#Metoo

Pussytrap.

I was caught in a pussytrap once. That’s what my friend and I called it. We laughed about it later. Because it was so horrific and nothing to be done. No agency to report it to and no officer to tell.

Plus, when you’re young? You think the world is the way it is. And to squawk about it? Is unnecessary and useless. So laugh. So you don’t cry.

My friends and I went to a dance club in a university town. It was on a street with other clubs. Alcohol was served, but only to those with the over-21 stamp. I had the under-21 stamp.

We went to the bar to dance. Not to drink. We loved listening to music, dancing and laughing.

About 20 minutes in, we lined up to use the bathroom. The line stretched back to the bar and two young men started chatting us up.

We were young. Naive. We were friendly, inviting, charming, silly, laughing. We wanted boys to think we were cute. We wanted attention.

After a few moments, the line was going nowhere, and the boys started grabbing. First, my friend.

I was always the protector. The NO-sayer. The “Hey, watch it!” girl. So, I was laughing, but I said, “Hey! No!” Then they grabbed me.

First, my breasts. Quick, pinching, playful swipes and pokes. Then, my crotch. You can imagine that when someone grabs your breasts or tries to, you pull back. But that only presents your lower body for them to grab.

While all this was happening, another young man had positioned himself behind us. He would grab our butts when we tried to move away. Thus, the pussytrap. No way out. A vicious game of unwanted touching.

After a few moments of arms and punches and shuffling and finally just leaving without the use of the bathroom, we got away. We weren’t laughing any more. Just wide eyes and nothing to say.

That was it.

“Hey, why you leavin’?” They called after us.

No one ever taught me to stand up for myself. In fact, the lesson I learned was, “Take it.” But to be fair, my mother didn’t grow up in a time when young men acted this way. She didn’t know. And everyone else acted like it was no big deal. That this behavior was just “boys being boys”. Or locker room antics. Isn’t that what the president said to excuse his own behavior?

That should never happen. To anyone. It’s humilating. Not titillating. It’s meant to objectify and demean. It’s not foreplay. It’s degradation.

Especially to an actress. Especially to anyone who ever worked for or with the current POTUS.

These are your mothers, your sisters, your daughters, your friends, your neighbors, your coworkers, your fellow human beings. Your equals. Keep your hands to yourself. Or when we grab you back, you won’t like it.

If any man or boy ever touched my daughter like that, he’d be sorry. So would his balls.

Have I ever told you about the balltrap? LOL I’m older and wiser now.

Advertisements

I don’t usually do this…

I don’t usually ask questions, but I’m curious.
SEX
Need or want?

Thanks for any comments. I truly want to know what people think. Please keep it science book appropriate. Thanks! lol

If it’s a need, why? What’s ur theory or evidence?


I’m not just doing this for stats. LOL I asked my FB friends as well. I’ll share my findings. 😀

I Threw Myself Away

The next article you are about to read is difficult. To write. To live. To relive. For you to digest. If you love me and can’t handle the truthfulness of what I’m about to retell, please, don’t read. You won’t hurt my feelings. This will be the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to relay. It’s taken me years to publish. It was the most significant obstacle in trying to publish the second volume of my memoir. Which I never did. And probably won’t. I could never finish this story.


Ice Cream Man

I am lying face down on dirty carpet. By choice. The ice cream van is swaying as we bump our way to some distant location. I can’t see out. I have been asked to hide myself on the floor of the van so the driver won’t be fired for having a passenger. Or that’s the excuse he gives. He may just be embarrassed to be seen with, specifically, me.

The driver is a boy that I just met two days ago. His name is Mike.

Mike is 18. He’s shorter than I am. He’s attractive. But not irresistible. Except for his pursuit of me. That is irresistible.

I am 16. Tall. Awkward. Overweight. Desperate for attention, excitement and love. And sex.

I grew up under the threat of nuclear war, the freedom of promiscuous sex and the towering height of materialism. A strange cocktail of risk and greed. Priming the pump of my stupidity.

I meet Mike at the mall. I’m talking to my best friend while she’s working in an ice cream shop. He’s passing through and spots my friend. They are acquaintances. He knows the boy she’s seeing. They greet one another and soon, Mike’s attention is squarely on me.

Mike chats me up. Even with my very limited experience with boys, I can tell he’s flirting with me. I’d been flirted with, at least. But this boy is hitting hard.

Within hours of meeting Mike, he is kissing my hand, walking me to my car, talking to me, kissing my lips and asking me for my phone number. This shimmering summer mirage of fantasy and thrill is what I have always dreamed. No boy has ever behaved this way. I’d never been kissed. I tell him so. I don’t know that he believes me.

He calls me the next day. He is interested in me. He wants to see me again. He wants to be with me. We talk for a while and he steers the conversation towards sex. With a few deft and experienced moves, Mike makes plans to see me again and makes it clear, we will have sex.

I agree because I am 16 and eager to find out what sex is. I am so lonely and desperate, I allow myself to believe that this is romance. I mistakenly equate sex with love. Something I will do, over and over, until I don’t.

I tell Mike that he was my first kiss. “No, really.” That he will be my first sexual partner. That I’m a virgin.

“Oh!”

He is surprised. He believes me and I think he understands the implication of that statement. That we will be married. Some day. I should have said that out loud.

Only to hear for myself how stupid it sounded.

I have no concept of boys thinking differently or having different expectations. Again, I am 16. I am naïve, ridiculous, impetuous, hormonal, inexperienced and mentally ill. My frontal lobe is underdeveloped, as are all teens. I am an irrational lump of glands and pumping blood.

I really think that this is it. This is how it happens. I meet someone, I am swept off my feet and I am happy. The end.

Oh, my dear young Martha. This is nowhere near the end. This is only the bottom of a very full trash can of thrown-away romances/flings/pieces of your heart. And you put them there.

My inexperience and naïveté lead to stupid choices. Horribly misguided conclusions. Risky behavior. Terrible consequences.

The van comes to a stop. I sit up. From where I sit, I can only see the tops of trees. I assume we are in a remote park, miles from where I left my car. I somehow trust Mike.

He gives me no reason to trust him. I don’t know him, but somehow his charm has nudged the longings of my heart and my body. No one asked my brain.

He’s friends with my friend. Or friends with my friend’s friend. I have his phone number. He called me. He kissed me. He is pursuing me. He is attracted to me. There is no doubt that this will, at the very least, be my first boyfriend.

I thought my heart was more than ready to take this leap. Many of my friends were already engaging in or talking about engaging in sex.

What’s the big deal?

We complete an awkward demonstration of how not to lose your virginity. I will spare you the lousy details. And when we are done, I am sorely disappointed and confused.

Is that it? What IS the big deal?

It is hot out. So I get dressed and leave the van. We are smack dab in the middle of a garbage dump. That is not a joke. I have literally thrown myself away.

I get back in the van, cry my eyes out and ask to be taken back to my car. Mike consoles me. Tells me there’s nothing to be ashamed about. Comforts me. Compliments me. Finally takes me back to my car.

I never talk to or see him again. I try to call him, but I can’t reach him. I only tried once.


I still bare the shame and humiliation.

Life is full of memories that bring happiness and a smile. Pictures that flash. And just at their flashing, warm feelings and chemicals surge through your body.

Negative memories have the same effect, just a different set of chemicals course. This is the most shameful memory I have. The most difficult thing I have to share. I’ve never told anyone except a few close friends and my husband.

I thought I owed it to my collection of writing to set down my shame and let it go for all time. I’m not that person any more. Thank God I didn’t die from that choice or any stupid choices to follow.

I wish I could take it back. Save myself for marriage. Save the most holy consecration of intimacy for the one man who would cherish it. I wish I could have saved that for my husband. But he loves me anyway. Thank God for that.

I got lucky.

#Metoo

Pussytrap.

I was caught in a pussytrap once. That’s what my friend and I called it. We laughed about it later. Because it was so horrific and nothing to be done. No agency to report it to and no officer to tell.

Plus, when you’re young? You think the world is the way it is. And to squawk about it? Is unnecessary and useless. So laugh. So you don’t cry.

My friends and I went to a dance club in a university town. It was on a street with other clubs. Alcohol was served, but only to those with the over-21 stamp. I had the under-21 stamp.

We went to the bar to dance. Not to drink. We loved listening to music, dancing and laughing.

About 20 minutes in, we lined up to use the bathroom. The line stretched back to the bar and two young men started chatting us up.

We were young. Naive. We were friendly, inviting, charming, silly, laughing. We wanted boys to think we were cute. We wanted attention.

After a few moments, the line was going nowhere, and the boys started grabbing. First, my friend.

I was always the protector. The NO-sayer. The “Hey, watch it!” girl. So, I was laughing, but I said, “Hey! No!” Then they grabbed me.

First, my breasts. Quick, pinching, playful swipes and pokes. Then, my crotch. You can imagine that when someone grabs your breasts or tries to, you pull back. But that only presents your lower body for them to grab.

While all this was happening, another young man had positioned himself behind us. He would grab our butts when we tried to move away. Thus, the pussytrap. No way out. A vicious game of unwanted touching.

After a few moments of arms and punches and shuffling and finally just leaving without the use of the bathroom, we got away. We weren’t laughing any more. Just wide eyes and nothing to say.

That was it.

“Hey, why you leavin’?” They called after us.

No one ever taught me to stand up for myself. In fact, the lesson I learned was, “Take it.” But to be fair, my mother didn’t grow up in a time when young men acted this way. She didn’t know. And everyone else acted like it was no big deal. That this behavior was just “boys being boys”. Or locker room antics. Isn’t that what the president said to excuse his own behavior?

That should never happen. To anyone. It’s humilating. Not titillating. It’s meant to objectify and demean. It’s not foreplay. It’s degradation.

Especially to an actress. Especially to anyone who ever worked for or with the current POTUS.

These are your mothers, your sisters, your daughters, your friends, your neighbors, your coworkers, your fellow human beings. Your equals. Keep your hands to yourself. Or when we grab you back, you won’t like it.

If any man or boy ever touched my daughter like that, he’d be sorry. So would his balls.

Have I ever told you about the balltrap? LOL I’m older and wiser now.

Allegations

Harvey Weinstein, Bill Cosby, Louis CK.

All stand accused. Are they all guilty?

For Harvey and Bill, let’s check the Magic 8 Ball–all signs point to yes. For Louis CK, I just don’t know. I really like his truthful, real-life comedy. I hope it’s not true. I would have to stop watching his stuff if it is. But it’s not for me to say in any case. That’s somebody else’s job.

What I do know, not all accused are guilty.


In the early 2000s, my husband and I served on a community theatre board. We were involved in day-to-day operations and acting in shows. We directed, performed, coordinated, sold tickets, designed, painted, printed, anything that needed doing we did. And loved it, mostly.

Our board was a tight-knit group of friends. Every show was just a pretense to hang out, laugh and sing some songs. I would linger long into the night with these people after rehearsal/performance. Talk big about the world, dream big about the future. It was a golden time.

Then the whole thing started to slide off into the ocean. Tremors were rumbling regarding allegations of sexual harassment.

The director of the summer musical was an older man in his 40s. A bachelor. He was a kind man with clear ideas. He was a bit arrogant, but friendly. He was the music and creative director of the show. A large task, but he was more than capable. He actually came to our home, had dinner. I cooked meatloaf. We got to know him. I’m glad.

Late into rehearsals, we had a costume parade 1-2 weeks before opening night. In community theatre, costuming was always a last-minute detail. Usually, each actor must provide the bulk (or lack thereof) of their costume, coordinating with the costumer and other actors to pull of a cohesive theme.

The show was not necessarily risque, but that summer Moulin Rouge had just come out and all the teenage girls in our production aspired to be the best dance hall vixen. Their costume choices reflected that mentality.

During one of our costume parades, the three girls in one of the lead ensembles came out in sparkly, festive, revealing costumes. Everyone reacted. Mostly appropriate reactions. Our director blushed, looked down at the floor and said with a shit-eating grin, “I’m not going to say ANYTHING!” Most everyone laughed.

That’s it.

That night or the next night, I’m standing in a parking lot, in an impromptu board meeting, talking about sexual harassment.

I tried to defend the director. These conversations went on for several weeks. I felt sympathy for the girl making accusations, but knew, for sure, nothing happened.

Should he have kept his mouth shut?
YES

Should he have said, “You look nice.” or “I approve.”
YES

Should he be black-balled and strung up?
Hell to the NO.

It was an awkward fumble. It was not sexual harassment, in my opinion. I was there. My husband was there. We saw it all and witnessed the alleged harassment. Nothing happened.

The loudest torch-carrying villager was a woman who was not even present during the incident. She bullied me for defending the director.

I relay all this, not to excuse the director’s faux pas. Not to excuse Weinstein, Cosby or Louis CK. To illustrate, sometimes there are witch hunts. Sometimes, the accused is just mildly stupid, awkward or mentally disabled, but not guilty. Sometimes, well, all the time, we need to withhold judgment and hear all the facts, first! Especially, if it’s up to you to decide what happens to the alleged creep. Let’s not crucify all men for what a few assholes did.


But. If it is true (and it looks like there’s mounting evidence), why did everyone sweep it under the rug? It’s disgusting!

And Harvey, if you did all this? Karma’s a bitch. That you molested for years. Time to pay.

Guy Maggio (Kacey Moe) said, “He may have been rich and powerful. Now, he’s just rich. But not for long.”

I agree. Taking this man’s power and money and reducing him to just an average toad is a well-deserved punishment. Should he do jail time? Would someone without his power and influence do jail time?

Do you fall in love with your own face?

Yes. Yes, you do.

I smashed the two halves of our faces together (my husband and I) one day and realized, “I fell in love with my own face!”

How utterly narcissistic. LOL Falling in love with your own face and then photoshopping your faces together. Both of those things are nar-suh-friggin’-sistic. 😀

But it’s true.

Granted, I don’t have the same skin tone and dark features, but! our facial symmetry is astonishing. To me. I did not stretch the image at all!

Are you part of a couple? Want me to smash your faces together to show you how much you look like your partner??

Send me two pix of same resolution size and facing forward in the same pose. Head shots. Send to martha.maggio@sbcglobal.net and I’ll smash ’em up for you! I love this theory.

If you send me your pix, I need your permission to share in future posts. K?

Can’t wait to see all the freaky faces.

What Is It To Be a Woman?

Men will never know
The painful joy of giving birth.
Thank God for that providence
Or we would have an empty Earth!

Men will always know
The advantage of being male.
They can’t understand
The privilege of that tale.

Men will never know
What it’s like to be preyed.
Simply take my “No.”
We live constantly afraid.

Men will never know
What it’s like to FEEL free.
I feel sorry for them.
They can’t be a woman like me.

Day Without a Woman

A day without a woman
Is a lifetime without:
Soft edges
Warm smiles
Tender kisses
Multi-tasking
Reason married to wit.

A day without women
Is a world without:
2nd income
Only income
Only parent
Teachers
Nurses
Presidents
Pastors
Mothers
Wives
Daughters
Family
Students
Leaders
Care
Lawful, peaceful resistance and protest.

We gather to make a difference.
We don’t loot. Or grab. Or lie.
Like Elizabeth and Maya,
We persist and rise!

#neverthelessshepersisted

#daywithoutawoman

#daywithoutwomen