No. 2 >> The Racy Issue: Pickled, dipped, and juicy.

MAKING THE WORK // Legless Patrick Swayze

God help me, but I had sexy dream about Patrick Swayze a little while ago. It wasn't really Patrick Swayze, he just looked like Patrick Swayze and he had no legs. 

I blame the dream on having just attended a Movie Show & Tell night where the guest show & teller screened Dirty Dancing. We consumed popcorn balls spiked with watermelon candies and then danced up against each other while the credits rolled.

No need to analyze me; it was just a trigger dream. Like when you watch a horror movie and then have a horrific dream. Just like that.

Another time, I had a dream that I was working as an undercover spy in Rob Ford’s office and he was holding a Fed-Ex envelope in his lap. He wanted me to put my hand in the envelope. I didn't want to. I was pretty sure there was a fleshy surprise in there. I know: ew. 

That dream can be blamed on having just read Lynn Crosbie’s article in MacLean’s about RoFo’s manly pheromones. I’m just susceptible to the power of suggestion, that’s all. 

Anyway, back to my dream about Legless Patrick Swayze. The dream involved me wooing him with a roast chicken. A really, really juicy roast chicken. 

So, when I got to the writing studio the next morning, I used the dream even though literary writers are told to avoid dream sequences. I was having a bit of a dry spell, so I needed something. It moved beautifully from my head to the page, which almost never happens. I got a little hysterical. Someone else working in the studio asked me if I was okay, and I had to say that I wasn't crying, I was just laughing and relieved. 



There’s a minor character in my novel manuscript who has a very large penis. While writing about him, I thought I might want to reference porn star John Holmes, but then I got muddled on the name. Was it John Holmes... or was it Mike Holmes? One is a porn legend and the other stars in a reality show on HGTV. Both of them possess ten inch tools, just for one it’s a pipe wrench (although I shouldn't make assumptions).

I checked Google and I was right—John Holmes. So, I was about to leave the page when I saw in the search results an article titled “20 Famous Big Dicks” at—“Home of Happy Shiny Ladies.” Did you know that Liam Neeson’s penis is the size of an Evian bottle? But this, this is an even more stunning bit of information on Rasputin: 

The Russian mystic's disembodied penis is on display at the Russian museum of erotica in Saint Petersburg, in a tall jar, measuring 11 inches—flaccid.

Down the rabbit hole I went, folks.

Here’s the gist. Rasputin suffered a spectacular death, at the hands of angry nobles. Allegedly, his penis became separated from his body. It was found by a maid who saved it and somehow it came into the hands of a bunch of Russian ladies in Paris in the 1920s. They kept it in a wooden box and worshiped it as a kind of holy relic. And now the pickled pecker is in the aforementioned erotic museum. Apparently it cures impotence.     

Ain't people just so insane and wonderful?


READING // Blame it on the Swingers

According to a New Yorker interview with Torontonian David Sax, author of The Tastemakers: Why We’re Crazy for Cupcakes and Fed Up with Fondue, the fondue food trend of the 70s can be traced back to “the advent of the Pill and swinging.” Totally makes sense, right? Fondue, that pot of melted cheese that hosts an orgy of bread cubes and crudités, is not a solo meal.

Now think about when you've ever had fondue. It was always with your most sexually permissive friends, wasn't it? Or at an erotic art show. Or is that just me?