paranoia |ˌparəˈnoiə|noun:
a mental condition characterized by delusions of persecution or exaggerated self-importance, typically elaborated into an organized system.
 
There’s an unexpected and scary paranoia poisoning the air in the land of the free beyond our southern border.

True, American politics have always been nasty, fiercely dividing two almost identical conservative, capitalist parties into different camps which are incredibly difficult for us simple Canadians to tell apart. But since Americans elected a man with a better tan than most of us some nine months ago, I believe the nastiness has turned delusional, irrational, edging on insane.

Take the “one-world government” scare. Substantial numbers of Americans believe that Obama is a foreign agent secretly planning to make America part of a “one-world socialist government”. Doesn’t matter to them that the only existing socialist gatherings to join are a few odd-ball religious cults who, anyway, mostly just want to be left alone. (Socialism is a system under which “the means of production, distribution and exchange are owned by the community as a whole”).

Take the theories that Obama is a commie mole, a closet Nazi, or the Antichrist. Seemingly normal people actually believe these things and say them out loud while bragging that their personal right to own guns is America’s  only defence against various, evil conspiracies (see above), both domestic and foreign.

A lot of these people, of course, are the same wackos who believe that Franklin Roosevelt deliberately let the Japanese bomb Pearl Harbour to push America into World War ll, that the moon landing was faked up here in Sudbury, that Bush the Younger allowed 9/11 so he had an excuse to invade Iraq, that Elvis is alive and well and living in Podunk, Iowa, and that God uses them to send messages to planet earth. Just the same old lunatic fringe.

But this is a whole lot more serious. Powerful politicians warn that the Obama administration’s proposed “evil” health plan is part of a fiendish plot to kill grandma. Right-wing commentators claim Obama hates whites. "Patriotic” armed militant groups substantially increase membership. Threats to the president's life increase by 400% since Bush held the office.

Now it’s time to really worry.

In all my years as a journalist (including a stint covering the White House) I’ve never felt such extreme fear and loathing directed at the U.S. head of state. But then I look at the pictures of all the other 43 relatively tan-less presidents and start to understand.

To many Americans, the democratically elected 44th president of the United States is so obviously not “one of us.”

Instead, he’s “one of them”. And they are inferior and different and dangerous and un-American and must be defeated at all costs so God’s country can go back to being white which, of course, is what He in His wisdom always intended.


(Samantha Jones is a Canadian TV journalist whose erotic memoir "My Life In The Great Sexual Window" has just been published by Amazon and Lulu.)

Today, Monday, September 21, is the 27th annual United Nations International Day of Peace.

It’s supposed to be “a day of global ceasefire and non-violence.”

So look around you and search for peace in Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Israel, Palestine, Somalia, Sudan, Columbia, Congo, Kashmir, Chechnya, Sri Lanka — to name only the most obvious war zones where people are killing each other on this International Day of Peace.

Now weep over a number. The International Committee of the Red Cross and the United Nations estimate that some ninety percent of all casualties of war are civilians. That’s ten civilians — men women and children — who die for every soldier in warfare.

The military, who love euphemisms, call the slaughter “collateral damage.”

I call it obscene.

A brief pause if you will, and let us pay honour to elusive peace in our violent world.

Where have all the young men gone?
Gone for soldiers every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?
Pete Seeger
 
I’m gonna lay down my sword and shield
Down by the riverside
And study war no more.
The Weavers

They will beat their swords into plowshares
and their spears into pruning hooks.
Nation will not take up sword against nation
nor will they train for war anymore.
Isaiah 2:4 & Micah 4:3

Since the “My Breasts” blog last week (see following blog) I’ve had lots of Direct Messages and emails from people (well, mostly men) who want to know more about breasts — in particular, what it’s like to have the damn things.

It seems we women don’t talk much about our breasts to men — although, god knows, they're an endless subject of discussion with other women, particularly when said breasts are bounteous like mine. I guess we figure giving chosen men privileged access to them is enough. They’re welcome to see, touch, fondle, lick, suck etc. so no need to do a lot of talking about them. Just lie back and enjoy.

From the reaction to “My Breasts”, a lot of men are strangely ignorant when it comes to “the two soft, protruding organs on the upper part of a woman’s body” and how they effect us.

So here are some of the questions I’ve received, along with my answers, as best I can:

Q — That was fascinating about your breasts. Never read anything like it. May I ask how big are your breasts?

A — Of course. 36DD most days. Time of the month effects their size, of course.

Q — When I notice a woman’s nipples protruding through her top, does she know that’s happening?

A — You betcha! There are some bras — filmy, fragile, lacy things, some with cutaways for the nipples, that are designed to show nipple. I’ve got a few.

Q — Being a devoted breast man, when I walk down the street I naturally look at every women’s breasts coming towards me. Do women mind that?

A — Depends. We don’t like leering or comments but we do like to be admired. Even so, I learned as soon as my breasts became spectacular when I was in my teens that the best way to handle men’s stares is to simply ignore the ogling. Most of the time now I’m so used to it that I don’t notice.

Q — When I’m in bed with my wife or girlfriend, I never quite know how to handle their breasts. Should I be very gentle because I know they’re sensitive or should I be rough (which turns on my girlfriend more than my wife)?

A — Again, it depends on the woman and the circumstance. Sometimes, for instance, I like sensitive, mostly at the beginning, other times a bit rough if it’s not too hard. In fact biting, particularly biting my nipples, is very exciting, partly because it’s taking a risk. What if he bites my nipple off! Ask your women. They’ll tell you. And use your instincts.

Q — Have you had breast enhancement or considered having them reduced?

A — Dear god, no. The way I see it, my breasts are a gift from whatever gods may be and a splendid prize for the lover of the moment. I adore them just as they are, spend lots of time slathering breast firming cream on them (just in case) which, not surprisingly, turns me on, makes me love them even more.

Q — Are lesbians as fascinated by breasts as most men?

A — In my experience, yes. And lesbians are usually much better at making love to breasts, presumably because they have their own and they know what they like so they know pretty much what I like.

Q — Will you send me a picture of your breasts, please, please, please? I promise I'll respect you in the morning!

A — Since you ask so nicely, here's a fairly recent pic. Sans face because there's a morals clause in my contract. Enjoy!

Ever since I developed breasts when I was a late teenager I’ve been fascinated by them. It’s like they have their own personality, separate from the rest of me.

They don’t even move at the same time as the rest of me. I’ll turn abruptly left, for instance, and my breasts will follow, but only in their own time, a little later. Even then, they sway to the right of me before returning to centre where they’re supposed to be.

And when I bend down after a shower to dry between my toes like my mother taught me, they hang down like two swinging, dangling watermelons and are almost never in the same place at the same time as the rest of me.

Don’t get me wrong. I love my breasts. In fact, I adore them. But sometimes they seem to belong to someone else — a woman who’s slim and boyish like I was as a girl and somehow had these enormous mammary glands transplanted onto her when she wasn’t looking.

Then there’s the way other people look at me. They stare at my breasts before checking my face. Not just men — which I guess is understandable because you know what men are like about breasts — but women too.

Women make immediate and often final judgements when they meet me. With heavy breasts like these puppies thrusting, bobbing, swaying out in front of me, I’m a serious threat to them. Am I after stealing their husbands, boyfriends, sons? Can there really be a god if I have this all-too-obvious mammiferous advantage over them?

My breasts define me more than anything else about me. In the eyes of the world I’m the middle-aged, slightly touched-up blonde with the big boobs. Only afterwards am I Samantha Jones, semi-famous Canadian TV journalist and pseudonymous writer.

So, do I try to hide my breasts? On-camera I have to of course, because I’m a serious journalist and nothing must distract from the news. So, off-camera do I wear modest, shapeless tops that hang loose and hide more than they reveal. Am I crazy? Not when I have this huge advantage over most of my sisters.

Instead, I wear clothes to show my breasts off. Low cut, filmy tops flashing cleavage over fragile, lacy bras that do little to hide my nipples, particularly when it’s hot or cold or I’m excited or it’s Tuesday or I just need some attention.

Sure, carrying them around all day can sometimes be a drag. I probably get more back-aches and neck-aches than most women. And you should see the red, bra-strap marks on my shoulders after a long day!

But I promise you, every single ounce of gorgeous boobage is worth it when I think of all the pleasure my breasts give to me and other people. Come to think of it, over the years rather a lot of other people.


(Samantha Jones is a Canadian journalist publishing her erotic memoir at www.lulu.com)