Finally! One of my favorite illustrators and arguably one of the biggest inspirations for doing the stuff I do, Maurice Vellekoop, has put up a website. I couldn’t be more pleased to see this. His sense of humor, quality of line, and coloring all work for me. In my late teens and still developing my style, imagine my surprise that the same artist who I’d seen in the pages of wallpaper* magazine and Rolling Stone had put out a ‘Golden Book’ primer send up of homoerotic ABC’s.

Knowing this one was rejected for the letter ‘K’ – makes me a bigger fan, if that was at all possible.

Lots of things seem to happen at my grocery store and this one hasn’t happened in a long time, since maybe when I was in my early twenties.

I’m getting my groceries for my week at work, clocking the college age (or older) hotties: workers, skaters, punks, etc. and occasionally somebody clocks me back. Hard. Really hard. Repeated glances. Again. Again. Again. Okay, I’m getting cruised.

Just like that old ska song by Symarip (changing she to he), there he was, swinging down the high streets, yeah, his hair cut short, boots set firm, I couldn’t believe my eyes, like a story out of a book. He was height, my weight, my size, he wore braces and blue jeans. Okay, no braces and blue jeans, but damn close, he had on big docs, Dickies shorts and was very SoCal skinhead.

Raised eyebrows and a smile in passing, then in the line turning around to catch my eye 3 times, leaving line with his Schlitz and turning around to say good-bye, then waiting outside for some reason to say hello to me and I just tell him ‘see ya round’. Lame. I know I’m on my ‘no sex’, year long challenge, but… but… grrr!

I get in my car and loop the parking lot, scrambling to pull out one of my cards with my number on it. Damn! No number on these? Argh! Grab a pen. Fuck! Purple and exploded – ALL OVER MY HAND! FUCK! Are you kidding me? Write. Wipe my hand. Oh no… he’s going behind the grocery store. Back around into the rear parking lot, parking… where did he go? I see him over by the dumpster, drinking his beer.

I march on over and say hello and hand him my card and he asks a question that takes me back.

“So are you a skinhead?”

I smile and tell him I used to be. Kind of a stretch now at this point, but I have a Fred Perry shirt on.

“What kind?”

There’s that nervous knot in my stomach that totally takes me back. Yep. Right back again. The sniffing out begins.

“I was a S.H.A.R.P.,” charm turned away up, smile, and he stops me dead as soon as I got the letter ‘P’ formed. Like car-wreck dead. I can still hear the screeching tires in my head. Over. And over. And over. Followed by the sound of the crumple zone and steam shooting out of the engine.

“I’m white power,” complete with Sieg Heil salute and then very aggressively defensive, “so why are handing me this card with your number on it?”

My face contorted, my eyebrows cocked, and a look of disgust. His back against the wall of the dumpster container and both of us sizing each other up – not for sex, but whether or not this is going to start to go badly. Ice in the pit of my stomach. Him looking the card over and then shooting daggers at me.

“You know what, just give me that card back.” Cooly taking it back, shaking my head and back into my car. What a waste of my time fraught with misdirection and ultimately some of the most uncomfortable bunch of bullshit I’ve been part of in some time.

This hedonist loves to play. My 5 senses are my religion and I’m a very passionate person.

For what it’s worth, I’ve made a bet with myself to remain celibate for the next year. This means nothing past 2nd base for me so I can get my priorities sorted. I don’t see it like some who might try to quit smoking, but more like a study in human nature as I don’t see myself as being addicted to the act, instead more like a science experiment complete with taking notes on what makes me a stronger person and what really nearly makes me break. I’m on week 7 of my sexy-strike of self-discovery. It will be blogged about.

I’ve had some interesting reactions to declining sex so far which range from “Yeah, right.” to “What? That’s bizarre and you’ve lost your damned mind.” to “If you change your mind, you have my phone number.” Even more curious are those that see this as a challenge to their own libidinous natures, ie. How can I get you to (show me your) crack? So far, I’ve not had to push anyone away physically, as we all know I tend to go a bit melty when certain somebodies makes me look at them right in the eyes and get all forcefully grabby and breathy, so if I wiggle away, look away or don’t make eye contact with you, don’t take it personally… or, perhaps, do? Thankfully, most of the enticing offers/challenges have come from the online community and have been much farther away than a 10 minute car ride. Some of you are quickly making it on a list of people I am not to be left alone with should two or more of you collude and gang up on me deciding to play “Let’s Tempt the Lusty Priest of Perv”. You will be ex-communicated if I should fall from grace and you will be labelled forevermore – Lucifer’s Slippery Bell-End. I’ve already nearly chewed the edge of my desk off twice like a Tex Avery cartoon, so stop sending me pictures of your beautifully sculpted pecker, pucker, or bedroom eyes. I don’t even want to see your feet. You are making this very, very, gulp, hard.

Don’t think I can do it? Well, I’ve already cut out television from my routine. The prohibitive AT&T U-Verse bill certainly nudged me out of my lame-brained habit of plopping down on the couch and watching shows I absolutely detest. I’m actually amazed at how much television I don’t watch now, outside of a NOVA special or something on PBS.

The main reason I want to push myself in this manner is to scientifically see if this has a bearing on my level of creativity. In this past year, and it’s not a lie or a boast, I’ve had a LOT of sex (most of it terrible!) and I’ve created absolutely ZERO new artwork or finished any pieces I’ve started. Horrifying. And if we follow out this mathematical sexual equation: the greater the amount of sex, the lesser amount of creativity and time devoted to being arty. And if the correlation is correct, then I can also do it with the news, politics, and the devil a lot of us know – Facebook. Which, if we extrapolate this puppy out, more time for cooking, yard work, etc. and incidentally, more money in my pocket.

Things that are excluded are masturbation by myself, kissing (oh! the gateway drug! …but I will allow it. Just don’t be upset if I throw you to the floor yelling, “Get out! Get out! Foul demon, get out!”), sexy chit-chat and sex toys.

Things that are included: Anything past 2nd base with another person in the room, touching under the clothing, engaging in any kinky horseplay (bondage, wearing rubber, getting into jlube fights, et. al.) with one or more people, and hanging out with another person with the purpose of doing the nasty. This means, do not grab my wang or thrust your hand down the back of my jeans to “poke the kitty”.

This means no ComiCon for me as it’s sensory overload. I can just see that if somebody clever enough, seductively loquacious enough, with the devil in their eyes decided to speak a few well-placed, sweet somethings in my ear or along the nape of my neck, I’d be a goner on my knees in your hotel room praising all that is holy before me or perhaps in less nicer, less clean facilities. And I don’t need any of you thinking it’s funny and ganging up on me there, chasing me through the convention center in some sort of psycho-sexual Night of the Living Dead yelling, “We’re coming to get you, Barbara!” because some of you geeks are way too hot and that’s playing with fire. I’ll stay home with my green tea and my ice cream, thank you very much. I’m deadly serious.

All that said, there are some key things I am setting as goals that I must accomplish in this long, dry year. The obvious one is doing artwork again. The second one is joining a gym and tearing up this slight frame to be reborn as something better, stronger, and something worth whistling at. I don’t want to ring in year 37 with a spare tire any more than I want to approach 40 (good grief!) farther down the hill than I anticipated. “The body is a temple”, or so they say. Third, I believe I have the mental fortitude and doing is proving.

See you around Memorial Day.

Are you in or visiting Seattle? Have you worn out your leather or totally out of lube? Well, look no further! Doghouse Leathers, Seattle’s purveyors of all things pervy, is now stocked with handmade, blank greeting cards made by yours truly! Be sure to check out their great space, pick up a big toy or three, chat up the friendly staff and be sure to get a grip on some arty cards. Tell them I sent you and ask for them by name!