It’s my birthday tomorrow. So before I drink too much champagne and eat too much cake, here is what I did and loved over this last year. Wrote some stuff Made some stuff Drank and ate with friends who are amazing and wonderful and make … Continue reading Reflections
I just read about men getting Botox in their balls to iron out the wrinkles and dear sweet goddesses, my Monday is ruined. It’s called Scrotox and honestly what the fuck but balls have always been wrinkled and will always be wrinkled and Jesus Christ … Continue reading Balls
Hey guys, it’s my birthday!
And even though I love the celebrations and the presents and the friends and the champagne, I panic over every birthday I have.
I panic about getting old.
I don’t mean to and I really want to be one of those women who says getting old is fabulous and embrace age and all that blah blah boring stuff.
But seriously, I panic about my wrinkles and my NECK and mortality and how many more years do I have of love and sex and long walks in the park and energy and health, and all those things that we women worry about.
And each year I think, maybe this is the year I’m gonna botox and maybe a little nip and tuck and maybe an eye lift and dear sweet god have you seen those amazing things they can do with eyebrows and eyes these days, and and but..
I don’t really want any of those things.
What I do want is small. I want peace. Equality. A world free of racism and prejudice would be cool. I want doughnuts that are not fattening. Unlimited coffee. Unlimited supply of AA batteries. Flowers. Lingerie. Good conversation. The best champagne.
Lots and lots of good delicious over the top love.
And then, there’s still that thing of a man who butters toast all the way to the edges. A craggy wrinkly romantic delicious older man who uses pure good Irish unsalted butter.
I’ll take him too.
Happy birthday, me!
I sat with a bunch of women at a birthday party in Sandton on Saturday. It was wild. We had six bottles of champagne, two platters of little cucumber sandwiches, sixteen cupcakes and between us all, we had just fourteen wrinkles.
All fourteen belonged to me.
It struck me, shockingly, that every single one of these women uses Botox. And they spoke about their Botox the same way they spoke about their facials and their manicures.
It’s the most normal thing in the world. You fill the fridge, take a daily shower, sleep with your husband, or lover, then get injected. It costs a small fortune, but they do it regularly, and they’ve been doing it for years.
This is what the conversation sounded like.
‘Doctor Solomon in Morningside is just fab, didn’t you know that?’
‘You should try Delilah’s, they’re brilliant.’
‘Yes babe, but Rob in Gallo Manor offers specials, you really have to, you have to go to him. What? You don’t know Rob? Doll. DOLL. Where’ve you been all these years?’
I didn’t know the Doctor or Delilah’s or the fabulous Dermatologist. In fact, I’d never had a needle near my face except for the one time my mother, in a fit of rage, threw her knitting at me.
I realized I’d been living in a Botox vacuum. All these women did look incredibly youthful.
I started having anxiety while looking at their smooth, doll-like faces. Not one of them looked their age, or even close.
I excused myself graciously, disguising my looming panic attack for needing the loo, and rushed off to the ladies feeling totally inadequate. I just stood there, staring into the mirror.
Oh my god I have wrinkles!
Lines. Everywhere. On my forehead. Around my eyes. Even a few deep ones around my mouth. They seemed to get deeper and deeper as I looked at them. I’d oddly never thought of them as a big deal.
Anyway. I stood in that bathroom and examined myself closely. Yip. I had fourteen frightening, not for the faint hearted, wrinkles.
Women kept walking in. Not to use the bathroom, but to use the mirror. A bit of lipstick, a boob adjustment, a no-wrinkle check.
Mostly they looked fab. But the more I looked, the more I became aware of something – they did not look real.
Eventually the women in my party came to look for me. Apparently an hour is a long time to spend in a bathroom. They found me, still standing in front of the mirror, but with a strange smile on my face.
I’d smugly decided that I liked my fourteen wrinkles. I’d earned them, and goddamit I was going to display them. And nobody, with their smooth Barbie skin, was going to make me feel inadequate.
I kinda like the natural look.
I still want to look good. Of course I do. I use day cream, night cream, eye cream, neck cream and anti-cellulite cream. I manicure, pedicure, colour my hair, wax my legs, thread my eyebrows and sweet jesus it costs me a small fortune.
And it’s true that I might panic when the fourteen wrinkles become forty wrinkles, and then maybe, maybe, I’ll consider doing something drastic. Maybe I’ll Botox. I don’t want to judge those who do it (even though I just have) especially if it makes them feel good.
But right now I like real. And I really hope to keep it that way.
I have a friend – she’s fifty, single, sexy and extremely rich. She lives on lettuce leaves, uses botox, whitens her teeth, has perfect hair, a private gym instructor, wears heels, and fucks men for money. She gives great blow jobs, and in return, she makes sure that her ‘men’ give her everything that she could possibly want. She’s a high class hooker and I am highly bloody jealous. I would kill to have the kind of money she has.
But I would not be very good at sex work. My sexual encounters are generally disastrous. If I give someone a massage, I find myself allergic to the oil. I look pathetic tottering about in heels and my stockings are always laddered. I’m scared of injections so wouldn’t botox, too lazy to brush my hair, and I’ve never given a decent blow job in my life. In fact, my last sexual encounter landed up with the guy losing his tooth while opening a condom and crawling around the floor, naked, desperately looking for it.
Sex work was not an option for me to make extra money. But sex writing was. And so I applied to write for a new raunchy magazine – ‘Tantric Touch’. I got the job!
Violet Online was soon going to be called Tantric Violet. My first assignment: Sensual Sanctuaries in the City. Thinking of the dresses I could buy with my first paycheck, I plunged myself into internet research. God I had fun. Amazing sites for Tantric Sex. Amazing pictures of Tantric Sex. Amazingly, I wanted to have Tantric Sex. But then I remembered that this was work and I was on a deadline. So getting serious, I googled a little more, finding the mysterious sounding ‘’Bhoga Sexual Sanctuary’.
Bhoga means ‘Sexual enjoyment’. I was on the right path. In the name of research, I booked myself a Sexual Energy Massage with Tantric Master Floating Eagle. Floating Eagle was charming, tall, toned and definitely naked under his loose orange robe. He handed me my own robe and said “Don’t be shy. Take it all off”.
We sat opposite one another on our yoga mats, legs in lotus position, hands in prayer position. He chanted about honoring my mind, body and spirit, and told me the only thing expected of me was to ‘surrender into bliss.’ That didn’t sound so difficult. I can do bliss quite easily. I disrobed, pretending it was completely natural to be naked in front of an orange robed floating eagle. The room was quiet, apart from his chants and tantric breathing. I focused for all it was worth on the Bliss yet to come. I kept my eyes firmly closed and avoided glancing down at his floating eagle, which I have to say, seemed set to soar at any minute.
Floating Eagle’s breathing got louder and louder. Pleasurable sounds. Intense. Animalistic. Sex sounds. I started making sounds too. Mine started softly but slowly, coming from the bottom of my Yoni, up through my sensual feminine waters, and out through my mouth, where they became huge full blooded hysterical guffaws. My sounds were not sounds of sexual pleasure.
Floating Eagle was not amused. He stared at me while I dissolved into fits of laughter that only ended when I stooped to pick up my clothes from the pavement outside the Sanctuary. I dressed in the car, pulled up my laddered stockings, then called my Tantric Touch Boss.
“Don’t bother coming back. If you want to work for us, you need to put your full heart and Yoni into the stories”. I wish I had put my whole Yoni into that story. Even with all the intense research I did, I never got paid never had a Tantric Massage. I never learned how to give a decent blow job. And I still don’t have any money.