Tess's Room

A lovely tempest, not easily understood, but worth the effort. Sort of like dark bitter chocolate surrounding the sweetest cherry...
If ever a concept seemed perfectly suited for a woman like me, it's astrology. I just can't dig it, man. Here's why.

Having my tubes tied is something I've planned and even dreamed of for many years. Oh, the freedom to not care where a man's sperm gets deposited within my body! And what a glorious thought--never, ever having to experience the too-familiar pangs of worry when my period is late. Now as I prepare to give myself this freedom and glory, I'm surprised to find myself more reluctant to part with my fertility than I expected.

I must be insane to tackle this one. There are pirates to blame--first, a conversation with the Untouchable Object, followed by the serendipitous discovery of several blogs and articles on the very same subject. With nothing but my own past relationships to guide me, I make this attempt to define "love."
Oh, how I have heard the wailing and gnashing of teeth from men. In a nasal, whiny voice, "Why do women always go for the assholes who treat them like shit? Huh?! I guess women like being treated bad, even though they say they want a sweet, sensitive guy, cause they always go for the dickhead every time and then come crying on the shoulder of the nice guy."
Few chauvinistic words get me as riled up as this one.
My best friend Ro told me once that she signed a True Love Waits contract when she was young. It was kind of a funny story. But it made me curious to know... is that TLW thing still around?
Lately Iíve noticed weird lurching, pitching, pausing and just general freaking out in my chest. My heart. I know what it means when it does this. Last week I stepped on the bathroom scale and confirmed: 118 lbs. Any time my weight drops below 120, my heart throws a tantrum.
The twenties was a fascinating decade for women. During that time we became, in many ways, what we are today.
Until I was 32 I never experienced any violence in my life. Well, that's not entirely true. During the abusive marriage, there were escalating little episodes of violence which I didn't recognize for some reason, until they became too violent to be ignored. But even in those circumstances I didn't know terror or feel that I might die. I wasn't left with bruises or broken bones or cuts.
To be a woman in touch with her sexuality is a mixed blessing. I would not trade it. Yet I can't deny the price is often more than I want to pay.
I've never understood the woman who spits. If the stuff is too nasty to swallow, why would you want to hold it in your mouth long enough to spit it out? Just swallow it, and it's gone. Then have a tic-tac.
Why I may never bathe my son again, or at least not for a very long time.
Klimt's painting takes me on a journey of self-discovery.
It ain't just for perverts anymore.
Here's how the theory goes. When we meet members of the opposite sex, we immediately attach a value to them that determines where they fit in relation to other members of the opposite sex. You can think of it like a ladder. You place a person on the ladder based on how "hot" they are to you, basically ranking them on the ladder by how much you'd like to fuck them. At the top of your ladder is the person you'd give your nipples to fuck. At the bottom you'll find the person you'd fuck if you were drunk but then you'd never admit it later.
Porn sex isn't real, and it's a shame that so many people don't know that.
They say they do. Seems to me, an awful lot of 'em are spending an inordinate amount of time with some brainless twits though.
I wasn't sure what to expect on this, our first Sex Kitten Travel Adventure, but I knew it wouldn't be dull.
Here in the Lone Star State, the only accepted way of talking to your kids about sex is to say "Just say no" and pretend that's all they need to know. But kids have a way of finding out just the same.
There's an art to putting together a soundtrack for sex. First of all, it has to go the distance. You have to have enough songs on there so that it doesn't finish before you do. Next, you want the music to match each phase of the seduction. You don't want Nine Inch Nails driving and thrusting while you are still in the gently kissing and touching phase, nor do you want the sweet romantic strains of James Taylor slowing you down when youíre ready to rock that ass!
From the Latin rapere which means "to seize or take by force," the origin of "rape" was war. It was used to describe acts such as looting, destruction and capture of citizens. Even today the act of rape is an acceptable wartime practice and the connotation remains. When men rape women, it indicates war, even in civilized society. Since one in four women will be raped in our country, I believe we have war simmering under the crust of our gender relationships.
It's all about the Frosty's. Too bad Wendy's doesn't deliver.
What happens to your soul when you have an orgasm?
In other parts of the country, I get the impression that Barbie-women are passed over for darker, more exotic Halle-Barry-type beauties. But in the South, Queen Barbie reigns supreme.

On the internet, women may lie about their weight, but men lie about their age. I find this interesting. Doesn't it seem like women care much less about a man's age than men care about a woman's weight?
I recently made a discovery about myself, I am a bigot of sorts. I have no appreciation at all for a man in uniform. Put a good-looking guy in a sailor suit and my interest goes to zero.

I admire these men for their devotion and their duty. Thank God we have men in uniform, without them we would be up a creek named S-H-I-T with nary a paddle, but I know now why I have never been tempted to knock boots with one.

I never really understood why men so adore women having sex with high heeled shoes on. I mean sure, heels make the feet and legs look sexier, which is good for getting horizontal, but once the horizontal position is reached, isn't that the time for bare feet, bare breasts, bare everything?
These are my favorite female break-up anthems. Do you recognize yourself in any of these? Or, as a guy, which girl would you rather break up with, the blistering screaming banshee or the quiet introspective poet?