my three favourite U2 songs. I cannot, to this day, hear "Where the Streets Have No Name" without picturing a rooftop, the crowds gathering below. Or without dashing to my stereo, cranking the knob, and having a sing-along, like I did about 10 minutes ago. I moved out of my parents house about six months after this album was released, and I've kind of always seen it as the soundtrack of my first taste of  independence. And my parents were probably only too happy to get a reprieve from the near constant playing. I'm pretty sure I wore out at least one turntable needle.

For a little while, with the video for  "With or Without You" fresh in my mind, and my hormones at critical mass, I was convinced the boy I had a crush on looked just like Bono did in the video. Did he? Probably only the tiniest bit. Did it get him to second base? Definitely yes.

"Rattle and Hum". I saw the movie more than once in the old art-house movie theatre, and the album was in heavy rotation at our apartment. Whenever the boy (he of the short pony tail and vaguely rock star swagger) came over, and my roommates weren't home,  he'd take out the album and set the needle to "All I Want is You". A few candles and track 17 and I could very nearly imagine I was kissing Bono. I wonder how many countless makeout sessions that song inspired? Even now, if a man were to put on that song, he'd likely have me at "You say you want/ your story to remain untold". But the combination of being 20 and the sexiness of the boy you like taking that album out of the sleeve, lifting the arm and setting the needle to just the right track? Hard to beat, even more than 20 years later. This may be the real reason behind vinyl's comeback. 
 
As I grew up, and they experimented, it was not always easy going. "Zooropa" and "Pop" left me cold, and I started to wonder if we'd grown too far apart, our young love coming to its inevitable end.  But our separation couldn't last, and we reconnected over "All That You Can't Leave Behind". It reminded me of why I'd loved them once.  

We've settled into a deep friendship now, the passion of my youth giving way to a more comfortable, and comforting, connection. I always like to know how they're doing, even if we don't have as much in common as we once did. But on Saturday night, it'll be like catching up with an old love you never quite got over, and I will be 15 again, and 19, and 23. And when I hear those jangly guitars on the opening to "Where the Streets...", I'll be singing, and dancing, and maybe even crying a little. And then, finally, I will be the girl in the crowd. I cannot wait.

O My Goodness!

Elusive. Mysterious. Shy. Tempermental.

Barbra Streisand? No. The female orgasm. At least that's what tv shows, books, and countless magazines keep telling me. You know what? No, it's not. If you're not getting there pretty much every time you have sex, you're getting ripped off. Some women are having orgasms all the damn time. And if you can't say the same, it might be your fault.

Now, calm down, ladies, and hear me out. I've said this to boyfriends, and I'll say it to you: it's not his sole responsibility to make sure I get off; in fact, it's largely mine. Where did this idea come from that it's a man's j-o-b to make sure we have an orgasm? I blame the historical fiction genre. I'm looking at you, Philippa Gregory. Look, I'm assuming you know what works for you, so why shouldn't you be in charge? Sometimes you're fortunate enough to have a partner who just knows, but not every guy is intuitive. Even the guys who are aren't, not every single time. So if you don't speak up, or shift a bit to the left, or put his hand just over there, how can you blame a guy for not getting you there when you know the way? You can't. And you know he's not likely to ask for directions. Unless he's Kreskin, a guy cannot "just know". And if he is Kreskin, um, good for you. You wouldn't expect a guy to know how to put a barbeque together without some sort of instructions, would you?

This is where I point out that some identifying details may have been changed to protect, well, me, probably.

My girlfriends tell me I'm lucky. One of them once said  "A guy touches your boob and you get off". A definite exaggeration, but I'll cop to being lucky - it's never been an issue. I've been very grateful for it, I've paid attention, and before you waste any more time on those magazine articles - here's what I've learned:

I don't get all this position switching. Different strokes for different folks, but one thing is pretty universal: the vast majority (I'm going to say a non-scientific 98%) of women need a steady rhythm to get there (the others are likely faking it), and it's hard to be consistent when you're doing a Cirque du Soleil routine. Popular culture will tell you that you need to be a gymnast, and it seems like a lot of women think they have to switch it up multiple times to keep a guy happy. You don't.  I've seen rom coms where they change positions more times in a 90 second scene than I have in 15 years. Sure, being bendy is great, but unnecessary. If I want to assume that many positions in twenty minutes, I'll go to yoga. Pick a couple of positions. If you're an overachiever, maybe three. Stick with them. And by the way - missionary gets a bad rap. Missionary rules. More on that later.

Instead of being with a bunch of people once or twice, try being with one or two people a bunch of times. For me, a serial monogamist of some renown, there is nothing boring about the familiar. You know his body, he knows what works for you, and you're probably both more relaxed, and that's invaluable when it comes to coming. New people can be awesome too, but let's face it: that's probably more because of the thrill of it, the newness of it, or the cocktails of it. I also still believe in making out at least a few times before I sleep with someone. You can learn a lot from dry humping. Like don't wear brand new, never washed, dark denim on an ivory couch, among other things.

Oral oral oral. I'm always shocked when I read about women being uncomfortable with this. I almost can't comprehend that. Seriously. I covet shoes as much as the next girl, but ladies, show of hands - if someone told you that you could be orally pleasured 3 times a week but never buy shoes again, I bet most of you wouldn't even hesitate. You'd just arrange shoe swaps with your equally satisfied friends. Oh sure, you might try and swing some sort of deal where you'd get to buy one rockin' pair of booties if you gave it up for a while, but they'd have to be really awesome booties. I know all the arguments, the reasons behind why some women can't truly enjoy it, and no smart-ass comment from me can change someone's body image or make them more comfortable. But if you have a hard time reaching heaven during sex, oral sex can take you there AND make you find religion. Except for Scientology; I don't know how you find that, but I'm pretty sure the answer isn't in your pants. Plus, there isn't as much friction as with some other NC-17 stuff, and we all know what that means: the little guy in the boat is much less likely to pull his Sou'wester over his head and refuse to take your calls.

I know someone who used to be reluctant to let herself take it to the limit with oral, preferring to save the big finish for the main event. That's like competing in the regionals on "Glee" and not giving Rachel a solo because she's saving her voice for Nationals just in case. Plus, my friend (you don't know her) didn't want a man to feel like the Big O arrived too quickly. Why, I have no idea. Making a guy stop is a bit like going to Disneyworld, getting to the entrance to the Magic Kingdom, and then leaving because you've decided you don't want to have too much fun on Space Mountain. What if Space Mountain is closed for refurbishment next time? And why on earth would a man mind if you came too quickly? It makes him feel like a goddamn rock star. Plus, you know rock stars - there's usually the option for an encore.

If you're not getting what you need to get there (and you probably aren't, every time, not exactly), then ask for it. You don't have to bark orders like Lou Gossett, Jr., but if you like slower, or faster, or Barry White,  tell him. He won't mind. The vast majority of men (an unscientific 99%) find this a huge turn on; the others are either lying or have had a bad experience with Lou Gossett, Jr. I'm kind of bossy even standing up, but asking for what you want, for what you know is pretty much a sure thing, is a win win for everyone.

And finally, and most importantly - you have to learn what gets you off. You can't ask for "it" if you don't know what "it" is, exactly. Have a meet and greet with your clit. Get better acquainted, do a little scrapbooking, maybe buy it a margarita.  It only has one job; helping you climax. Make it earn its year-end bonus. You'll figure out what works, what doesn't, what tickles. And please, ladies - don't feel like touching yourself stops if another person is in the room. You understand I mean a partner, not your accountant, right? A "hands off" policy is for museums, not your own body. Unless you're in a museum. If you ask me (and I know you were going to), missionary + a little She-Bop (yeah, that song wasn't really about dancing) pretty much guarantees a good time will be had by all.  A guy will not mind one bit that you're taking matters into your own hands: it takes the pressure off him, he can set his own pace AND he gets a pretty great visual. Plus, unless you're a total asshole, he still gets all the credit for rocking your world. The next morning, over breakfast, you'll be remembering the great time you had, you won't be thinking "well, I helped things along". And I'm pretty sure he won't be thinking that, either. What he is thinking: "Man, I'm so glad she's not a Scientologist..."

I know it's easy for me, the come early come often girl, to spout half-assed theories about owning your orgasm. I actually hate that I just typed "owning your orgasm". And I know there are women for whom it just isn't physically possible, and that must be awful and frustrating. But I really believe an orgasm is one of life's basic pleasures (along with good coffee and warm oatmeal cookies) and having one with a partner is a fantastic experience. But you need to know what works for you, that you can let yourself go, that you can put your own pleasure above everything else. And I think that's hard for some women. But you know what - any man worth your time will get off on you getting off. Even Kreskin.

What I did on my summer vacation

We didn't take a lot of big vacations when I was a kid. Both my parents worked, we didn't have a huge travel budget, and I'm sure the idea of listening to my brother mimic everything I said (everything I said) in the backseat (in the backseat) wasn't a big road trip selling point. But there was one summer vacation I still remember vividly all these years later.

Not long after my brother was born, Mom and Dad left him with my grandparents and took me on a road trip to New England. Our primary destination - Santa's Village, in Jefferson, New Hampshire. It probably should have seemed weird it was warm enough for denim short overalls (suck it, Laurie Partridge) at Santa's place, but I assume my parents told me it was his summer residence or something. Like Castel Gandolfo is for the Pope, but with elves.

I wasn't one of these kids who was scared of Santa, but I also wasn't overly interested in perching on his lap, in the summer or at any other time of the year. Photographic evidence would suggest my thoughts were a candy cane swirl of reluctance, suspicion and a keen awareness that, even though it was only July, my cooperation could make or break my Christmas.

There was, at some point, a train. This pint-sized locomotive left its quaint station and took its merry band of passengers down the track and into a wooded area. I was now five and a big sister - bring on the solo train ride! My parents agreed, and I was all aboard for adventure. Except...part way 'round the trip, somewhere deep in a glen that looked suspiciously like where Hansel and Gretel were last seen, the train stopped. I don't know if this was due to the little engine that couldn't give a rat's ass, or if this temporary standstill was merely a way to make the passengers feel like they were getting their parents' money's worth. All I knew was that I was in the middle of a creepy forest on a hunk of unmoving, brightly-painted metal. We were sitting ducks. There was only one thing to do. I went rogue.

I hopped off that terror train, and I ran. I ran away from that train like Harrison Ford in "The Fugitive".  Sobbing and flailing, I ran until I saw signs of civilization again (likely about 100 feet up the track),bursting to safety to see my waiting parents wondering what the hell I was doing. They seemed neither overly concerned about my predicament nor impressed by my dramatic return, especially when the traitorous little tank engine steamed into the station about 12 seconds behind me. They didn't know. They hadn't been there. They hadn't seen the things I'd seen.

As a kid, I loved monkeys. And on this trip, there was a zoo with a big enclosure full of them. Disclaimer: my father loves animals, really he does. He's brought home more dogs than Paris Hilton. It's just that, well, he loves to tease them.  He truly believes they enjoy it. He would be wrong.

This one monkey in particular kept reaching through the bars of the cage. And when someone would offer their hand, he'd slap them or grab their wrist. Dad saw this as carte blanche to beat the monkey at his own game. So when the monkey next slapped Dad, Dad pinched his little toes. The monkey, as monkeys are wont to do, went bananas. He snatched the brand new (like an hour old) baseball cap right off my father's head and pulled it back through the bars. My father tried coaxing, he tried bargaining, he tried cursing, he tried faking the monkey out. He may have tried to trade me for the hat. Mr. Monkey was having none of it: he sat just out of reach, screeching, and he ripped that hat to shit with his little teeth, eyeballing my father the entire time with a "That'll teach you, jackass" glare.  My father was incensed, the other visitors were amused, the monkey was victorious. My father learned a valuable lesson that day: just because Duke, our black Lab, thought Dad was hilarious, that did not mean all creatures great and small (and angry) agreed. I, too, learned a valuable lesson: never wear a brand new hat to the zoo.

I don't remember returning home from that vacation, though I doubtlessly had a few new freckles, at least one episode of car sickness, and several mosquito bites. But I do know this: while many people look back fondly on idyllic summers spent on a lake, or at the time they rode their first roller coaster, for me, nothing will ever say "summer vacation" quite like a runaway train and a revenge-seeking primate.