How to Please Your Man with Balls.

img_3788.JPGSo I’ve been reading a lot ABOUT blogs, and apparently, I’m doing it totally wrong – one CANNOT vent about a certain thing, then suddenly switch to another train of thought, then switch again. This is wrong. One needs to choose a topic of expertise.

Well guess what, The Man. Until I settle upon said ‘expertise’ because I don’t quite ‘have’ one, I am going to write as a I please and pretend that someone is listening.

Are you there, God? It’s me. Bekah. I drank way too much freckle juice. When Ramona and I came home from church, Mom had forgotten to plug in the Beef Stew, and we were all sad. Ramona wishes she were prettier, and not so skinny.

No but on the for real for real: This blog will contain some very important things.

-A Book Review (No one Belongs here more than You by Miranda July)

-A Brief How -to: How to Please Your Man! (Suck it, Elle, or whatever. Shape? Jane? Which bitch? Any of those bitches. I will write you beneath the coffee table. We will wallow in cat hair and really old patches of forgotten cous cous.)

– A stuffy, intellectual reflection on writing truthfully, with vivid imagery. And everything.


I have a new gay love infatuation, with one Ms. Miranda July. I finally stole her book of short stories from Steve. Oh Man. So Good. Her stories REALLY DO ‘quietly contain the whole world’ as I pretentiously say that my writing does, which it clearly doesn’t. They are so sad but full of hope and specific and dirty and funny. Me Likey. But seriously though – they’re a lot like my fiction. Mine pales in comparison, mind you – but it’s definitely the same still – with a hint of Brautigan which makes me real happy. Three cheers for her cute Ass. Good her. She’s making a name for herself, doing her thing. I truly believe she means to bring joy, and she does.


ii. How to Please your Man

I’m supposed to start this with ‘Ladies,’ Right? And then immediately get sassy and satirical and say stuff about penises and chapstick? Here I go.

Ladies, two words: Penises and Chapstick. Yeah? Yeah.

No. what I mean to REALLY say is: Ladies: here’s one thing about boys.

(Though I just recently 25, I still feel strange calling them men. Because then I would be acknowledging the fact that I am a ‘woman,’ which makes me feel like I constantly have seven periods and lactate.)

Okay. Boys will want a thing. They will want it really bad, but only in the moment. Let’s say it’s – let’s say it’s a slip n slide.

‘Oh my GOD. How SWEET would it be to have a slip n slide. We could like – we could set it up out back or on the roof -‘

‘Wait, what? The roof? Honey. Bad. No. Bad idea. Think, please. Think very carefully about the slip n slide party on the ROOF.’

(He stops and thinks.)

‘Okay, no. Not the roof but like in the YARD. Yeah, I want a slip n slide so bad. I’m gonna get one.’

Ladies, take this nugget of information and tuck it into the secret place in your brain where you catalogue the things that your man wants. (The place is crammed with hot dogs, banana bread, ast. wii games, new shorts – but there is always room for one more thing.)

Because here’s the thing – He wants the slip N slide. But will he ever actually go and PURCHASE it? No. He will not go out of his way to pursue the thing, as bad as he might want it. If they were selling assorted Summer play sets outside of his work or apartment – he might stop and look. But – it is up to us to remember these specifics, and treat our boys to toys, to the things that they want, but forget about oh too quickly.

That’s all the sassafrass root I got. For Now.

And finally, On Writing Truthfully.

Last night, to attempt to write truthfully, I closed my eyes really really tight until my brain shook, and tried really hard to put myself in the shoes of my Character. Her husband killed himself – she thinks – because she was a bad housewife. Because she couldn’t make a quiche. He finds out he can’t have kids – he’s empty – there’s not one little person inside of him – and she doesn’t know how to respond. How does this feel, when he dies, and she blames herself? (PS – what do I ever KNOW about this besides my brief romp in the fields (er, relationship) which that total douche who loved to wallow in his pain?)

So how does this all feel? I closed my eyes, tight, and tried to feel it. And then I realized – she didn’t exist.


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