Here In This Wonderland

The last places anyone should look to for answers about who and what they are in the bed room are societal and cultural norms. Even the word "norms" feels like an oxymoron when it comes to sexuality. The only norms I can agree on is that any intimate sexual acts must be fully consensual, by adults. After that, all bets are off.

What turns me into a hunk o' burnin' love may flat line you completely, and vise-versa. Who is to say what goes and what doesn't between my sheets? Certainly not society. Certainly not culture. The only person that can answer that is me. And my partner.

In American culture, men are sexually socialized to think of themselves first. Women are sexualized socialized to think of themselves second. That creates a bad paradigm, and I immediately call "Personal Foul" and administer the maximum penalty of fifteen yards. Men and Women, don't ever listen to that shit you hear through conventional wisdom (another sexual oxymoron). Listen to your heart, listen to you mind, listen to your loins. The answers for You are there.

Luckily, through years of frustration and masturbation, I learned first hand (pun absolutely intended) what turned me on, what made my motor run, what drove me to beautiful fits of passion. And, luckily, I didn't pay much attention to what society or culture was telling me. I don't really know why, except to say, that, from a very early age, I felt, I knew, I was different. I embraced that difference, because I had nothing else that made any sense except how I felt.  Everything else in my life felt like white noise. 

Through a combination of nature and nurture, I eventually just trusted what was inside. Through a combo of being very sensitive from birth; from having a very emotional father; from being able to lean on nothing but my own internal heartbeat, I eventually just trusted what I felt. Which is not to say I embraced it immediately.

It was, it always is, a learning curve. My first few girlfriends were far more traditional, for lack of a better term. And that's to be expected in the early stages of finding your sexual identity. I knew, from the age of about....six...that I liked the concept of restraint, that I had a foot fetish, that the entire female body was one beautiful erogenous zone, that I whatever I shared in the sack was a fun adventure, an opportunity for exploration. Those tenants served me well then. They serve me well, now. 

Breaking it down by gender, I offer you this: Men, it ain't all about us. She is your partner, even if it's just for the night. Don't make it all about you. Please her. Give her what she wants. That means paying attention to her, a skill most men sorely lack. If your encounter is to be a true experience, there must be common ground of give and take. Of reciprocation. Focus on her. You will be taken care of. If you're not, you always have the option of speaking up. Difficult for many, even us men (yes, ladies, we struggle with that too, even in the bedroom), but well worth the risk.

Men are taught that we should always know what to do. But how the fuck can you always know "what to do" when you are making love to a unique individual? We can't. So bring all of yourself. Bring your undivided attention. Bring your passion and fire. Bring an attitude of gratitude for this woman who has chosen to spend the night with you. Not in the guise of manipulation, but in the reality that the two of you are creating something special. Tall order? Maybe. But that cultivates your highest aspirations of being a great lover. 

Women: play with us; tell us, show us, subtly, what you want. If we are paying attention, we will pick up on that and respond accordingly. Women are taught that expressing what you want in the bedroom is not okay. Again, bullshit. And, we men are not mind readers. You think we should be, and worse, you think you are. But ladies, you are sorely mistaken on both counts. 

There is the potential for a beautiful balance of mutual communication here. Honor that. Any man just in it for himself is just frankly a bad lover. Call him on that. Teach him how to be with a woman. Because if we don't get it from you, where the fuck are we supposed to get it?

I'm calling for a shift in the paradigm. Open up to each other. Don't stay locked in your societal roles. Break out of that shit. It does not make you less of a man to explore her and not know just what to do. It makes you an attentive lover. It does not make you less of a woman to speak up and guide us. It makes you more of what we men want: a woman who will play with us. 

Bottom Line: you are in this together. It is about the other person, first. If you both do that, who knows where it will lead? But if you stick to what you've learned, I promise you, it may be good for a while, but the tread will wear off that tire quickly. And you are left with the same old shit: Looking for that someone who wants to get to know you, honor you, give to you, and communicate as a means to intimacy, but has scant clue how to go about that.

Become vulnerable. Become less than perfect. Become a vast wonderland of exploration. 

© 2017 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.

Christmas Eve At Cusa's

There was a period of my life where I recall a consistent series of very special Christmas Eves. It started in the mid eighties and continued all the way to about 2001. These nights are like a series of living snapshots, frozen in time, etched forever in my heart and mind.

Between the ages of about twenty and fifty-three, a group of us celebrated Christmas Eve At Cusa's. Cusa is my oldest and dearest friend. We met in high school, and have had a platonic bromance ever since. We get each other. Even when we don't. We've had our ups and downs, our periods of distance, our spells of not even talking. But we find our way back to each other. Because he is simply too important not to be in my life.

On Christmas Eve, a gaggle of us would gather at Cusa's house and celebrate the night before Christmas with not-so-reckless abandon. We would be up until three or four in the morning. We would exchange gifts, celebrate our relationships, drink and eat until we were full, and share our love for each other. The night was all at once too quick and seemed to last forever. 

I would usually get there early, living a scant fifteen minutes from my friend, and help with the prep. Cusa's mom, affectionately known as "The Fairy Food Mother", would make enough grub to feed a small army. Cusa's pad was the bottom floor of a two-family house in Boston. Upstairs would be a gathering of Cusa's family. Downstairs, his friends. The two crowds would eventually mix. Our crowd would roll in anywhere between 8PM and 2AM. It was a festival of love, every bit, if not more, as joyous and special as Christmas Eve as a kid. 

Come to think of it, it was way more enjoyable than my Christmas Eve's as a kid. As a youth, we spent Christmas Eve at My aunty Philly's house in East Boston. As great as it was to see all my cousins, aunts, and uncles, there were serious drawbacks. First of all was a severe lack of space. The apartment was filled far beyond capacity, and smelled like fish (the traditional Italian Christmas Eve dinner). It was butts to nuts all night, and, until I was old enough to leave the place on my own with my other cousins and go for walks around the neighborhood, (at about fourteen), the place was positively claustrophobic. 

Space was at such a premium that the only bedroom in the house (with the only room with a bed you could lye on when you got tired, which happened at about 10:06 when you were eleven and younger) was used for all the coats. So if your were tired, there was literally no place to stretch out, with coats piled high and deep. There was no room at all to play, or move for that matter, which is crucial to those in the single digit age bracket. I can say, and I speak for most of my cousins of approximately the same age, that Christmas Eve was, at best, a mixed blessing.

Once Cusa invited me and my twin over his place and we could actually leave my aunt's on own volition, however, Christmas Eve became a very special and wonderful event. One of those rare nights you look forward to all year.

Between the mid-eighties and early 2000's, it was my favorite night of the year. Most of my close friends and eventually my siblings and nephews were there, and the atmosphere was light, loving, and joyous. Exchanging gifts under Cusa's tree at about midnight was the highlight of the evening. Watching those you love open gifts you picked out, just for them, was magic. I run with a very creative, imaginative, artsy tribe. One year, our friend Ron surprised us all with full color, poster size drawings (from his own talented hand) as all of us dressed as the superheroes we created - based on own personalities - that Halloween. Another year, Cusa gave all the guys fully functioning Blow Guns, complete with graphite projectiles. 

At about that same time, our Christmas Mall Mayhem Day was at it's peak. Ten or more of us would spend the first Friday of December at a mall of our choosing, spending the whole day there, sipping Sambucca out of a  water bottle ("I Thirst!" Was the cry if you wanted a blast) and buying gifts (mostly, for ourselves). I built my vast library of Christmas CD's at that time as well. And Christmas Classics like "A Year Without A Santa Claus" (Heat Miser, Snow Miser), "It's A Wonderful Life", and "A Christmas Story" played on a loop in the background on Christmas Eve At Cusa's.

There was something Magic about that time of year. There is still something Magic about that time of year. There always will be. Give me loved ones. Give me a space to Celebrate ourselves; give me a space to celebrate our love for each other; give me you open heart, your open mind, your truest self. And I'm one happy camper. 

©2017 Clint Piatelli, MuscleHeart LLC, and Red F Publishing. All rights reserved.