sex

Domestic disturbance

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a&eletters@sfbg.com

Equal parts Antonio Gramsci and Monsieur Verdoux (1947), Dillinger is Dead (1969) is cultural critique masquerading as a one-man show. Michel Piccoli plays Glauco, with his forehead mostly: the fleeting pleasures of food and gadgetry are registered in satisfied wrinkles, though the slack glaze of boredom is never far off. The film opens with Glauco touring a factory using a gas mask of his design. In case we somehow miss this as a marker of alienation, the factory guide waxes Society of the Spectacle: "The introjections of these obsessive, hallucinatory needs do not produce an adaptation to reality, but mimesis, standardization: the cancellation of individuality."

Subtly may not be Italian auteur Marco Ferreri’s strong suit, but he achieves a weirdly frantic stasis once Dillinger settles in to Glauco’s chintzy bourgeois palace, a masterpiece of set design. Glauco tucks in his lolling girlfriend (Rolling Stones ingénue Anita Pallenberg, mostly naked here), snivels at the meal she’s left him and gets to cooking. Looking for something in the closet, he finds an old gun wrapped in a newspaper covering John Dillinger’s death. The film’s unforthcoming slowness reaches its apotheosis as he painstakingly cleans the revolver, keeping a close eye on the sauce.

Not satiated by his feast for one (Ferreri would later direct 1973’s La Grande Bouffe, a film about four men eating themselves to death), Glauco licks honey off the maid’s bare back, gives his firearm a Pop Art makeover, and finally endeavors to see if it still goes bang. Ferreri’s listless deadpan can’t help but pale after countless Coen brothers knockoffs, but Dillinger is saved from obsolescence by its prescient observations of technology’s ascendance in the domestic sphere. Glauco is ever fiddling with a machine, at one point documenting his sleeping wife with a tape recorder (this guy would be a nightmare with an iPhone).

All this mechanical action has a masturbatory quality to it, especially when Glauco watches his Super 8 home movies. He greedily reaches out for the breasts of a woman he’s filmed and tries to swim in a projection of the sea (a significant image given the film’s nautical conclusion). When a halved watermelon broaches sex, viewers may wonder if Tsai Ming-Liang knew of Dillinger before making The Wayward Cloud (2005). This fleshy interlude is the closest thing to life in Ferreri’s film; even murder, it seems, cannot bring these people back from the dead.

DILLINGER IS DEAD

Thurs/11–Sat/13, 7:30 p.m.; Sun/14, 2 p.m., $8–$10

Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, 701 Mission, SF

(415) 978-2787, www.ybca.org

It’s Cougartown, Jake

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andrea@altsexcolumn.com

Dear Andrea:

I’m 19 and still a virgin. I’ve never been on a date, kissed a girl, held hands, hugged … you get the picture. I’ve never really had the time to take interest in girls, or the courage to ask one out. I’m now starting to feel pretty lonely, and tired of my lack of "experience." However, after talking with several different girls my age on different occasions, my question has come to this: are virgin guys really worthless for experienced women?

Most women I talk to say that’s the answer to the question. If this is true, I think I’m going to have serious nervous breakdown. Since this is apparently the case, and such a bad thing, I was wondering what I should do — if anything at all — to fix the problem?

Love,

Another Lonely Boy

Dear Boy:

In light of recent discussions of sexual opportunities found on craigslist, among the (barely) used fitness equipment and the remarkably ugly couches, I’m suddenly seeing your problem in a whole new light. In your usual fictional treatments of the "desperate male virgin seeks state-change" trope, you see the hapless hero attempt, unsuccessfully, to get age-mates interested, or to trick them with false-bottomed popcorn buckets or what-have-you. Then you have your prostitute scene, which never goes well. I have no compunctions about suggesting seeing a pro, actually — it may not be legal, but as far as I know I can recommend what I like as long as I don’t recommend whom I like, as in "See my friend Lavinia, she’ll fix you right up."*

In fact,I AM going to suggest you see a pro, since this has been going on way too long and I’m afraid you’re going to get what they used to call "a complex." But I do realize it’s not a solution that fits everyone’s tastes, morals, or pocketbook, and it isn’t much help if what you’re seeking is a boon companion and a chance to get your blank-blank-ed (I hate all those phrases and can’t even bring myself to type the one about cherries. Ick.

We’ll get back to craigslist, but first, no, I don’t think inexperienced men are "worthless" to women. I think very few people can truly be considered worthless (even the worst can be repurposed as mulch, for instance), and I’d hate for you to judge your own worth by what some chicks at a party said. Your "worth" is irreducible and inborn.

How useful you can be to other people may depend on things like skills and history, but probably not as much as you think. I think we’re having some confusion here about what question those girls thought they were answering. Would they really, at the advanced age of 19 or so, reject a serious and otherwise appealing suitor on the grounds of sexual inexperience? Or was it more a case of "I’d rather do it with guys who know what they’re doing"? The latter is understandable, the former a bit sad.

I really think young women of a slightly less hardened persuasion are your best bet, for many reasons, but there is that craigslist option (craigslist is in some senses sui generis, but it could also be considered to stand in here for any online meeting place where "casual encounters" ads are acceptable). I’m thinking that your chances of a cute 19-year-old picking up on your ad in a place like that and thinking, "Sweet! He doesn’t know a thing!" are virtually nil. But if there really is such a thing as a "cougar," then … mrowr.

I am personally still unconvinced that any such widespread social phenomenon of older, slightly stringy but glossily well-preserved ladies prowling for young man-meat yet exists, or ever will. You couldn’t prove it by the presence of the stereotype, though. Not only is there the SNL sketch and a number of ad campaigns featuring "cougars," there’s even an upcoming series staring the ancient and wizened Courteney Cox (I believe she’s 45) in something called Cougar Town. This is not good.

Reservations about the designation and the ugly light it casts on women over, say, 35 who still like sex aside, this could all be good news for you. Try running an ad that says "19-year-old virgin seeks cougar for important life lessons" and see how that works out for you. While it’s true that most female grown-ups are not seeking utterly inexperienced partners half their age, there are certainly some who would find you an interesting experiment.

All this nonsense about pros and ladies on the prowl aside, I do have two other suggestions, both of which seem to have escaped you. One, you can talk to girls and even ask them out without revealing a certain embarrassing biographical fact upfront and, two, you could date virgins.

Love,

Andrea

* No, I don’t know anyone named Lavinia.

Don’t forget to read Andrea at Carnal Nation.com.

Hot sex events this week: June 10-16

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Compiled by Molly Freedenberg

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Dottie Lux will shake and shimmy at Spookshow A-Go-Go’s first all-gay show on Sunday. Photo by M. Ulto and Tigger.

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>> Night of Mayhem
Viriginia Suicide hosts this weekly burlesque revue by Barbary Coast, featuring Pin Key Lee, Flame Cynders, sASSy Hotbuns, Flying Fox, and more.

Wed/10, 8-11pm. $5.
Annie’s Social Club
917 Folsom, SF
www.anniessocialclub.com

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>> MythFits
Writers, filmmakers, and performance artists queerify classic myths and seek out the deviant threads in tales of yore in this three-week series, this time featuring gigi Otalvaro-Hormillosa, Robin Coste Lewis, and Sadie Lune.

Wed/10, 6pm, free.
San Francisco Public Library
100 Larkin, SF
www.queerculturalcenter.org

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>> Cocktails and Burlesque Aerial Arts
Back by popular demand, Kate Law and Alayna Stroud’s Bow and Arrow present Cirque Noir (yes, the lovely ladies we recently saw at the Gold Club Anniversary Party), in their lower Pac Heights/upper NoPa dance studio. Expect cocktails as delicious as the burlesque is sensuous.

Fri/12-Sat/13, 8pm. $20.
DanceGround Keriac
1805 Divisadero, SF
(336) 391-6610
www.alaynastroud.com

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>> Lusty Lady Pride Float Benefit Party

Come support SF’s Lusty Lady Theater, the one and only unionized worker-owned peep-show co-op, and their saucy presence in SF Pride 2009! Strippers, dancers, performance, DJ Durt, dykes, debauchery, raffle, panty and date auction, lapdances, bodyshots, and you….

Sat/13, 9pm. Free.
Lexington Club
3464 19th St, SF
www.lexingtonclub.com

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>> Spookshow A-Go-Go: Lezbo-A-Go-Go
In honor of Pride Month, Lux-Killmore Entertainment presents their first ever all-gay show: an evening of chicks, dicks, and flicks. Performers for this unprecendented Spookshow A-Go-Go include Ruby Vixen, Dottie Lux, Ophelia Cour de Noir, Kitty Von Quimm, Steven Satyricon, and many more, all hosted by Virginia Suicide (yes, she’s busy this week).

Sun/14, 7pm. $7.
The Stud
399 9th St, SF
www.myspace.com/spookshoagogo

QSM offers BDSM adventure of a different sort

2

By Juliette Tang

It started as I was digging around for an old Janus magazine for a friend of mine (sigh, I swear).

Janus — the classiest and cheesiest British spanking magazine from the 1970s, and still being campily produced to this day — reads like the Vice Magazine of softcore spanking. There’s something that is, strangely and inconceivably, almost high-brow about this periodical, with its modestly made-up and un-enhanced models who look like they stepped out of a Richard Kern photo. The lo-fi, soft-focused, 35mm photos and the intentionally retro design of the layout and typeface — plus the fact that the magazine’s design philosophy has not changed in the last three decades — imbue the publication with a toothsome genuineness noticeably absent in its more explicit modern day counterparts.

The publication also makes no secret of its aspirations toward a “higher standard.” Janus also runs a popular sex shop in Soho, London, that boasts a storefront more fitting of a Prada boutique than a sex shop, and which in the past has participated in an homage to Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine, two French poets who had a famously violent affair in the 1870s.

It was by pure accident that, through searching for Janus magazine, I discovered QSM, an online BDSM bookstore, its warehouse located here in San Francisco, woman-owned and -run since 1989.

Handjobs: Are we having them?

6

By Juliette Tang

Hand jobs. Are people still giving, getting, or even thinking about them? I’m not talking about a few jerks during foreplay either. I’m asking if anyone out there habitually engages in hot and heavy hand love… and goes all the way. Because it seems, in many peoples’ sex lives, that the hand job is to a CD Walkman what the blow job is to an iPod. It was great when you were in junior high, but then something new came around and you sort of forgot about it. I occasionally see used latex gloves discarded on the sidewalk, and we regularly hear about San Francisco law enforcement cracking down on local massage parlors (so obviously someone out there is paying for it) but – like secret societies, group sex, and crack – hand jobs are something you know is out there, though you’re hard pressed to know anyone who regularly participates. I awkwardly asked some of my male friends, both straight and gay, “When was the last time you got a hand job?” and then quickly added, “And not from yourself.” The most common response was, “And… um, came?”

What once seemed so sexy and thrilling in 9th grade has now, in adulthood, become prosaic. But why? Have we really graduated from the hand job? Is it that because those who can simply jerk themselves off would rather engage in other activities when with a partner? Do hand jobs seem dispassionate and sterile? Or is it simply that, for most, no one else really gives a hand job quite as good as one can give oneself?

Slut-muscle mania

3

By Juliette Tang

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While some of us can’t even handle being in a single relationship much less multiple relationships, The Ethical Slut author Dossie Easton has been non-monogamous since 1969. Easton will be at the Center for Sex and Culture (1519 Mission St) tomorrow (June 5, 2-4pm, $5-$10 sliding scale) for a book signing, reading, and discussion of The Ethical Slut‘s recently released second edition, which contains two new chapters (Opening an Existing Relationship, Lifestyles of the Single Slut) and extensive rewrites, particularly around the topic that is inherent in any discussion of polyamory: jealousy. For those who engage in polyamory – or for those merely interested in the possibilities – Easton’s book is a straightforward, informative, and illuminating resource on consensual non-monogamy as a lifestyle.

Polyamory will always be a controversial subject as long as monogamy is the cultural norm. Not only is marriage an inherently monogamous institution (and an institution that is now best described as bullshit in the state of California), but we even tend to think of dating as a series of monogamous relationships separated from one another by fallow periods of ‘singlehood’ that only end when we meet the next person we want to be monogamous with. This idea of having “one” partner is reinforced everywhere, from culture to ethics to law, and it’s ingrained in the very rituals and ideologies that dictate our social behavior.

Hot sex events this week

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Compiled by Molly Freedenberg

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Explore the origins of the magazine made for sexworkers during Saturday’s film festival at the Roxie.

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>> In Our Own Image
Representatives from the Sex Workers Empowerment Project (SWEP) $pread Magazine will be on hand (ha ha) at the screening of this documentary on sex worker-made media and $pread itself — all as part of the final days of the 6th Annual Sex Worker Film, Art, and Music Festival. (Other films also run all day, from noon past midnight.)

Sat/6. 2pm. $8 per show, $30 day pass.
Roxie
3117 16th St., SF
www.sexworkerfest.com

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>> “Identity”
In honor of the National Queer Arts Festival, Femina Potens presents an exhibit dedicated to exploring constructions of gender identity. Celebrate opening night with artists Jess T. Dugan, Melvyn Herrick, Julie Sutherland, and Fakir Musafar, along with more queer comrades.

Sat/6. 7-10pm.
Femina Potens
2199 Market, SF
(415) 864-1558
www.feminapotens.org

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>> San Francisco is Burning
Cheer on Michelle Tea’s House of RADAR in this competitive fashion show featuring writers and performers from the RADAR series, where all proceeds benefit Queer Cultural Center.

Sat/7. 7pm. $20-$50.
SOMArts
934 Brannan, SF
www.queerculturalcenter.org

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>> Different Strokes
Think hand jobs are simple? Think again. Learn the secrets of making basic handwork into a gourmet treat, from warm-up to happy ending and bringing prostate and anal play into the mix.

Mon/8. 8pm, $25-$30.
Good Vibrations
2504 San Pablo Ave, Berk
(510) 841-8987
www.goodvibes.com

Male sex worker art: first night not so exciting

17

By Juliette Tang

One thing I never thought I’d see in my life: an 85-year-old man in an orange paisley pashmina and a red beret screaming “Gum my cock” in front of a crowd of reverent observers. But on Wednesday night at Army of Lovers, held at the Center for Sex and Culture (1519 Mission St) in conjunction with this week’s Sex Workers Fest, that was exactly what I saw. Unfortunately, I don’t have a transcription of the full text, but trust that it included highly homoerotic descriptions of a bathroom orgy at the Embarcadero, a heavy bondage S&M scene between a sex master and his sex slave, and the aforementioned cock-gumming scene between the author and a toothless young man in suede pants.

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George Birishma at Army of Lovers

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George Birishma, 1955. Yowza!

Hearing octogenarian playwright George Birishma read from his 1977 novel, S&M Gym, was well worth suffering through some of the night’s other performances. Army of Lovers, a two-night spectacle featuring art, video, and performance by men who have worked in the sex industry, opened on Wednesday with performances by Birishma and 9 other former (and some current) sex workers that touched on themes of sexuality, eroticism, isolation, fear, community, and home. Curated by Kirk Read, a former sex worker and current writer, both Wednesday and Thursday showings were completely sold out.

Products: Well Hello, Kitty

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By Molly Freedenberg

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One little two little three little kitten toys…

I’ll be the first to admit that I could’ve given the G-Twist more of a chance. I was lazy. Stuck in my ways. And, in the words of the poet Sir Mix-A-Lot, it was so big…so black.

And then came Hello Kitty [ed note: available at Good Vibrations]. The slender pink vibrator with the rounded kitty-cat head and big, big eyes, packaged in a cute rectangular box covered in Japanese writing. Intimidating it was certainly not. But there was something else in the way… oh yeah!… it’s a sex toy based on a character popular with 10-year-old girls (and, to be fair, the adults they grow up to be).

Not that I wasn’t charmed. I was. And a little relieved. The small vibe, in all its smooth pastel adorable-ness, could’ve passed as an oversized pen – and, in fact, it sat on my desk – next to my Post-Its and concert stubs and Sharpies and empty coffee cups – for a few days before I took it to my bedroom. This vibe was much more my speed – no pun intended.

But still. I wondered if I’d be able to use such a thing on my lady parts. Could I get past the associations with kids? The images it conjured of Japanese vending machines dispensing young girls’ used panties?

Turns out, I could. I could get past it. And under it. And off on it.

Sushi sex: Japanese art porn comes to the Roxie

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By Juliette Tang

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No one does weird art porn like the Japanese, and this week, San Francisco gets to ride the bizarre train all the way to Tokyo. Inexplicably sexy and intentionally funny, Silence of the Sushi Rolls is coming to the Roxie Theater (3117 16th Street) on Friday. Hurray for porn being shown in real theaters! And as a part of the San Francisco Independent Film Festival’s Another Hole in the Head Fest, no less.

Why is it that when porn requires active subtitles, it magically becomes more high-brow? Because there’s nothing high-brow about this movie. It’s a guilty pleasure you won’t want to write home about. And, that said, you should totally go to see it anyway. Silence of the Sushi Rolls is the fourth film in an amazingly ludicrous series of “action comedy” softcore films known as the “Female Detective Molester Buster” series. The hilarity of porn titles, it appears, transcends culture. My favorite title is the Female Detective Molester Buster 2: Catch You With My Breasts. Who knew boobs made for such great law enforcement equipment?

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In true Japanese softcore fashion, Silence of the Sushi Rolls kicks off with a woman getting molested. Those sensitive to scenes depicting sexual assault should take note not to attend (and to avoid all Japanese pornography henceforth). But to be fair, the assault scenes are so obviously fake and the attacks are so staged, it reminds me way more of that scene in Lost in Translation when an escort barges into Bill Murray’s hotel room and starts rolling around on the floor screaming “Lip my stocking! Lip my stocking!” than anything else.

A distant memory

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a&eletters@sfbg.com

REVIEW I was cautious when I got the galley for Attica Locke’s first novel Black Water Rising (Harper, 448 pages, $25.99). I’d been intrigued before by beguiling plots of intrigue and suspense, only to find myself in the middle of a tepid affair with no way out except for closing the damn thing and chalking it up to yet another life lesson. All the warning signs were there.

The book’s protagonist, Jay Porter, is an attorney operating out of a Houston strip mall in 1981. His only client is a shady prostitute, who may or may not pay him. His wife, Bernie, is pregnant and he’s barely making ends meet to feed them, much less the baby who’s on the way. Though not happy with his mediocre existence, he’s content enough with his lot to be strong-willed and determined to make it.

Jay has a terrible secret, of course, that threatens to tear the world he has meticulously built asunder. And one fateful night, something happens that sets the unraveling in motion. He saves a mysterious woman’s life and places himself in the middle of a plot rife with sex, backroom deals, and dirty cash that will determine his fate and that of Houston, Texas, and eventually, the world!

"Easy, big fella. Easy," I told myself. "You’ve been hurt before." I saw the signs, as much as any reader would. I saw a Grisham story. I saw a Leonard tale. I knew I was being seduced, but I couldn’t put the book down. The first chapters hooked me like classic mid-list pulp — a phenomenon I miss like pay phones — and it took a minute to realize what Attica Locke was doing.

It wouldn’t be a spoiler to tell Jay Porter’s secret. He did time for running guns during the Black Power movement. This was during the days of J. Edgar Hoover’s COINTELPRO program, when black dissidents’ phones were tapped, dossiers were amassed, and organizations were infiltrated. Jay Porter the strip mall lawyer has a legitimate cause to be paranoid. This kind of justified paranoia plagues many of the resisters who managed to survive the bloodbaths of the 1960s and 1970s social movements. Lensed through Porter’s claustrophobia, grandiosity, and self-deprecation, demons lurk in every dark corner. As the plot unfolds, the first thing that disappears from view is a tangible reality, one free from dark fantasy and delusion. Jay Porter may be nuts. Then again, maybe not.

Locke, a veteran screenwriter, has an almost supernatural understanding of pacing. This aids her well in storytelling, but even more so in figuring out where to work her magic. Her early 1980s Houston is a city on the verge of Texas-sized change. Porter is asked by his preacher father-in-law to work with the dockworkers union that meets in his church. The black dockworkers are being paid less than the white workers who do the same job. A split in the union along race lines is imminent. A battle between the warring workers breaks out after a young man is beaten. A greater impetus is revealed: the arrival of containers. These containers, it is threatened, will be used on barge, train, and truck, nearly rendering dockworkers obsolete. Jay Porter is asked to speak to the mayor — a "friend" from his revolutionary past — on behalf of the workers. Simultaneously he tries to uncover the identity of the mysterious woman he saved.

This is the one drawback in an otherwise stellar debut. Jay Porter has too much going on. So much that suspension of belief is pulled to the breaking point. So much that many characters who are vital to the plot get unbelievably overlooked. When the Porters’ home is burglarized, for example, Jay leaves his pregnant wife in the house to pursue a lead on one of his cases. When a tough offers Porter money to not pursue another lead, he does it anyway — out of, what, morbid curiosity? The mayor of Houston and many of the other characters are so full, rich, and singular that it is baffling and frustrating when someone as essential as Bernie becomes a bit player in Jay’s solipsistic pursuit. Is Jay Porter crazy, or just an asshole?

Black Water Rising reads like a hard-boiled thriller, but the real trick resides in Locke’s ability to personalize an overlooked part of American history and show how far-reaching, how entrenched, it is in today’s social, political, and cultural fabric. From running the voodoo down on the Weather Underground to using 1980s Houston as a backdrop, he wraps a People’s History of America in a digestible, entertaining package. There are whiffs of Chinatown and White Butterfly, sure, but Locke’s attention to the details between the action makes the novel, and turns every reader into an oracle.

As Jay solves this book’s mysteries, we see pre-Dubya America getting dubbed. We see the sprawl that is yet to be. We see the unions breaking, the factories shutting down, the diners, bars, and cafes closing. We see the Black Water Rising. I may not want to see too much more of Jay Porter, but I better see more of Attica Locke.

Objects in mirror

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› andrea@altsexcolumn.com

Dear Readers:
Since I can’t write this week, I thought I could at least rerun a letter germane to recent discussions.

Dear Andrea:

I met a guy through his very explicit and fun Craigslist ad describing the weird-ass kinky sex he wanted. So we e-mailed, met, and had a great time. He’s handsome, intelligent, artsy … totally my type. We end up in bed, he gives me some quality oral sex, and then he ejaculates within two minutes. He makes no move to get me off either, just makes some remark about that being "my random Craigslist hookup." I’m too flabbergasted to ask for more oral sex. And then he wants to spend the night and cuddle. I’m frustrated and confused, but let him, and don’t comment on his premature ejaculation for fear of damaging his ego. Later we have sex again, and again he ejaculates within minutes. What do I do when he calls? What should I have said at the time?

Love,

UnListed

Dear List:

I once sat on a panel with Craig from Craiglist and I’m imagining him being mortified by this entire story. He’s a shy boy. I would also dearly love to link to the offending ad, but it seems faintly unethical, although it’s often said that once you post something on the Web, it’s public, period, and ripe for linkage. He’s probably taken it down by now, anyway. I can attest that the ad was lengthy, floridly descriptive, occasionally inept ("Bring your noble breasts"), and kinky in a cutely sophomoric, let-me-mash-grapes-in-you kind of way. It certainly did not read it as an offer of a two-minute, one-night stand complete with sexual frustration and dismissive jokes.

What to do if he calls? Doesn’t that depend on whether you wish to see him again? If you do, you will have to say, "But I want to do the stuff you said in the ad! Not five minutes of sex and then goodnight. OK?" If you don’t want to see him again, you say "no thanks."

There are ways to ask for more without bruising a boy’s ego — some boys, anyway. The ones to whom one is not allowed to say anything but "Wow! That was the best sex ever!" are not worth playing with. Yours doesn’t sound at all like the brutally macho type, more like your typical under-experienced urban dweeb-boy, so you would be quite safe in expressing an opinion, especially if you’re upbeat about it: "That was hot! I’m still hot! C’mon, let’s do some more." Not: "Well, that sucked. In fact, you suck." I can’t see the point of accusing him of premature ejaculation specifically, nor was that his greatest offense. What was, then? False advertising, of course. He proposed lengthy, goofy, sexy fun to ward off the looming, glowering gloom of autumn. Did he deliver any of that? No, he did not, and you would have been within your rights to point this out. On closer reading of his ad, though, I notice that he included an escape clause: "Not looking for mind-blowing, end-of-the-world sex."

I fear we shall all end up bringing our lawyers with us on first dates. End-of-the-world sex, indeed.

Love,

Andrea

Dear Andrea:

I recently hooked up with an inexperienced 23-year-old man. Sex has not been great for him in the past. With his ex, he always initiated, she never seemed to enjoy anything he tried, she refused to offer suggestions, they both became resentful, and now he’s afraid of sex. He told me he’s nervous and insecure, and when we finally got to it, he lasted about 15 seconds.

I find this guy unbelievably hot. I wouldn’t have guessed he was so inexperienced, and I get turned on thinking about how some really great fucking could rock his world. So far I’ve tried to not judge him and to be patient. I’d like to show him how great sex makes life worth living. But I don’t want to coddle or condescend to him. I also have no experience dealing with quick ejaculators. (It only happened once, but I’d like to know some techniques for keeping it from happening again.)

Love,

Mama Teach

Dear Mama:

He is, for your purposes, a babe in the woods. Coddle all you want. I wouldn’t suggest actually condescending to him, if only because condescension, unlike, say, humiliation or scorn, lacks essential hotness. Assume that he is attracted to you at least in some part for your worldliness, and play it up. He is a tender, pink-eared schoolboy. You are Jeanne Moreau.

There is no instant technique applicable to premature ejaculation (and yes, 15 seconds is premature); it’s all longer-term stuff. If interested, he can apply himself to his studies and gradually train himself out of coming so quickly, especially since it is likely nothing but nerves. Far simpler, though, is the magical solution available mostly to very young men and their partners: do it again. And again. And again.

Love,

Andrea

Don’t forget to read Andrea at Carnal Nation.com.

The struggle continues

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>rebeccab@sfbg.com


Video of May 26’s anti-Prop 8 rally. Video by Rebecca Bowe. For more videos from that day, click here.

An estimated 10,000 people turned out in San Francisco May 26 for a day of rallies and marches staged in reaction to the California Supreme Court’s decision to uphold Proposition 8, the voter-approved measure passed in November 2008 that outlawed same-sex marriage in California. Expressing anger and frustration with the news, same-sex couples and advocates for marriage equality nonetheless vowed to push ahead with a new fight to overturn Prop. 8 at the ballot.

"Today’s court decision means we have to go back to the ballot," Abdi Soltani, executive director of the Northern California chapter of the American Civil Liberties Union, told a crowd gathered outside San Francisco City Hall. "The issue is not whether we go back to the ballot. The key question for us to tackle now is what we have to do in order to win at the ballot. That’s the difficult work that is ahead for all of us."

It was an emotional day for same-sex couples. Protesters took to the streets in permitted and spontaneous marches, and 200 arrests were made after a sit-in was staged at Van Ness and Grove streets around midday.

"It’s a sad day to be a Californian, as far as I’m concerned. I’m embarrassed," Castro District resident Hank Doonan, standing arm in arm with his partner Michael Talty, told the Guardian. Talty displayed his engagement ring. "We’re still getting married, and it doesn’t matter," he asserted with a note of defiance. "But we’re really sad today."

Molly McKay, media director for nationwide same-sex marriage advocacy group Marriage Equality USA, appeared at the San Francisco rally in a wedding dress. "I’m sorry we have to keep fighting the same battle," she told the Guardian later. "But I’m proud of all the people who turned out."

Let there be lunch

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paulr@sfbg.com

In the restaurant pageant, places that don’t serve dinner are at risk of being seen as a ragtag contingent. Dinner is glory, while breakfast and lunch, if not preceded by the adjective "power" — relic of a pre-bust past — are routine. There are time constraints and concerns about drink, not to mention daylight, which, while delightful, can be inhibiting. People are free to dance the night away, but not the noon hour.

One response to this predicament is to be very good-looking — like, say, Stable Café, which opened about a year ago in a building that, in the 1870s, actually housed the mayoral stables, back in the days when mayors had stables of horses instead of (or in addition to) floozies. The structure has a Wild West, stagecoach-stop look and has been painted black — shades of that sex club on Castro Street in the early 1990s. Inside, though, all is spare, sunlit grace, with ice water pourable from a pewter ewer and a lovely gated courtyard, set with tables and patio umbrellas, on the north side of the building. The quiet style and attention to detail aren’t surprising, considering that there’s an architecture firm, Malcom Davis Architecture, on the building’s second floor, and that Davis and his partner, Brian Lackey, own the property and are its redesigners.

Lackey runs the food operation, which serves both the café and a catering concern called Mission Creek Kitchen. The former’s menu naturally emphasizes soups, salads, sandwiches, and panini — the last being Italian-style sandwiches pressed in a waffle-iron-like device and served hot. This method is especially effective when cheese is involved, since cheese melts and melted cheese holds things together while adding a gooey voluptuousness that is its own reward. Turkey sandwiches, for instance, can be dry, but Stable’s turkey and cheddar panino ($6.75) was enlivened by plenty of melted white cheddar. A vegetarian edition ($6.75) of tomato, pesto, and mozzarella cheese, was like a reimagined slice of pizza margherita. The bread used for the panini is plain french bread, not fancy but pillow-fresh within a tender-crisp crust.

Panini come with a sizable heap of mésclun, tossed with some carrot ribbons and a cherry tomato or two and glossed with a simple vinaigrette. If that doesn’t offer enough counterpoint, then perhaps a small bowl ($3.50) of the day’s soup, which might be a coarse purée of tomato and roasted red bell pepper — a strange combination for late spring, but let’s let it go because, even in the presence of out-of-season soup, Stable is as attractive a place to look at and sit in, or next to, in this part of the Mission since the days of the original Citizen Cake a decade ago. If you’ve missed a haven of sunny serenity since that operation packed up and moved to the Civic Center, then Stable Café might well strike you as paradise regained.


Just off Union Square, in the Chancellor Hotel, we find another handsome, daytime-only spot called Luques. We find it after some searching, since the dining room is well-concealed behind the hotel lobby. Furtiveness does offer its joys, but a restaurant that people have trouble finding is in danger of becoming a restaurant that people stop looking for. Yet those who manage to suss out Luques will find themselves in a comfortably appointed, skylit dining room that, in its remove from the street bustle just a few steps away, can seem almost like a private or VIP facility.

Chef Darren Lacy offers a mainstream California menu with gentle Southern flourishes. You can get po’boy sliders, for instance, or a Creole-style croque monsieur ($10) — the classic ham-and-cheese sandwich, made here with tasso instead of ham. (Tasso is an cold-smoked relative of prosciutto, with pork shoulder used in place of leg.) For a bit of added luxury, the bread is brioche, although that cake-like quality is somewhat obscured by a downpour of béchamel sauce. On the side: a mixed green salad for the ascetic or, for the rest of us, delicately golden, crisp fries.

I particularly liked Lacy’s cream of mushroom soup ($3.50 for a cup), which was thick with strips of shiitake mushrooms and creamy, although not too creamy, thanks to an expert blending of cream and stock. No Creole influence here (unless the cream counts), or on the California chicken sandwich ($9.25), a friendly get-together of boneless grilled chicken breast, avocado, tomato slices, jack cheese, bacon, and aioli on sourdough. Still, it did what a good lunch is supposed to do: satisfy without encumbering, so that when you leave the secret chamber you’re still as fleet of foot and clear of mind as you rejoin the daily pageant.

STABLE CAFÉ

Mon.–Fri., 8 a.m.–3 p.m.; Sat., 9 a.m.–3 p.m.

2128 Folsom, SF

(415) 552-1199

www.stablecafe.com

No alcohol

AE/MC/V

Not noisy

Wheelchair accessible

LUQUES RESTAURANT & BAR

Daily, 7 a.m.–2:30 p.m.

433 Powell, SF

(415) 248-2475

www.luquesrestaurant.com

Full bar

AE/DS/MC/V

Not noisy

Wheelchair accessible

Musical, political, alchemical

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a&eletters@sfbg.com

Quick, name a magus of the female persuasion, a black sorceress who wields sound like a talisman. The first image we have of Erykah Badu is her calmly walking on stage during the summer of 1997, lighting a series of candles to begin the ceremony. She would summon ghosts: Billie Holliday, the Nation of the Gods and the Earths, scruffy B-boys on a street corner. Her band — on her debut Baduizm (Kedar/Universal Motown, 1997), it is often neo-soul locus the Roots — played balletic grooves at a languid pace. She was a strangely beautiful apparition, a high priestess of soul.

Ever since, Badu has embraced and chafed at her mystical reputation. In 1998 she appeared in the mediocre coming-of-age flick The Cider House Rules as — guess what? — a voodun priestess. Meanwhile her romances with Andre 3000, Common, and, lately, Texas rap prospect Jay Electronica (with whom she recently had a child) have occasionally made her a target of the hip-hop paparazzi. She’s bragged in interviews of her prowess as a mackstress; other times, she’s refused to comment on her private life.

On last year’s Universal/Motown release New Amerykah Part One (4th World War), Badu finally seems at peace with her eccentricities. Past albums exhausted her former glories for fresh inspiration: 2003’s Worldwide Underground (Motown) included "Danger," which opens with a refrain from Baduizm‘s second single, "Otherside of the Game." Its intro track "World Keeps Turnin’" returns to the "on and on" lullaby of "On & On," Baduizm‘s Five Percenter-quoting breakout single ("And on and on and on, my cipher keeps moving like a rolling stone"). New Amerykah doesn’t look backward. Its starkly illustrated theme — a woman standing strong amid a world roiling in war and chaos — uneasily imagines the future present.

"This year I turn 36," Badu sings on the elegiac "Me." "Damn it seems it came so quick, my ass and legs have gotten thick. It’s all me." Thankfully Badu hasn’t settled into an adult contemporary middle-age, singing baby-making ballads for grown-ups. Few of her 1990s peers kept pace: last year, Spin magazine noted that D’Angelo, Maxwell, Lauryn Hill, and others from the neo-soul generation have mostly disappeared from view. But while Maxwell is drawing SRO audiences as he tours the country in preparation for BLACKsummers’night‘s July 7 release, and D’Angelo plans a similar comeback in the fall, it’s doubtful either will match Badu’s fiercely creative restlessness.

For New Amerykah, she turns to her artistic sons and daughters, musicians who used her blazing example to reinvigorate underground soul. The L.A. music collective Sa-Ra Creative Partners helm several tracks and 9th Wonder produces "Honey," a luscious love song that closes New Amerykah on an optimistic note. Wiggy soul-jazz aesthete Georgia Anne Muldrow appears on "Master Teacher," a heartbreaking yearning for positive influences in the black community. "A beautiful world is hard to find," sings Muldrow. "What if there was no niggas, only master teachers? I’d stay woke."

"Master Teacher" has been viewed as a tribute to Dr. Malachi Z. York, an esoteric philosopher whose mix of Egyptology, Islam and other pan-African ideas influenced Badu and other hip hop and R&B artists in the 1990s. (He was arrested and convicted for child molestation in 2004, and is currently serving a life sentence.) But without blunting the song’s original intent — many of "Master Teacher" York’s supporters believe he’s the target of a government conspiracy — it seems clear that Badu is the master teacher. Throughout her career, Badu has demonstrated a knack for communicating hardcore black ideologies in universal terms, educating and subverting her mainstream audience. She has always worked in alchemical ways. But with the arrival of New Amerykah, she finally turned the focus away from herself.

"Humdililah, Allah, Jehovah, Yaweh, Dios, Maat, Jah, Ras Tafari, fire, dance sex music, hip hop," Badu sings on "The Healer." "It’s bigger than religion, hip hop. This one is for Dilla."

ERYKAH BADU

Sat/6 9 p.m., $60

Warfield Theatre

982 Market, SF

(800) 745-3000

www.ticketmaster.com

Revanche

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REVIEW In the sex industry of Vienna, small-time criminal Alex (Johannes Krisch) has dreams of escape for himself and his Ukrainian prostitute girlfriend, Tamara (Irina Potapenko). With a ski mask and an unloaded pistol, the miscreant schlemiel allows Tamara to accompany him during the commission of a robbery, and disastrous consequences ultimately transpire. After Alex and Tamara cross paths with young policeman Robert (Andreas Lust), his seemingly idyllic small-town life is also upended by the confrontation. Robert’s wife, Susanne (Ursula Strauss) fails to hearten her inconsolable husband. Instead, she finds her only comfort visiting a neighbor, Hausner (Johannes Thanheiser). But this tale of city-to-country anomie transforms into a gripping revenge play when Alex (who is, we learn, also Hausner’s grandson) suddenly appears in the town, seeking bloody satisfaction. Transforming from an urban neo-noir to a village morality play and a bedroom character study, Götz Spielmann’s Revanche (in French, the act of revenge) confronts the fundamental existential conundrum — fate’s random selection of its prey, or, as the film’s tag-line asks, "Whose Fault Is It When Life Doesn’t Go Your Way?"

REVANCHE opens Fri/5 in Bay Area theaters.

MORE AT SFBG.COM


Pixel Vision blog: An extended version of this review.

How to repeal Prop. 8

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EDITORIAL When the late Sup. Harvey Milk was fighting to defeat the Briggs Initiative, a statewide ballot measure that would have barred gay people from teaching in public schools, he repeatedly made the point that the more Californians met and interacted with openly gay and lesbian people, the less likely the voters would be to sanction discrimination. Mayor Gavin Newsom made the same basic point in his statement following the horrifying Supreme Court decision that legalized discrimination in this state.

"I know many of my fellow Californians may initially agree with this ruling," he said, "but I ask them to reserve final judgment until they have discussed this decision with someone who will be affected by it.

"Please talk to a lesbian or gay family member, neighbor, or coworker and ask them why equality in the eyes of the law is important to every Californian."

That ought to be the theme of the November 2010 ballot measure that seeks to overturn Proposition 8.

It’s going to be a tough, uphill battle — after all, the voters just passed Prop. 8 last fall. But the campaign against it was, almost everyone now agrees, fatally flawed — the TV ads spoke in platitudes, there was almost no use of the words "gay" or "lesbian," and, perhaps most important, no coherent, grassroots effort to convince swing voters by making connections between them and the queer community. And there was far too little outreach to black and Latino voters.

And the tide of national sentiment is turning, far faster than anyone expected. Maine and Iowa recently legalized same-sex marriage. The New York Assembly has passed a marriage equality bill and, if it clears the state Senate, the governor has promised to sign it. By the time the 2010 election rolls around, gay marriage will be sweeping the country, and California will be way behind. And, of course, every year a new group of 18-year-olds gets the right to vote — and that demographic is heavily in favor of marriage equality.

So there’s no question that Prop. 8 can be overturned — and placing the issue on the same ballot as the governor’s race will sharpen the issue, force the candidates to take a stand, and generate additional voter turnout.

This time, though, the campaign has to be much more inclusive. The soft-pedal-homosexuality-and-pretend-queers-don’t-exist approach didn’t work. The write-off-the-black-community-and-religious-voters gambit backfired. Harvey Milk was right: Gay people and their allies need to be everywhere in this next fight, and need to take the message directly to those moderate voters who are going to think differently about someone they have met and talked to than about some image the right-wing nuts have conjured up.

Straight supporters of same-sex marriage need to be deployed properly. Newsom spent much of his time during the No on 8 campaign appearing before adoring crowds in places like the Castro District, which was a waste of time; he needs to be in Walnut Creek. African American ministers like the Rev. Amos Brown ought to be visiting churches in conservative areas and trying to make inroads. Art Torres, the former chair of the state Democratic Party, came out this spring and is popular among Latino voters.

We agree with Newsom. It’s time to start this campaign, now. But this time, let’s get it right. *

alt.sex.column: Objects in mirror

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By Andrea Nemerson. View more alt.sex columns here. Email your questions to Andrea: andrea@altsexcolumn.com.

AltSex_Icon.jpg

Dear Readers:
Since I can’t write this week, I thought I could at least rerun a letter germane to recent discussions.

Dear Andrea:

I met a guy through his very explicit and fun Craigslist ad describing the weird-ass kinky sex he wanted. So we e-mailed, met, and had a great time. He’s handsome, intelligent, artsy … totally my type. We end up in bed, he gives me some quality oral sex, and then he ejaculates within two minutes. He makes no move to get me off either, just makes some remark about that being "my random Craigslist hookup." I’m too flabbergasted to ask for more oral sex. And then he wants to spend the night and cuddle. I’m frustrated and confused, but let him, and don’t comment on his premature ejaculation for fear of damaging his ego. Later we have sex again, and again he ejaculates within minutes. What do I do when he calls? What should I have said at the time?

Love,

UnListed

Dear List:

I once sat on a panel with Craig from Craiglist and I’m imagining him being mortified by this entire story. He’s a shy boy. I would also dearly love to link to the offending ad, but it seems faintly unethical, although it’s often said that once you post something on the Web, it’s public, period, and ripe for linkage. He’s probably taken it down by now, anyway.

Stop the pube police!

3

By Juliette Tang

coconuts0609.jpg

There is a famous hairy ball theorem in algebraic topology which states that, on a spherical object, there is no non-vanishing continuous vector field. Basically, if you have a hairy ball, mathematically speaking, you cannot flatten all the hairs so that they all lay down smoothly. Some hairs will always stand up straight or create a bald spot where the scalp of the ball will show through.

Or, as famously stated by Luitzen Egbertus Jan Brouwer in 1912, “you can’t comb a hairy ball flat without creating a cowlick” — an assertion was also stated from time to time by Brouwer as “You can’t comb the hair on a coconut.”

The truth and practicality of this theorem has never been quite as urgent as it is today. With the launch of a recent ad campaign encouraging men to shave their balls, the hairy ball theorem has become not merely a principle associated with mathematics, but one that we can and must apply to real life. Just as you can’t comb a hairy ball without making it look all bent out of shape, you can’t really shave your man groin without expecting something funky to happen when the hair starts fighting back. Hairless balls may sound somewhat appealing if you’re a frequent teabagger, but sandpaper-covered stubbly balls definitely do not. Equally unappetizing are balls covered in razorburn or rash due to frequent shaving.

Ball shaving is one sex trend I cannot excited about.

June: Sexiest sexy festival month ever

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By Juliette Tang

NQAFsex0609a.jpg
Queer Arts Fest

sexworkerfest0609a.jpg
The Sex Worker Fest

This is definitely a good month for worthwhile local festivals. The 6th San Francisco Sex Worker Film, Art, & Music Festival officially kicked off this past weekend and promises to be a thrill for both the intellect and the libido. Smart, kinky, and fun, the Sex Worker Fest is a positive and educational week-long extravaganza that occurs in tandem with the ongoing 12th Annual Queer Arts Festival, a whopping month-long festival featuring over 400 artists in over 100 performances taking place in 18 venues all over San Francisco. The only question at this point is how you’re possibly going to fit everything into your schedule.


Michelle Tea

On Saturday, the Sex Worker Fest launched with a benefit at a. Muse Gallery (614 Alabama St) to support Radar Lab, a free queer writers retreat looking to accommodate 12 outstanding queer artists by this summer. Hosted by Ali Liebegott, whose IHOP Papers performs the feat of being at once witty and charming and a poignant lesbian coming-of-age novel, and Michelle Tea, prolific author and Guardian contributor whose novel Valencia joins rank with Michael Ondaatje’s Divisadero in being good books named after famous San Francisco streets, the benefit featured appearances by literary luminaries Dorothy Allison, ZZ Packer, and Eileen Myles.

7 greengasmic personal lubricants

1

By Juliette Tang

There are a number of questions you might ask yourself before spreading something on your genitals, the most relevant being, “Is this edible?” Because, if you wouldn’t eat a tube of KY, you might want to think twice before using it on your southern hemisphere.

Many people have no health problems associated with synthetic personal lubricants, but others find that using lubricants with propylene glycol, parabens, phenoxyethanol, and silicone increases their susceptibility to irritation and infection. For some, synthetic lubricants have been found to increase the chances of yeast infection and UTI. For those with allergies and sensitivities, certain chemicals found in lubes can cause pain and discomfort during sex, and not in the good way. And, most frighteningly of all, the chemical nonoxynol-9, a spermicidal contraceptive, has been found to actually raise a person’s susceptibility to HIV.

Fortunately for the health-conscious, we live in a city that has the natural, eco-friendly alternative to almost any health and body product on the market, including personal lubricants. Not only are these products gentler on the body, but they are also gentler on the environment, as they use natural ingredients that can be sustainably harvested (and most have recycled, or at the very least, recyclable packaging). Each of these lubricants are different. Some are water-based, some are oil-based, and some contain plant-derived glycerin (which helps lube last longer). Here are 7 of our favorite natural lubricants, what makes them unique, and where you can get them.

All Natural, Glycerin Free

Firefly Organics is a 100% natural lube available online only. It contains shea and cocoa butter, but because of its oil-based formula, this lubricant is not safe for use with latex condoms. Firefly is the most natural lubricant on the market, with no preservatives and completely glycerin free, and because of this, it has somewhat of an abbreviated shelf-life. In a completely unrelated note, Firefly was recently voted the #1 personal lubricant by PlayBoy Magazine.

Mostly Natural, Glycerin Free

Sliquid Organics makes some great organic lubricants in water, cream, and gel form. Their most natural formula is water based, glycerin free, containing organic plant extracts like hibiscus, flax, sunflower seed, and green tea. For anal play, use the thicker, slicker gel formula. You can find Sliquid at Good Vibrations (603 Valencia). Safe with latex condoms.

Total ‘Eclipse’

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Tredmond@sfbg.com

REVIEW Mass market novels of the mystery and thriller kind are not known for their progressive politics. The most popular authors of the political adventure set are the likes of Tom Clancy, who thinks we’re still at war with Japan and ought to be at war with China. The detective novelists tend to glorify law enforcement and disparage those weak-willed sorts who would rein in the mighty and righteous gun-wielding police. My favorite new character, Jack Reacher, who has made Lee Child a massive international best-selling writer, is a former military cop with a taste for violent vengeance.

But of course I read this stuff. It’s my guilty pleasure, what I do to relax over with my whiskey before bed, while my beloved partner is watching Super Nanny. As Pete Townshend used to say, each to his own sewage.

I’ve read almost everything San Francisco resident Richard North Patterson has written, and he’s a rarity. His stuff tends to go in a more liberal direction. (It also tends to have a subplot involving teenage sex.) He’s written about the death penalty and the criminal justice system and American politics, and his characters have more depth than John Grisham’s. I like him, but I’ve never raved.

But I do want to recommend Patterson’s latest book, Eclipse (Henry Holt and Co., 384 pages, $26). Not because it’s the most brilliant writing he’s ever written, but because it’s a real-life political novel that reveals, in graphic detail, the impact oil companies like Chevron Corp. have on the Niger River delta. Eclipse is a fictionalized account of the life of Ken Saro-Wiwa, an eloquent and charismatic environmentalist who tried desperately to tell the world how oil money had corrupted Nigeria and how the Western oil companies were conspiring with the brutal dictatorship of Gen. Sani Abacha to stifle dissent. He was hanged 15 years ago by Abacha; his legacy drives the protest movement that is still trying to force the petrolords to take responsibility for what they have done to the delta environment, its tribal residents, and the Nigerian people. Eclipse didn’t put me to sleep — it made me mad. It reminded me of what American companies are allowed to do to the rest of the world, with impunity. It’s a story, with Patterson’s typical devices (for example, I don’t have any reason to believe Saro-Wiwa’s wife had an affair with his lawyer). But there’s enough truth in it to make you think. And that makes Patterson’s novel, in a unique and surprising way, an important political book.

Higgamus hoggamus

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andrea@altsexcolumn.com

Dear Andrea:

I wonder if you’ve been living in San Francisco too long? Most prostitutes are not happy grad students! Most have been abused, are addicts, or both, and it’s not a "career choice." I think the woman in your last column is a sex addict and needs therapy, not someone to be cheered on by people like you who think promiscuity is cool. I would worry that kind of behavior says something pretty bad about the emotional state of anyone who’s doing it. I usually like your column, but I do think you can get warped by living too long where being weird is cool.

Love,

I Used To Live There Too

Dear Used:

I worry about her, too! What do you think I am? The question for last week, though, was not "Is promiscuity healthy for women?" (a very complicated question indeed, and one we will get back to), but the far simpler and more specific, "Is meeting men online for sex likely to get you killed?" No matter how you feel about female promiscuity, the answer to the latter is going to have to be no. It is simply not likely, although we have seen, tragically, that it is possible.

Expensive, boutique-y prostitution practiced by sane, smart women who can afford to screen clients carefully is surprisingly unlikely to lead to ax-murder. Neither does either activity put its female practitioners at any great risk for STDs or accidental pregnancy, since these are women who own condoms and know how to use them. It’s young (and not so young) people in the fuzzy-headed throes of romantic love or lust (sure, there’s such a thing as "romantic lust") who fall prey to the "spontaneity" fallacy or simply cannot force themselves to hold back until someone has gone out and procured the necessary protective gear. Call girls don’t go "oops," and last week’s "friend" probably doesn’t either. Certainly my own friends who use the sexier personals sites (say, Nerve rather than Chemistry.com) don’t make amateur’s mistakes. They can’t afford to.

Now, "Female promiscuity — hobby or symptom?" Contemporary understanding points to neither, or both, or to questioning the entire category, since the word itself implies deviation from an assumed non-promiscuous norm. For the last 60 years or so, the basic sociobiological story has gone something like this: Men are naturally promiscuous (and interested in nubile young women) because sperm is cheap and the best route to reproductive success is to shoot (and shoot, and shoot) and run. Women, meanwhile, are naturally (if serially) monogamous because pregnancy and infancy are expensive and they will need the help of a well-to-do, physically strong male to help them achieve reproductive success. More recent research has served to completely bollux-up our tidy story, though.

"Chimpanzee males trade meat for sex!" announced pretty much every media outlet in April. No surprise there, really, but it also turned out that … female chimpanzees trade sex for meat. Lots of sex, although not on the first date, since they are not always in estrus at time of trade. Are they making bets on future help (and sperm donations) from males they are merely flirting with now? And are the males keeping a database of females who will later say yes? If they can carry on such complex sociosexual calculations, what else are they up to?

Meanwhile, our premier expert on the sociobiology of motherhood, Sarah Blaffer Hrdy, posits a revolutionary difference between ape societies and early (and modern) human ones, so big that it renders ape models even more useless than they already were as revisitable reservoirs of human history. Looking at modern hunter-gatherer societies, she sees cooperative parenting, a human invention, still in operation. It takes a village, in other words, men and women both, to raise a helpless human baby. And, looking back, the more we helped each other, the better our social and communication skills grew. Group responsibility for the children, she says, made us human.

More immediately apropos, perhaps, is the research (www.scientificblogging.com/news_articles/human_sex_roles_male_promiscuity_debunked_and_women_arent_all_picky_either) by Gillian Brown and associates, widely reported this spring, which examined mating behavior and reproductive success in 18 human societies and found that what people do depends on what else is going on: population density, differing life expectancies between the sexes, sex ratios, and a bunch of other variables made a huge difference in who was doing more or less of what with whom. Why this demonstration that humans are complex and adaptable should have come as much of a surprise to anyone, I couldn’t tell you. I admit, though, that I likewise couldn’t tell you that sociobiological research supports the innate wholesomeness of picking up men on Craigslist, and I doubt it ever will. I tend to be a worrier too, and I have certainly seen people, especially women, do a fair amount of psychic damage to themselves with ill-considered sex. But it would be pretty presumptuous to assume that last weeks "friend" is broken on the basis of, well, not knowing anything.

Love,

Andrea

P.S. Readers, what about you? Care to share your adventures in promiscuity, soul-deadening, life-affirming, or just plain OK? They would make a great column.

Don’t forget to read Andrea at Carnal Nation.com.