Category: love

Poly whatever…

‘Maybe this is the time to experiment with drugs,’ I suggested to my difficult friend while talking about the whole awful cunt Trump thing.

The problem with difficult men is that they have no sense of humour.

‘What do you mean Violet, this is not a time for drugs, this is a time for deep reflection, for looking inward, for…’

‘Oh for fucks sake, I’m kidding, I’m trying to find ways to deal with the world, a bit of LSD…’

‘Reflection, Violet, reflection. Lets see why people voted this way, what they…’

Jesus. I just want to talk about something light. Fun. Quirky.

Anything that is not Trump.

‘No drugs then. Fine. What else can we do?’

Deathly silence.

I made a few more suggestions…

Write a play together?
Rob a bank?
Join a cult.
Become scientologists…

He looked at me like I was mad.

‘The thing about Trump,’ he went on…

‘Polygamy,’ I tried.

He was very quiet for a while.

‘You know I don’t believe in marriage Violet, I’m never going to have one wife, why on earth would I have two…’

WHY???

WHY DO I EVEN TRY.

He has no fucking sense of humour.

He is not funny.

He doesn’t want to do drugs.

And I meant polyamory not polygamy but everyone gets them mixed up and who cares.

It’s very hard to like a man without a sense of humour.

But I do love him a little bit.

And that does make it tricky.

eye-roll

Vaginas in the age of politics

There is something about the internet that allows people to believe they can write anything.  Comment on anything.

Which they can. It’s easy to hide behind a screen and spew hatred and prejudice without repercussion.

A reader recently told me my sex writing had become boring.

You’re always ranting Violet. You go off the topic instead of writing about sex.

That is a fair enough comment.

I replied with an Oops sorry, and sent him a link to another more exciting sex writer.

He swore at me, then blocked me.

Another reader told me I bring women’s issues into everything I write about. That if I am talking about my orgasms I bring feminism into them.

Stick to your orgasms, Violet. You screech feminism at every opportunity. We don’t care about feminism, only your vagina.

I offered to send him a picture of my vagina. That seemed to calm him down. Until I didn’t send the picture, and then guess what?

He blocked me too.

There was the gentleman who stalked me for weeks, totally outraged when he read that I masturbated. He typed furiously on almost every single blog:-

Women should never masturbate Violet, it’s a sin, just wrong, how dare you?

When I patiently explained that almost all women do, and if they don’t they don’t know what they’re missing – boom bang BLOCK.

I did not block these men. They blocked me.

I repeat, they blocked me.

And I am more outraged about being blocked than I am about being spoken to rudely.

It is a little bit like our country. Right now so many of us South Africans are scared to use our voices. We are too young, too old, too DA, too white, too black, not black enough, too ANC, too not ANC, too gay, too Jewish, too Muslim, too much and too divided.

And too intimidated.

In the same way I give advice about opening our legs, I am going to give advice about opening our mouths, our ears and our minds.

Listen well.

Speak well.

And do not be scared of words. Or of using them. Wisely.

We need to find a platform where we can come together to debate, rather than fight.

We need to find new ways to communicate.

We need to sort out our fucking problems.

And in case you think I am off brand, we need to find new ways to love.  To have great sex, great wine, brilliant friendships, lots of food, champagne, peace and oysters.

And love.

Lots and lots of free delicious love.

love

Arrest me

I quite like taking things that don’t belong to me. It’s not that I am greedy or a thief, although really I am both, but I like the meaning behind the stolen stuff.

It’s all a metaphor.

I used to see this guy and take a can of beans from his kitchen cupboard every time we had sex.

He knew I stole them. The theft represented a no fucks attitude from me. I could be with him, have great sex, pick up my jeans, my beans, and leave without emotion.

They were good beans by the way, Italian Cannellini, or I wouldn’t have bothered.

Today I stole a handkerchief from someone else. Actually, I was crying and he said Oh for Fucks sake please stop, please please Jesus Christ no more tears, no tears, oh come on now, all right, you’re not going to stop are you, here, take it take it, use my bloody handkerchief.

I sniffed, stopped crying, took the hanky, wiped my tears and grinned.

It was a plot.

I wanted the handkerchief.

I wanted his smell on the hanky. I wanted to keep it close, to remember it, to in actual fact never let it go.

The hanky is my giving a fuck metaphor.

It represents my feelings.  Memory.

Maybe even love.

I haven’t washed it yet. And I know that when I’ve washed it a hundred times, it will still smell of him.

But I’m not washing it.  I am in fact, still using it.

I am also feeling a bit metaphored out with beans and hankies and I  just spent the last hour sitting at a bar, drinking whisky.

I left without paying.

I have no excuse for that one.

I’m just greedy.

And a thief.

Handcuff me.

handcuffs