28 bottles of wine on the wall..

Ah Melbourne, thou dost always bring a warmth to my heart even in the dead of winter...

I met with the lovely Mel Campbell this morning and chinwagged about the execrable articles in the new Sunday Life magazine, why white people love Mad Men and the none-too-tiny nugget of genius that was Germaine Greer's epitaph for MJ.

You may know Mel from A Wild Young Under Whimsy or just generally being an interesting Lady About Town. Anyhoo, we put away truckloads of coffee and I felt slightly anxious for the remainder of the day, which was primarily spent poking about overpriced antique markets and tacky, overpriced shitholes on Chapel St.

I was also beset by an unfamiliar sense of shock when I realised that the Footscray Coles would be packaging my goods for me in a *spits on fingers in manner of Catholics warding off evil eye* plastic bag. Truly, I had the same reaction I might have done had someone wandered into The Elephant Walk and lit up a cigarette. I mean....you just can't do that. Clearly the Great Plastic Bag Ban SA Edition can already be declared a successful social experiment if after only a few months people are already brainwashed into believing that the world prior to it existed in some kind of Carrollian dimension populated by talking eggs and this man:



Ah Depp. I thought that Willy Wonka might be a one off, a strange anomaly in an otherwise ordered and correct world - but no, it appears that you are capable of assuming multiple guises in which the likelihood of desiring boudoir intimacy with you would be virtually zero. Curses.

On Saturday night, I exceeded all prior levels of tacky white trashness when I attended my dear friend's birthday dinner and got blazing drunk on overpriced-but-shitty red wine. I then proceeded to drink two more of said bottles in the gutter outside with a motley crew of fellow trashbags who, tangentially to this experience, all claimed to be suffering from swine flu. Some other hijinks occurred which I think may have involved raucous discussions about slut shaming at The Union and possibly some ferocious haggling with a taxi driver. I woke up on a floor in Fitzroy the next morning with a cat curled next to my face and my liquid eyeliner still in place.

Yes, I'm nothing if not neat in my fooliganism. I may be a boozehound, but I like to think I'm a remarkably well preserved one.

This will come in handy, as I am one year older today - today (which is I suppose tomorrow, sort of, it being past midnight but today by the time you'll be able to read this) being my beeday, my 28th one. Which sounds a lot older than 27, and veering dangerously close to the dirty thirties. I wonder, will it still be acceptable for me to read Sweet Valley High books in the bath when I'm 30? Now that I'm old, will I have to give up watching ABC afternoon kids dramas? Is 28 really too ancient to consider party make out sessions one of the highlights of the week?

I jest, of course. One is NEVER too old to read Sweet Valley High books in the bath. That Jessica is such a scamp. A manipulative, sex crazed, wonderful bitch of a scamp.

tweet tweet...

Ahead of my rapidly approaching descent into the jobless market, I have made somewhat of an astounding decision. While it fundamentally goes against most everything I believe in and will almost certainly lead to total brain rupture and spasmodic arthritis of the hands and wrists, I cannot in all good conscience avoid this path.

I have *hem hem* joined Twitter.

As Mr Collins would say, let me outline my reasons for marriage.

Firstly, it will serve as a great time filler in between geeking out over DVD box sets (speaking of, I'm almost up to date with Lost - suggestions for next celluloid obsession below plz) and peddling my wares to printy type places about the country. Secondly, it occurs to me that it may be some kind of career minded thing to do, given that I can use it to peddle MYSELF to any kind of public that chooses to be interested. And thirdly, which perhaps I ought to have listed first, it is the very great wish of my honourable patroness the Lady Catherine de Burgh that I do so, and in return she has promised to build shelves in my closet.

To be fair, that second part works well in theory but we're all friends here so I can be honest. I am less likely to use it for anything of substantial merit than I am to post photos of poorly thought out fashion choices like this, and attempt to solicit people's thoughts on the inherent tackiness thereof:

I refer of course to the tattoos, though the dubious choice of a singlet in June would understandably warrant its own discourse.

In conclusion, if you do that whole Twitter thing or just like to follow raging egomaniacs like myself, you can find me on www.twitter.com/audreyapple.

It could be fun. I'm considering making my 'thing' to update about current events and anti-feminism but communicate only in haiku. Maybe. Here is an example of a 'retweet' (check me out with my lingo...) to rachelhills re the media's reaction to the NRL sex 'scandal'.

Clare, she was branded

A slutbag who lies.

And Johns? A man amongst men.

Genius. Who can say?

And so, if you like

You can follow me right here

And lo! See me tweet!

That is all.

an exercise in non sequitur thinking

Well, it's been a while but the time has come to revist an old friend. I say friend, but obviously what I mean is she of the horrendous-vile-harpy-contributing-to-the-destruction-of-the-world-as-we-know-it-through-the-use-of-mind-numbing-online-columns-and-poorly-researched-(if-at-all)-columns-on-gender,-dating-and-why-women-are-really-nothing-more-than-batshit-crazy-marriage-medusas-intent-on-trapping-men-by-filling-their-empty-depressed-wombs-up-with-collateral-babies!-and-then-giving-up-on-sex-because-now-the-ring-is-on-the-finger-they-don't-need-to-do-it-anymore-oh-and-also-men-are-heaps-nice-and-shit-and-women-just-won't-give-them-the-chance-because-they're-stuck-up-bitches-yay-pretend-feminism!

I am of course referring to Samantha Brett or, as I like to call her, That Fuckwit.

After all this time, I'm still uncertain as to what exactly qualifies Brett to speak with any kind of authority on relationships. Is it that she's been in some? Because I've been in some too, but you don't find me peddling misinformation and stereotypes online to a mostly moronic public. Which is a shame really, because I could teach people a thing or two about a thing or two - namely, that it is unwise to date a man who genuinely believes himself to be a Sith Lord and that men who take road trips when you've scheduled an abortion and then forget to call to see if you're okay are probably not what you'd call 'keepers'.

Luckily, you have me to read That Fuckwit's crap so you don't have to.

*hem hem*

This week, Brett asks the incredibly on-trend question of whether or not the anti-feminist movement is back in vogue. Only four hundred million similar articles or television segments have been produced on this in the last week, so we're fortunate that Brett has added her two cents to the vacuum of considered thought on this matter.

I had expected that she'd make mention of 60 Minutes' heinous report last week that suggested more and more young women are embracing 'traditional' roles of femininity - spurning the workplace to stay at home and look after Their Men, attending trite tupperware style retro kitchen wear parties and generally ignoring the fact that they've failed to borrow rampant alcoholism, sexual oppression and gut wrenching melancholy from the decade they've decided to idolise.

+

=

(You get the sense that reporter Ellen Fanning is doing all this through gritted teeth here. As an older woman in a sexist industry on an especially sexist network, it must have felt like chewing glass to construct a report on a 'phenonemon' that is essentially bogus, overblown wishful thinking and reflective of nothing other than some people's desires to will it into existence. I'm sure the presence of Germaine Greer was the studio's only concession to her complaints.)

But if there's one thing we've learned about Samantha Brett it's that she's fond of posing initial questions and not only blatantly failing to answer them, but in fact failing to tie them in any way, shape or form to the actual content of her bilge columns.

She begins by recounting the fabrication tale of a dinner she shared with a male friend recently. While dining on 'sushi and sake' (oh Sam, you are like, soooooo Sydney and cosmopolitan! Get down with your bad self!), she asked him why, if it was so easy for women to find men to sleep with, they couldn't find anyone to commit to them.

Interesting question, Sam. Of course, my initial response would be that you shouldn't seek answers to it from someone who'll offer you the following:

"Oh that," he replied. "Well, that we'll only do when it becomes obvious that a girl we're pseudo-dating proves to be the perfect girlfriend. With so many options these days, why settle for anything less?"

He went on to explain that while he'd happily bonk his dutiful f--- buddy, the thought of committing to her (and ditching the other three women on his speed dial) was enough to make him cringe...

Apparently his bonk-buddy didn't possess enough sex appeal, didn't have a great sense of humour, didn't talk enough about interesting topics, wasn't ambitious enough, didn't flatter his ego enough and wasn't - what he deemed key to getting him to commit - feminine.

"She dresses too much like a man," he exclaimed.

Ah-huh!

See, your friend is a fuckwith. While I understand that you're That Fuckwit, you need to be aware that he's That Other Fuckwit - and his essential douchery when it comes to sleeping with women he has no respect and no discernable admiration for yet considers himself better than is not explanation enough for the disconnect between sex and the willingness to commit that it requires an 'Ah-huh!' on your part. I mean, are you actually that person who believes every lame thing an emotional fuckwad says is indisputable evidence for Why The World Is What It Is?

Here is a verbal painting of your brain.

"He says he won't commit because she's not feminine, meaning that she doesn't flatter his ego enough. Ergo, this must be true and she must be Letting The Side Down with her comfortable shoes and inability to pander to the emotional needs of childish men with a penis complex. Ergo, this must be true of all situations in which men are reluctant to commit to women.

I am now equipped to pen an ill-conceived and spurious treatise on something unrelated to this matter but pretending to be. As usual, I shall offer up no conclusion but leave it to my readers to try and spin some kind of cohesive thought structure out of this mess. Also, I shall cash my ridiculously large check which I continued to bank when other Age writers were on strike, because I have no morals or sense of unity."

She continues:

So was this the issue of contention when it came to the modern female single epidemic?

Brett then goes on to discuss the work of Helen B. Andelin, a Mormon mother of 8 and general thorn in the side of women with, you know, brains. Andelin founded the Fascinating Womanhood movement, which basically instructs women to defer to their husbands in everything, act girlishly and deny their own essential sexuality. Andelin wrote that:

"Sexuality in a woman does not arouse love in a man. Love is aroused by wholesome feminine qualities."

But Brett's hypothesis as always fails to deconstruct the rubbish she's actually talking about. She provides a whole bunch of quotes which, both on their own and in context of Adelin's book, are certifiable garbage - yet the only hint she gives at her disapproval of these ideas is labeling the book 'tedious' and at times hilariously outdated.

Eff, she can't even discern the theoretical difference between the random opinion of some twat she's drinking sake with and actual in depth studies on the views of men and women.

"Perhaps. But when I delved deeper into the topic, it appeared that it wasn't only their dress sense that was sending men away in droves. And it's not even something recent either."

See what she did there?! Firstly, she lied because she said she 'delved' when we know that at best she's conducted a pathetic straw poll of one. She then assumed that That Other Fuckwit's one example of cuntish behaviour was actually the result of some kind of vast action on behalf of women everywhere. WE are sending THEM away in droves with our expectation that love means never having to say you're sorry for wearing sneakers and enjoying financial independence! In droves!

Surely the appropriate response here would be, 'Get over it you self absorbed, arrogant douchebag. Admit that you don't want to commit because what you really want is a woman who'll submit to your assumed brilliance, let you be smarter than her, funnier than her, more powerful and more successful, and who will look good hanging from your arm in front of all the other smart, funny, powerful, successful men you fancy yourself to be in competition with. Fuck this shit, I'm off home to drink vodka and tell everybody I've ever met about what a wanker you are."

But instead of dismissing her friend's views on femininity and commitment as outdated claptrap AKIN to the kind of malarkey pedaled by Adelin, she assumes that his explanation is both correct and universal.

I mean, FUCK. It's offensive enough that she's even provided with paid writing work but you'd think the woman would be forced to actually follow the basic tenets of opinion writing. Namely, have one.

Personally, I like what commentor Ms Magoo has to say.

"I think that for anyone who wants to become a Mormon, give birth to eight children, marry a dentist and pretend they are living in the 1960s, this could be a useful resource."

I'd like to amend this slightly to apply to Brett's site as a whole and say that for anyone who wants to lose a few IQ points a week, learn how to give birth to nonsensical theories, commit themselves to following the inane babbles of an imbecile with too much air time and pretend they are living in Sex and the City, this is an essential resource.

After all, where else could they read such stellar material as this:

"Women don't give enough men a chance any more," a twentysomething male single friend told me over drinks last week. "That's why so many women are single. You should do a column on that: 'Why more women should give more men a go.'"

I was intrigued as he continued: "You see that woman talking to my friend over there?"

He gestured over to a short, balding bloke with pale skin and a leather jacket who was attempting to chat up a bored-looking busty brunette.

"Now, he may not be the best-looking guy in the club, but I happen to know that he is a really great, decent dude. But look at her - she's not even going to give him more than two minutes of her time before she walks away. That's modern women for you."

Obviously it came as no surprise that Brett didn't bother to question why the short, balding man thought he deserved a busty brunette when there are far more noticeable absences of short, portly women being given the time of day by chesty men.

But what could you expect from a woman who describes vomitous marketing tie in and hideously dated battle of the sexes film vehicle He's Just Not That Into You as "Zeitgeist-defining"?

Samantha, your brain called. It wants its bond back.

GFC. I knew him, Horatio...

For the first time in what seems like an age, I'd actually planned to do some site maintenance today. I was up practically at the crack of dawn, bunkered down at the kitchen table and sifting through some websites of varying interest.

Having finally fast forwarded to the future and hooked my house up to the World Wide Web, I took some time to appreciate the ease in which most other middle class people live. Good food, fast internet, warm houses. Life was pretty good. For me, at least.

I was even resisting the urge to submerge myself in season 4 of Lost. Last night, we learned that the island is mad wack when it comes to time, and that Hot Desmond narrowly escaped time travel related nutjob brain failure by anchoring himself to the lovely Penny. We also learned that Kate is not the bundle of awesomeness tha we previously assumed her to be, but rather a vicious harpy who toys with the emotions of that fine hunk of manhood, Sawyer. (sidebar: perhaps one of the funniest moments ever had Sawyer interrupted while reading Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. He found it 'predictable'.)

In amongst all this learning, we ALSO learned that Locke is going progressively mad as he becomes more obsessed with the island's secrets, and Juliet purses her lips too much. Oh, and that Hurley is just about the cutest thing to have ever been created for television, ever.

But any fan of Lost would know these things already, and would in fact be about a season and a half in front of me. SO DON'T SAY ANYTHING.

Anyhoo, I was ignoring Lost in favour of my shiny new internet connection and the myriad of different things there were to get mad about today. There was the Liberal staffer caught groping the breasts of his colleagues and superiors at Parliament's mid-winter ball. Is it facepalmishly amusing that he worked for the Opposition's Spokesperson for Women, Sophie Mirabella? No, it just makes it sadder. And by that, I of course mean Cirque de So Lame. Honestly, dude? If you're going to be a gross douchebag who assaults women in public, do you think you might attempt to do it with a little more finesse than a 12 year old schoolboy at his first mixed-party-in-a-basement? You don't ask to grab someone's 'boobs' at a ball.

Then there was this lovely speciman (and doesn't he look a treat in his Today Tonight-esque mug shot there?) who's seriously attempting to pass off running a puerile cyber bullying website as some grand defence of free speech.

"Many of the victims are teenage girls who have had their name, photo and phone numbers posted, accompanied by invitations to bombard them with abusive phone calls and text messages or ask them for sex."

But what does Andew Pallant have to say about it?

"I don't put the pen in anybody's hand!"

Dude, that's the defence equivalent of responding to anything your sister says with "I know you are, but what am I?" and farting in her face. Grow up. These are real people's lives, you scum sucking misogynist douchebag.

This morning, I also learned that calling your fetus a 'fetus' and choosing to abort it might mean that later down the line when you actually want to keep your pregnancy, your crazy lady brain won't be able to distinguish between the two. So, you might actually HAVE your baby and think, but hang on! isn't it a fetus?

*confused*

And then you'll kill it. So ladies, make sure you NEVER refer to the thing growing inside of you as ANYTHING other than a BABY because you just might find yourself facing a life sentence and not quite knowing what happened. This message has come to you courtesy of a male columnist with no discernable fucking idea of what it feels like to have something growing inside of you, fetus or otherwise.

So there were all these anger-making (yes, I've read Scott Westerfeld) things to write about this morning, and I was all set to do it and spurning Lost and everything in favour of being a PROFESSIONAL person with GOALS and MOTIVATION.

And then I got a call from my editor telling me my column has been nixed. The paper is taking a new direction and I apparently do not fit in with that vision. Pants.

To my credit, I did not at that moment collapse into a heaping wreck and decide to take refuge in the warm, inviting hollows of Sawyer's dimples. Instead, I've done more work in one day trying to line up freelance work than I have in the entire past 14 months. Complacency is a terrible thing, but the removal of it is a fantastic motivator...

Ah well. I have a hollyday lined up to New York and Barcelona in August. Maybe I'll just stay there and ply my wares on the streets. I can change my name to Lila and acquaint myself with the world's oldest profession. Considering I've been doing just that for the last six months in this job anyway, I should be a dab hand at it.

And now I'm off to get blazed and excuse myself for smoking.

welcome to the house of fun..

I had the very great fortune of being given a free ticket to see the legendary Pink play at Adelaide's Entertainment Centre.

Sparkles, glitter, gothic funhouse themes...what more could you want? Pink disproves the anti-feminist argument that those who dislike hyper packaged sexuality dislike the act of being sexy in its entirety. With a twinkle in her eye and a set of stomach muscles you could break teeth on, Pink aims a sharpened middle finger at the pouty lipped, bedroom eyed, touseled haired plastic trolley dollies that are spat up by the pop music machine every few months or so; it would be impossible to imagine her pole dancing to lyrics that ask men if they wished their girlfriends were as hot as she.

I don't find the idea of women taking their tops off in bars 'empowering', nor do I find the fact that we can 'choose' to plump our breasts up or pay for labia tucks or sleep with 200 AFL players signs that women are in control of their bodies and filled to the brim with any kind of real self determination.

What I find empowering (and ugh, I am loathe to even use that word, so wholly has its meaning been decimated by the hordes of people who've decided it simply means having the ability to choose anything. If you need it, it can be found languishing in an oubliette of irony for the rest of eternity...) is the sight of a fit, strong woman owning her body on stage in a way that doesn't include silkily draping herself over dudes, or having serpents slither across her breasts, or engaging her nether regions in a manner that implies she's getting fucked while her mouth moans and her eyes look vacant. I love that she sings on stage while jumping around, and she doesn't get tired because she is that fit. I appreciate that, amidst all the frenetic energy and silliness, she can find time to turn the lights down low and sing less popular emo songs on a stool (even though I hate stool singing as a rule).

This is a woman who appears to kowtow to nobody, yet who appears also to love the members of her ensemble back up. Her husband features in a music video which is also a kiss off to him and their marriage - that that can even happen I think demonstrates something very special about their relationship.

I don't know, what can I say. She's a fucking icon. From the smashing covers she did tonight of 70s glam rock, I'd love for her next album to be a tribute to the hyper masculinised rock bands of old. Girlfriend has got pipes on her.

But I think what I love most about her is that, in a sea of people young and old, male and female, a female pop singer can be so incredible (even if you don't fancy her music much), so persuasive and so frakking badass that it can inspire a middle aged man with a shaved head and earrings to get in first at the merch table so he can enjoy the entirety of the arena spectacular dressed like this:



Simply superb. You really are a mother frakking rock star, lady. *salutes*

A babe in the woods

Day the last of my grand detox program.

I thought I'd be more excited. After 15 days of being denied any of the enjoyments that basically make life worth living, I thought I'd be chomping at the bit to retoxify my innards. Booze, cigarettes, copious lashings of caffeine, a monster steak... How can one ever grow tired of these?

Turns out they can. Or, at the very least, after a significant distance from them they seem less important. For the first time in a long time I feel pretty healthy. Clean. Purified. Like a shamen.. *doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo*

Of course, who knows how long that will last. I'll probably be 500 cigarettes down by Saturday- particularly as I finally get to meet the inimitable Ms Cynic - and my entire left ventricle will be pulsing with coffee. Still. It feels pretty good right now.

I'm almost afraid to reacquaint myself with alcohol. I honestly can't remember the last time I went for two weeks without a drink. I would bet 500 billion smackers though that it hasn't been in the last ten years. That's a fairly frightening reflection. Four days before Operation Detox began, I put away four bottles of wine with a friend. I mean....that's just ridiculous.

I do sometimes worry that I'm an alcoholic. I don't drink alone and I don't need a nip of whiskey to wake me up in the morning. But I'm beset by a startling lack of self control. Once that bottle is opened, it's gettin' drunked. I am nothing if not wholly committed to finishing what I started, particularly when it's bad for me. See also: men, food, habits, self deprecation.

Anyhoo, I may or may not write at some point on Ms I've Slept With 200 AFL Players And I'm Fine So Clearly "Clare" Needs To HTFU. Then again, after fielding a majority of comments on yesterday's Mail blog that demonstrated a stellar inability to understand the difference between liberal attitudes to sexuality and assault, I just might not. To be honest, I'm tired of immersing myself in the cesspool of ignorance that seems to comprise the brainmass of the general Australian public. Time to move to Barcelona and marry my Chilean I think...*

Until then, below is yesterday's column. Now that I've been marginalised (literally), I have less words with which to flesh out my argument. As such, I couldn't elaborate on the fact that I believe the double standard when it comes to older parents signifies that women are still expected to do the majority of the parenting, while fathers (especially retired ones) are best employed at teaching children about natural confectionary and giving donkey rides.

For an extra specially fun read, check out the comments afterwards on this Jezebel thread. Many of them defy logic. I love Jezebel, but I especially love how determined most of the commentors are to appear as enlightened superior beings with a talent for biting wit and more than a touch of the dipsomania about them. How very Wilde of them.



******

Despite all it’s given us, there are times when I wonder if science is used to interfere too much with the natural order of things. We have America’s Octomom making a mockery of the IVF system, designer babies looming on the horizon and now yet another post menopausal woman has joined the fray to tinker with nature’s reproductive plan.

Last year, Briton Elizabeth Adeney reportedly travelled to the Ukraine to receive IVF treatment. As a result, the 66 year old is now eight months pregnant and awaiting the birth of her first child.

Despite fiercely maintaining her privacy in this matter, online newspaper commentors across the world have been quick to label her selfish while lamenting the fate of the ‘poor child’ involved. And while I share their concerns, I also grow tired of the hypocrisy surrounding elderly parents.

Unlike most first time mothers, Adeney’s in a position to offer a substantially good life to her child. A wealthy businesswoman, Adeney owns her own home and has already secured the services of a live in nanny to assist with the baby.

Ah! but I hear you scream. A nanny! She’s having a baby and she doesn’t even plan to raise it herself! And then she’ll die! SELFISH!

True, Adeney will be in her 80s for most of the child’s teenage years. She won’t have the kind of energy that parents of young children are ideally in possession of – but then, many young parents of young children lack that same joie de vivre. We are supposedly in the middle of a childhood obesity epidemic after all. The risk that she will die before her child reaches adulthood is high.

But I can think of at least one other person for whom that will also be the case. In fact, they have an edge on Adeney of about 4 years.

In October 2007, the Sunday Mail announced the news that Philip Satchell’s wife Cecily was pregnant by writing, “Retired radio legend Philip Satchell turned 70 last Friday with more than one reason to crack the bubbly – he'll soon become a dad again.”

The double standard was just as apparent then as it is now. While Satchell was to be applauded, congratulated and patted on the back, women like Adeney are viciously dismissed as both ‘desperate’ and ‘selfish’.

Another local ‘legend’ has also recently joined the league of older parents. At 61, Graham Cornes has become a father for the fifth time.

Now, it’s possible I may have missed it given how grossly disinterested I generally am in the Cornes’ lives**, but I’m fairly certain that Graham has also avoided the worldwide approbation and outrage currently being levelled at Adeney.

For the record, I think Adeney IS too old to give birth to a child. British law would certainly not prohibit her from adopting and goodness knows there are children in need of financially stable, loving homes.

But what’s good for the goose should be good for the gander. If Adeney is too old to have a child, why are we still ‘cracking open the bubbly’ for men like Satchell and Cornes?

*****

Am I missing something here? Intellectually I can get the argument that science enables us to do lots of things and this is no different. After all, once the baby is born (and out of the woods, rather than IN them so to speak) does it really matter how old the mother is? Sure, Adeney will be 80 when Adeney the Younger hits pubescent horror but so are plenty of fathers. Is it that she's raising the child alone? Well, she has a nanny, money and (presumably) the kind of love to give that comes from defying all odds to have a child. The baby will arguably be better off than many in its generation.

I mean, I'm comfortable with my apprehension because I distribute it evenly between men and women. I have a basic view that people shouldn't be reproducing after a certain age. (But then, I have some other views I would never dare share with anyone other than my close friends for fear I'd be labelled a Nazi supporter of eugenics. Heh. Turns out I actually am a femi-Nazi.)

Can general opposition to older mothers be reduced to the fact that we can't escape the visceral reality of what's happening to their bodies? Specifically, that pregnancy by its nature is a side effect of sex and therefore reminds us of it.

Essentially, are people disgusted simply because they don't like to think of post menopausal women - and their attendant post menopausal, dried up old grey leathery veejays - getting frisky?




* And the dear chap sent me a message today telling me he's waiting for it. Tempting, tempting, every day...

** For the record, I am actually so disinterested in the Cornes' lives to the point that I woke up in a panic sometime before dawn on Saturday fretting that perhaps Nicole had lost the baby along the way and I was about to commit an obscene act of cruelty.

Buying the milk when you get the cow for free....or something like that.

Hmmm.

Online virgin Alina Percea reveals her $20,000 sexual encounter

A TEENAGER who sold her virginity online for $20,000 has revealed the details of her tryst with the winning bidder - a 45-year-old man - in Venice.

Alina Percea, 18, auctioned her virginity on a website so that she could afford to pay for her computing degree.

The winner of the auction was a 45-year-old Italian businessman but she had no qualms about going through with the deal.

The businessman from Bologna paid for her to fly to Venice where the couple toured the sights before spending a night in a luxury hotel.

It's not the auctioning itself that I have a problem with. Of all the horribly impersonal things in the world, this rates fairly low on the list of things that hurt my heart. As I wrote for my Sunday Mail blog back in March:

The value placed on female virginity through the ages has always been despicably high. Hanging the marital sheets out after the wedding night to display the telltale signs of deflowering; women undergoing hymen replacement surgery to ‘fake’ virginity for male family members who seem to think it’s any of their business; the idea that women need to somehow ‘save’ themselves for their husbands because their virginity is the most precious gift they can give them – virginity has ALWAYS been commodified.

It’s just that the sale of it was never controlled by the women who actually owned it.

In Alina's case, even her autonomy in selling her virginity (and, as I also wrote for the Mail, I still can't quite grapple with the idea that one could ‘sell’ something as abstract as virginity – or more specifically, that one could ‘buy’ whatever elusive and yuksome feeling they imagine comes from being the first to stake their claim on previously unchartered territory. All hail the conquering hero! and so forth..) was undermined along the way:

The auction was hit by controversy three weeks before its culmination when a teacher at Alina's former school claimed she was not a virgin.

But Alina, who had already undergone a medical examination, was seen by a second doctor, who confirmed at a press conference she'd never had sex.

And...that's gross.

Sex is not drenched in intimacy each and every time you have it. For many people 'intimacy' doesn't even have to be present to have an enjoyable, satisfying sexual experience.

However, I would imagine that the majority of people - and I'm going to go out on a gender limb here and say perhaps females especially - would like to believe that their experience of losing their virginity is going to an enjoyable, respectful affair, hopefully done with someone they like and maybe even love. I mean, I can't imagine anyone actually idealises the idea of losing it in a backseat or at a house party with someone they barely know. Even people who claim they want/ed to just 'get it out of the way' probably wouldn't, if they were being honest, say that those were ideal situations within which to Do It for the first time.

That's not to say I think it should be candles and rose petals - it's different for everyone. For me, it was enough that I was with someone whose company I really enjoyed, who I didn't find sexually threatening in any way (vastly more experienced, domineering, overly persuasive etc) and who, apart from dating, I was actually friends with.

Alina doesn't contradict this desire. In her online ad, she wrote:

"I don't smoke and own a certificate from a gynaecologist which says I'm a virgin. I want my first time to be special and not very abrupt....I want to meet a gentle, respectful and generous man."

She also explains in the article that she'd been hoping to "meet a nice man, like in the film Pretty Woman".

And okay, I have a *facepalm* moment at that, but I also have to remind myself that there are far fewer opportunities for women in Romania and to earn $20,000 for one night's 'work' so that she can make her dreams of going to university a reality is not for me to judge.

So what if it's, as some illiterate online forum fans critics argue, 'nothing more than prostitution'? Is it the prostitution itself that offends them, or the idea that a woman might choose it for herself rather than having the socially sympathetic ease ofbeing the victim of a pimp (or father) who forces her into it?

For that matter, is that why the auctioning of virginity is considered so offensive - because the person determining the situation, parameters and outcome of its loss is a woman who, while not necessarily required to be in command of her emotions regarding the situation, is at least in command of the financials?

So many interesting things to ponder regarding the commodification of sex. We've created (and been complicit in that) the kind of society where sex can sell pretty much anything, yet women are still called sluts if they deviate from what's expected from them (or, as Emily Maguire says and I always quote, have sex in a way that the namecaller does not approve of) or behave in manners non compliant with the notion of a genteel, 'self respecting' chaste kind of woman or an emotionally crippled, dirty slut. There are so many avenues to wander down with this topic, most leading to some kind of social self reflection.

But what does the comments board on this article yield instead? The following:

This is unreal. I had no problems with this 'woman' doing this however, after reading that they used no protection and her idea of being safe was taking the morning after pill - I am horrified to say the least! She didnt want her first time to be 'abrupt' - one day is not adrupt? What a croc! We shouldnt even be advertising that this happened! This so called woman needs to face reality and needs some education on how to act and how to be a responsible adult!

Posted by: whatcanIsay of

Colour me completely unsurprised that there's not a skerrick of outrage or criticism levelled at the man who paid to deflower her. But then again, how could he have refused? He's a man! And as the next few comments will demonstrate to you, they simply can't be held responsible for their manly urges when slatternly whores parade it about it in front of them.

Observe:

I wonder if in 7 years or so, if she changes her mind and regrets her decision we can be subjected to another trial by media who can ask why he didn't take responsibility for her "vulnerability"?Then he can be sacked from his job and have his life ruined.

Posted by: No means No and yes means maybe of who knows where it ends

Because the two cases are strikingly similar. Oh, except that they're not, not at all. For a start, there was only one man in that hotel room in Venice as opposed to an entire rugby team who weren't fucking invited. And I'm pretty sure none of them gave "Clare" chocolates prior to assaulting her, degrading her and laughing about it.

Then we have:

In a few years she is likely to regret it, just like that group sex girl in NZ.

Posted by: John of Golden Grove SA

Ah yes, the 'group sex girl'. Firstly, it wasn't group sex. Secondly, if you're going to bother to cast aspersions on the validity of people's stories whilst simultaneously likening them to other incidents whose only similarity is that there is both a woman and sex involved, then you might at least give them the courtesy of referring to them by name and not just as 'that group sex girl'.

But this one's my favourite.

excellent - so in a few years we are going to have another media frenzy about another 'responsible' and morally intact 'lady' who is claiming violation of her by evil males; Now as she regrets her decision, she would like a 'trial by media' of the 'said' male to make him pay for taking advantage of her - oh, and of course an, unknown cash payment from the trash media for telling her 'story'.

Posted by: bicks of syd

Some favourite words and phrases here:

media frenzy - NRL players do something heinous and wrong, media reports, nation debates. ZOMG LEAVE THEM ALONE THIS IS NOT A FEEDING FRENZY!! WHATEVER HAPPENED HAPPENED SEVEN YEARS AGO! WHAT MAN WOULDN'T ETC?!

'responsible' and morally intact 'lady' - Firstly, she went into that room with them so she's already a big fat slut. Lady? I don't think so. Morals? Hardly. And we all know that morally bankrupt whores GET WHAT'S COMING TO THEM.

claiming violation - Liar.

evil males - Feminist conspiracy! Why must they continue to castrate us and stop us following our neeeeeeeeeds? For eff's sake, they were only having a bit of fun and she was TOTES UP FOR IT. Slut.

now, as she regrets her decision - Because rape when committed by men we know and respect and could totes have a beer with down the pub is never actually rape. We all know it's just some dumb bint regretting it afterwards. And well she might; I mean, I'd probably regret it too if I was getting it on with a couple of hot rugby guys (not that I'm gay) and then heaps more just turned up and used me in turn and laughed about it and basically, the sex that I thought I was going to get turned out to not be the sex I had and they made me feel scared, dirty and ashamed because they were basically forcing me and pretty soon I didn't even know what was going on and then EVERYONE said I just a dirty liar out to ruin careers and marriages. I would totally regret that. But it's hardly rape, because how were they to know that treating someone they're gang banging - and who didn't invite them in the first place - as less than human is wrong?

unknown cash payment - Liar AND a grifter.

trash media - I mean, imagine them actually reporting the news! And discussing it! Especially when these aren't even Muslim rapists*! I mean, THAT I could understand because we all know how they treat women....but this is the NRL! They're like us! But stronger!

'story' - Which has ruined the lives of good, decent family men for whom this happened seven years ago. Fucking slutbitch cumstain whore from hell and her fucking lies.

And I was having such a good day.

I wrote the following comment. Unsurprisingly, it hasn't been uploaded so I shall publish it here. Ah! The power of the internet...

Are you serious? You are actually attempting to connect this situation with the fallout from the 4 Corners story? Did you even watch 4 Corners? Have you read any of the articles connected to the story? If you had, you'd realise that there is a gaping difference between a girl selling her virginity online and being extremely open about the fact, and a girl who consented to having sex with two men, found herself in a situation with more than that, was very probably (and by her own claims) humiliated and degraded by them - within a culture which we KNOW has a habit and history of this kind of behavior, and of a fairly vile attitude towards women - to the point where she has suffered PTSD, and that she is now the subject of a swagload of hatred from people too stupid to accept that obtaining sexual consent does not give someone the right to invite other people without permission or treat their sexual partner with less respect than they would an animal.

Matthew Johns IS culpable for her vulnerability in that situation - by his own admission, he left the room when he realised other players had entered and were watching. One woman against a roomful of rugby players? Are you honestly going to sit there and claim that SHE'S the malicious
predator in this situation?

Here's a novel idea - if rugby players and their ilk don't want to lose their jobs for being involved in degrading pack sex parties, perhaps they shouldn't, you know, be involved in them.

It's NOT "Clare"'s fault for revealing what went on. It's their fault for doing it. She may have been silly enough to trust two rugby playes with her body, but silliness and stupidity do not deserve to be punished by rape and sexual abuse.

And in case that didn't sink in, from an article I'm working on at the moment:

Because even if the sex was consensual, one could reasonably argue the intent behind it wasn’t; that is, the sex itself was likely far from respectful or with a view to mutual enjoyment.

This was about domination and degradation – it’s pretty hard to come much closer to degrading someone than lining up to screw them while your teammates loiter around watching, as if the main participant was little more than a mechanical bull.

There are days when I truly do hate society at large, and could quite happily beat the living daylights out of every dumbfuck, ignorant shit-for-brains who crosses my path. In this light, I can totally understand why Alina Percea auctioned off her virginity.

What I hate most about shit like this is that it puts me in a position where I have to remind myself that there are exceptionally good men in the world and not all of them think like that - because the temptation to just shut up shop and fuck off to an unchartered part of the tropics can be overwhelming.

The worst part is that we can be certain those rallying around the NRL, the code, the right of those men to behave the way that they did - like the members of all the Facebook groups I cannot bring myself to look at - have probably not read a single discussion piece on the case and are instead basing their opinions solely on the tactical debating sources of the noughties - soundbites and screen grabs.

I wish I could put my heart to bed with a cup of homemade chicken soup and a copy of Oliver Jeffers Lost and Found.


* Because you just know that if these men weren't rugby players but were instead Lebanese Muslims, the public reaction would be oh so very different. See also: Aboriginal, poor, African.