I've been struggling with something ever since New Year's Eve. My boyfriend and I were at a party that night, and he got so drunk he passed out early. I was kinda tipsy, too, and there was this really cute guy there named Sean who was just in town for the holidays. Anyway, I sort of had a quick one with Sean in the downstairs laundry, and except for the smell of detergent it left in my hair, I had a pretty good time. (And we were safe.) Ever since, I've worried that my boyfriend will find out what happened, even though I'll never see Sean again or go near another box of fabric softener without feeling really guilty. Am I going to hell?
Remember what the Bible tells us: "When a man strikes his slave, male or female, with a rod and the slave dies under his hand, he shall be punished. But if the slave survives a day or two, he is not to be punished; for the slave is his money." Historians tell us, of course, that this is the earliest version of what has come to be known as the principle of "no harm, no foul." So you see, Kristin, if slave owners could count on a little moral relativism from the man upstairs, there's really nothing to worry about over a little extra fluff-'n'-fold on the side.
Got a moral quandary? E-mail Jimmy at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Spring has sprung -- at least in the pants of construction workers downtown.
They're everywhere. And boy, are they horny.
The scads of workers spread across many blocks working on the H&R Block headquarters and other big building projects have made for an intimidating gauntlet for women who dare to walk downtown during these warm and windy days. Men drilling and digging (OK, one worker digging and six watching him), driving massive trucks and guiding loads on cranes never seem too busy to stop what they're doing and hoot out catcalls at women who traverse the dusty roads of the district.
It's not as if every whistle sends your typically hip, urban KC gal into a major fit, Dworkin-style. (But RIP and all.) Any woman can expect a honk or two while walking down a busy street. But a booming toot from a giant Caterpillar rig is enough to make even the most iron-willed woman flinch and look skyward for falling debris.
Now, we know that with the rising temperatures and the riot of new plant growth everywhere, male hormones are churning. And we can imagine that, with nothing else to look at but a construction buddy's ass crack as he ties his work boots, a working joe can feel a mighty powerful inner urge when one of the city's females on her way to work or lunch or shop provides some welcome visual relief. But really, the routine is already tiresome, and it isn't even May.
"You look sexy. I like that. What's your name?"
And then there was the suggestion from Larry, a retired construction worker, who was being paid $10 an hour to hold a protest sign for the AFL-CIO. Larry noticed that we were carrying a hot cup of java the other day.
"You coulda got your coffee right here," Larry said in his sexiest you-can-cross-my-picket-line-anytime-darlin' voice.
Workers of the world, you bite.
"I was hit on three times walking down here," complained an attractive redhead with a European accent whom we bumped into exiting the downtown police headquarters recently. And plenty of other friends and co-workers have reported similar experiences.
We can only long for the day when the H&R Block headquarters is finished and all the randy building erectors are replaced by an army of mild-mannered accountants with large salaries.
Then we'll be doing the whistling.
Notes from KC's blogosphere.
I was visiting my girlfriend last night. She works the graveyard shift. Very much like God, her work is meant to go unnoticed. Lately, some jerk has been making prank calls to her. She laughs it off and thinks of it as just another job-related hassle. However, on this night I'm there to witness the semi-regular event first hand. The guy on the other end of the line is jerking off. She puts him on the speakerphone and we hear moaning, grunting and the tell-tale rhythmic squishy sounds of fapping. "Oh yeah," he grunts like a pervy version of the Kool-Aid Man. "Fuck. Shit." He's really going for it. I want to be outraged that my girlfriend has to deal with this kind of thing, I want to know if it's a stalker or just some pathetic soul prowling through the phone book for a good time. I glance at my girlfriend and she looks bored and ready to move on to her next task. I mime to her, asking if I can say something. I don't want to make the jerkoff mad but I want to get my point across. My point is simple: Leave my underpaid, overworked girlfriend alone. Get a life, a clue, a conscience or a dirty movie. I finally come up with something as the guy starts to make squealing sounds. "C'mon. Hurry it up, we don't have all night," I snarl. I force my normally light voice as deep as it'll go. I try to sound like a bartender barking the last call. "That's right. Finish it up, buddy. Get it done." Three seconds of silence pass. This could go badly. He could go berserk, get outraged and swamp the place with calls and other forms of harassment for weeks. Maybe I've shamed him enough to make him drive down to the place and throw a tantrum. Suddenly, something rattles on the other end of the line, then a click. Predictably, the perv was a coward. My girlfriend doubles over in laughter.
From "Tony's Kansas City," the media blog of Tony Botello