CYBERNATION: SEDUCTION & FLIRTATION

 

Technology and flirtation have been in the news over the past several years. A congressman's career crashed because of sexts in 2011, but his weinerisms remain ensconced on a Wikipedia page. 2015 brought a noted 60 Minutes journalist's sexts out in the open, but it appears he was more embarrassed over the messages where he bragged that he was Obama's "go to" interviewer. Humiliation seems to be oh-so-over as popular culture celebrates the "accidentally" released nude photos of various actors. The Washington Post published an article last year on how to sext safely. Adolescents are not exempt from the sexting phenomenon. They think it's just flirting.

The first text was sent in December 1992. By 2010, various sites were alive with cybering (cybersex). Sexting is short form. Cybering is long form. More emphasis on body parts and visuals for the former; context, and even scene, is significant in the latter, although erogenous zones are not ignored.

In one of my first writing groups, 4 out of 5 of us had never cybered or sexted. That 5th person was a woman in her 30s. She gave us a play-by-play that sounded crude in a hastily made porn way, all slavish adoration of male and female body parts. Not a whole lot of creativity. We laughed and squirmed and made disgusted faces during her unblushing recitation. I left the meeting knowing that I had to try it, even though my marriage was twenty-five years deep.

The question: is cybering and sexting about sex or is it the new flirtation? People used to flirt in bars, or at parties. I know this not so much because I did it, but because I watched my parents do it in bars and at parties. Usually one or the other would get jealous, and a fight would ensue. The key in this scenario is knowing when to stop, not crossing over that invisible line to adultery. Neither of my parents seemed aware of any lines anywhere. As a result, I grew into a straightforward non-flirter; if I wanted to have sex with you, you'd know it. That was in college and grad school. In the business world, sexual harassment was the byword and flirting was discouraged. Fine with me; I needed to focus. When my writing career began, an experimental and adventuresome side to me reawakened.

Usually Eros as Cupid is represented flying around or sneaking up on two human lovers with his quiver of arrows. Below is a rare print (in my experience) of Cupid kissing. Perhaps he has already shot himself in the foot and she is Psyche.

Is the shot in the foot the essence of Seduction? There are risks, to be sure, especially for married people.

I'm nothing if not goal oriented. In a chat room, a few men and one woman appeared to flirt with me. Presumably they were the gender claimed, but it didn't matter much to me: I wanted to play with words in a sexually explicit and creative manner.

Was this flirtation or seduction? During these provocative flare-ups, I liked myself very much. It was fun. The conversation nourished me in ways I hadn't acknowledged were important in my life. Reciprocity was key. So was good spelling.

But if one flirts, does that mean they are open to seduction, and more importantly, can we want what we already have? Which brings me to the subject of my husband, who sat across from me in the den with his own laptop, listening to me laugh and type. Did he wonder what the hell I was doing? I figured there was no wondering or even thinking about me. Except for sex, he'd long ago dropped any pretense of trying to please me. That narrow focus was enough for a very long time.

I didn't stop to consider what effect cybering might have on my marriage, but it certainly was an aid in writing the erotic passages in The Sandoval Sisters' Secret of Old Blood. Writing is all imagination and so is cybering. This is not a recommendation for writers or anyone to immediately start sexting. It's my experience. More on this after Mother's Day.

Also at Huffington Post.

Henry Miller's iPod

So I was helping Mom set up her new iPod, which meant I had to be at her computer, and that’s when she made me read her blog. Before I could escape she’d clicked an icon on her desktop, and the blog came up. I looked away from the screen fast, twisting my neck as far as it would go to look up at her.

“Jeez, you’d think I was asking you to walk the plank. Can you at least feign enthusiasm?”

“I’m just a 15-year-old guy, Mom. What do I know?” Seriously, I accidentally read some of her stuff once. It was about women’s sex fantasies. I couldn’t even look my girlfriend in the eyes for days after that.

“You’re online all the time and when you’re not, you’re reading, thank goodness, and you’re a good writer. Just take a look, and tell me what you think. It’s short.”

Mom thinks I’m brilliant–mature and all that crap–but I have my limits.    

“Is there gonna be stuff about sex?”

The crease between her eyebrows deepened. “Interesting you should ask that. According to my tracking stats on who reads the blog and where they come from, most of my hits seem to be for phrases like pubic hair, masturbation or hot mother-in-laws.” She looked out the window and tapped her cheek, perplexed. “Why is that, I wonder?”

I slapped my forehead. “Did you use the word masturbation in your blog?” No kid should have to ask his mom that.

“Doesn’t everybody?”

She laughed. I looked toward the door of her office, calculating my getaway. She’d decided to be a writer and this small attic space was the only place in the house where she could do it. Mom loved it in here, but I’d have to squeeze past her to get out. Helping her with her iPod was one thing, but reading her blog was asking too much.

I took a deep breath and spoke slowly so she’d understand. “You must have used those words–pubic hair, masturbation and mother-in-law somewhere in your blog.” My voice cracked like an 8th grader’s, “Hopefully not all together.”

Mom got all snobby. “I don’t know anything about mother-in-law’s masturbating,” she said. “I assume they masturbate, and if they don’t I hope they soon start, but what does that have to do with my blog?”

I stared at her, trying to keep my head from exploding. No telling what I’d see on the computer. I raised puppy-dog eyes to her and pleaded, “I have homework. Can I take a look later?”

“And I didn’t write about mother-in-law’s and pubic hair, either, in case you’re wondering.” Defiant, she raised her chin and looked out the window again, probably thinking about how masturbating could change the lives of countless mothers-in-law. Seriously, she’s like that. My friends love her, so I guess she’s cool, but not really.

“Just read my latest entry,” she said.

It was a flash about an affair a woman (I wonder who?) had a million years ago with some old fart while she was in college. Years later when she’s also an old fart and he’s somehow still breathing they talk on the phone and she fantasizes about their former sex life.

“Nice.” I stood to leave. She backed up about a millimeter and I had to lean backward in order to skinny past her, making me trip on the chair leg and bump into the filing cabinet. I don’t know how she works in this dump.

“Wait a minute, will you, and tell me what you think?”

I rubbed my shin trying not to look at her. “Again, Mom, what do I know?”

“You’ve read Tropic of Cancer,” she said, “more than once.”

Mom and I have argued about Miller’s writing. I like him. She doesn’t. She probably thinks I read him just because of the sex, but I don’t. Miller was having an adventure in Paris. The sex just happened along the way.

“That’s different. Henry Miller wrote actual books.”

Her smile collapsed. I felt like shit, but, well Miller was an artist, doing the dude thing every chance he got. I planned to live like him someday starving for my art in some attic somewhere. I would update Henry Miller. He probably had horny chicks surrounding him nonstop. I bet Anaïs Nin could load and unload his iPod like a pro. My face felt hot. Mom was staring at me. I still held her iPod. I dropped it on her desk and wiped my hand on my jeans.

“Do you have a fever?” Her hand felt icy on my forehead. “You look flushed.”

“It’s hot in here. I gotta go.” She moved the back of her hand to my cheek, all standard operating procedure. Next thing she’d want to take my temp and discuss whether I’d had a bowel movement recently.

“What keywords should I use?” she asked instead, apparently no longer interested in my health. “C’mon, you know everything about computers.”

“I don’t know everything. I’m surprised ‘sex with old farts’ isn’t a popular search phrase for your blog.” I edged closer to the door.

“That wouldn’t be good,” she said and stared at her computer with a worried look, like maybe it could write her sex stories on its own. Then she looked at me and smiled. “Unless, the searcher was an old fart agent or publisher.”

I was almost at the door. “Agents and publishers probably have special porn sites only they know about.”

She laughed. “Yeah, and maybe if you’re published in The New Yorker they might give you the password. I think I can expand this piece and use it in my novel.”

“Yeah, Mom, keep plugging. It’ll happen.” She settled into her chair and studied her manuscript. The sun slanted in through the dormer windows highlighting dust motes circling her head, and I thought of Miller again, cigarette smoke curling around his head, poor and happy writing in his attic.

I was out the door and pounding down the stairs, Miller’s sexual escapades and Mom’s story alternating in my brain. At the bottom I looked up to the attic. The echo of her keyboard clicks flowed into me like the soft beat of rain on the roof of a Parisian garret.

Also at Mamalode and Huffington Post.

Top Ten Latino Books, 2012

     Fifteen years ago I sat in Aimee Bender's Introduction to Fiction class at UCLA and wrote the following two lines:  Human dreams had been written in archaic Spanish, and terrible sins described in faded brown ink on whisper-thin paper.  The entire spectrum of love was examined: practical jokes and puns, recipes for desperate wives and artistic poisoners, centuries of words put down for those who followed.
     I'd been listening to my mom's Sandoval stories while flat on my back with a bad case of sciatica, but I'd heard these tales my whole life: the Sandoval sisters were spinsters and reputedly also witches.  They'd adopted two Anglo brothers whose parents had died on the trail to Santa Fe. My mind focused on the witchcraft, which I liked, and less to my taste, the spinster aspect, which meant no sex.  Or did it?
     I took more classes, joined two writing groups, and wrote the book from the orphaned Anglo children's POV, making one of them a girl.  Poor Anglo babies were tagged as Sandovals:  Our Anglo last name disappeared and we became the Sandoval children on every legal document of that time, but we were not la gente.  We were the children of the Sandoval witches.
     My agent said I had the makings of two, possibly three books, on the Sandovals.  I rewrote the story, transforming all the flashbacks into the present.  The story focuses on the sisters, with only a bit of precognition announcing the future generation of Sandovals at the end of the book.
     The novel reflects Santa Fe's unique position in history:  it was the first foreign capital conquered by the U.S.  Thousands of Anglo soldiers entered the town, assuredly having an effect on the residents, especially the women, but not a word has been written from a female perspective.  Until now.
     It's not easy marketing a historical novel about Mexicans who were already here-in what would become the contiguous U.S.- published by a small press and written by an unknown writer.  The Mexican American War is the least written about subject in our history.  If I could have figured out how to work Abraham Lincoln into the plot, I would have had an easier time of it.  I preferred directing my talents, and imagination, to the sex I wanted the Sandoval Sisters to have.  Just kidding. Not really.

       So . . . I'm pleased to announce that I've been included in a top 10 list selected by The Latino Author.com.  The list includes a Pulitzer prize winner, a National Book award winner, NY Times bestsellers and writers of memoirs, romance, and short stories:  

Top Ten Best Books By Latino Authors In 2012

1) This is How You Lose Her by Junot Díaz.

This is a selection of short stories depicting love, relationships, and heartbreak. Mr. Díaz uses his skill of writing to bring his characters to life.

2) A Wedding in Haiti by Julia Alvarez.

A memoir depicting the author’s relationship with a Haitian farmer named Piti. It captures things that are witnessed during her unusual relationship with this farmer as well as how her trips to this place impact and affect her.

3) Have You Seen Marie? by Sandra Cisneros.

This book captures the quest of a girl in search of her cat right after the death of her mother. The search creates an internal transformation of the character Sandy. The beautiful poetic writing brings the book to life.

4) The Distrance Between Us by Reyna Grande.

A memoir depicting the author’s early years as she and her siblings are left behind with their grandparents in Mexico while the parents enter the United States illegally. It is a heartfelt story.

5) The Sandoval Sisters’ Secret of Old Blood by Sandra Ramos O’Briant.

A brilliantly told story of the Sandoval Sisters and their life journeys during the mid 1800s. The author excellently interweaves much history of the United States and Mexico during that time. The book is written with great skill and talent.

6) We the Animals by Justin Torres.

As you read this book, you may think you are reading “The House on Mango Street” by Sandra Cisneros; although, this book is about a dysfunctional family whereas Ms. Cisneros’ book is not. The book is written with the same style and flavor and uses a vignette structure to tell the story. The author is quick witted and uses a very clever style of writing.

7) All That Glitters by Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez.

A powerful story bringing two unlikely characters together through which a bond and friendship is developed. In this friendship they find strength, love, and success.

8) Killing the American Dream: How Anti-Immigration Extremists are Destroying the Nation by Pilar Marerro.

This is a book that should be read by everyone interested in the immigration issues of the United States. The author skillfully and objectively captures the problems of immigration today omitting much of the political and technical jargon.

9) Secret Saturdays by Torrey Maldonado. 

This story captures the life of an inner city kid and gets into the minds and souls of how they think and feel. Although the story is fiction, it is so real.

10) Looking for Esperanza by Adriana Páramo.

This is an excellent book depicting the hidden world of undocumented female farmworkers and the struggles that they endure on a daily basis just to survive. This is a very powerful book.

http://www.thelatinoauthor.com/top/

A Good Movie to Take Your Kids to

How often do you find the right person?

That’s the subtitle question Fox Searchlight asks so they can answer with the movie title Once. They also say this about the movie: A modern day musical set on the streets of Dublin. Featuring Glen Hansard from the Irish band "The Frames," the film tells the story of a street musician and a Czech immigrant during an eventful week as they write, rehearse and record songs that reveal their unique love story. http://www.foxsearchlight.com/once/

All true, yet not exactly. Here’s my version:
A nice, young couple meet, bond over music, don't sleep together, admit they've suffered for love, write songs about it, cut a record together, still don't have sex, and decide independently to work things out with their estranged lovers.

The guy and the girl (Hansard and Irglova) are decent people with internal individual struggles that must be sung out loud and often (especially by Hansard).

The most sinister scene (and entertaining) in the movie is when Irglova in a midnight lyric-writing fervor rushes to the local mart for batteries for her discman. While walking home in her flannel jammies and bunny slippers she sings one of my two favorite songs in the movie ("The Hill," and "If You Want Me,") heedless of the lurking dangers around her.

Or is it that I have a sick need for lurking dangers, for something, anything, to happen?

Irglova walks home singing her heart out. Every square centimeter of the curbside is occupied by vehicles that look like they’ve been built for munchkins. Behind her, a station wagon swings into view.

What is a station wagon doing in a movie with munchkin cars? It must be a clue. I watch the background. The station wagon turns and drives slowly down the street behind her. She continues to sing. The camera seems to be hand-held. It works in this scene. Fits her mood, the words to the song.

I look at the bunny ears on her slippers. Surely, the villain in the station wagon would not attack a singing woman wearing bunny slippers. They must be a clue as to our heroine’s fate. The station wagon is there one more time, closer than ever. The song ends. The heroine gets home safely. We never see the station wagon again.

He and she don't play games with each other. There are no emotional outbursts, no monstrous ex’s to battle against, no real bad people — even the local recording studio owner is a nice guy who cuts them a good deal.

Yikes, there's no inciting incident.

A thin story, but a nice one. A good lesson for your kids to learn: Life isn't all about drama. Sometimes it appears as if nothing is happening, and it turns out that friendship has bloomed.

Once won the World Cinema Audience Award for a dramatic film at the .
http://movies.go.com/once/r889017/comedy