It was brought to my attention recently that my younger brother does not like giving girls head. The messenger was a friend from my years of attending Jewish summer camp. His younger brother was now on the staff with my younger sibling. The news was delivered with a tone of disappointment. Well, what we do about it, I asked. Have you encouraged him in this regard? My friend assured me that he had but with little effect. This was a shonda, an embarassment to the family-but brough up some interesting ideas for me. When I think of Jewish sexual stereotypes they one that pops into mind is that Jewish girls are good at and like to give head. Monica Lewsinsky comes to mind. But in my hometown of Berkeley, CA and nationwide in my leftist hippie youth movement, Jewish men are just as well known for the affection for and gift with oral sex. There is a peer culture that supports it, unlike say in the African-American community, where it is done but not bragged about, or the Latino dudes who don’t do it at all. Why was it that the Jewish guys I know are such proud connesisseurs? Was it cultural? Perhaps it comes from their mothers. These fellows tend to have been raised by strong second wave feminist women who surely endowed their sons with love for the female body. On the other hand, this also describes my brother and he hasn’t coopted the giving strategy. When I asked my mom whether she had encouraged him to a be a giver in bed, she admitted she had not. My best friend Jenny, whose Jewish boyfriend is a master in these respects, in her own estimation, told me he had been instructed in the importance of giving oral pleasure to one’s lovers by his older sister. She had told him at a barely pubescent age to imagine it tasted like his favorite food, in this case- cheesesteak. So maybe I am the one who has failed? And what does this have to do with the Jews? Well, there is the insistence in Judaism that a man pleasure his wife and since a majority of women cannot climax through penentration alone, it seems maybe it’s religiously mandated. Maybe that’s the next approach i’ll try in convincing my brother to be a giver. I’ll tell him he’s a bad jew if he doesn’t.
While chilling with one of my charges at the park, another nanny and I struck up a conversation. We’d met before and I knew she was studying to be a yoga teacher. I asked her how it was going. In her answer she mentioned an interaction between two new heores of mine; Margaret Mead and Moshe Feldenkrais. They are both very crush worthy individuals, if unfortunately dead. When the two of them met it was said that Mead observed to Feldenkrais that Balinese men “do all manner of complicated folk dancing, but cannot be taught or induced to hop from one leg to the other.”
Fendenkrais replied, “It sounds as if they are missing the stage of creeping.” At that point Meade metaphorically slapped her forehead: “Of course – no Balinese baby is allowed to touch the ground for the first ‘rice year’ (seven months), so they never have the opportunity to creep.”
It delighted me, this anecdote, because it combines ethnopediatrics, my obsession of the moment with Developmental Movement. The latter being the sequence of movement patterns that take a child from immobile to walking around. I spent many hours rolling around on the floor as part of my theater training in college. We progressed with excruciating slowness from the creeping stage to walking. Though moving through the evolutionary phases of movement (crawl like a lizard, now like a cat…) seemed at the time disconnected from the craft of acting and a waste of my and my folks hard earned cash, since then I have come to appreciate it. Perhaps it is due to the many hours I have spent observing the process in infants between then and now. One of my colleagues, at the Monessori program I worked at, left to work with people suffering from head traumas and emotional disturbances through developmental movement. The theory is that some of those traumas etc can be healed through resequencing folks through those early movement patterns. It’s called Developmental Movement Therapy. You can check it out at http://nwneuro.info
It’s pretty far out stuff. I think for now I will stick to nannying.
Working with babies is about the only practical blue collar thing that the experimental theater wing prepared me for. They love the weird faces and sounds I make and they remind me to keep in the moment, helping me simultaneously with my acting. It’s a great exchange. I sure do love when my quadrants of interest collide- Babies and Acting- Yay!!
Okay, so I am totally biased because my mama was Leather Marshall at Pride this year. This mean she gets to ride in a car and wave, only she had a human pony cart instead- OMG! If it is surprising that given my expressed enthusiasm, this post comes so late after the fact, it is only due to my own sloth. I apologize-anyhoo- Pride is known to have good and bad years. Last year, for instance I remember noticing a strange segregation. It felt like there’s the Latino section, there are the Black people by the hip hop stage, there’s leather alley. Bad year. This year the set up wasn’t remarkably different but it didn’t seem quite as apparent. Anyhow this year= good year because Mom was a total gay celeb for a hot minute. Now considering how much work she does for the community the parade route seems like a quick trip through the limelight in return. But then she’s not doing everything for attention, like I do. I thought she looked very regal. When she came by, me and my brother jostled our way to the front of the crowd and started screaming ” MAMA, MAMA!!!!”
My brother, younger and less exposed to mom’s lifestyle, was mostly worried about what she would be wearing. When she arrived with her human equine, I think my brother was thankful she wasn’t the horse. I think he’d perhaps expected her to arrive in leather lingerie like Doms in the movies. In comparison, her sparkly corset and black leather pants were modest indeed. So there we were screaming our fool heads off over the poor souls stuck between us and the parade route. The man next to/under me said ” Honey, I have eardums and i’d like to keep them”, to which I replied, “When’s the last time your mom was leather marshall?” Then he told me I could yell as much as I wanted.