If you’re not into politics, skip right over this one!  I promise the next post will be about something more saucy.

So in addition to legalizing discrimination against gay couples recently, Indiana is seeing an uptick in the number of new HIV cases in Scott County (in the southern part of the state).  Maybe “uptick” isn’t the right word — more like a surge of new cases; the number jumped 100% in a month.  Indiana health care workers think that this is just the beginning of a growing number of HIV infections across the state, and Governor Mike Pence has announced a public health emergency.  Yes, THAT Governor Mike Pence.  The one who previously opposed needle exchange programs in Indiana, where clean needle programs are illegal (well — he still opposes them in principal, but has decided to override the law for a bit until things get under control).

In neighboring Wisconsin, Governor – slash – King Douche (I’d apologize to douche for comparing it to Walker, but it’s pretty bad for your vag, ladies.  Don’t use it.) defunded the clean needle exchange in Milwaukee in 2002 when he was the Milwaukee County Executive.  Fun fact: Scott Walker is infamous for killing collective bargaining rights and for shipping prisoners to private prisons in other states while simultaneously taking campaign money from those very same private prisons, but did you also know that he repealed Wisconsin’s comprehensive sex education and equal pay laws?   Just something to keep in mind if he runs for President next year.

Image result for the more you know

All I’m sayin’ is prevention over reaction, people.  You’d think fiscal conservatives would get that.

Update:  The Nation just wrote a great piece about this.

A Brief Rant About HBO’s Girls and Teaching

I’m a teacher.  Like, a licensed one — not just someone who popped over to South Korea and thought, “Hey, how hard can teaching be?  I bet I can do that for a year!”  I studied for four years to become a teacher.  The last semester of university, I taught full-time at a high school while taking three university courses and working a part-time job.  Furthermore, I’m an English teacher — and along with social studies teachers, the supply exceeds the demand.  There are a lot of people in the US with teaching degrees who are looking for work. 

So imagine my surprise when in this season of HBO’s Girls, Hannah Horvath just walks into a private school, asks for a job teaching advanced literature, and gets hired immediately with no experience and no qualifications.  Now, I love this show, and I think this season has been pretty great.  But for a show that prides itself on realism, I’m pretty shocked that the writers didn’t seem to notice this glaring error in the script. 

Private and charter schools can hire whom they please; however, the likelihood that there’s a substitute teacher opening in a magnet school in Brooklyn in the middle of semester and that there’s not a single qualified teacher applying for that job is remarkably slim.  I’d say close to zero.  Come on, Girls.

But there’s more.  So much more.  The minute Hannah starts having inappropriate conversations with students, her ass would be out the door faster than you can say lawsuit.  No school — even a private school — wants a teacher like that on their hands.  Too much liability! 

Principal in the show: “Hey, sweetheart, you could really use some boundaries.” 
Hannah: “Are you firing me?” *sad puppy eyes*
Principal: “Why don’t you take the day off and come back when you’re feeling better? We’ll talk about it then over hot fudge sundaes.”

Principal in real life: “You’re done here.  Pack your things.”
Hannah: “Are you firing me?” *sad puppy eyes*
Principal: “You took a minor OUT OF SCHOOL DURING THE MIDDLE OF THE SCHOOL DAY and brought her to a tattoo and piercing shop.  You’re lucky we’re not suing you.”   

My school got pissed at me and my co-coach when we took our swimmers out for dinner after the season ended (after the school hadn’t had a swim team in twenty years) because it was too much of a liability to drive them in our cars rather than have the school pay for an insured school bus.

Sauna (NSFR)

I was sitting in a wet sauna in Seoul last weekend; since I was alone in the room, I thought I’d lay down and stretch out on my back on the wooden bench I was sitting on.  After a few minutes, I noticed that my mind was racing with intrusive thoughts of my plans for the evening, what I had to do when I got home, etc.  As I was there to relax, I thought I’d take a Buddhist-style step back for a moment and just try to empty my mind and notice the feelings in my body.  I noticed tingling in my legs where I had just been sitting; I felt the wooden slats underneath my back.  I noticed the heat washing over me and my breaths getting shallower.  I remembered Death Valley and thought about how much I love the desert.  I looked at my body underneath the bare yellow bulb hanging from the ceiling; stretching my arms behind my head and arching my back, I saw tiny beads of sweat popping up all over my breasts, then raised my knees to see the sweat all over my body.  And suddenly, I was flooded with a desperate desire to fuck myself.  Not as in masturbate, but as in I wish I could split myself in two and simultaneously be an out of body male-bodied version of myself but also be myself in my own body and fuck myself on the wooden bench in the Itaewonland sauna.  Am I the only one who’s had this fantasy?  If this hasn’t already happened in some sci-fi or fantasy story, I hope one of you gets on that.       

Need help from a stranger? You better be wearing heels!

If you’ve read my blog before, you know that I’m super interested in sex, gender, and relationship research.  So I was stoked last night to find out about that there’s a podcast called the Psychology of Attractiveness Podcast.  Of course, when I looked at the titles of recently archived episodes, I beelined for the one titled “Why Do Women Who Have Anal Sex Have Anal Sex?” (that’s a whole other blog post; remind me to come back to that).  The episode, however, only came around to this topic at the end.  The main focus in the episode centers on a study that was done regarding how people react to women wearing high heels versus women wearing flats. 

The researchers did three separate experiments.  In the first, they had a nineteen year-old woman ask male passersby to take a survey about gender equality while wearing different types of footwear.  46% of men stopped to take the survey when she wore flats, 63% of the men stopped for her when she wore low heels (5cm), and 83 percent stopped for her when she wore stilettos (9cm).  Eighty percent — almost double the percentage of men who stopped for the very same woman wearing flats!  And not to ask her out — to take a survey.  Because the lead researcher (Nicolas Gueguen) wanted to validate his results and make sure that these men were not just reacting to this specific woman, he repeated the experiment with four different women who also asked female passersby to take the survey.  Women stopped to take the survey about 30% of the time, no matter what type of shoes the volunteer was wearing; the results of men being asked to participate in the survey were the same as before (approximately 40 / 60 / 80).

The researchers were then curious if footwear would influence “spontaneous” acts of kindness.  They had a woman walk down the street and drop a glove in front of someone she was passing in order to see who would pick it up and return it to her.  Women returned the glove 50% of the time regardless of whether she was wearing flats or heels.  60% of men returned the glove to the woman while she was wearing flats; 80% returned it while she was wearing short heels; and 95 percent returned it to the woman wearing high heels.  After hearing this, I was left with a burning question: What’s up, ladies?  Pick up the glove!  I get why women wouldn’t stop to take a survey (busy, on the way to do something, have no interest, whatever), but they most certainly have time to pick up a glove and hand it to someone.  This kind of weirded me out.

Image result for fuck me pumpsIn order to control for factors such as how heels make a woman walk differently or the fact that they make women appear taller, the lead researcher had a woman sit in a bar with different types of shoes on to see how long it would take a man to hit on her in a night club while she was sitting!  Two volunteers watched her creepily from a corner and took notes.  It took thirteen minutes for the woman wearing flats to be approached and chatted up by a guy, eleven minutes for the woman wearing short heels, and seven minutes for the woman wearing high heels to be approached.  I’m feeling like this time span would vary greatly depending on location, even within the same city.   

Gueguen has a couple of hypotheses about why men respond more favorably to women wearing heels than women wearing flats.  One hypothesis is that smaller feet are generally considered more attractive on women than larger feet, and high heels make feet appear smaller.  The other hypothesis, which I find MUCH more likely, is that women look more sexually accessible or appear promiscuous in the male gaze while wearing high heels because that’s what men are used to seeing strippers and women in porn wear. 

“That girl is wearing high heels!  That must mean she wants to have sex with me!  Yessssssssss!  CFM*s, here I come!”

I’m disappointed that this experiment wasn’t repeated in a lesbian bar.  I bet the results would be fascinating and maybe even inverted. 

As the podcast host (who has a lovely accent — I might listen to all the archived episodes on that factor alone) mentions, the study fails to take into account that women might just act more confidently when wearing heels because they feel sexy, and that men might therefore be more attracted to women’s confidence rather than the way high heels make women physically appear.  As someone who wears heels only once in a blue moon, I can tell you, I am *not* feeling confident when I’m walking around in them — more like I’m going to face plant into the concrete at any given moment.  Still — I do love looking at a woman strolling down the street in pumps, swishing from side to side, working those shoes.      

*Come Fuck Me Heels / Fuck Me Pumps.  Yes, it’s a thing. 

What he said / What I heard

Sometimes, the things our partners actually say out loud are different from the things we hear them say.  I’ve been wanting to show this in art form for the longest time, but I can’t draw, and I don’t have photo shop, so I went to the dollar store for some inspiration.  I found some pretty cutesy arts and crafts clay figures that I could have made and was about to buy them… until I ran into the coloring books.  Perfect!  There were so many to choose from!  Transformers, Frozen, various adorable woodland creatures.  I finally settled on the Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers for comic effect.  I used the blue ranger for myself because even though I was too old to watch the show when it was on, I always thought he was kinda cute because he reminded me of Radar from M*A*S*H. 

In any case: Here it is! 

I’d like to make this a regular feature of the blog; if you have a hilarious and / or mortifying example of this, email me at, and I’ll make it happen!

Birthday Sex: A One-Night Stand

I was enchanted with Lena (we’ll call her Lena) from the day we met.  Lena was a bartender with a bachelor’s degree in chemistry who only wore black.  She was born in Siberia and had run away to the US in a giant fur coat and high heels and never looked back, yet longed for home.  She told me that she had “escaped” her third husband who was involved in organized crime.  And everyone who ever met her wanted to protect her.

Lena was one of those women who was born knowing how to flirt; her gaze and her laughter were intoxicating.  There was a piano in the back room of the bar, and she played it beautifully.  She moved with grace and purpose.  I flirted with her all the time, just like the other bar flies; she knew I was into her, but I figured I didn’t have a chance, especially given that she identified as being straight.  Over time, we became friends and spent time together outside of the bar.

Lena worked every night without fail (at two different bars) to send money home to her teenage son; she never got a break, and I wanted to give her one.  I told her to take off work one night in February when the Joffrey Ballet was doing a production of Romeo and Juliet; I didn’t tell her what my plans were – just that I wanted to take her out.  She said that there was no way her boss would let her have the evening off, so I went to her boss and talked to him myself (luckily, she viewed this as a Dobler act rather than a Dahmer act).  He said that she worked too hard and that he would be very happy to give her a free night; he even offered to drive us downtown!

It turned out to be a brilliant evening — we had a four-course dinner and a bottle of wine, walked to the ballet (where she cried because she said it was the first time she had really felt anything since emigrating to the States nine years earlier), then went out to a bar and danced all night.  We took a taxi back to my place and I drove her home, dropping her at her doorstep.  I didn’t make a move, because like I said — I didn’t think I had a chance.

Lena’s birthday came six weeks later.  She was working, of course, so I brought her flowers at the bar and spent the night there with her other friends until she got off work, after which we went somewhere else and kept drinking.  By the end of the night, Lena’s two friends were three sheets to the wind, and I was pretty sober, so I offered to drive them all home.  After I dropped her second friend off and started up the road to drop off Lena, she suddenly leaned over and planted her lips on mine!  “Come home with me,” she said in a husky voice.  My heart started pounding.  “Ar- are you su-sure?” I stammered, blushing hard.  Yes, she said, and started kissing me.  I pulled the car over to slide my fingers into her hair and kiss her back.  She touched me all the way to her house, and it was the LONGEST DRIVE.

After what seemed like forever, we finally arrived to her basement apartment — no heat, no furniture, and a curtain in the doorway.  It was literally a basement in someone’s house where she was renting out a room with a bed in it where she could sleep between shifts.  She turned on a bare bulb so we could find our way into her room, then turned it back out, so we were left with just a little light from the streetlamps making their way through the basement windows.  She took off both of our coats and dropped them carelessly to the ground before aggressively removing the rest of my clothes and biting my shoulders, my stomach, my thighs.  Hard.  She took off her shirt and her bra; I could barely see the outline of her breasts as they swung above mine, but I could definitely feel her nipples on my suddenly warming skin.  I reached out to touch her, and she pinned my wrists behind my head.  I had wanted this woman for so long; this wasn’t at all what my fantasies about her were like… but it was achingly hot.  She spread my legs and buried her face into me, telling me I couldn’t touch her.  I obeyed.  I moaned.  She said she wanted to drink me.  I moaned harder.  She slid her fingers into me; I arched my back, clenched my fists behind my head, and asked her to kiss me.  I could taste myself on her tongue, and I craned my neck up to keep kissing her while taking breaks to beg her not to stop fucking me.

When her wrist just couldn’t move anymore, she fell over in bed next to me and spread out her arms and legs.  I propped myself up above her and started kissing her breasts, but she stopped me.  I asked her why; she said it was because she was ashamed of her body after giving birth and didn’t want me to see or touch her.  “Then… why did you want me to come home with you?” I asked.  “I’ve never been with a woman before,” she said, lighting a cigarette.  “I was curious.”

We talked for a bit and fell asleep, limbs entangled under a massive amount of blankets.  I woke up just after the sun rose in the morning, put my clothes back on, kissed her on the cheek, and let myself out into the cold light.  The next time I saw her, we smiled a secret smile and left it at that.  We remained good friends and continued to spend a lot of time together, but we never mentioned that night again.


It’s been awhile since I’ve posted a sexy story, and I think it’s time to remedy that.  As I was skimming through possible topics in my mind the other day, I thought, “What if I write about my first one-night stand?”  So then I scanned my memory for who that might be.  I went through a long list of casual sex partners from my early twenties with whom I never had a sleepover (as in, we had sex and then I or my partner went home) and realized that I didn’t know who the first person I had a one-night stand with was, and I’d have to consult my actual paper list (Don’t judge!  I know you guys do this, too).  I was shocked when I found out that the first time I had a proper, drunk, one-time sexual encounter followed by a sleepover and a morning drive home in my previous night’s makeup wasn’t until I was 26.  That story to follow in the next post… because I’m a tease.

Hilarious sidebar: I was talking to my mom last week and telling her about the book I keep in which I’ve documented just about everything in my life: addresses, jobs, extra teaching activities, volunteer hours, donations, concerts attended, etc.  I finished the list, and she promptly asked me: “You don’t have a list of all the people you’ve been with?”  I started laughing and probably blushed, and said, “Of course I do!  I just wasn’t going to mention it!”  I’m glad mom and I can have these talks.        

Do Not Be Alarmed

I started a new university job this week; as a new teacher, I got a “Welcome to X University / Here Are Our Official Policies” handout last week at the new teacher meeting.  Imagine my shock and dismay upon reading the following paragraph (copied here verbatim):

“It should be pointed out that students in the sports department have a special system of grading.  This means that students with athletic scholarships are given academic scores based on their performance in that particular sport.  These students can often be absent from class, late and apathetic to appropriate academic behavior.  Simply put, their effort in class does not matter if they place high in their respective competition.  This being the case, it is essential that you identify these students at the beginning of the semester,  However, do not be alarmed.  Take each individual case in stride.”

I don’t know — I mean, I consider the fact that my university took the time to include in writing in an official university document that student athletes can sleep through class or not even bother to show up, and we’re still supposed to pass them PRETTY FUCKING ALARMING.  I’m sure college professors (for sure high school teachers) in the US are pressured to pass athletes (or, in the case of New Orleans, musicians) no matter their academic performance, but at least they have some means to fight back against it.

New KTO (Korean Tourism Organization) slogan:

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Korea!  We have the cojones to own up to corruption. 

I write this blog

because of bullshit like this.  And just when the Catholic church was starting to change its image a teeny, tiny bit thanks to Pope Awesome.  

By the way, one of those “gravely evil acts” is using birth control pills.  Guess I know now why mom dressed me as Satan for Halloween that one year! 

We should get a bunch of sex nerds together for a huge meetup and call it EvilCon.