textiles · exploration · misadventure


Stupid Oxytocin (aka Sex Voodoo)

OK, I know this is an old post. However. I am a huge fan of archive archeology. I can’t resist buried gems, and this needed to come to light. This woman’s self-propelled expedition through her own deepest trauma, and her humor and poise while dealing—vocally and articulately—with abuse, depression, and alcoholism have me indisputably hooked. Unconfirmed Bachelorette is still blogging away, three and a half years later.

unConfirmed Bachelorette

I’ve known for years that sex makes me do stupid things. It’s smart to hold off on rolling around in the sack until I know the potential lover pretty well, although I rarely do so. I know it’s smart to wait, not because he’ll be more inclined to take me home to meet his mother (men who still need mommy’s approval really aren’t high on my list); but rather, because I’m more inclined to keep my head on straight long enough to determine whether the man is someone worthy of being in my life and in my bed. You see, I’ve learned that once I sleep with a man, along with my panties, my good sense flies right out the car window.

I’ve termed this phenomenon “sex voodoo.” For years that’s all I knew about it. Sleep with a man, and I make poor choices. My standards become virtually non-existent. I turn into one of those women about whom you whisper to…

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