Tuesday, March 25, 2008

South Beach: Requiem or Rhapsody?

Wild Urban Miami Beach Thing

"When the quest to fill your inner emptiness by appropriating something from outside becomes desperate, repetitive, or automatic you have what is called an addiction." -- Edmund J. Bourne, The Anxiety & Phobia Workbook

Addiction. That's brilliant. There's no better way to describe my relationship to this place. I was addicted to the idea of the beach, even though, two and half years ago, I started this blog in a process that was really the beginning of the end. I had some kind of unnatural attachment to the island and everything it represented -- a life of longing, a life of being single with no responsibilities, a life of flotsam and jetsam, minus the consequences. A life of cocktails, minus the hangovers. A life of tourism, a life of running away, traveling to and from my own life -- except that doesn't really work, because living life, you're not a tourist. A life with an "excuse" for sex, minus the real sex, the real intimacy, minus the body of the beloved, the reality of physical contact and the responsibility for another's heart ... well, I say this all with many grains of salt ... because I lived South Beach in my twenties and thirties, and lived it well. I was loved. And I did love. Loved well ...

However, I was shoring up in heavenly, gilt- and guilt-ridden sunrises -- my life was being dragged toward the undertow, with no one to swim in the riptide . . . at the end of the day. It's this time ... the end of the day time ... these liminal, transitional moments in our lives when we really appreciate who's around, right?

In my time living on Miami Beach, I have known many addictions. You may assume I'm referring to your run of the mill substance abuse -- drugs, alcohol -- but no, the substance is just a choice. What are you really addicted to? It's that and so much more. There's something about this place that creates addiction in a deeper, spiritual, existential sense, which is true of so many spaces we inhabit as individuals.

For me, the island, hanging on by a grain of sand to the vast ocean, has become a prison. This island of everyone else's vacation has become my invisible, walled-in cloister.

In my time living in this place, I have witnessed lives that were addicted to so many things ... women, addicted to low self-esteem, babies that have been born from this, children that were supposed to validate a shallow life; I've known men addicted to photographs, holding on to the illusory reality of image; I've known people so sullen who were addicted to body types instead of their hearts -- "I can't love you if you don't match up to this specific detail" -- people forever giving themselves a broken heart -- this is what really breaks my heart, actually, this ability we have to make shipwreck even in calm seas -- and yes, I've known people who didn't even know they had broken someone else's heart; I've invested in meaningful yet transient friendships that have been broken suddenly, like a twig snapping off a branch; I've known good businesses that have come and gone, like the bead and coffee shops on Lincoln Road before the gentrification tourism process (hey, it's what Carl Fisher wanted in the first place, so I'm not complaining); I've caught and slaughtered fish; I've known so many superficial details about this place, but damn it, I've also known deeper things -- deeper things running far lower, unfathomable in these shores ... and because of this, I don't regret a breath I've drawn as a citizen of Miami Beach.

But most importantly, I've seen this as blank canvas for egos to flourish and draw their own demise ... or rebirth. I could go on and on ... but what would be the point?

And this is why I can't decide if my leaving this particular geographic location is a requiem or a rhapsody. Because part of me wants to sing to this place; yeah, like Walt Whitman, I'm going to sing Song of Myself because I can, because I have the luxury and pleasure of writing poetry, prose and some such other words in this blessed island by the ocean.

And this place (which has nothing to do with the literal Miami Beach, geographically speaking) will always be inside me. You see, Manola is going to thrive, no matter where she goes -- "a little me, a little Miami Beach" -- isn't circumscribed by location. Sex and the Beach has always been a state of mind, not a place . . . the characters I have created have always been of this world and not limited to this island.

I've always argued that blogs must develop organically like life; this is what makes good writing -- sharing your experience, even if under a semi-fictional veil -- experience that is still grounded in authentic, lived life, life that is raw, unabashed, smelly, broken, half-assed, saintly yet questionable, a life that is not formulaic, but questioning, raising eyebrows always -- this life, this life on this island ... what is your life? Seriously. Your life, beyond your blog, beyond web 2.0, your life as it is, raw, plain and simple -- this is the organic fodder of good writing. And is not every man and woman -- at the end of the day -- an island?

I may be moving to the mainland, but I'll be here again. Just expect some new inflections, new voices, new locales ... the world is my oyster, want a sip?

I'm proud of my life, damn it. Join me in this plenitude, this abundance ... the ocean really is vast.

Monday, March 24, 2008

Relationships, Part 1

Well, lots of change going on ... "we" may be moving off the beach, but no matter ... this blog has always been about sex and relationships. Relationships with self, with others, with sex, even relationships with ... especially relationships with place ... stay tuned.

And besides, who wouldn't want Manola reporting from other locales?

"Everything is about relationships. The most important relationship you can have is with you."

"I think most of us in social media realize this -- it's not the media, it's the relationships that are formed that are most important."

"Relationships shouldn't be a mirror. It should be a fucking reality check. How can you make me a better person?"

"This I think is the key to any social media circumstances ... want to ... not because you have to."

tags: , ,

Friday, March 21, 2008

Sexcrunch: If These Holes Could Talk

All the news that's fit for bed, served between the sheets. Don't ever say you aren't getting any!

club madonna miami photo by ade peeverYay! Miami has sexist clubs! To see some real hardcore pussy, scroll down. Photo by Ade Peever.

These Butts Were Made for Walkin' ...

... well, sort of. A pensioner in Germany went in for leg surgery and got a refurbished bunghole instead. Clearly, someone at that hospital wasn't anal retentive enough about surgery scheduling, so our medical correspondent Dr. Suckmy Gupta just had to get to the bottom of this case. In an exclusive interview, he asked surgeon Herr Doktor Feindass if he knew the difference between chronic incontinence and incompetence. "Well, the old woman's sphincter was loose and a little worn around the edges," said Herr Doktor Feindass. "Face-to-face with a fresh, tight anus, I would've known right away that she was the wrong patient."

Apparently, Herr Doktor Feindass hasn't looked in a mirror lately! With that kind of medical care, I suppose we should be grateful there are only so many orifices on the human body!

As for the patient, she was feeling very uptight. "I'd just like to get my leg fixed, " she told Dr. Gupta. "I want to leave it all behind me."

Interestingly, on South Beach getting a tight new sphincter might be called a fortuitous event, followed (of course) by a fresh application of anal bleach. [Via Fox News]

Miami Mental Cases Get Purrfect Help

Speaking of medics, Miami New Times' sex and relationships advice blogger Magic City Kitty has been meowing some sense into the addled brains of our local lovelorn. Dr. Annie Steelclit, Sex and the Beach's own resident sex and relationships expert -- whose lifelong mission has been to get Bill Gates laid -- recently reviewed Kitty's refreshing, no-nonsense posts. "Kitty's choice words and sharp wit could make a sailor cry," explained the eminent therapist. "What's more, read the hilarious questions; this alone is extremely therapeutic. Once you realize how emotionally fucked up and sexually depraved your fellow Miamians really are, you feel a lot better about your own humble hang ups."

To Clit or Not to Clit

And speaking of pussies ...

"Women who experience vaginal orgasms may have thicker tissue between their urethra and vagina, which could be the G-Spot."

http://www.newscientist.com/data/images/archive/2644/26444101.jpgSee, I told you you'd find hardcore pussy if you scrolled down!

We like technology -- especially technology the sole purpose of which is to help us women get our freak on. An interesting article at New Scientist covers a study that examined the presence or lack of a G-Spot in women's urethrovaginal space. The holy grail of vaginal orgasms is apparently hard to find with or without some proto-British king pounding his Excalibur into you!

Imagine the day when you can take a simple OTC home test to find out if you're down one clit, one g-spot to go. Results negative? Then imagine the ensuing conversation: "Well, honey, (sob) now you don't have to try so hard (sob) ... I'm missing a G-Spot."

I don't know about you, but I think I'd rather keep 'em guessing!

tags: , , ,

Monday, March 17, 2008

Erotic Verse: Cherub

Rosy-cheeked, a giggling cherub
Tumbled blithely down from heaven
And alighted on a tree
Little fingers, plump and determined
Pulled the taut string back
But I pierced him instead
With tender, blue-eyed mischief
"Hmpf!" he puffed "you're already in love"
And just like that, this winged harbinger of hearts
Tossed his curly tufts and flitted away

tags: , , , ,

Sunday, March 09, 2008

Erotic Verse: Kiss

I kissed a man last night
And one sleepy kiss
Was enough to tell me what
My mouth wants, is made for

I kissed a man last night
And his lips I did drink
A river where I paddled
Against the currents of former love
And some new, awkward affection

I kissed a man last night,
Somehow hugged him in my mouth,
This mouth that flows through
Heart breaks, lips I have tasted,
Bodies I have known, swept away
Tumultuously, abandoned
Ever to surface for air
In rivers of passion

I kissed a man last night,
And I laugh now,
Knowing as Rick and Ilsa did
A kiss is just a kiss

I kissed a man last night,
And I laugh now,
Knowing as I do, better
That such a kiss
Will not be the last

tags: ,

Sunday, March 02, 2008

Steelclit: Aging Vagina

old vagina

Dear Dr. Annie Steelclit,

Not long ago, I turned 40 and while I feel younger than ever, without nary a grey hair on my head, I recently reconnoitered my pubic forest and discovered an errant grey pube ... on my pudenda! What's up with that? Could it be possible that my vagina is aging faster than I am? Do I have on old vagina? I mean, I've heard of lazy ovary but shit, now my vagina is getting all geriatric on me! Is my vagina trying to tell me something? zOMG I feel like I should be wearing musty empire dresses! Should I have wanton irresponsible sex with Dr. Troy McNamara to cure me of all my Freudian hysterics and then beg for a free vaginal rejuvenation? Oh, please Dr. Steelclit, I am in a cunniconundrum! Please, please advise!" -- Shame Austen

Dear Shame,

I think you should not fret so much about the exterior appearance of your vagina but rather focus on what sort of pleasure this little gift from God has to offer ... there is no shame in having a natural-looking genitalia ... and trust me, I know this, coming from a place where people are so full of shit, they bleach their asses.

tags: ,

Planet Manola: Pass the Vagina, Please

Random news, commentary and photographs. Updated at least once every menstrual cycle, if not more frequently. If you are easily offended, do not read on!

photo by Miami Fever http://www.flickr.com/photos/fodder/2291348944/Businesses of South Beach, you better be on your best behavior and nurture some class, because Manola doesn't mince her words! Photo by the amazing Miami Fever.

I just wanted to point out that while I am a lover of all things Greek, including hot poolboys who work without green cards at expensive Miami Beach hotels, I will NEVER patronize Taverna Opa South Beach for as long as I live, because I actually like to EAT food and not have napkins strewn all over the table while I am nibbling, much less have some skanky ho from Baltimore purloining a Mediterranean ethnicity while shaking her ass over my tzatziki, furthermore forcing me to scream in my dining companion's ear, because the music is so loud, only worsening my already bad case of tinitis.

However, the food is good. Pity ... maybe you can do take-out and open an otolaryngolist office next door.

And to add insult to indigestion at this part half-assed tourist trap strip-joint, part eatery is the utter rudeness of some bartenders. My first tender poured me exactly what I wanted for $9. Now call me crazy, but on a writer's budget, that's already pretty pricey, but he was young, short, dark, fabulously gay and the citrusy martini was perfect. What could possibly go wrong if the end product of fun, social and warm banter between a lady and her tender is a refreshing beverage? Nothing, right?

Now about an hour and a half later, my second tender poured me the same drink for $12. She was bleached blonde, highly bitchy ... come to think of it, if Jane Austen were alive and writing the sequel to Pride and Prejudice, she would've been one of Bingley's intolerably arrogant sisters.

I asked the first bartender why I was now paying an additional $4 for the same drink even though there was no clear distinction of happy hour. A discussion ensued between both bartenders and she averted her gaze while I signed my tab. He smiled politely. Kudos to him, for not letting his vagina get in the way of good service.

So let me get this straight ... at Taverna Opa, the grand central of all South Beach kitchiness, only one wikipedia entry away from absolutely tacky (I'd rather go to Mango's, at least you're expecting tacky!) ... you will pay more for goods and services, if you happen to have a vagina and another vagina is serving your drink. Not only that, but you have to eat with a vagina shimmying on the table and she's not even stomping on grapes or mortaring your chick peas!

And now this has me concerned. Is South Beach really all that unfriendly to the heterosexual female tourist? I should hope not. I'm a toughened local, but shame, shame, shame to these bitchy servers who would get all PMS on your ass when it comes to hospitality.

Do y'all think we walk around taking blood samples in white slacks and white leather pumps like Calleigh Duquesne on Miami CSI? Or are there real women in this town who want a fair price on their martinis, served happily by gay bartenders? Oh, where's Horatio Cane and his brand of justice when I need him?

PS ... more kudos to Joe's Take-Away, they unquestionably provided change for the parking meter, even though I didn't buy a damn thing. I'm definitely going back there for some quiet nosh.

tags: , ,