Americans don’t make out in public. I do. And every time I do, I feel like I am in Victorian England.

It’s not like I am a whore. Or an exhibitionist. I don’t have a fetish, I just like to have a good time and I don’t think it’s anybody’s business as long as I remain clothed, vertical and quiet.

No, I wouldn’t do it at a reception with the royal family. I wouldn’t do it at an educational facility. I probably wouldn’t do in church either out of respect for believers (I don’t think God would care).

Finally, I wouldn’t do it when in doubt, it takes happiness to be able to touch another human’s lips with others present. So I am loved. Why the dirty looks?

Why is it okay to kiss at your own wedding, with elders and children staring at you, and not okay to kiss in a public park, on a bus or at a restaurant? Why should the society be so nosy as to tell me what to do with my body? Why don’t people get on with their own lives instead of trying to regulate mine? Oh Europe, how I miss thou sometimes.

Out of curiosity, I googled “making out in public”. Google came back with “gross”, “disgusting” and “why do people do that”. “Because they are happy, that’s why”, I argued with the search engine.

Now. For the sake of anthropology, I am going to contradict myself. When I was in Tibet where the tradition prescribed wearing long skirts, I obeyed and didn’t fret it.

But that’s the Orient. When I think “America”, I think something more liberated. Or not?

It’s not my business to tell other people how to live their lives. If they want to be formal with each other, fine. If they want to talk to each other from across the table and remain proper, fine!
But if they want to scold me for not giving a damn, I am just not going to listen.

And you know, silly, I understand. I know what it feels like to be alone and stand next to a beaming couple on a train. But even at my loneliest moments, beaming couples inspired me. They made me smile, they gave me hope. So please, shut up, or better yet, smile.

Three and a half months into my diet

Nightline recently aired a debate between some fat women and some thin women and called the piece “Is it OK to be fat?”   You can find the episode here.

I watched this program incredulously. What the hell do those wackos at Nightline mean?  Is it ok to be fat? What?  That question goes right up there with, “is it ok to play in traffic?”, “Is sharing heroine needles really that bad?”, and my favorite “is it really ok to sleep with several multiple partners without a condom?”.  Stay tuned for those Nightline episodes; I’m sure they’ll be riveting.

Must I say the obvious? Of course it’s not ok to be fat!

Now, before you jump up from your computer and point a finger at me screaming “biggot!”, settle down there.  Take a good look at me.  I’m not wearing a pointy white hat.  If you look closely you’ll see that I’m fat.  Granted, I’m less fat than I was three and a half months ago, but honestly.  I promise you.  I’m fat.

Dont get me wrong.  If what Nightline is really asking is “is it ok to discriminate” against fat people, then come on.  That’s another stupid question.  Don’t be silly.  It’s not ok to point and snicker at an obese person.  It’s not ok to fire someone, or refuse to hire someone, or promote them, just because they’re fat. That just makes you a jerk.

But is it ok to charge an extremely fat person more money for an extra airline seat if he or she can’t actually fit into one seat? Of course! That’s not discrimination, people.  That’s common sense.  You pay for what you use.  Why should it ever be otherwise? What does it matter why I’m using the extra seat?  Whether it’s for my infant? Or for me to stretch my legs out?  If I’m using two seats, I’m paying for two seats.

Is it ok to judge a fat person as unworthy?  Well, not any more than it’s ok to judge a person as unworthy because he’s blind, or deaf, or gay, or a Jew, or African American. And unless you’re a card carrying member of the KKK, then I don’t think you can really dispute this point.  Now that we’ve resolved that it’s never ok to discriminate against a fat person, let’s revisit the question Nightline asks in this piece.

Is it ok to be fat? Is this really a question we need to ask?  Before I set out on my diet back in November, I was an enormous 75 pounds overweight.  I was, and incidentally still am, clinically obese.  I’m working to change that.  Why?  Mostly because being fat is unhealthy, although I won’t deny that being skinnier also makes me feel better because I look better.  But here are some health issues that personally plagued me at a mere 75 pounds overweight:  sleep disturbance, snoring, difficulty breathing, asthma, sudden growth of a renegade right boob (due to rapid weight gain, scout’s honor), acid reflux, and highish cholesterol. Let’s not even discuss the fact that two years ago, at 38 and newly divorced, I consulted my doctor about the possibility of having a baby with just me, a bottle of mysterious sperm and a turkey baster.  You know what he said?  Lose weight!

Why?  Because getting pregnant at 75 pounds overweight is a recipe for disaster.  Heavier women develop all kinds of weight related issues while pregnant.  It’s a fact. So is it “ok” to be 75 pounds overweight and get pregnant?  I don’t know. Is it ok to invite gestational diabetes, preeclampsia and fetal morbidity into your pregnancy?

Of course, I’m well aware that women who are overweight do get pregnant, and they do have babies.  Often everything turns out just fine.  But it would be easier, and better, and healthier for both baby and mom if obesity were not an issue. That cannot be disputed.

75 pounds overweight, one month before my diet began

Watching the heavier women on this Nightline program argue that being “fat” didn’t mean they were unhealthy was disturbing.  I mean, I think it’s kind of a forgone conclusion that when you’re obese you’re going to have some health issues.

This doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes you a person at risk for health issues. It’s pretty simple.  I think the women arguing that “being fat doesn’t mean you’re unhealthy” were confusing “unhealthy” with “unlikeable”.  Being fat doesn’t mean you’re bad. It doesn’t mean you’re ugly. It doesn’t mean people should dislike you.  It doesn’t mean that people should treat you like shit.

But it does mean that you’re at risk for heart disease, respiratory and vascular issues and I’m sure a whole host of others I’m not thinking of right now.  So from a health stand point, it’s certainly not ok to be fat. I’d venture to say that anyone who argues this point is mired in a heap of denial.

That kind of denial is something I understand all too well, so I know it when I see it. It’s still hard for me to look that label “obese” straight in the eye and embrace it as one that defines me.  But it does. I understand, on a deeply intimate level the desire to argue that being fat is ok.  But I won’t jump on that bullshit bandwagon.

No one is saying you have to be “thin”, least of all me.   No one is suggesting that everyone ought to be eating 1000 calories a day, or that everyone should weigh 115 pounds.  What is clear, though, is that if you’ve hit that magical number on the scale that makes you “clinically obese” then you’ve got some work to do.  I know I do.

Being fat doesn’t mean you don’t love yourself, and it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be loved.  It means you’re not perfect. Welcome to the human race. I’m fat.  I know it.  I’m changing it one day at a time.  And that, my friends, is what’s ok.

When I was a bookish teenager, I wanted to be an Indian temple prostitute. Luckily, I never got the chance.

Later I became curious about S&M. The term seems to be a placeholder for many things. S&M is big as life and there are many sides to it. There is a nerdy side, bespectacled savoring of “Venus in Furs” and “Belle de Jour” over a dinner table. There is a pop culture side filled with bloggers and gothic chicks mercilessly abusing the word “spanking”. There is business, play and a spiritual quest.

To most people S&M probably remains a carnival-like kaleidoscope filled with medieval clowns, twisted carousels and latex. With busty, invincible (and optionally fanged) dominatrixes and aging satyrs, their ordinary bellies hanging down as they beg for Mistress’ forgiveness on their four and wiggle their pathetic behinds obscenely. As they dive in their mental back-rooms with desperate determination and continue upwards in their blinding build-up and release of lust, unclear thirst and heavy, sinking, heavenly freedom. Intense reduction to their primary elements and then, again, guilt.

Most people act it all out in their heads. Some go further and find actors and actresses. I don’t think either way is better than the other. I think S&M is just like anything else in life – an experience, a creative outlet, a vehicle for release and evolution. All things important.

Sometimes people ask me what I am – a domme or a sub. Then there is usually an awkward pause because I don’t know the answer. I am very comfortable dominating. Submitting to a man takes a very special man. The only man I can submit to without losing my identity is a man who shows me love. Not generic, hypothetical love but very real love of a real strong man. For me. And that has very little to do with the glorified S&M.

Both submission and domination can be very rewarding, in different ways. Secretly, I suspect that they are two sides of the same wonderful thing, different modes of talking to God. True masters and mistresses give the gift of love, and so do true subs. It’s all the same.

I am claustrophobic, things like teasing and restricted motion horrify me. It is probably another facet of being violently creative. Sometimes I wonder whether suppressed creativity has its merit, – it probably does, – I just don’t like the sensation.

As far as dominant men, I am only drawn to benevolent domination. I hiss, spit and laugh theatrically at self-proclaimed masters and mistresses who are way too insecure to humanly love their partner. Predatory, ruthless domination has its place, it fascinates me, but it doesn’t turn me on. I have strong emotions and strong sensations, anything less than that is reductive and hostile; reductive things hurt. I don’t blame or resent damaged people who insist on damaged interactions. We have all been damaged, it’s sansara after all.

But for all practical purposes I am attracted to masculine heroes who don’t need to consume others in order to stay alive. Those who are willing to submit to me so that I can submit to them. Sometimes I miss but I keep walking. And just in case, I hide a whip behind my back.

A little over a month ago I spoke to an old friend, someone I worked with from 1996 to 2000.  I called him because I referred a client, but I also wanted to pick his brain.

After we discussed the legal stuff he said, “Hey, I saw something on Facebook about losing 21 pounds?”

Rich is from my late 20’s, back when I was fit as a fiddle.

Back then everyone else would eat bonbons and cheeseburgers for lunch, but I’d have the cottage cheese with fruit.  I was a size 4. Fruit of the month club was a typical gift I received because people knew I didn’t touch chocolate.  I was at the gym everyday, working out at 5 AM alongside the big steroid boys, sharing their equipment and earning their respect.  (“This 5 foot tall girl could kick my ass!“). That was my life as Rich knew me, not as the 40 year old chubby single jew with a kid and a stinky dog, who never goes to the gym and would have to pay someone in the court system to hit on her.

So I said, “Yeah, Rich, it’s true.  And I have about 45 to 55 more to go.  Remember what I looked like back then?”

“Yeah!  You were hot!” said Rich.

(Were—You were hot.)

“Yeah, well, a baby and 5 million cheeseburgers later, not so much anymore,” I said, “But I’m working on it.”

And thus, I vow to become the 40 Year Old Version, to be the update of what I was back when I was a foot-loose and fancy-free young lawyer.   And I’m going to do it this year, before I turn 41.

People say ’sexy’ is all in your attitude.  And with a resounding “get the fuck out of here” I say that those people are lying, at least where a woman’s sexuality is concerned.

Boobs.  Curves.  Small waists. Flat stomachs.  Some meat on the ass is fine, but too much meat on a chick will push her out of the land of sexy and into the land of “ten pounds of sausage in a five pound bag”.  And is a chick’s personality at all a factor in the sexy-o-meter?  Sure.  But 99 % of the time the label of “sexy” gets slapped on before a woman even opens her mouth.

Anyway, over the last few years or so as I packed on 75 extra pounds, I started to get less attention from men. I should note that when I say “men”  what I really mean to say is “strange” or “unfamiliar” men.  I didn’t notice this consciously at first.  Still, I’m pretty sure that as I packed on the weight, it made me feel less and less sexy. By the way, feeling less sexy didn’t mean I wanted sex any less, or even that my sex life itself was impacted by the weight gain. It wasn’t.

What it meant was that as random male attention diminished, my own sense of myself as a sexy, attractive, desirable woman was diminished.

I’m talking about how my  “sexy woman”  identity developed, and how it waned when I got large.

Years ago  I experienced “sexy” in subtle ways:  a favor from a court clerk; an agreement by all my male adversaries on a case to let me adjourn a trial; a man holding a door here and there for me and smiling; a wave from the man in the car next to me on the highway.  All of these things made me feel sexy. Exterior things.  Other people.

Then I packed on the pounds.  At seventy-five pounds overweight, and officially obese, gone were the flirtatious glances from unfamiliar men.  Seventy-five extra pounds is quite a bit of extra weight on a woman of only 5’1.  I made use of  my neck stretched out and my hair fluffed up as high as it will go for photos.

Yet, I wasn’t terribly concerned, because being older and wiser I didn’t care if strange men found me sexy or not. I wasn’t out on the prowl, after all. As long as the man I was with was attracted to me, that was enough.

Regardless, however,  I was largely deriving my identity as a “sexy woman” from the behavior of complete strangers.  I suppose that’s a lot of power to put in the hands of a stranger.   Perhaps I could’ve stood in front of the mirror at my heaviest and told myself “You’re one sexy bitch!” over and over.

But saying it does not make it so. For me, part of believing it is actually being it.

Now 35 pounds down and counting, and seeing the remaining 37 or so pounds to go as something attainable, I have reclaimed a bit of my mojo.  It’s still mostly in the subtle things.  A shocked double take in court from a male lawyer who knew me 35 pounds ago, a joke from male friends reminding me not to lose my ample bosom, and last but not least the recent proclamation from Dan as he watched me get dressed the other morning for work:  “My baby’s hot!”.

Finally. Thirty five pounds lighter.  I’m back.

Lena Potapova is a musician, singer and writer from Moscow who lives in New York City.  

How do I write about happiness? Happiness sounds so cheesy, talking about it is like Tao Spoken.

No, my happiness is not like a spotless kitchen countertop after an OCD maid, there are things that I wish I had. But somehow, I don’t care. I love you, you love me, great. I love you, you don’t love me, next. If I love you now and you love me later, later is when I want to talk to you. Compare notes. Kiss or not. What else can I do but be my best self for my own sake?

For the first time in my life, Valentine’s Day makes me grin. My culture trained me to wear Hallmark holidays ironically. I have been duly inoculated with Kafka, Murder Ballads and the Upanishads. I’ve served my time religiously. Now, go. Like so many of us, I used to be a V-Day punk. Stupid chocolate roses that stupid unsophisticated people bought for their stupid unsophisticated lovers nauseated me.

To me, V-Day was a bunch of samsaric horsecrap. I knew we were all doomed to be forsaken, just like the cute teddy bears that one of my exes left behind. Oh, teddy bears, how much I hated your phony dead bodies.

Soft caress of an enemy -
Nothing is stranger than that, if you are a woman.
Nothing makes you a better warrior.

But I’ve served my time. Enough. No need to rewind, just go.

I want to recite an ode to men, wonderful, strong, bullish creatures who think they are always right. Without you my life would be dull and half-meaningless. Without you I wouldn’t be writing my songs. I feel you, I love you, I depend on your kindness.

Samantha writes a featured blog at MyMedifast.com about losing thirty pounds and counting.

I remember when my Dad used to send me See’s chocolate candies–my very favorite–every year for Valentine’s Day.  I was in law school, he was living across the country in California, and even though he knew I struggled to keep my weight down he always sent me the most decadent treats from See’s.

I told him to stop, because I would need the fire department to widen my door if I ate one more piece of the stuff, but he never listened. Every year around February 14th, with feelings of excitement and dread, I’d get that ominous delivery in the mail from See’s Candies.

Finally, one year, knowing full well what I was doing, I ordered the hugest box of candies I could find from their company and sent it to him for Valentine’s day. He called me laughing, and told me he was going to become huge if he ate them. Of course, he was already pretty huge, and he struggled with his weight for most of his life. But the point was made:  You make me fat, I make you fat.  Healthy, right?

My life’s been filled with forty Valentine’s Days, and the one that most stands out in my mind is the one I spent alone.

It was February of 2006, and I was separating from my then husband. I remember feeling depressed in early February, because I felt that this was a year that “love” was not taking center stage in my life. Symbolic of this was the fact that I knew I wouldn’t be getting a Valentine’s Day gift.

As the big day of hearts and flowers approached, I thought about the impending lack of gift, and decided it was unacceptable. I wanted flowers. Why shouldn’t I have flowers? Why did I need someone else to send them? I realized that I didn’t. So I called 1800flowers and I ordered myself flowers. After selecting the most expensive Valentine’s themed flowers I could find, in a beautiful keepsake vase crafted of red leaded tiled glass, the woman asked me who they were for. This is how that conversation went:

“And who are we sending these flowers to?” asked Flower Chick.

“To me.” I advised hearing her almost imperceptible pause.

“Ok,” Said Flower Chick,”at what address?”

After giving her my office address, She asked tentatively as she’s surely required to ask all customers, “Would you like a gift card with that?” Again, I could hear a barely perceptible tone of incredulity in her voice.

“Absolutely!” I told her.

After selecting which card I wanted, Flower Chick asked, “And what should it say?”

I told her, “It should say: ‘Dear Me, I love me! Love, Me’.”

If Flower Chick thought this request was odd, she didn’t register it at all. She acted like this was a perfectly normal request. She then read it back to me, to be sure it was right. I told her she had it right on.

The flowers arrived, they were gorgeous, and I felt fantastic with them sitting on my desk.

The Valentine’s Days going forward from 2006 have been increasingly happier than 2006. As this Valentine’s Day approaches, I can truly say that I have never been happier with all the things in my life than I am now. I’ve got so much to be happy about: A great little boy, a little house to call my own, a dog that smells like ass but loves me to death, great friends and family, and the best boyfriend a girl could ever have.

It doesn’t get better than this, folks.

So, this Valentine’s Day, I say love yourself. Everything else will flow from there.

Samantha writes a  featured blog at MyMedifast.com about losing thirty pounds and counting.

75 pounds.

When I selected my goal weight, I really was scared to admit it needed to be 130. That meant admitting I had to lose 75 pounds.

When I started out on this plan, that’s what I needed to lose to be just barely over the mark into “not really ridiculously freaking fat”. Medifast is more tactful, and calls it “overweight” and “obese”.

I remember looking at that number, that 75 pounds and thinking, are they crazy? I’m not that fat! I’m….I’m like Cartman on South Park. I’m just big boned. Right? Pleasantly plump, no? I’m like J-Lo with the junk in the trunk. I’m all Kim Kardashian up in here with the round rump. Men love my body! Women wish they had it!

Um. No. Hello, Denial. Have a seat and stay a while why don’t you?

75 pounds is what I had to lose to just get to “not ridiculously overweight and obese”. A mere 74 pounds lost, and technically I’d still be overweight. Right now, after 30 pounds down my BMI is still 32.6, which is obese. Good lord it’s hard to even write that. I’ll have to hit 158 to just prance into the land of “overweight” and not “ridiculously obese”. That’s another 14.5 pounds before I can stop shopping for circus tents to wear to work. According to the trusty little BMI calculator on here, if I hit 132 I’ll be just barely into the “not overweight” range.

75 pounds is like, what? 32.5 packages of chicken breasts? One and a half times the weight of my smelly deranged dog? 75 pounds is…..the weight of my 6 year old son!

Insurmountable, no? It felt that way. Still does. So I put down 140, which was still about 65 pounds, but it felt less scary. There’s something about that number 3 between the 1 and 0 that just freaked me the hell out.
Then I hit 30 pounds down, and people started to say “Hey! Almost half way there!” But my ticker was a lie. Being a person who gets paid to be skilled in the art of deceit, and to also be skilled in the art of revealing deceit, I saw right through all this flim flam about the number 140.

The other day, all this was swimming around in my head, coupled with the fact that I have now lost 30 pounds. I started to think I might be able to finally look the number 75 pounds, and the number 130 squarely in the eye.

“Hey 130! Look at you all high and mighty. Yeah, you. You know what? You don’t freaking scare me. I eat 130 for breakfast!!!!” Maybe a food reference is misplaced here.

So I’ve lowered my ticker. I’m now gunning for 130 (run and hide like a little girl, 130, because I’m gonna OWN you!).

I might still have some adjusting to do, given that 130 is just a hamburger away from being overweight again. But for now? 130 is a very good number.

Lena Potapova is a musician, singer and writer from Moscow who lives in New York City.  She is the operator of Thankyouforyoursex.com, and writes this sex column.

Laborious seduction has never been my cup of tea. May be, if I weren’t so lazy to give it a fair try it would have been great – but I could never bring any manipulative romantic campaign to its logical completion.

Never. I simply didn’t have the patience.  Somewhere in the middle of the road I would get mad.

Any time a man of my choosing wouldn’t jump into my arms on his free will, I would feel vulnerable and insulted. I would then squeeze my hot-tempered personality into a tight sugary smile, and in two days I’d be so pissed off that I’d pick up the phone, yell at the dude and be done with the whole thing. Oh. Yeah.

Coy smiles and all that business are one thing. Pulling somebody by the dick is a different story, but it all depends on how hard you have to pull.

Every time I look back and try to reprimand myself for acting childish and being overdramatic, I can’t help but to admit that none of my little explosive protests were entirely unjustified. My sensors were not off. People are like animals, they feel a lot of things. And why should I jump on one foot around the hypothetical Christmas tree in order to be loved? And what is calculated seduction anyway?

Oh, tricks. You figure what the other person needs, you bend yourself into an ‘S’ shape, you give him the perfect combo of soul candy and personal space, and then you keep at it until he swallows the bait deep. You become what he wants to possess. You please him, you excite him, you train him. You don’t contradict him unless he secretly wants it. Eventually you become so cool in his eyes that his brain releases Pavlovian drool at the first sound of your name as if it were a picture of the that ‘S’.

That’s too much work. End of story. Not good, not bad, just too much work.

Technically, it is possible to do many things. The main questions for me have always been “How bad do I really want it and am I prepared to sacrifice my identity for it, even temporarily?” And the answers have typically been “Eh” and “No”. Even if I do, even if I really, really want the man, I want him to want me, too.

But I dig seduction. I dig the real seduction, beautiful, powerful, gift-giving. I keep looking for balance – a place where I will attract the right people and be loved for what I am. A couple of times in my life I have seen true seduction. It comes from great power and great love, beyond words. Nothing like mechanical manipulation PUA style. Manipulation has its place and it certainly works. It can be a fun little sport if your heart is not vested. But I can not toy with people’s sincerity; it just doesn’t feel right. And when they try to toy with mine, they play with fire.

When I was nineteen, I fell in love with a tall blue-eyed surgeon. I knew nothing about seduction, but I loved him. I invited him over for a cup of tea and said: “Listen, I love you. Do what you want with it”. He did exactly that. He vanished for six months. All that time I suffered before I finally gave up on him. I remember the evening. I wrote a very sad song and made the decision to stop thinking about him. The next day I ran into him at a party. For whatever reason he suddenly was enthralled with me. We spent the entire night making out on the couch against the body of a strange girl pretending to be asleep, and in another couple of months we were living together. How it all happened, I don’t know. I didn’t do anything.

I don’t know how it works. Perhaps a combination of luck and serenity. I know that I am bored with long-term romantic manipulation. It’s too labor intensive and I don’t like to bend my soul.

Jonathan Safran Foer was on Stephen Colbert last night.  He is a master of good sound bites, including that the turkeys raised on farms and sold in the grocery store can’t have sex.  I looked this up and found Wendy Gordon, a self-described “Green consumer movement leader” at Simplesteps.org:

As their name implies, Broadbreasted White turkeys are valued for their large, meaty breasts, which breeding has enhanced though the process has rendered them virtually infertile. According to the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, without artificial insemination performed by humans, this variety of bird would become extinct in just one generation.

Of course, Wendy also has a Huffington Post blog (whatever that means).

I found a story on NPR’s All Things Considered, “Preserving Historic Breeds in Kansas“.  Most of it is old news–the historic breeds have rebounded dramatically–but it also backs up that the turkeys we buy from the store can’t have sex.  The  hens are genetically bred to be so fat that they have to be artificially inseminated; the males can’t get to the holes.

On Wikipedia  the Broad Breasted White article was unhelpful, but the “Heritage turkey” article had this:

To meet perceived consumer demand and increase producers’ profit margins, the goal in turkey farming became the production of the maximum amount of breast meat at the lowest possible cost. As a result of selection for this single trait, 70% of the weight of mass market turkeys is in their breast. Consequently, the birds are so heavy that they are completely incapable of reproducing without artificial insemination, and they reach such extreme weights so quickly their overall development fails to keep pace with their rapidly accruing muscle mass, resulting in severe immune system, cardiac, respiratory and leg problems.

For over 35 years, the overwhelming majority of the 280 million turkeys produced in North America each year have been the product of a few genetic strains of Broad Breasted White. The breeding stock for these birds are owned by just three multinational corporations: Hybrid Turkeys of Ontario, Canada, British United Turkeys of America in Lewisburg, West Virginia, and Nicholas Turkey Breeding Farms in Sonoma, California.

The sources for the above paragraph are Storey’s Illustrated Guide to Poultry Breeds and this New York Times article.

Image:  My photograph for Wikipedia of Jonathan Safran Foer at the 2007 Brooklyn Book Festival; also see this post for 2009  Creative Commons images of him promoting Eating Animals.