Keira-anne.com

As the first few waves of frigid, salty Pacific Ocean water crashed over my braided head, the only thing I could think was that surfing was better than sex. Really. It’s been close to a decade since I last set foot on a surfboard, and even then I was no good. This time I wanted to do it right and signed up for an afternoon session with Tofino’s legendary Bruhwiler Surf School [website]. While there are a handful of schools on Vancouver Island’s West Coast, it seems to me that the Bruhwiler crew teach simply for the reason that they want to share their passion and way of life with others.

It’s all about the love of the wave.

We arrived at the shop a bit early in time to sign in, and were happy to hear that our wetsuits were already loaded onto the truck for us - one of the many advantages of sending in your body specs by e-mail prior to arriving.

Raph Bruhwiler and Dave the Moustache Man (who gets props for wiping the snot off my face) were our instructors for the day, and I can truly say that both did a stellar job. After a quick 15 (or so) minutes of chat on the sand - including important safety rules and basic theory - we grabbed our boards and headed out. In the words of Johnny Castle: “the best place to learn really is in the water.”

Snaking is definitely not allowed. Catching a “double up” is also not recommended.

Jenny and I hoped to ride another day without instructors, but due to less-than-favourable weather (more about that in the next post), we were forced out of our campsite earlier than we’d hoped.

To say that I can’t wait to head out again would be the understatement of 2008. The boys of Bruhwiler were phenomenal teachers and the encouraging vibe in our small group gave me the get-up-and-go that I needed. After about half an hour in the waves, I was actually standing up on nearly every other wave that I caught, and the feeling was simply euphoric. Like I said, better than sex.

I’d like to catch one of Bruhwiler Surf School’s two-day Roxy surf camps next summer with some girlfriends (and I think they know who they are). To find more information on the sport, the instructors, rates and camps, visit Bruhwiler Surf School’s site by clicking their logo in my sidebar.

To view all the photos from our ultimate surfing experience, click on over to my Flickr.

Anyone who is truly from Vancouver Island can affirm how painful an endeavour it can be to return to Vancouver after time spent at home. After six near magical days on la isla bonita, I have returned to the city in which I reside, but it will never truly be home. Yesterday marked my four year anniversary in the city, living in the same apartment on the same street. My dwelling is the only thing that’s remained constant in my time here. The faces and experiences that have come and gone in these years are more than I can count.

Photo: tempest_kat on Flickr

I find myself becoming more and more cynical towards this place, its people, the events and the general attitude. Why that is, I’m not sure. The bitterness, however, is starting to take its toll on me and it’s really quite pointless. I think that the time is right for a shift in thinking.

Photo: I am I.A.M. on Flickr

When I was a little girl, my giddiness and anticipation for family trips to Vancouver was uncontainable. It was, in fact, somewhat amusing to my parents. The first major trip I can recall was to Expo ’86 at the ripe age of 5 and on the verge of beginning kindergarten. It was a quick whirlwind mini vacay, but I still have a vivid memory dotted with fireworks, the monorail, Expo Ernie, glittering high-rises and a kaleidoscope of colour.

Once I entered my mid-teens, with my coming of age came a fresh dose of independence. At 16, I was allowed to take my first trip across the Georgia Straight with a friend. Our plan was to hit the all ages Spacehog/Everclear double bill at the Vogue, but upon its subsequent cancellation, Nadia and I found ourselves at the historic Capitol 6 on Granville to see Trainspotting. (My parents saw the film once it was released on video and were rather adamant that, had they known what it was about, I never would have been allowed to see it at the time.)

Long before I actually made the move to Vancouver, I dreamed about the day when I’d finally live sky high in one of those concrete towers I’d so admired as a child. When I was younger, the city and its ideals held enchantment for me. On every ferry ride over, I’d sit at the front of the passenger lounge, skip ahead to Underworld’s “Born Slippy” on my Sony Discman and watch the distant city skyline as the ship pulled nearer to Horseshoe Bay. The anticipation I felt in my belly was intoxicating, and the excitement that struck me at 5 still held strongly at 16 and beyond.

Now that I have spent the better part of half a decade (yikes!) living in downtown Vancouver, the anticipation has dissipated, the magic has faded and the glitter of gleaming towers has grown dull. As I learn more about the world in which I live, the people with which I interact and the true state of humanity, my disillusions of city living have been nearly entirely wiped out.

What I have realized as of late, however, is that focusing on these shortcomings and pitfalls of the city are a wasted effort.

Instead of lamenting how disheartened I am to be back amongst the noise, pollution, yelling, smells and traffic of downtown Vancouver, perhaps it would be more helpful and make more sense to consider the ways in which living in Vancouver has fulfilled me and instead enriched the person that I am.

It is time to make an attempt at re-capturing the beauty I once saw here with innocent eyes.

Thank you, Vancouver, for being home to some truly amazing people that I am blessed to call my friends.

Thank you, Vancouver, for being the backdrop of experiences that have taught me invaluable lessons in life and love.

Though my square, concrete balcony in the West End can’t compare to the lush, green gardens at my true Merville home on the Island, it boasts a killer view that – both literally and figuratively – gives me a much needed perspective on a different side of our world. Vancouver Island will always be home, but I suppose this place isn’t as bad as I try to make it out to be.

Photo: Incognitocanuck on Flickr

P.S. High five to anyone who “gets” the post title.

It was a sunny afternoon, this past Saturday, as Amy and I pulled open the door at Book Warehouse. My only mission was to find one particular book. Being that she’d already read it, Amy was quick to point out the humour she found in the title of a particular section in the first chapter:

“Here, look…‘Our Inherited Dysfunction.’ I showed that to my mom and she laughed.”

I suppose it’s something we can all laugh at, being that each and every single one of us not only comes from a dysfunctional family or background, but also because we all possess sociological malfunctions in ways that are unique to the individual. My personal dysfunction, something I touched down on last year in a number of posts, wasn’t something I become aware of until only recently, despite the fact it had been simmering on the back burner for close to a decade.

Much of what troubles me manifests itself in such a way that my security can easily crumble. Questioning my self-worth while allowing my mind to be invaded by doubt comes faster than I often have the chance to put my guard up. And once again, as it has a tendency to do, my dysfunction reared its dreadful head on Sunday afternoon. As of late, yours truly and her blog have been the target of online mud-slinging 5 different times in as many months. Some have chosen to e-mail me their disdain directly, while others have chosen subversive attempts on blogs that aren’t quite as secretive as the authors may think.

And while words can initially sting, the actualities behind the language are far more comprehensive.

“Words, no matter whether they are vocalized and made into sounds or remain unspoken as thoughts, can cast an almost hypnotic spell on you. You easily lose yourself in them, become hypnotized into implicitly believing that when you have attached a word to something, you know what it is. The fact is: You don’t know what it is. You have only covered up the mystery with a label. Everything, a bird, a tree, even a simple stone, and certainly a human being, is ultimately unknowable. This is because it has unfathomable depth. All we can perceive, experience, think about, is the surface layer of reality, less than the tip of an iceberg.”
– Eckhart Tolle, A New Earth (2006 Plume Publishing)

What I find most astonishing in any of my communications (or, rather, mis-communications) with my readers and other bloggers alike is how often the tongue-in-cheek manner which peppers my writing is missed altogether. And further, it is rather perplexing to me how many of my readers that I don’t know in any regard can purport to know me enough to make solid statements about the person they believe I am based solely on the content found at a web address. However, if you believe and understand what Tolle says about words and their impact, it is uncomplicated and easy to see how it unfolds. Because the words used against me, ultimately, are as meaningless as the words I use on this blog (and even in this post), and it is rather clear that you and I are no better than each other or anyone else.

Photo: sporkist on Flickr

If, as Tolle states, we are easily lost in and hypnotized by someone’s words, we must ask ourselves why that is so. It is much the same with anything in this earthly world in which we can become entangled. When our focus is not grounded in what we know to be fact and truth that is based on tangible experience, we will undoubtedly allow ourselves to become carried away based on our emotional side. Most often, the emotional side will dictate based upon our insecurities.

Much of the aforementioned mudslingers chose to attack my physical appearance, the tongue-in-cheek posts I tend to write and what they perceive my personality to be based on, merely, words. Our emotional sides remind each of us of robbed happiness, lack of self-confidence or any number of things that any number of us experience at one time or another. And, unfortunately, it seems those things tend to spill out in a sometimes spiteful manner.

On this blog, I write about my family because they’re my everything and are the one thing that truly matters at the end of the day. I chronicle adventures with my friends because each of those friendships is a give-and-take situation that provides nutrition for the soul in one way or another. I compose entire blog posts based on a pair of jeans, a bikini or a new nail polish colour because new jeans, bikinis and painted toenails are fun (and besides, what girl doesn’t like buying pretty new things?). I share the mundane aspects of my life and add a twist because, for whatever reason, there are those that have an itch to know.

I write because I love language and connect with the joy in the expression of it.

Rest assured that I won’t be letting “the haters” get me down. Instead, I thank them sincerely for the drive they provide.

I have a guilty pleasure. I love celebrity gossip sites, even though I know I shouldn’t. Why do I find candid photos of him, her and that guy interesting? I can’t explain, but that’s besides the point. Upon perusal of one of my regular haunts, The Superficial (enough said), I came across an article leading me to Newsweek.

Miami, Florida-based plastic surgeon, Dr. Michael Salzhauer, undertook the task of informing children about the plastic surgeries their moms and dads may be undergoing.

“Salzhauer got the idea for a book after noticing that women were coming into his office with their kids in tow. He says that mysterious doctor’s visits can be frightening for children. “Parents generally tend to go into this denial thing. They just try to ignore the kids’ questions completely.” But, he adds, children “fill in the blanks in their imagination” and then feel worse when they see “mommy with bandages,” he says. “With the tummy tucks, [the mothers] can’t lift anything. They’re in bed. The kids have questions.”

You have to see the excerpts from “My Beautiful Mommy” to believe them…

All photos courtesy of Big Tent Books on Newsweek

It’s an interesting endeavour, I must admit. Being one who spent years teaching pre-school, I see the validity in educating children. Adults have an incredible responsibility with regard to being open and honest with children, answering questions they may have and enlighten their malleable minds.

So where are the boundaries drawn? 2008 is an age of plastic surgery and appearance enhancement. And quite often, it goes way over the line. At what point do books like this stop teaching children about the reality of a situation and start teaching them what the world thinks to be “pretty” or “beautiful?”

What are your thoughts?

Being one who was born and raised on Vancouver Island, travelling on BC Ferries’ vessels was a significant and frequent part of my childhood. As a young girl, a voyage at sea was always something I looked forward to, with my family’s trip to Expo ‘86 being the earliest I can remember. My mom has photos of me from that day in my mini bell bottoms, standing near the railing under the yellow-tinted glass on the upper deck.

As I’ve gotten older and gained an understanding of corporate business and the money that’s to be made in the privatization of corporations, I’ve also gained a certain bitterness towards BC Ferries. From 1960 to 2003, it was operated as a Crown corporation within the Province, falling under the jurisdiction of the British Columbia Toll Highways and Bridges Authority. Upon rumours of a growing debt, it was announced that the corporation would, in fact, become privatized.

Since that time, service on the fleet has dropped at a rate that’s almost as alarming as the equal drop in customer service. Passengers are paying more, but for what?

I won’t even get into the NDP’s decision to commission a fleet of “fast ferries,” as I’m sure that’s something every British Columbian would rather soon forget.

The final nail in the coffin was hammered down on July 2, 2003 when British Columbia, and the Vancouver/Whistler area in particular, was awarded the 2010 Olympic Winter Games.

Since that fateful day, this Province as a generalized whole has been sliding down a slippery slope riddled with bullshit propoganda and corporate sell-outs by the handful. BC Ferries are no exception.

As Rebecca and I embarked from Departure Bay in Nanaimo this past Sunday afternoon, we noticed one of the new C-Class ferries docked next to our boat. It came as no surprise that the side of the ship was emblazoned with the 2010 logo in addition to a large illustration of Olympic speed skaters.

As I returned home that evening, I flipped on the news only to see a group of proud Comox Valley residents attempting to rally up the local residents and spread excitement over the pending games. There is so much about this that breaks my heart and angers me at the same time. Little do these communities know the enormous sacrifices being made to bring a two-week sporting event to our Province.

Simply put:

Until I am no longer, quite literally, stepping over sleeping people as I walk to work in the morning, this Province has no business building a bobsled course in the North Shore mountains.

To many in this Province, the games are something exciting and new to look forward to. Unfortunately, few of them realize the reality of the situation each and every day in the very city in which the games are to be held. This Province is failing its residents. Prime examples are everywhere if one is willing to open their eyes.

The closer that February 12, 2010 approaches, the more this Province will be clearly defined by an amateur sporting event.

To simply say that this is a “sad turn of events” is a gross understatement.

DOUBLE THE PLEASURE, DOUBLE THE FUN?

The concept of group sex, meaning sex between more than two people, has been practiced for almost as long as men and woman have existed. In fact, it’s something that dates back nearly 5,500 years. In many cultures, group sex and orgies were considered to be religious custom, and were an accepted and encouraged part of life. Men took many mistresses, women took many lovers and partners were seemingly swapped like baseball trading cards.

Group sex knows no boundaries, be it gay or straight, male or female. Some instances include only heterosexual encounters, while others take a more casual, ‘whatever goes’ stance. To truly characterize group sex would be next to impossible. For every person that fantasizes about it, each fantasy in itself is unlike any other.

Photo: numberstumper on Flickr

For something that has come to be practiced more widely than most might venture to guess, group sex is not without its misconceptions and negative press. Many religious and right wing groups hold the belief that any sex that is not monogamous is wrong, while some simply wish to take a “don’t ask, don’t tell” attitude and keep the canoodling behind closed doors.

Like the countless other aspects of sex, who’s to say what’s right and what’s wrong is indeterminable. It’s completely a personal choice, devoid of societal influence. By that, I mean that it’s not something that one typically tries just because everyone else is doing it, like licking up the latest and greatest ice cream flavour. For most, the issue of whether or not to leave the bedroom door open for business is fairly black and white.

Photo: El Tipo Gráfico on Flickr

While I carry no qualms with group sex, it’s not something I’ve scribbled onto my ‘to-do’ list, literally or figuratively. Though, that’s not to say that between the right people and with ample communication, it is most likely a very fulfilling experience for those that wish to do the double-team deed.

Like most people in their 20s, it’s something that at one time or another I’ve either been asked to do or asked whether or not I’d be willing to participate in it. I can’t say that the idea hasn’t intrigued me at one time or another, but were the idea to ever play out on the big screen, being the third party is undoubtedly the only way to go. Why could I never indulge in the idea while in a relationship? No, and for the single reason that seeing another person’s hands on my man, and vice versa, would no doubt induce a lethal dose of vomit and anxiety for this young devotchka.

Here’s where the fun comes in…it’s show n’ tell time. If you’re willing to share with the class, let us know your thoughts on ménage à trois and more. Where do you stand on the great group debate? Positive experiences? Negative experiences? Throw your ideas this way and let’s talk.

* Whether your current sexual situation is solo, with a partner or into the great galaxy beyond, please visit Health Canada’s Sexual Health and Promotion website for solid facts and information on safer sex. *

YOUNG GUNS

Up until the time that I was about 20-years-old, I would swear up and down that I could never, ever date a man that was younger than me. It didn’t matter if the difference was four years or four days. I had no reason other than my own stubborn self.

Ready to gasp? In school, I was not popular with the boys. I was wiry and awkward with crooked teeth and bad hair. I’d attempt to show you my seventh grade yearbook photo, but it’s been entirely blacked out by Jiffy marker, never again to be seen by my eyes. Needless to say, dating in those days was a completely foreign concept to me. The boys I always crushed on never crushed back and I, in turn, was crushed.

Fast forward a handful of years to my early 20s. Suddenly the ugly duckling had turned into the not-too-shabby swan, and I soon realized the power of my aesthetic prowess. The kinds of men boys who at one time had ignored me were now turning their heads. Being the not-so-dim devotchka that I am, it didn’t take me long to figure out how to re-direct this new-found powerful charm.

Photo: Lady, That’s My Skull on Flickr, with self-edit

I can be honest and admit to you all that I waited until I was in my 20s to trade in my V-Card for a lifetime pass to the Museum of I Can Breathe Now That I Won’t Die A Virgin. What was most interesting to me, being how stubborn I had been about ageism in the past, was that the very man boy man that popped my proverbial cherry was four years younger than me.

I had known him for a few years, and was as high as a kite off the fact that he was so completely enamoured with me. His pursuit lasted years before I finally gave in and gave up the goods. Though the power shifted as soon as the condom was slipped onto his pink perfection, the power I felt up until that moment was practically intoxicating. I won’t lie; the first time (and pretty much every other time) didn’t last very long, but the enthusiasm and energy more than made up for quick comings (pun intended).

Photo: Lady, That’s My Skull on Flickr

Just like Christmas music, delicious new beauty products and applewood smoked cheddar cheese, humping younger guys is a slippery slope. Getting pistol whipped by such a young gun can become the only prescription required for long-ago rejection (yes, I said rejection). However, it doesn’t necessarily have to be the thrill of actually landing a younger guy that satisfies…

I have a weakness for men who ride boards, be it skate, snow or surf. First off, it’s just badass. Second, there’s something inexplicable about that “I just don’t give a fuck” attitude that makes me weak in the knees. Even if they live in their mama’s basement and work at Westbeach, it still works for me. That being said, so very satisfying is walking by a small group of young men with their boards, and knowing that with a playful arch of my eyebrow or slight licking of my lips, I’ve secured a top spot in their spank banks for a minimum of a week. The signs are obvious.

Do you know how flustered they become? And do you know how freakin’ amazing that makes me feel?

So, perhaps it’s taboo for me to be as interested in younger men as I am from time-to-time. I can be honest…it’s not about having a relationship. For many it is. And should it be any different for a guy to be with a girl five years younger than for a girl to be with a guy who’s five years younger? The logistics of this are endless, so coin your two cents in my direction.

P.S. Alright, kids…you’re off your leashes. Now anything goes in the comment section. If you need to comment anonymously, fill your boots. Tame = lame.

LOVE THYSELF

It’s been two long, dreary, rainy weeks, but I am finally back (and a day early too!) with another edition of Wanton Wednesdays. Let’s cut to the chase because the WW train is about to pull into Masturbation Station.

You’re blushing already, aren’t you?

I do realize that in writing this article, I run the risk of my mother never again looking me in the eye, but what can I say? Consider yourself warned, Katrina.

Last night, as Becky and I were frantically running around downtown Vancouver, being the woman that I am I decided it would be best if we multi-tasked. I waited at my landlord’s suite door to get a parking pass, and I instructed Becky to go down to my suite to answer the phone and let Amy inside if she buzzes my front door. I jingled the keys into her hand and sent her towards the elevator.

“Oh…ahhh…my phone is on my nightstand. But, um, just to warn you, my vibrator’s probably on my nightstand too.”

And with that one little v-word, I saw Becky’s eyes bulge out a little bit, somewhat in shock and somewhat in amusement. Probably somewhat in embarrassment too. However, generally speaking, is it all that shocking, amusing or embarrassing?

Photo courtesy of flyzipper on Flickr

“99 percent of men of all ages masturbate regularly and the other one percent are liars.” - Sue Johanson, Canadian sex educator and counselor

Who among you can say you don’t engage in a little bit of self-lovin’ on a regular or semi-regular basis? Most everyone has attempted it at one point or another in their lives. In fact, a whopping 98% of adults reported having done so [source]. It should also come as no surprise that the age at which girls dance the She-Bop or guys polish their bayonets for the first time is somewhere in the mid-teens [source]. Keep in mind that the average age of 15 is only the age to which people are admitting - it would seem likely that self-discoveries are made at much, much younger ages. In fact, one astonishing thing I learned in the numerous child psychology courses I’ve taken is that most of these self-discoveries happen long before children even enter grade school. (Though keep in mind that at such an age, the act is not correlated as something sexual in nature).

“The only thing about masturbation to be ashamed of is doing it badly.” - Sigmund Freud

If the statistics aren’t lying, then it can be easily agreed on that double-clicking one’s own mouse is something that’s a very real part of the lives of the vast majority of people you know (yes, even you). So why the stigma around masturbation?

If we share a fantastic (or even less-than-stellar) sexual experience with someone else, we usually end up discussing it with our friends. Maybe I’m generalizing there - I doubt men get into the nitty gritty with each other as much as us women do. (Correct me if I’m wrong with that one, fellas.)

If we share a fantastic (and always stellar) sexual experience with ourselves, we tell no one. I don’t see what the difference is. Granted one event is solo, but aren’t they both equally intimate?

Perhaps some of the shame lies with the fact that it’s never really been something that’s openly discussed as being okay. At a young age, when I first discovered it myself, I was absolute and positively convinced that I was the only person on the face of the planet engaging in such “disgraceful” behavior and that it was very, very wrong. It was never something I learned about and never something I was taught that it was okay to do. In fact, it wasn’t until I came upon the ripe age of 18 that I finally felt comfortable with it at all. I’ve long said that education is one of the strongest suits we can hold in the game of life, and I believe the same is especially true of our own bodies.

“Don’t knock masturbation, it’s sex with someone I love.” - Woody Allen

Oddly enough, for one of the oldest aspects to human sexuality, it seems as though masturbation is one dirty little secret that is still locked up in so many closets. I’m very interested to know how many of you are really even willing to discuss this hot button topic, being as I’m sure it’s very private for more than a handful of my blog’s readers. For those of you who are bursting at the seams to share with the class, here are some questions for thought:

Why do you feel there is such a huge stigma around the topic of masturbation?

Is this aspect of your sex life something you’re fairly private about or something that comes up often in conversation?

Don’t let me stop you there - this is one topic that could go anywhere or stay in one place. Just don’t forget the disclaimer…

* In commenting, please be aware that comment moderation is strictly enforced. All IP addresses are recorded, and any comments of a malicious, slandering, or otherwise inappropriate nature will be instantly deleted and the user blocked. Everyone on here should feel free to discuss, debate, ask and share in a safe manner. Let’s keep this SFO (Safe For the Office) *

PLEASE, SIR…I WANT SOME MORE

Sexual fetishism is the sexual attraction for material and terrestrial objects while in reality the essence of the object is inanimate and sexless. Body parts may also be subject to sexual fetishes (also known as partialism) in which the preferred body part for the fetishist takes a sexual precedent over the owner. Sexual Fetishism may be regarded as a disorder of sexual preference, or as an enhancing element to a relationship.

Extract provided by Wikipedia

It wasn’t until I was 18-years-old that I had my first relationship that was in any way physical. Up until then, kissing was as far as I went. To me, this was new and exciting and completely exhilarating. Sex and sexuality were very foreign concepts to my young, innocent and uncorrupted mind.

One afternoon, while my then-boyfriend and I had his house to ourselves, we found ourselves in his bedroom in the middle of a hot n’ heavy make-out session. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the scenario. We were mid-kiss when I suddenly felt the sharp smack of his hand making direct contact with my bottom. I think it took me 1.6 seconds to scramble off and shout at him “what the hell are you doing?”

I don’t remember his exact response, but I’m sure that it was a combination of an uncomfortable laugh and a mumbled apology before going in for another kiss. I shrugged it off as though he was simply being silly and forgot about it within a minute or two.

It was only minutes later that it happened again. I was so shocked and so confused. I had no idea what he was doing or what his intention was. All I could conclude was that my boyfriend must just be weird. How was I to know that some men (and women, for that matter) had a very particular interest in spanking?

Photo courtesy of hapgoodbaines on Flickr

If you search for the word “fetish” on Google, you’ll be presented with approximately 105,000,000 hits within less time than it took me to haul ass off the boyfriend’s lap so many years ago. The range of different types of fetishes is perhaps as comprehensive as the number of hits itself. Anything from body parts, activities, and yes, even shoes, are fair game.

It wasn’t so long ago that the theory behind a fetish was based in somewhat of a traumatic or imprinting circumstance in one’s past. However, that thinking has evolved with sexuality and fetishes are viewed as a normal and healthy part of one’s randy realm. It’s not to say that this is true for everyone, as the sexual experience is an experience that is entirely unique from one person to the next.

My virginal spanking was nearly a decade ago and I am, in fact, a changed woman. In all honesty, a little tap on the ass (pun very much intended) can add a little bit of excitement to the bedroom routine. I can’t say that it’s something I don’t enjoy because I do. Beyond that much, I think fetishes are still very much a learning process for me. I haven’t discovered any other avenues in which I’d consider to be fetishes, and maybe this is as far as it will ever go for me. The beauty in it is that perhaps it’s something that we grow into, something in which different partners or people are able to pick apart pieces of our sexuality and uncover something even unbeknownst to ourselves.

Is there anyone reading this who is daring enough to share their fetish with the class? I can understand that perhaps a fetish isn’t something that is a part of everyone’s sexuality and that’s also completely okay. So where do you stand? Do you let the inner kink out or are you still finding your way?

* In commenting, please be aware that comment moderation is strictly enforced. All IP addresses are recorded, and any comments of a malicious, slandering, or otherwise inappropriate nature will be instantly deleted and the user blocked. Everyone on here should feel free to discuss, debate, ask and share in a safe manner. Let’s keep this SFO (Safe For the Office) *

DON’T ASK, DON’T TELL

I believe that I am a magnet - a magnet for infidelity, that is.

1. When I was 18, I dated a young man who seemed somewhat enamoured with me. This was short-lived, however, as he started dating a girl who was much, much younger than me very soon after we broke up. I’d have to be a complete idiot to think they weren’t already fooling around before we broke up. The grapevine likes to gossip.

2. A couple years later, I dated a man who was a fair bit older than me but, for some reason, could only have dinner or see movies late in the evening. By late, I mean after 10:00 p.m. That didn’t take long to fall apart, and it wasn’t long before I found out he was nearly engaged.

3. The last person I dated for a lengthy time was a relationship that ended over two years ago, but his arrogance still seethes me. His phone was always ringing at 2:00 a.m., he was aloof about his goings-on and certainly wasn’t always reachable.

What is most appalling about all of these instances is that I turned a blind eye to what was happening. Sure, I knew deep down that things certainly weren’t kosher, but did I speak up about it? Nope, sure didn’t.

Photo courtesy of rumorebianco on Flickr

Cheating is certainly not a new trend. Men and women have cheated within relationships for as long as they’ve been walking the Earth. What I don’t understand is the “why.”

In any of my relationships in which the men I was with were unfaithful to me, not “putting out” on my part was never an issue, so I can’t chalk it up to that. However, a repeated pattern in any regard should be a red flag. In something I recently watched (though the name of it escapes me at the moment), the female lead was complaining about her lack of luck in relationships to a male friend of hers. She lamented that she must be picking the wrong men. “Not so,” he replied. “The one thing all these men have in common is you.” Ouch.

Before we can really chew on this and discuss why it is people cheat, what is considered cheating within a relationship? Wikipedia defines cheating within personal relationships as:

With regard to human relationships, couples tend to expect sexual monogamy of each other. If so, then cheating commonly refers to forms of infidelity, particularly adultery. However, there are other divisions of infidelity, which may be emotional. Cheating by thinking of, touching and talking with the other sex may equally be as damaging to one of the parties. Emotional cheating may be correlated to that of emotional abuse, which to date is treated as seriously in a court of law as physical cheating. With the expansion of understanding of other cultures, there is a wide spectrum of what cheating means. When in a committed relationship, the definition of cheating is based on both parties opinions and both parties may redefine their understanding to match the party at an either lower or higher extreme of this definition. Some couples simply believe that cheating constitutes doing anything, whether verbal or physical, that one would not do in front of their significant other. Such examples would include: Kissing, Making out, and Sexual Relations.

Many people consider cheating to be any violation of the mutually agreed-upon rules or boundaries of a relationship, which may or may not include sexual monogamy. For example, in some polyamorous relationships, the concepts of commitment and fidelity do not necessarily hinge on complete sexual or emotional monogamy. Whether polyamorous or monogamous, the boundaries to which people agree vary widely, and sometimes these boundaries evolve within each relationship.

Do you agree? Disagree? What’s considered cheating in your eyes? Sex? Oral sex? Kissing? There are a million different answers here, so let’s hear some of yours.

In my own opinion, I believe that the aforementioned “emotional cheating” is just as damaging and hurtful as physical cheating, if not moreso. I’ve long believed that people cheat for reasons that are mostly anything but physical - I think that it ultimately leads back to having needs met. Surely those that do seek the arms of another can state that it’s all about the sex because they don’t want to have sex with their partner. However, I believe that if one’s needs are being met, all around, that the cheating wouldn’t take happen in the first place.

If your partner was making time for you, listening to you, loving on you and respecting you, and this was a mutual meeting of the needs, would you not want to spend time in your partner’s bed rather than that of a stranger? Of course there are going to be circumstances, such as those who are, among other things, addicted to sex or lack any sense of moral responsibility, who could cheat even despite having all needs at home met.

Why do you think men and women cheat? Is it purely physical or the result of something deeper that’s unsettling?

For this girl, I’m a one-man woman. I have no desire to share my man with another, whether I know of it or not. I believe that karma’s a bitch (even though I don’t quite believe in karma), and for me, cheating’s never okay. I suppose you could say that my experiences have left me, to a certain extent, somewhat jaded, paranoid and cynical. I’d like to still believe that there are men out there who are one-woman gentlemen.

Do you tolerate it?

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