Dare: Winter 2000 Volume 1, No. 4

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Dare

 · 1 month ago

Index

• Editorial
• Needs & Wants
• Tell It Like It Is
• Chick Stuff
• Guy Speak

Editorial

Of Beginnings, Ends, & Things in Between...
by R. M. Schmitt

It's New Year's Day - January 1, 2000. As I write this I am sitting outside in the sunshine, it is an unseasonably warm day for this time of year in the northeastern United States. I have spent the holiday with friends and as usual they have ensured I want for nothing. In fact, I have a mimosa in hand at this very moment. I can think of no better way to usher in the new millennium...

Last night - New Year's Eve - I stopped at a little hole in the wall - a bar called The Zone... The Zone (I dislike the current name) was formerly known as The Cambridge Inn and is the birthplace of Dare... Sketched out on the back of a paper placemat the first machinations of this little e-zine came into being...

The building that houses The Cambridge Inn is some 200 hundred years old. Over the years the structure has served in many capacities including home, apartment building, and retail space. During the Civil War it was occupied by Union troops and is reputed to have been used as a hospital. There is also a story that says a Confederate spy, the son of the building's owner at the time, was hidden from Union officers in one of the structure's chimneys. The poet Walt Whitman was a Red Cross worker in the vicinity during this time and it is believed he may have treated wounded soldiers within the same walls. Perhaps, he even composed some of his war poems there as well.

The hurt and wounded I pacify with soothing hand,
I sit by the restless all the dark night, some are so young,
Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad,
(Many a soldier's loving arms about this neck have cross'd and rested,
Many a soldier's kiss dwells on these bearded lips.)
From Walt Whitman's "The Wound Dresser" - composed 1865-1881

When I discovered Whitman's ties to The Cambridge Inn I couldn't help but smile and think "how fitting." Just like its birthplace - The Cambridge Inn - Dare has been, is, and will continue to be many things. As we embark without hesitation into the new century - Dare celebrates its first full year of publication. T he New Year will bring, as is always does, both good and bad - but most of all it will bring change.

I have had much time to reflect on what lead me to start this little 'zine and also much time to contemplate the roots of its erotic nature. There is no rhyme or reason, or single tidy explanation, for why and how Dare came into being, just as there are often no simple explanations for why some of us do the things we do... Perhaps we tire of mediocrity, of routine, of the mundane, perhaps sometimes we dare to tap the parts of ourselves that so often are left merely to collect dust. Or, in some instances we choose to finally acknowledge and face the more primal, perhaps even unsavory portions of our own characters. Whatever our motivations, whatever our desires, there is a point where being true to oneself is the most fundamental truth of all... Dare - if nothing else - is a product of that truth...

In this millennium issue - and yes we have momentarily bought into and jumped aboard the turn of the century bandwagon, Dare welcomes back some writers that have been with us since the very beginning. We also are proud to share some brand new voices... While we tout this as a millennium issue, we have given careful consideration this time around to not follow any particular theme. Certainly themes are nice - but call this issue a potpourri if you like - hell - it's the millennium after all and who knows what may happen tomorrow...

Thus, this issue's Guy Speak column takes a humorous look at the simple, yet decidedly complicated act of purchasing a pornographic magazine; in Chick Stuffwe get a perspective on oral fixations; and Tell It Like It Is pays homage to the underground world of tea drinking... Our fiction selections bring back some writers from our very first issue and our Daring Letter asks you - our readers - to share your thoughts on the new millennium, your hopes, your desires, your dreams... There is - as ever- lots more, but I've already rambled on long enough. With that, we wish you the best for the New Year and wish to thank you for making our first year in electronic print more successful than we could have ever dared dream...

With gratitude,

R. M. Schmitt
DareEditrix

Needs & Wants

Confessions of a Sex Addict
by Anonymous

My name is Elizabeth (no that's not my real name) and I, am a sex addict - or at least that's what they say... Sounds like the opening round of introductions at an AA meeting doesn't it.Would you believe that there is a similar organization dedicated to helping people (like me) kick their sexual addictions? Yeah, just like you thought, it's called Sex Addicts Anonymous (SAA) - they even have a 12-step program to achieve "sexual sobriety." They try and do good things - but I quit going to meetings... You see, the only real problem I have is that I like sex. That's the truth, the bottom line, I just plain like it. Just because I'm a woman though, there seems to be some horrible stigma attached to that, but I don't see what the big deal is, and I've long since stopped worrying about it.

So, how do you know you're a sex addict? SAA can give you a list of questions to answer, if you answer "yes" to so many - bingo - you win. The National Counsel on Sexual Addiction and Compulsivity (NCSAC) would list three defining criteria: compulsion, or unsuccessful attempts to control sexual behavior; continued sexual behavior despite negative consequences; and last but not least, obsessive thoughts in planning or obtaining sex.Sounds so damn clinical doesn't it. While these are good definitions for the "compulsive obsessive personality" type - I prefer to define my own parameters when it comes to my "addiction." In fact, I've got my own list, more like a personal assessment of sorts. Maybe a better way to describe it would be to say it's a list I run down on occasion to make sure I can honestly say that none of the following yet apply... Why do I bother? Because contrary to popular belief, I actually like who I am and I'd like to keep it that way. Subsequently, I believe putting a check in any of the following blocks would probably alter the perception I currently hold of myself. And so, I'll share my "list" with you now.

• I am not married, never have been, never will be (and yes, I've slept with married men).
• I am not abused, never have been, although I've had a few sexual encounters I'd just as soon not repeat.
• I like who I am, I don't have a confidence problem, or low self-esteem.
• I have a great job, I've never used sex to climb the corporate ladder (sex as a weapon), although the opportunity has presented itself on countless occasions.
• I've never been paid to have sex, I'm not a prostitute (but, I think that legalizing prostitution wouldn't be such a bad idea, so long as it was regulated in some form).
• I have never done anything sexually that "I" didn't want to do, I am adventurous in bed, but not stupid.
• I don't long for commitment, doubt I ever will, I just like sex and the way it makes me feel.
• Last, but certainly not least, I am happy, well, at least most of the time.

SAA says that "lust" is the driving force behind our sexual actions. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to make that determination or concur with it. But why is lust such a bad thing? We are, after all, just human beings... Sex is one of our most base driving forces. "But we're not animals!" the holy rollers would counter. There are rules, and mores, and social standards of behavior that must be adhered to! Says who? I am not a whore, or a slut, or a nymphomaniac (okay - I may be on thin ice with that last one...). Society, however, would decidedly brand me with the first two monikers and that I think is pretty damn pathetic. Just because I like sex, because I happen to enjoy sampling all the different fish in the sea. Men are as numerous and varied as autumn leaves. How many men have I slept with? I quit counting at 50 and that was 4 years ago. Yeah, I'm no Wilt Chamberlain - but does old Wilt remember the names of his 10,000 women? I remember the names of all of the men I've shared a bed with... Perhaps that's just because I'm a woman and I tend to keep track of such things... Oh, and if you're wondering, I'll be 41 this spring. If you started reading this column hoping to hear some sordid tales of sexual exploits - something akin to "A Thousand and One Nights of Fucking on the Orient Express" - then I apologize, because I have most assuredly disappointed you. And, if that's truly what you're looking for then go buy a Hustler, or Penthouse, or one of those other nameless faceless porn magazines - maybe that'll satisfy you. I really had no specific intent or agenda in writing this piece. I just like sex and I like men and it's a shame to be labeled for what amounts to reveling in basic instinct. I am a fairly attractive woman, I am in good shape, I even practice yoga and meditation. I dress well (I can afford it), I am confident in what I do (it shows), I can carry on a conversation with anyone about practically anything - men are attracted to me - I like that. Where's the crime? Yeah, I like to flirt, I like to dance, I don't mind flaunting what I've got. I like the "game" - the "fishing" - the "hook and reel" - sometimes I throw 'em back, sometimes I keep 'em... It's fun and exciting and I enjoy it, I enjoy that part of the game almost as much as the sex. The sex though is the prize...

What do I get out of that? What do I get out of so many sexual encounters with men that I have no real life attachment to? I get physical satisfaction without the emotional baggage. Come on, how many times have you met a guy that your body has responded to before your head even had the chance to say "No, wait - don't think such 'lustful' thoughts - it's not proper..." or better yet - "No wait, this one could be marriage material..." Fuck proper and attachment. Don't tell me you've never sized up a guy from across a room and thought about all the ways you'd make his knees go weak; how he'd be in bed; what his cock looks like; whether he knows how to please a woman... It's okay ladies, you're not "bad" for thinking such thoughts. Although, I suppose there is no convincing some that acting on those same thoughts would be exceedingly bad... Guess, that's what I am then - bad. And you know what? I don't have a problem with that. I like being bad. Love 'em and leave 'em. Hump 'em and dump 'em. Because I'm a woman who happens to think like a man I'm a sex addict instead of a Don Juan, instead of a Casanova, instead of a stud... Strange world we live in isn't it. Let me leave you with one last parting thought... If men truly are the sexual aggressors in our society, the ones who can be promiscuous without consequence, then who is it exactly they are being promiscuous with? Sex addicts like me? Or, is it the "sex addict" in each of you... I'm here to tell you all those promiscuous men aren't sleeping with the same girl from down the street - but, they're certainly sleeping with someone - maybe it's you... Guess that wouldn't make me so very different from the rest of you after all now would it...

"Elizabeth" who prefers to remain Anonymous works in corporate America.Dare thanks her for her candor and for sharing her thoughts with us.

Tell It Like It Is

Tea and Antipathy
by Ari McKee

I’m a wife and mother now, 35 years old, with dwindling stamina and aging babysitters. All my vices, so carefully nurtured through adolescence, have fallen away from me like dead skin cells under a loofah. Four months of four o'clock feedings not only take the fun out of drinking liquor, but they take away your will to live. Soon, my son was old enough to sit up in the stroller and look around, and I decided I couldn’t let him see me with a cigarette in my hand. Thus, another perfectly good bad habit fell by the wayside.

Caffeine was left. It seemed just dangerous enough to be pleasurable. The only problem was that I was not a coffee drinker. Hated the taste of it. Back when I was in college, I would gamely order a pot with the rest of the co-eds as we sat around Perkins in the middle of the night. Adding sugar, adding milk, adding sugared milk and milky sugar. It never seemed to work. When, a few years later, coffee became a subculture, a sect, a personal savior, I decided it must be time to try again. After all, the coffee these days is on a whole different level from Perkins; everything's slow-roasted weasel-digested Madagascar hand-picked beans and so forth. They've got all sorts of great-sounding dairy-based accouterments and pretty, shiny, chrome, coffee whipper-uppers. Somewhere out there was a cup for me.

I started out slowly, with the most frothy, sweetened versions. I ordered double whipped cream and extra cinnamon sprinkles and chocolate shavings. There I sat, reading free newspapers, listening to Harry Connick, Jr., and thinking how good this hot beverage would be if they hadn't put any coffee in it. It occurred to me that perhaps I was trying to love coffee for all the wrong reasons. Surely, people aren't lined up to the counter fifteen-deep just for the taste. As a former smoker, I could understand that. I had to catch a buzz and catch it fast. So I hardlined myself an espresso, sugared it up, let it cool and drank it like cough syrup. Being an allergy-sufferer, I was no stranger to stimulants, but this was the first time I'd seen them work like a high-colonic. I'd have been productive as hell if I could have stayed out of the bathroom. For this I paid six dollars?

From Folgers to Filipino Dark Roast, I was a failure. There's probably some sort of coffee slang for me, like java-sissy or beanie baby. My inadequacy seems especially painful at Christmastime, when Caribou Coffee doesn't ask me to join the "herd," and join in any reindeer games. Behind my back, friends complain that when I drop in they have to go rummaging into their cupboards for some sort of nasty, stinky, fruit-flavored herbal tea that belonged to their old roommate when, for Pete's sake, they have a perfectly good fresh pot of coffee sitting right there on the counter. It is a humiliating reality that there is nothing for me to drink at any Lutheran-based events of any kind.

In retaliation, I've become part of an underground tea culture forming right under your complacent coffee noses. We seem like a harmless group of eccentrics, buying up darling teapot paraphernalia and lobbying bookstore cafes to stock more Earl Grey. We are perfectly content to let you think it has something to do with Mary Engelbreit and wearing big hats covered in cabbage roses. Laugh while you can, coffee-breath. This is guerilla stuff. We hang around ye olde tea shoppes, giving each other secret handshakes and passing baggies back and forth. We drink rare, illegally smuggled teas that are so back-alley they're growing it in reconstituted opium fields. As members of the tea underground, we fill our own unbleached bags with hi-octane loose leaf and pour boiling Evian over it, stirring in raw honey straight out of Chernobyl beehives. There’s black market Cuban hand-rolled Darjeelings and Kurdish Double-Rosehipped Thai-Chais, teas so exotic and sought-after that the Columbians are giving back unharmed American tourists just for a cuppa.

We don't even want you to have any.

Someday, when the coffeehouses are standing empty, with nary a decaf grandé or petrified cranberry biscotti to be found, we'll be ready. Those endless medical reports about the health benefits of tea are just the tip of the propaganda iceberg. Dr. Koop? Lipton stooge. Oprah? She's already up to fifteen bags a day. Alan Greenspan? Ever wonder why he never talks about tea? Call your broker. Oh, what’s that? He’s in Malaysia? And he did what with your Starbucks stock? Too bad.

America's second tea revolution is underway. One day soon this mighty nation is going to wake up and smell the chamomile. I think I better start boiling water.

Ari McKee is a writer from St. Paul, Minnesota. You can see more of Ari's work at the noodle and Hoe E'Zine. She has also recently been published in The Blue Review.

Chick Stuff

Oral Roberts... and Toms, and Dicks, and Harrys...
by Rachel Lancaster

Oral fixations - we all have them... Yes, really, we all do. We like to eat, and drink, and talk, and taste - and then of course, there are those other oral - sexual - things... It's so fundamental really - like childhood. A baby's world revolves around its mouth - from the breast, to the spoon, to discovery of the world around him - all things center on what goes in, or comes out of, the mouth.

As adults we're not so much different - we only like to believe we are... Why is it then, that men are so orally fixated? Okay, well women are too, but we're talking the opposite sex here, so let's maintain our focus... Let's face it - men love to explore our bodies with more than their hands and penises. In fact, I would venture to say a man's mouth - when it comes to sex - is probably his most valuable asset - that is, if he knows how to us it...

So, gals, let's examine what we'd like to see in the male oral repertoire shall we? First, and foremost - "the kiss"... If a man's a great kisser, if he can make your knees go weak with just his lips on yours, then viola! The stage is summarily set for even better things to come down the road. Of course, what a man does with his lips and his tongue on your mouth, no matter how good it is, doesn't necessarily mean he is going to rock your world when he travels with these same instruments below the neckline. I won't bore you with a dissertation on what makes a man a great kisser - we all have our preferred modes of lip lock...

Moving right along... There is, however a lot of ground to cover from the time your man decides he wants to venture south, and the time that he actually arrives at the promised land. This brings us to the second item that most of us would like to see in a guy's oral repertoire - so if we're looking at this whole exercise as a journey or voyage - we'll call this phase "oral mapping of the terrain." "What the hell?" you may ask. It's simple - his mouth, lips, and tongue - everywhere. Got it? Good. My body has lots of hot spots, not just my mouth, my boobs, and my Bermuda triangle (you know that place guys get lost in...). The man who can fully explore the territory between the "b" and "c" zone (that'd be "breasts" and - I don't really have to define the "c" zone do I?) with his mouth is numero uno in my book! It's okay fellas, you may all snicker at tales of men who suck on elbows, fingertips, and the backs of knees, but trust me, when I tell you breaking new ground and being inventive is often appreciated. Plus, it makes us feel like our bodies are temples (which they are) and you as a man are only too happy (as you should be) to worship any and all parts of it.

So now, we've explored "the kiss" and "mapping" of all parts between the designated zones - the pies de resistance then, is how that lovely mouth of yours can be put to work below my belly-button line, and specifically between my thighs... Aha! You knew we'd get to the real "oral" fixation part of this little rant didn't 'cha... So, what says I on this particular part of the matter? The last item your man should have in his oral repertoire is a willingness to go down for the count - on you... That's right ladies - the man of your dreams should most definitely be willing to put his lips and tongue to work on your most private of parts, twisting, turning, licking, sucking, delving, sampling, savoring, and tasting, until you hit max fly and supernova... It's probably one of the most sure fire ways to ensure your woman achieves the big "O"... You fellas taking notes out there...? I'd go into a play by play of what works and what doesn't, but then again, we all have our likes and dislikes in this area, so remember, just get in there and be "carefully" adventurous. Nonetheless, the few words of wisdom I will offer are these - don't attack my clit! It ain't a pearl just waiting to be popped out of hiding, you have to start out slow and coax it into a more pliable state. Remember that little jewel is sensitive, and with a little careful attention you'll find out just what wonderful benefits you can glean by learning just what feels right and feels nice...

Ah, yes, there's nothing better than a guy with a good well-rounded oral fixation. I got mine - here's to hoping you find yours! Cheers and bona petite!

Rachel Lancaster writes, works, lives, and dreams in New York City.

Guy Speak

The Swine Connection...
by Lee Dresselhaus

So... recently I had the bitter duty to buy a copy of Playboy magazine. It was, of course, in order that I may research something that was reported as having been said in the magazine. The purest of motives, you see. Therefore, I was somewhat dismayed at the reaction of the store clerk when I asked her to hand me a copy of the magazine.

She looked at me like I was a bug.

With obvious reluctance she then reached behind her and plucked the offending material from a herd of other magazines that show the female anatomy in various poses, most of which have very little to do with sunsets, flowers, and what the more tender souls refer to as romance. The clerk held the magazine like it was a radioactive urine sample, dropped it in a bag and took my money. As I left the store I glanced back at her and saw her rubbing her hands on her pants like she had just handled something nasty. I felt like clutching the brown paper bag to my chest and slinking away before anyone saw me. I had the feeling I’d been caught peeping through a keyhole.

Why was this such a big deal? Since when has it become the moral equivalent of being a trench coat wearing flasher to buy a magazine like Playboy? A few years ago a waitress refused to serve a customer seated at a table and reading a Playboymagazine. She felt that the magazine exploits women. And those men who read such materials are pigs. He complained. She won. It was trumpeted as a victory for oppressed women everywhere. It was also the height of politically correct hypocrisy. And once again being the opinionated porker I am, I’ll explain.

If you go by current politically correct interpretations, men are pigs. All of us. Okay, guilty. We are. Well, most of us anyway, and those that aren’t are just hiding it well. We like looking at the female figure, and if any of you men out there are reading this and saying, not me, you’re lying. Or you have other interests but, hey, that’s your business. We start out as piglets, pigs in training, and as the years pass we get accomplished in the art of lusting after the female. The beginning of pigness roughly coincides with the first surge of hormones that rudely take over our bodies at the onset of puberty, and also coincides with the time that we first notice that little Suzie is now wearing a bra to school. And for all you folks on the Disney Planet, there is a news flash involved in this. It's been going on for years. And years. Get over it.

It goes as far back as the Stone Age. Carved ivory figures of – guess what – plump nude females tens of thousands of years old (Pleistocene Porno) have been dug up in various places around the world. Which proves that if you take away the technology to produce a magazine like Playboy someone will carve a woman to look at out of anything handy. It also shows that men then and men now have something in common. Whether we wore fur and hunted our dinner by being clever and sneaky and overpowering it on a plain, or whether we wear a Brooks Brothers suit and get food on our table by being clever and sneaky and overpowering a victim in a court room… we are all pigs. Always have been, always will be. Works for me. It’s the great equalizer, pauper or prince, doctor, lawyer, and Indian chief.

I’m trying to figure out just what the politically incorrect crime involved in the buying of a Playboy really is. Is it that the women who pose for that magazine are exploited? Last I heard not a single one of them posed at gunpoint. Furthermore, if someone offered me the kind of money they get paid to be exploited I’d pose nude. Exploit me to the tune of six figures. Go ahead. Not that anyone would want to look and it would probably be the death of whatever publication was tasteless enough to run it, but that’s beside the point. Those volunteer exploitees get paid a pretty darn good chunk of change in the course of their association with that magazine. So who should decide that they shouldn’t do it?

Another interesting point is the small fact that there must have been fifty different magazines on that rack the day I bought thatPlayboy. Granted, most of them are in pretty poor taste and make Playboyseem almost quaint when their contents are compared. But someone must be buying that stuff. If the law of supply and demand holds true, well, there sure is one whale of a supply, so there must be a Jim Dandy demand for this socially unacceptable material. And who’s buying it?

Geez, I don’t know. Guys, I’ll bet you don’t have, and never have had, a single one of those politically incorrect things anywhere, do you? Nope. Didn’t think so. That wouldn’t be acceptable.

Well, in closing I have to say that I really did just buy that Playboy to read an article. An interview, actually. Which was a departure for me. I usually only buy it for the pictures.

Oink.

Lee Dresselhaus has published short stories, many set in the French Quarter. He currently writes a humor/opinion newspaper column in Louisiana and in 1998 won that state's press association award for Best Regular Column. You may also visit Pink Flamingo Publishers to order a copy of his new book Hera's Key.