If You Go Into The Woods Today

I didn't have the greatest day yesterday. It totally took the wind out of my sails, which sucks because I've been coasting along at full mast for weeks. Wait...that doesn't sound right. I meant to say, I've been flying high, skipping through life, and giving strangers hi-fives. My face hurts from smiling. Some say it is all about balance, so I suppose it makes sense that a down period was coming.

I'm not going to blow it out of proportion. I just got some not-so-great news which left me a worrying ball of irrational thoughts about mortality and guilt over not being the world's greatest daughter. Tears were shed. Yeah, you heard me. I cried. But only when I had to tell Rae-Bots that I couldn't go down to the U.S of A for Mexican food and outlet mall shopping. I really had my heart set on chips and salsa and ravaging the Vans store. 

Because of the bad news resulting in the cancelled trip, I decided to comfort myself with food. Why? Because I'm a fat girl at heart and old habits die hard. Anyway, I opted to make sweet tea biscuits, except I accidentally used baking soda and not baking powder. Four tablespoons of baking soda does not good tea biscuits make. It was disgusting all up in my mouth. The worst part, I hoped it was just the one biscuit and ended up taking a bite of another. I might as well have licked a battery to make myself feel better.

I fully expected the bad day to extend itself into the rest of the week, as bad days sometimes do, but this morning I remembered something that has me laughing. And it isn't even five yet. Usually I only do my best grunting and blinking so early in the morning. But laughing? So, I have to share. 

This last weekend, I took a trip over to the Island. Since some of you might not know what 'the island' is. Well, I mean Vancouver Island, which is home to Victoria, and a plethora of other places. For those of you who aren't aware, Victoria is in fact the capital of British Columbia, which is the province I live. And it's a pretty amazing place. To be honest, I haven't explored the Island all that much. I mean, I've visited Victoria, and their top notch wax museum, but for the most part, up until the last month, I hadn't really explored. So, I went over to do some adventuring with a friend. 

Since he knows all the hot spots, he took me to see the sights, and one stop found us at Elk Falls. I'll say it was spectacular, simply because words never do nature justice, much like pictures never really capture how breathtaking it is. So, it was spectacular and here is a picture:  

   

Of course, this wasn't what had me laughing, so I'll refrain from droning on about all the trees and falls and greenery and junk and get to the story. Before we made it to the falls, we hiked this path that just so happened to be closed with an advisory that it was dangerous. Since he needed to fill his badass quota for the day, we climbed through the fence barring our way and headed out. As we picked our way along, I scanned the surrounding area and what did my eyes behold? 

A pair of underwear. Tighty whities. And they were dirty. Very dirty. 

They weren't even all that far off the path. Just laying to the side, a foot away, all soiled and lonely. 

I never understand how these things happen. It's like when you see a random shoe on the highway. How did it get there? Who's is it? And is there a foot inside? I mean, I can safely say I have never left my underwear out in nature. Even when you make a surrender flag out of them, you take it with you when you leave the woods. Underwear is expensive. Who are these people who can just discard it willy-nilly?

My friend naturally assumed someone had been out enjoying the pristine sights and soothing sounds of Mother Nature when they crapped their pants. His whole 'your outside this shouldn't have happened' comment was what first set me off this morning - just the utter bafflement in his voice. Being the classy lassy that I am, I came up with the theory that the person didn't actually crap their pants at all. They had explosive diarrhoea, squatted in the bush and, after making a mess of themselves, was forced to use their undies for clean up. 

It still doesn't explain why they discarded their underwear a foot from the path, though. Who does that? Put them in the garbage if you don't want them any more. Furthermore, who even wears tighty whities anymore? That was the most disturbing part for me. Well, and the poo streaks. 

And on our way back, when we passed the faecal garment for a second time, my friend said, "Well, I did say I was going to show you the sights." 

No matter where I go in life, when I think about that comment, I will always laugh. A perfect line at the perfect moment. The delivery priceless. And the memory has been made. Even now I can't compose myself enough to finish. 

Screw a teddy bear picnic. If you go into the woods today you're probably going to find discarded skivvies. Let's just hope they aren't dirty. Because let me tell you, that image will never, ever leave your head. You can't prepare yourself for things like this. But isn't that the beauty of life. We roll with the punches and go around the dirty underwear. 

Tough Stuff

Lying in bed the other night, I found myself smack dab in the middle of a conversation I wouldn't have allowed myself to have a year ago. Not because it was uber controversial or super heady. I mean, we weren't discussing religion or politics. It wasn't even about fetishes. No, it was far more nefarious than that. I was speaking from my heart. Ugh. I know. How terrifying. There were even feelings involved.

All right, I'm only teasing a bit, but some of you might be sitting there thinking, "Really? I always thought you were a pretty candid lass with an impeccable way with words which is both enthralling and informative." (Wishful thinking?) Either way, yes, I often say what is on my mind, but what's in my heart is another matter.

There are a lot of things I hold close to my heart and tamp down before they have a chance to escape from between my pretty lips. Truly speaking from my heart about matters of love, trust, companionship and feelings is, to put it bluntly, a no-no. Or, at least, it always has been. The operative word being has - that's some past tensing right there. You see, writing a blog about life and love is easy. I can remain detached from it and make is as impersonal as possible. That said, verbalizing my feelings and thoughts aloud to someone I adore is another thing. My blog is an anything goes zone, everything I write here is to be taken with a grain of salt. And most posts are random musings I put down in hopes of calming the cacophony of thoughts in my head.

In my younger more jaded and cynical years, I didn't write about my feelings. And I certainly didn't talk about them. I simply wasn't that sort of girl. Actually, I was the kind of girl whose throat closed up when things got too emotional. Not even the shallowest of breaths could escape. Emotional conversations made me contemplate heading for the hills and living a life fit for Grizzly Adams. Hermiting seemed like a rational response.

It doesn't take a genius to understand why, either. I'm perfectly aware the way I grew up, the ties that bind me, have made it hard to be vulnerable. Divulging emotions, personal thoughts, desires, and hopes and dreams makes us open targets for sharp words and careless actions of others. Because, if you didn't notice, people often react without thought. As the story goes, I have spent the last couple of decades going out of my way to avoid vulnerability. Showing tears or genuine happiness was akin to peeling the skin and bones away from my heart and exposing the raw nerves to poisonous toxins and medieval weaponry. How dramatic!

You see, I grew up wanting to be strong. Hard. Unbreakable. No one was going to get past the steel box I built around my heart. I wanted to be the Ice Queen of British Columbia. I know you'll think that's a joke and it sort of is, but mostly it isn't. Raised to believe crying was a sign of weakness, I found myself determined to swallow my sadness, choke back my disappointments, remain aloof and distance myself from the abundance of feelings battering around inside me.  For many years I had an embargo on tears. I wanted to prove I wasn't a soft little girl. I wanted to be tough. 

But being tough wasn't what I assumed it would be. My version of tough was harsh. Soul damaging. It held me back in relationships, both simple friendships and the more complex romantical ones. As I fought desperately not to let anyone hurt me, I ended up hurting myself, and quite a few others along the way. To this day I have issues about being open. It still scares me. But what scares me more is missing out on important human experiences, ones I've shrugged off in the past.    

Let me explain. 

You know how nice it is to be comforted? To have someone rub your back and hold you as tight as possible. The feeling of being safe and watched out for. For someone to whisper 'everything will be okay'. That things will work themselves out. The feeling of soft kisses on your tear-streaked face. To have someone pull the sleeve of their hoodie over their hand and palm your tears away. The warmth of a body next to you, rocking you gently, letting you sob it out. Bawling into the shoulder of a friend, lover, or sidekick. How reassuring it is to know you aren't alone, no matter how miserable you are, someone will listen and care and be adorable to you. It feels so lovely, right? 

Well, I don't really know, because I can't tell you the last time I was comforted by someone. Whenever someone tried in the past, I rebuffed it, shut them down. Simply put, I haven't a clue how to accept their consoling. When I'm submerged in an emotional moment, I feel weak and vulnerable, which in turn makes me feel silly, stupid, and shy. Even more so, I get frustrated, irritated and, as ridiculous as it sounds, I want to be ignored. Left alone. To sort and deal and let loose on my own.

You know, after re-reading that tiny little paragraph, I realize how bizarre it sounds. That's the funny part about hangups and baggage you carry through from your childhood. Much of it is unreasonable and next to impossible to work through and let go of. It's imprinted on us and we carry it around for so long, often forgetting it's at the bottom of our suitcases. And then, BAM, it makes and appearance and ruins our trip.

Lately, I've spent a lot of time letting go.

Times change. Yeah, I know Bob Dylan got to that long before I did, but it is truth. Things aren't the same as they were ten years ago. I'm not the same person. So much of what I thought to be right and true was wrong. Like, for example, life isn't a solo sport.   

We have friends, family, boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands and wives for a reason. What's the point in surrounding ourselves with people if we can't let them see who we truly are? To hide even the smallest things away feels deceitful. Which is why I'm making a conscious effort to speak from my heart. To say what I am feeling, not just what I am thinking, even if it means bearing my soul and allowing my heart to be an open target. Sure, self preservation is important but it doesn't trump affection and kisses and trust and contentment.

And to feel like you can say anything to someone and know they won't judge you or hold it against you. That they will listen and hear your words. To feel safe and trusted and in turn give trust and make the other person feel protected. Well, I imagine that to be the greatest feeling in the world.

So, while I babbled on about that which I'd normally keep to myself, I thought about all this junk. And I found myself enjoying how things can change. That is, if you let them. You can be any person you want to be if you have the drive to fix what is broken, if you have the time and energy to invest in yourself. This one little conversation was important for me. I may have not articulated myself to the degree necessary to make myself clear, but when the little voice in the back of my head told me to put a lid over my thoughts and emotions, I didn't. I kept talking. And that makes me hopeful, not only for the hear and now, but for my future self, the girl waiting up the road, just around the bend.

See, I always wanted to be tough, but only realized recently that it takes more strength to be soft, vulnerable and compassionate. True toughness isn't about being distant and cold, it's about breaking past the person you used to be and moving forward even when you are uncertain and scared. It's about keeping your mind and heart open and entertaining the possibilities life holds, enjoying the idea of what-ifs. Being tough is giving love, and not expecting anything in return.

That said, I'm pretty sure anything spoken after two in the morning falls into the safe zone and is void from comments and judgement, right? Isn't that a rule? I'm pretty sure I read that somewhere. Or maybe I just made it up.

Heart Rock

A Serious Case Of Unseriousness

The other day, I posted a quote that I absolutely adore. It's by Yakov Smirnoff. I'll share it here so you know what I'm talking about:

I believe there is a direct correlation between love and laughter. 

And I do.

The quote received some interesting replies, mostly jokes revolving around how Smirnoff is often linked to love (it's a joke because Smirnoff is also an alcoholic beverage). That said, one comment left me humming and hawing. (Just a side note, whenever I write hawing, I think of a horse braying. I myself can't bray very well, but I have been known to do an excellent whinny.) To sum it up, the person said that they love to laugh, that laughter is funny, but life isn't. 

Except, that can't possibly be true, because I find myself laughing at life every day. Even in times of true and utter heartache I've laughed. Through tears and misery, through twisted moments of sheer horribleness, I've seen humour. So, then I got to thinking, I'm I backwards? Is life serious and I just didn't get the memo? 

Now, I know I have a skewed sense of humour. I can thank my father for that. Also, I have an over active imagination. What other people might not find giggle-worthy often has me out right guffawing. (To be honest, I have no idea what a guffaw looks like. I imagine it is something Jughead would do from the Archie comics, or Shaggy from Scooby-Doo. A weird stupid noise. The only reason I am using it in this instance is because I just don't want to abuse the word laugh. No one likes repetition. Well, except for that Daft Punk song Around The World. Everyone likes that little ditty.) 

Let's just pause for a second and take it for a spin: 

I just did a rather amazing chair dance. I'd show you how I broke it down all robotic like, but I've been mocked enough since I showed my sweet, sweet moves in a vlog that featured Le Tigre's song Deceptacon. 

What were we talking about? Oh, right. Laughter, life and keeping things serious. 

Maybe all of this comes down to perspective. 

The other day I went out to a show at this club down town. Often when you go to shows, you get patted down and your bag searched, especially Mary Poppins type bags like mine. This occasion wasn't any different, except prior to the show I'd popped out to pick up some new underwear. Being the environmentally friendly girl that I am, I insisted I didn't need a bag for my undies, because plastic is the devil, and I just shoved them right on in my bag. Because I like to make everyone's job as easy as possible, I started rummaging through my bag, to give the bouncer-guy a decent gander at all the goods I was toting around with me. Well, in my enthusiastic shuffling, I'd accidentally dropped my underwear. On the ground. At the bouncer's feet. 

He went to pick them up. 

I practically shouted, "Oops, I dropped my undies." 

To which he replied, "This is a first." 

And I said, "Really? Happens to me all the time." 

He laughed. I laughed. Everyone surrounding us laughed. And I thought to myself that the whole situation was pretty awesome. I mean, it was unplanned and unrehearsed. And life delivers these sorts of moments every day. We all do ridiculous things, no exceptions. I embarrass myself on a regular basis. Daily, if not hourly. The key is to own it. Embrace it. And spread it around. If I can make someone laugh, then my job is done. I know a lot of people who hate being the butt end of a joke and are mortified when they are made to look foolish. So what. The truth of the matter is, I'd rather be a joke than a depressing statistic.  

Perhaps it is ingrained in us to worry over how quickly our lives are being eaten up, to fret and toil over the bad things and to keep a straight face when things fall apart. I find this most unproductive. I mean, death and bad things happen. They always have. They happen whether we laugh, take life seriously or live in a bubble of fear over being hit by the Broadway B-Line (which really does rocket) on our way to Commercial Drive. Worrying and wearing your big boy serious pants all the time won't stop the clock, though. Old Father Time and the Mister Grim Reaper are in cahoots and they are cashing in our chips, even if we haven't finished playing our cards. They don't give a damn if you have a rummy in your hands or twenty one or a straight flush or whatever. They are random dudes and aren't going to wait until we're ready.

People always say life is too short. It really is. Even with all these drugs that have allowed us to keep living, and living, and living. I mean, the average life expectancy 100 years ago in Canada was 58. Now it's 81. Can you believe that? We've managed to give ourselves 23 more years to live. Twenty-three years of diapers, walkers, false teeth, and being rude to teenagers simply because we've lived longer. Sign me up! That said.It goes by far too quickly. If this was 1912, half my life would be over already, and when I think about the last ten years I have this "where the hell did my youth go" feeling. But I can't take it seriously. 

There is no guarantee on tomorrow. Which is why I highly encourage people to laugh and act silly and play like children. Kick leaves. Blow bubbles. Eat dessert before dinner. Laugh at yourself. Laugh at others. Have fun. I mean, I'm not saying there aren't times for seriousness, but for the most part a serious case of unseriousness is in order. Because I'd rather go out laughing and light hearted than worrying and weighted down by things I cannot change. Seriously. 

Walk It Off

When I was in high school, I played a little bit of rugby. Shocking, right? I know I seem like a meek and mild lady who prefers embroidery and fine china to mouth-guards and cleats, but that's simply not the case. I cannot tell you how satisfying it is to be tackled to the ground by another girl, shoved in the mud and have half a dozen angry ladies trample over you in their attempt to get the ball you're holding like a security blanket. And that's just rucking and mauling, I don't even want to get into a propping and locking. Oh dear, I reckon that's a nerdy joke only rugby players might get.

Our team had this coach who, simply put, must have been out of his freaking mind. I mean, he actually volunteered to coach the girls' team. Hanging around fifteen chicks who are going through puberty and right in the middle of the most awkward stages in their lives doesn't really seem like a good time. But, he liked rugby and coaching, and honestly, he did a pretty good job. The team wasn't all that bad. This isn't about rugby or the fond memories I have of the hair pulling and biting, and that was just travelling to the games on the bus. This is about our coach and this absolutely bonkers saying he had. Every time one of us got hurt, which pretty much happened every practice and game, he used to say, "Walk it off."

And it's funny, because today as I did a two hour trek around this gorgeous lake in the heart of Burnaby the saying just popped into my head. One moment I was thinking about this lily in the middle of the lake and how I wanted to get a picture of it and then *pop* there it was. It's so strange how you don't think about something for years and years, and then, all of a sudden, it's crystal clear in your mind and you're knee deep in old memories you'd completely forgotten about. It happened when I was camping too. Except, that memory was about super personal family junk and I won't be sharing it with you. Not that you aren't special. You are. Just not that special.

Getting back on subject, as I walked around this park/lake/lovely part of the city, I was thinking about how when you've twisted your ankle or have a dislocated shoulder 'walking it off' is a ridiculous notion. I mean, it's physically dangerous to do it. But for other emotional or mental ailments, it's actually kind of genius.

Hmmm. I fear I'm doing a crappy job of explaining this. Let me break it down for you.

About one year, three months and seventeen days ago, I was completely broken. Shattered soul. Fractured heart. Mangled morals. Lost little lamb, really. I didn't know who I was, had forgotten where I'd come from, and ended up hurting someone I never intended or wanted to hurt. Not that I'm big on hurting anyone. Or anything. Regardless, I decided to strip my life bare and start again, and I did it all for the sake of fixing myself. Like I've said a million (only slightly hyperbolic) times before, you can't be happy with others if you aren't happy with yourself.

The thing is, pulling the trigger is harder than one might think. At times in order to get happy, you have to force yourself to live on Misery Lane for awhile. From experience, Misery Lane is bleak, ugly and not exactly a place you invite friends and family around for a visit.  It's cold there. And the darkness is suffocating. There's no streetlamps or anything, which means it's hard to find your way out of the darkness and into the light. Misery Lane is where you break hearts and homes, and it's hard breaking hearts and homes. Especially when it is your own heart and home you're breaking.

That's why a lot of people stay unhappy, because they can't fathom the idea of hurting more than they are, they can't handle the pain of Misery Lane, so they remain in their broken state. And I don't blame them. Sometimes it's easier to deal with the heartache we know than face the heartache of the unknown.

But here's the thing, after one year, three months and seventeen days, roughly, I'm a different girl. Similar to the  one who existed before the last ten years happened, but also so much better. I give love without expecting it in return and I understand the importance of silly things like affection, playing, laughing and cake. Even more so, my music knowledge has at least tripled. Not to mention, I have developed an extensive vocabulary that allows me to write some pretty nifty sentences from time-to time and I absolutely slay at Scrabble. Well, if I'm not distracted and it isn't late at night and it's not too hot.

So, how the hell do these events tie together? What does my old miserable self have to do with my high school rugby days and quirky coach and how do those things tie in with my hike today?

It's all pretty simple. I walked it off.

Misery Lane, heartache, and the darkness. I walked it all off. Advice I was given years ago, came into play without me even knowing it. I never consciously set out to walk off my hurt and confusion. It just happened. But once I started walking, through parks and forests, along beaches and even short jaunts up to the grocery store, things became easier. My senses cleared. And I saw the world around me.

Walking afforded me the luxury of going slower, of opening my eyes and taking note of the world as it was and how it changed every day. Somewhere along the line I started to realize how everything on its own seemed so insignificant, even my own existence, but together it formed the earth. I saw balance. Give and take. I saw the importance of togetherness - of love and respect and hope. And I saw beauty. Everywhere. All around me.

If you asked me two years ago what the most important piece of advice about life I had was, I'd have said something jaded about not trusting anyone and how apathy and ignorance will be our downfall. But now, it's all about beauty and truth, and the only piece of advice I have is to move with love. It's strange to think how night and day I am. It's not to say I don't have cynical moments or at times lapse back into my misanthropic ways. No. Those are a part of me.

Now I see a bigger picture, though. A path. A journey I'm smack dab in the middle of. And to be very honest with you, right now, life is pretty amazing.

Oh, and I took some pictures, for those people who prefer them to words.

The Safe Word Is "No"

I've been mulling over writing this blog for a couple months. Yes, months. For some reason, as much as I wanted to touch on this subject, I was hesitant to write it. Maybe I simply needed to get my thoughts in order. Or perhaps I hesitated because I don't want to come off as judgemental or preachy, because I honestly do not care what goes on in people's bedrooms. Well, as long as it doesn't involve animals, children or people who cannot speak for themselves. But I think that's a given. None of us should stand by while an innocent is exploited in that abominable fashion.

But, I digress.

I understand people like to play. In the playground, at work, at the water-park, and even in the bedroom. Playing is great. I one hundred and twenty percent support playing. And there are all different ways to play, especially in the sack, and I highly encourage people to experiment. Not only to spice things up, but in order to figure out what you like and what you don't like. It's kind of a natural thing, exploring one's sexuality.

The truth is, I don't judge other people's sexual proclivities or fantasies, even if they make my throat close up in fear when I think about them. But I worry about how people's desires can affect others. And I'm not talking about the fallout of your boyfriend wearing women's underwear or your intense desire to attend a furry convention. No, I'm talking about something far more simpler than those things.

I mean the word 'no'. And the decline of its power. 

Here's where I get personal...

Once upon a time, I was getting some heavy petting in a room half-lit with black lights and a red lava lamp. I wasn't feeling well. Simply put, I wasn't in the mood for any form of action. So, I said the magical word. No. Except, for some reason it didn't pack a punch for the guy I was with. He kept going, like the word wasn't said at all, and, rather horrifically, I found myself feeling guilty for even saying it. Why? Because when you're in a relationship, which I was with this dude, you tend to think there are things you should always do.

There are no shoulds in relationships. But we live in this world that pressures us to have sex and be sexual all the time. Like we're these sexy bots with only one goal in mind. The idea of a woman in a relationship saying 'no' to her husband or boyfriend is considered a faux pas. And the idea of a man turning sex down from a woman is unheard of. But it does happen. And if a wife, husband, boyfriend or girlfriend doesn't want to get down and dirty, he/she doesn't have to. They have the right to say 'no'. Except, in relationships, it's almost like that word doesn't exist.

I'd love to say the red lava lamp moment was my only instance of the word 'no' falling on deaf years. It wasn't. Since then, I've been in three other situations where my 'no' simply wasn't good enough. Or where I was told that my 'no' clearly meant 'yes'. Thankfully, I'm not as young as I once was. Luckily, I've been able to stop the situations before I'm forced to murder the other person.You see, jail really wouldn't work for me. I'm too pretty for prison.

All jokes aside, it wasn't until the most recent incident that I realized how much the mighty 'no' has fallen. Not only is it disregarded, but the excuses as to why it was are overflowing. I don't want to get into details, because most of you have probably already eaten and this really isn't a story to be told when stomachs are full. Actually, it's a story that probably shouldn't be told at all. All that needs to be known is that I removed myself from the situation, something I wouldn't have done when I was nineteen. Chances are I would have let my guilt, shame or fear be my guide and would have just toughed it out.

Here's the thing. I understand that situations can cartwheel out of control. Boys might get the wrong signal or misinterpret body language. Girls might think they want something only to realize minutes later they don't. Our likes and dislikes vary. Some of us bite, spank, pull hair, and even choke one another. Others won't participate in such activities. Everyone is different. And, just like we all enjoy different kinds of snacks, we all like different sorts of foreplay, during play and after play.

The truth of the matter is, even when we 'like' an activity it can rub us the wrong way. (No pun intended)  A subtle look, or touch can alter an entire situation. And it's surprising how fast okay can change to not-so-okay. Enter the word 'no'.

I'm a firm believer that 'no' is the equivalent to slamming on the brakes. When uttered, everything should screech to a halt. There should be a role call and the question, "Is everything okay?" should be asked. Regardless of the situation, no matter if the word is said by boy or girl, I abide by 'no', mostly because I don't want to force someone to do something they don't want to do, but also because I know what it's like to   not be heard.

The line isn't so clear for other people. Men and women alike can have fantasies that are rough, that revolve around domination and submission, or even degradation. People role play. They tie each other up and paddle arses until they're red and swollen. And, honestly, I don't have a problem with that. I'm not as vanilla as this halo may have you believe. Except, the thought of someone choking me makes my skin crawl and I really don't find anything attractive about rape, even though I recognize these are two things a lot of people fantasize over.

You see, I'm not a 'no means yes girl'. 

Which means, I don't say no when I mean yes. First, I think it's a dangerous game that sends mixed messages. How are partners supposed to know when no means yes and when it actually means no? See, it's confusing already, and we aren't even having sex. Secondly, there are other ways to play hard to get and tease. Not to mention the plethora of other words out there for us to utilize and toss about in the throes of passion. And last, but certainly not least, this 'no means yes' game makes it harder for people. Once a man or woman, has a 'no means yes' partner, they might not listen when their new partner says this small but very important word.

The last time I was in one of these horrible situations, the guy later said to me, "See, I told you we needed a safe word." I sat there for a few minutes as the awkward feeling of 'what did I do wrong' crept up on me. But then I realized, I didn't do anything wrong. And then I said, "Actually, the safe word is no."

Dan Savage once wrote that it shouldn't be a matter of 'no', but a matter of 'yes'. That we should have to hear a 'yes' before all systems go. It's an interesting idea, but 'yes' isn't always uttered. To some degree, it would take the spontaneity out of things. Middle of the night sex where you don't even talk would cease to exist. And let's be honest, that's some of the best kind. Besides, we are still afforded the luxury of changing our minds. Even if we shout yes from the rooftop, we can still revoke it and say 'no' later.

I haven't got it all figured out, because I have no idea what someone wearing a ball gag would do in these situations. All I know is that the word 'no' should be respected, by men and women alike. It's important. Not only for our general safety and well-being, but so that the lines aren't so skewed. Until further notice, the safe word is not pineapple or Farrah Fawcett. It is 'no'. Okay?

*clarification*

This blog is not about BDSM. For those who engage in these sorts of activities, I understand the need for a safe word. Also, I would like to stress the importance of the two (or three) people involved to communicate their thoughts and expectations before they indulge in this sort of play. With the ever-growing popularity of 50 Shades of Grey, interest in BDSM and sex contracts has been on the rise, which is a little worrisome, as I fear some of these happy, horny housewives don't fully understand what it is they are fantasizing/eager to try.

That said, people who do participate in testing the limits of pain and pleasure usually don't jump into it without thought. Regardless, they do have the right to say 'no' whether it is using that word or their safe word. Since I myself do not engage in this type of play in an extreme form, I do not need a safe word, therefore mine will always be 'no'. The title to this blog is a flippant response to something said to me. At the time we were not in a situation that warranted a safe word and so my 'no' should have been sufficient.