Betty Dodson with Carlin Ross

Better Orgasms. Better World.

• Login
• Join

Search this site:

In my walk home from the office today I found myself sharply focused on a very out- of -nowhere idea.

For some reason I began to think about Obama and our country and what is fair criticism and what is not – in my eyes. In these thoughts I became struck by what is not being said and won’t be because it’s not “allowed.”

I think this: strangers, unconnected human beings, relate to each other in dramatically altered ways since that election.

I am not prejudiced or racist, I swear. Right. I grew up in a very diverse urban neighborhood, of Jewish parents, and I honestly never noticed people of color. Or so I thought. I spent many years in unisex dressing rooms suiting up for the next dance class. All races. All genders.

Today is my birthday –almost over.

I had an interesting dinner with a couple of treasured girlfriends. There were a few stories swapped, memories resurrected that resonate.

One of my friends remembered how my lingerie was always super exciting and sexy back in the day. I was flooded with images of YSL g-string bikini underwear – red silk, black, swathed in paper wrap in boxes --- delivered only upon special order. I have no idea where I learned about them from, only that I needed them, badly.

It was 1973 and I was riding the feminist bazooka. Take me home; I am WOMAN.

She reminded me of garter belts and bikinis, and roller skates and blatant sex speak.

This is only my opinion.

I haven’t the slightest clue what is best for every one, or you, or me for that matter.

However when you consider sex and family – big problem.

How can a person decide to nourish an innocent child born to them, and at the same time silence their own imperative to be wild and free?

I don’t know. Do you think you do?

Do you just settle? Don’t think so. Those of us developed by the women’s movement, Vietnam, the sexual revolution, do not have “settling” as part of our vocabulary. And then there comes baby, sweet baby face, needing , deserving unconditional love and attention. Who then, me? You? Where should the attention go?

You may have seen all the press about “Slutwalks.” These are demonstrations, made up of many women, dressed in provocative, lewd, slanderous outfits, on a mission. Their point is that the way a woman dresses is her decision and sexy or no, it does not invite or excuse men to treat her poorly, or aggressively.

In today’s courtrooms, in rape trials, prosecutors continue to slip in comments about comportment, and the messages that a defendant may have projected by her choice of attire. Before the other attorney cries “I object,” the suggestion is registered by the jury.

This is an expose about the benefits of drinking alcohol – in moderation of course.

It seems politically incorrect to toast the positives about drinking, almost hush hush. People won’t say when they drink, if they occasionally do, the match network patrons all check off ”drink socially" on their profiles. And I suppose that by posting this, I will hear that I am an “in denial“ alcoholic and “who does she think she’s kidding.”

So anyway, as I was whispering, there really are great benefits to drinking responsibly (lets just agree that’s what I mean and I won’t have to use a disclaimer again.”)

I once had a conversation with my husband about what it was like to be a woman. It was an unusual part of a typical discussion but for the specific aspect I was interested in – FEAR.

I took it for granted that as a woman I was rigorously and intrinsically aware, all the time, of where I was, how dark it was, what sounds I heard, etc. Somehow, along the road to my coming of age, I had been warned and continually instructed to be focused, to be vigilant. It became part of the way I moved thru the world.

I’m not saying that I had been attacked once, or that I was paranoid or compulsive, just on guard. It was a practiced skill.

I was having difficulty with my moods. That’s not unusual. I have all kinds of emotional days but sometimes the down ones seem to last a long time.

This latest round, once I identified its origin, had to do with the recurrent theme of age, aging, age-ism, age--- as in mortality.

I agreed to have dinner with one of my college roommates – I say “agreed” because when I’m in one of those moods I typically hang out with just me. Not very good company. I don’t even like myself.

She and I have had so many meals over the years and she always has a nonthreatening, highly intelligent perspective on the world. I can get pretty negative and cynical sometimes. Hate that. Merry, well, she just has that way about her – nothing gets to her so much that she has to lay down.

When I was an adolescent living in Brooklyn, New York, I did what a lot of teenage girls did. I tried on makeup, flirted with boys, fought with my parents, hated my sister, etc. I was fiercely conscious of how I looked. I think I saw the power of pretty at a very young age.

One thing that’s interesting to me now when I look back, is how much the definition of pretty has changed. It used to be Barbie, long blonde hair, busty, flashy, small mouthed, you know.
For me, it was definitely not what I looked like. First of all I had a mass of curly, sometimes, frizzy, dark hair and not a clue what to do with it.

Many clients come to see me to help with marital blahs, and deadness and inconsolable partners. What happens when one spouse, or both, have depression; I’m talking the real thing not the occasional blues. Depression may reside in one spouse but it affects the entire family.

As often as this occurs, it is never to my knowledge mentioned in the magazines or otherwise openly discussed socially or in public. I guess there’s still an element of shame, secrecy, embarrassment attached or else why wouldn’t this oh so frequent problem be outed.

So many couples complain about poor communication as the greatest hindrance to marital perfection. Others of course say it is sexual malnutrition. Very often the communication itself is not the problem – it’s the message that no one wants to hear.

I went to a wedding this weekend. I love weddings. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve been married, or divorced, or how many other marriages I’ve seen that mightily struggle. It just doesn’t matter.

It has been said that the one thing that differentiates us from animals is our ability to HOPE.

Maybe that’s it.

When I watched my nephew walk down that aisle and await his bride’s entrance, my heart was full. I felt his awe and his joy. This is not a young man, 33 years old, who has known what love and intimacy is – surely not by example. He grew up in a broken home with a mother who loved him but was in no way able to provide him with the consistency, stability, or financial flexibility to thrive. She did love him, I’m sure, but her challenges were mighty.

This is a very interesting and disturbing entry into the abyss called “AGING.” Worse, this is one of those subjects that defy one’s ability to stay level headed and reasonable – if you are an aging woman – or her daughter.

We talk so much on this site about good sex and all its parts. Our audience is concerned and hungry for advice, education and a supportive environment in which to express themselves.
One of our ongoing conversations is about body image, the cruel and unstoppable magazines that float forever-damaging images into our faces. We eagerly deplore them and cannot, at the same time, get enough of them.

We all seem to love a bad boy.

Some have said that the feminist movement brought on hard women and soft boys – and we’ve know that didn’t work.

Dr. Helen Fisher who talks about history, and sociology and the hunter-gatherers probably has it all right.

There is something to the dependency angle after all. Women’s fantasies do often organize around a guy they can expect, because of their brawn, not because of their brains, to protect them against attack.

It’s like our brains have not caught up with our maturity and intelligence. Maybe a guy who can think his way out of a dangerous situation is way more desirable than a guy with washboard abs. I don’t know, call me crazy.

This has been an enlightening week. I’ve learned something new and potentially unburdening. Some of you will find this of interest and others will probably yawn and ask for a change of bloggers.

I went out with that man again, having decided that impulsive judgments were not worthy of my intellect and experience. Had to give him a second chance.

Guess what, I feel the same way I did when we first went out. It’s just not there. And if I, now this is just me talking, convinced myself that it was ok anyway, because he’s a nice man in so many ways, and the pickings are so slim, I’d kill myself.

In case anyone is wondering about my date, here’s the update.

The wind was so ferocious; I almost didn’t make it to the car. Is this an omen? Maybe I should just beg off.

Actually, before I got out the door was the inevitable and annoying obsessive conversation in my head -- What should I wear.

How do I want to look? Typically I’d be wearing jeans and boots, some crazy leathery jewelry, interesting but absolutely not seductive. Should that be different this time? It is a DATE after all. I ended up wearing pants, an ancient but great little Armani jacket, a leather bracelet, fishnet stockings, black, and then, oh no, could it be, a two inch heel. That was a surprise – to me. I wore my hair messy but pulled back but not in my typical ponytail. I looked great.

I have a blind date this weekend!!! First in three years. I thought it might be amusing to tell you all what some of my very intelligent and accomplished girlfriends told me to look out for and – project – on this date. The object, I came to understand, was to get a second one.

So let me say that MY intentions were to:

a. have a good dinner with conversation instead of with my kindle.

b. to laugh out loud and not have anyone think I was losing it because I was alone.