No human behavior has caused me so much tribulation and pain as lying. I know we all do it, to some extent. Some are really really good at it. I’m not naturally a liar. Not that I never do or never have, but I generally avoid that particular form of manipulation because I’m no good at it. So, since I don’t typically lie, I guess I expect the same from people and therefore am (have been) extremely gullible.
Obviously, being lied to isn’t really a problem unless you believe it. So, for me, learning when not to believe has become a priority. It’s difficult (but not impossible) to spot a liar in someone you don’t know very well. There are body language signals you can watch for and other kinds of signs, but when interacting with a stranger, I find it distracting to focus my attention on trying to remember and notice the signs of a liar. I wind up asking him to repeat himself because I’ve been too busy trying to see if he’s telling the truth to even hear what he said.
In fact, the better you know a person, the easier it is to catch their lies. Specifically, after you've caught them in a lie once, you pay closer attention and watch for the next one (and it will come). You learn their unique “liar language,” the tics and quirks they take on when they practice to deceive.
But regardless of how well you know a person, the most absolute and surefire way to know if a person is lying is if they say something that you know for a fact is not true. Brilliant, right? And it’s not as hard as you might think. All you have to do is know things. Random things. Things that may not seem important at the time; things you wouldn’t imagine the person would lie about, as well as things you think they might lie about. Just know lots of things, and then pay attention to what they say. Not only what they say, but pay attention to what it is they want you to believe. Does it contradict some of the stuff you know to be true? What’s the person’s motivation for wanting you to believe the Untruth—honest mistake, self preservation or sinister manipulation?
Here’s some of the “liar language” I have learned over the years:
1) The classic sign of a liar is failure to make eye contact. Remember Ian, the crazy Englishman whose every word was a falsehood? This eye avoidance was something I noticed right away but dismissed it as a cultural difference or perhaps shyness or insecurity. In the absence of any other signs of shyness, I should have realized he was a bullshit artist from the moment we met. His eyes were constantly darting off to the side, bouncing off my face as he talked, peering at something across the room as though he were myopic.
And my ex-husband the ogre, when he lied, he’d stare at the TV or something, as if he were so disinterested in the conversation he could barely remember what he was saying. If you can't see his eyes, he's lying.
When faced with a false accusation, we face our accuser with full focus and direct eye contact. When denying a true accusation, we angle our bodies away from our accuser and look for means of escape (eyes darting toward the door or glancing at a watch).
2) Mis-spoken or unintelligible words. Ian did this too. Postured as "I’m so shocked and offended by what you’ve suggested that I can’t even think straight or string together a coherent sentence!" But a person who truly has been wrongfully accused will communicate very clearly, wanting to clear up the misunderstanding and make the truth known in no uncertain terms.
3) Predicting your suspicions and being pro-active in defending against them. When he starts explaining something you didn’t ask him about, he’s lying. When you ask a simple, innocent question and find the answer is strangely long and drawn out, filled with explanations you didn’t ask for, he’s lying.
4) People look up and toward their stronger hand when imagining something. They look toward the opposite hand when remembering something. If you watch Clinton’s Monica Lew testimony, you’ll notice his eyes go up and toward the left. For most people, this would indicate that he’s remembering events as they happened, not making them up or concocting a story. Until you remember that Clinton is left-handed...(don’t get me wrong, y’all, I love Bill Clinton and I miss him. But he is a liar. Yeah, like any politician isn’t? Don’t get me started on Bush’s liar language. Okay, here’s Bush’s liar language: is his mouth moving? He’s lying.)
5) Liars will include lots of detail in their stories, to make them more believable, of course. But you’ll notice that no details are included that provide another person’s POV or reactions. Liars tend to avoid details that can easily be proved false.
6) Liars use the following phrases: "You don’t believe me, do you?" or “You gotta believe me! It’s true!” or “Please believe me.” One who is telling the truth expects to be believed. "I can prove it!" Offering to prove something without offering any real proof is a sign of deception, especially when you have not asked for proof.
7) A liar is always happy (relieved) to change the subject.
8) Sudden loss of hearing. Purposely misunderstanding what you said. Asking you to repeat yourself. Repeating your words back to you. These things give liars time to think on their feet.
9) Excessive or inappropriate sarcasm. Some people are more sarcastic than others, but liars seem to use this tool more than most.
10) When phrasing an accusation, say it like this: "I didn’t want to do this, but unless you are honest with me, I have no choice." A liar will respond with "do what?" His concern is about the consequences, what you are threatening to do. He needs to consider his options. An innocent person is not concerned with the options because he has nothing to confess.
11) Using "I would never" as support for the lie. "No, I didn’t sleep with her. I would never do a fat chick." This was one of the ogre’s classic signs—and yes, he did do the fat chick.
12) Prior history of lying. I made the mistake of thinking that if someone has been caught in a lie, they are more likely to tell the truth next time, because of the embarrassment of getting caught lying. Not so. With some people, lying is their natural and preferred way of dealing with people, regardless of how many times they get caught.
Another good piece of advice: when confronting someone, don’t offer up all your evidence at once. Seems really obvious, but I used to make this mistake all the time with my ex. The liar will concoct his story to match your evidence. But you can almost always catch the lie if you withhold some things while he goes into his explanation.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Thursday, December 7, 2006
The Man Who Taught His Asshole to Talk
Benway: "Why not one all-purpose blob? Did I ever tell you about the man who taught his asshole to talk? His whole abdomen would move up and down, you dig, farting out the words. It was unlike anything I ever heard.
"This ass talk had a sort of gut frequency. It hit you right down there like you gotta go. You know when the old colon gives you the elbow and it feels sorta cold inside, and you know all you have to do is turn loose? Well this talking hit you right down there, a bubbly, thick stagnant sound, a sound you could smell.
"This man worked for a carnival, you dig, and to start with it was like a novelty ventriloquist act. Real funny too, at first. He had a number he called 'The Better Ole' that was a scream, I tell you. I forget most of it but it was clever. Like, 'Oh I say, are you still down there, old thing?'
"'Nah! I had to go relieve myself.'
"After a while the ass started talking on its own. He would go in without anything prepared and his ass would ad-lib and toss the gags back at him every time.
"Then it developed sort of teeth-like little raspy in-curving hooks and started eating. He thought this was cute at first and built an act around it, but the asshole would eat its way through his pants and start talking on the street, shouting out it wanted equal rights. It would get drunk too, and have crying jags, nobody loved it and it wanted to be kissed same as any other mouth. Finally it talked all the time, day and night, you could hear him for blocks screaming at it to shut up, and beating it with his fist, and sticking candles up it, but nothing did any good and the asshole said to him: 'It's you who will shut up in the end. Not me. Because we don't need you around here anymore. I can talk and eat and shit.'
"After that he began waking up in the morning with a transparent jelly like a tadpole's tail all over his mouth. This jelly was what the scientists call un-D.T., Undifferentiated Tissue, which can grow into any kind of flesh on the human body. He would tear it off his mouth and the pieces would stick to his hands like burning gasoline jelly and grow there, grow anywhere on him a glob of it fell. So finally his mouth sealed over, and the whole head would have amputated spontaneous -- (did you know there is a condition occurs in parts of Africa and only among Negroes where the little toe amputates spontaneously?) -- except for the eyes, you dig. That's one thing the asshole couldn't do was see. It needed the eyes. But nerve connections were blocked and infiltrated and atrophied so the brain couldn't give orders any more. It was trapped in the skull, sealed off. For a while you could see the silent, helpless suffering of the brain behind the eyes, then finally the brain must have died, because the eyes went out, and there was no more feeling in them than a crab's eye on the end of a stalk. "
~William Burroughs
Thursday, October 19, 2006
And the greatest of these was the Prince of Troy
The men of Troy—so legendary in their masculinity as to have condoms named after them, and the greatest of these was Hector, brave Prince of Troy. He has always been my favorite, even before Eric Bana made him delicious in the movie “Troy.”
His name (Ἑκτωρ) means “holding fast.”
He was the eldest son of Priam by Hecabe. Some traditions describe him as a son of Apollo, who did favor him and granted him blessings of protection and victory in the Trojan War. He was also a favorite of Athena.
He wisely proposed a duel between his brother Paris and Menelaus to put an end to the Trojan War. When divine intervention ensured that the gods would have their war after all, Hector fought bravely.
Protesilaus, who was the first of the Greeks to jump upon the Trojan coast, was said to be slain by Hector. This is not mentioned in the Iliad; his first act described in that poem is his censure of Paris who took to flight after having gone out to fight Menelaus in single combat. Hector himself then challenged Menelaus and killed him.
Pierre-Claude-Francois Delrome 1783-1859: Hector admonishes Paris, who removes his wreath and reaches for his helmet. Behind him sits Helen. (shameless hussy)
Hector was a lover as well as a fighter. The scene which takes place at the Scaean gate with his beloved wife Andromache is one of the most delicate and beautiful scenes in the Iliad. She pleads with him to withdraw from the field for her sake as well as their son’s. With understanding, compassion and tenderness, Hector convinces her to let him go. His baby son shrinks in terror from his father’s helmet, and Hector expresses hope that his son will one day be proud of his father and a better man than himself.
Sunday, August 6, 2006
Lather, Rinse, Repeat
My friend Sissy wrote a blog recently in which she asked the eternal question that has buggared women timelessly--how do you "wash that man outta your hair"? How do you get over a guy and move on? How do you put yourself out of your own misery and stop thinking about him?
To find the answers, I consider the Masters of Moving On, men themselves. The reason this is a Woman's question is because men have this one covered. They are already trained to the point of second nature to deny, suppress, cover up or control any form of weakness in themselves. Sitting around pining over a woman would definitely be considered a form of weakness by any man. Not gonna do it, nope.
Okay, so how does he not do it? Assuming that he feels at least the same initial urges to think about her obsessively, what method does he use to deny, suppress, cover up and control those urges? What makes them go away?
Being not a man, I can only guess. He distracts himself, I imagine, with beer and football. Golf. Another woman or two. (Or ten?) Work. Maybe he gets angry at himself and calls himself a puss every time he catches himself thinking about her. Maybe he gets mad at her and convinces himself she's not worth his slightest attention.
Whatever it is, it seems to work quite well most of the time.
Except when it doesn't.
This weekend past, I was having my own private Primal Scream Therapy session when my phone rang, interrupting me in mid-scream. It was Dutch, of all people, whom I haven't heard from in more than a year. We'd had a brief flirtation which never progressed to anything much. His pro/con sheet looked like this:
Pros- tall, good-looking, plays guitar
Cons- married. he's not Chris.
Well, Dutch called to share the news that he and his wife split up and that he's been having dreams about me. I guess he did not wash me completely out of his hair. So, it seems his pro/con sheet looks like this:
Pros- tall, good-looking, plays guitar, he's not Chris
Cons- lives on the other side of the metroplex, he's not my lobster.
It's a funny old world, isn't it?
Anyway, back to the topic of moving on, getting over, washing that man out of one's long red hair (or long black hair, in Sissy's case).
If distractions don't work, I intend to get spiritual. Go within. It's said that intense relationships affect your solar plexus chakra, just below your heart. It vibrates in the color of yellow. I often dream yellow dreams. This is the place where your soul connects and becomes enmeshed with the soul of another. By working on this chakra, meditating and reeling in that tangled yellow cord, I'll wash that man right out of my hair. It's a tricky process, but I can do it and so can Sissy. We can do anything, we are intrepid.
To find the answers, I consider the Masters of Moving On, men themselves. The reason this is a Woman's question is because men have this one covered. They are already trained to the point of second nature to deny, suppress, cover up or control any form of weakness in themselves. Sitting around pining over a woman would definitely be considered a form of weakness by any man. Not gonna do it, nope.
Okay, so how does he not do it? Assuming that he feels at least the same initial urges to think about her obsessively, what method does he use to deny, suppress, cover up and control those urges? What makes them go away?
Being not a man, I can only guess. He distracts himself, I imagine, with beer and football. Golf. Another woman or two. (Or ten?) Work. Maybe he gets angry at himself and calls himself a puss every time he catches himself thinking about her. Maybe he gets mad at her and convinces himself she's not worth his slightest attention.
Whatever it is, it seems to work quite well most of the time.
Except when it doesn't.
This weekend past, I was having my own private Primal Scream Therapy session when my phone rang, interrupting me in mid-scream. It was Dutch, of all people, whom I haven't heard from in more than a year. We'd had a brief flirtation which never progressed to anything much. His pro/con sheet looked like this:
Pros- tall, good-looking, plays guitar
Cons- married. he's not Chris.
Well, Dutch called to share the news that he and his wife split up and that he's been having dreams about me. I guess he did not wash me completely out of his hair. So, it seems his pro/con sheet looks like this:
Pros- tall, good-looking, plays guitar, he's not Chris
Cons- lives on the other side of the metroplex, he's not my lobster.
It's a funny old world, isn't it?
Anyway, back to the topic of moving on, getting over, washing that man out of one's long red hair (or long black hair, in Sissy's case).
If distractions don't work, I intend to get spiritual. Go within. It's said that intense relationships affect your solar plexus chakra, just below your heart. It vibrates in the color of yellow. I often dream yellow dreams. This is the place where your soul connects and becomes enmeshed with the soul of another. By working on this chakra, meditating and reeling in that tangled yellow cord, I'll wash that man right out of my hair. It's a tricky process, but I can do it and so can Sissy. We can do anything, we are intrepid.
Wednesday, August 2, 2006
The New Sensual Massage
"Oh, you're in for a treat," I informed my Relentless Tease. "We get to review this for Sex-Kitten."
I held up a book: The New Sensual Massage by Gordon Inkeles.
We started with a warm room, a cushioned pallet on the floor, soft music and incense. I warmed some oil in the microwave. The New Sensual Massage recommends vegetable oil, but I couldn't bring myself to rub cooking oil into my lover's skin. Instead I picked up some scented massage oil from the local erotic toy store.
"You have to be naked," I said, returning from the kitchen to find him sprawled out in his sexy blue boxer briefs. I opened the book and pointed to the cheesy 1970's porn-style pictures of naked men and women massaging each other into rapturous bliss.
"The guys aren't naked," he said.
"Yes they are, look." But for some reason, the pictures in the book showed pussy and breast a-plenty, but nary a penis showed its bald little head. The men, while naked, all posed in ways to discreetly conceal their genitals. I didn't have time to reflect upon that interesting discovery; my man was waiting to be rubbed.
To receive the full pleasure of his New Sensual Massage, the Tease shed his Jockeys and eagerly lay face down to await my magic touch that would transport him to another dimension or would, at least, make him really horny.
The massage starts at the shoulders, works down the back, over the perfectly rounded buttocks, along the thighs to the calves, and down to the ankles, feet and toes. Once my hands touched his body, I must maintain contact until the massage was over.
The book covers the Master Strokes of circulation, kneading, friction, compression, passive exercise, and percussion.
"Ow!" the Tease groaned. "What are you doing?"
"I'm kneading you."
"You're needing me?" He lifted his head and regarded me with a raised eyebrow and his charming, dimpled smile.
"Not yet, silly."
The book led us through special techniques designed to make each part of the body feel good, including the hands, feet, buttocks, scalp and face.
The Relentless Tease has the softest feet I've ever touched, much too soft to be a man's feet. As I rubbed them, I let my eyes travel over the familiar contours of his lovely relaxed body. Now it was time for him to turn over and let me massage up the front of him. I tugged on his toe and whispered, "Turn over now, babe."
He did and I saw that his face wore an expression of purest pleasure. Nothing, not even a blowjob, pleases a man more than having a woman's undivided attention on his naked body from head to toe.
Part Three covers Erotic Massage, to awaken sensually deprived parts of the body. "Your toes have a right to an erotic experience; so does your scalp." Needless to say, his toes got an erotic experience, but I didn't make it all the way back up the front part of his body to his scalp. I encountered one very distracting obstacle along the way. Maybe the Tease will get his big ol' knobby head rubbed next time.
I held up a book: The New Sensual Massage by Gordon Inkeles.
We started with a warm room, a cushioned pallet on the floor, soft music and incense. I warmed some oil in the microwave. The New Sensual Massage recommends vegetable oil, but I couldn't bring myself to rub cooking oil into my lover's skin. Instead I picked up some scented massage oil from the local erotic toy store.
"You have to be naked," I said, returning from the kitchen to find him sprawled out in his sexy blue boxer briefs. I opened the book and pointed to the cheesy 1970's porn-style pictures of naked men and women massaging each other into rapturous bliss.
"The guys aren't naked," he said.
"Yes they are, look." But for some reason, the pictures in the book showed pussy and breast a-plenty, but nary a penis showed its bald little head. The men, while naked, all posed in ways to discreetly conceal their genitals. I didn't have time to reflect upon that interesting discovery; my man was waiting to be rubbed.
To receive the full pleasure of his New Sensual Massage, the Tease shed his Jockeys and eagerly lay face down to await my magic touch that would transport him to another dimension or would, at least, make him really horny.
The massage starts at the shoulders, works down the back, over the perfectly rounded buttocks, along the thighs to the calves, and down to the ankles, feet and toes. Once my hands touched his body, I must maintain contact until the massage was over.
The book covers the Master Strokes of circulation, kneading, friction, compression, passive exercise, and percussion.
"Ow!" the Tease groaned. "What are you doing?"
"I'm kneading you."
"You're needing me?" He lifted his head and regarded me with a raised eyebrow and his charming, dimpled smile.
"Not yet, silly."
The book led us through special techniques designed to make each part of the body feel good, including the hands, feet, buttocks, scalp and face.
The Relentless Tease has the softest feet I've ever touched, much too soft to be a man's feet. As I rubbed them, I let my eyes travel over the familiar contours of his lovely relaxed body. Now it was time for him to turn over and let me massage up the front of him. I tugged on his toe and whispered, "Turn over now, babe."
He did and I saw that his face wore an expression of purest pleasure. Nothing, not even a blowjob, pleases a man more than having a woman's undivided attention on his naked body from head to toe.
Part Three covers Erotic Massage, to awaken sensually deprived parts of the body. "Your toes have a right to an erotic experience; so does your scalp." Needless to say, his toes got an erotic experience, but I didn't make it all the way back up the front part of his body to his scalp. I encountered one very distracting obstacle along the way. Maybe the Tease will get his big ol' knobby head rubbed next time.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Reflections on Relentless Insanity
I had one final "thing" with the Relentless Tease last week. Well, more than a thing, it was a "major thing." Whatever that thing is that you do with the person who makes you miserable and takes your breath away and drives you to drink light beer straight from the cat dish.
Once, the Tease and I were having a "thing" on the phone--he in the parking lot of the club where I was supposed to meet him and me in the parking lot of my friend's apartment complex. Each of us in our respective parking lots on our respective cell phones, screaming at each other at midnight and taking turns hanging up and calling back. During one brief intermission, after I screamed something like this: "Oh just fuck off and die, you giant Mountainous TURD!!!" I hung up and lit a cigarette while I waited for him to call back. I turned to find that my friend had sent her husband out to check on me. He sat quietly on the steps, having heard all of the ridiculous things I'd been shouting and probably some of the ridiculous things the Tease had shouted as well, through the tiny speaker of my cell phone.
"Ah, it's one of those relationships, huh? Where if you were in the same room together right now, you'd be ripping each other's clothes off instead of fighting?"
I had time to chuckle at his apt analysis of our "thing" before my phone rang again for the next round. I had to admit, I felt turned on like never before. I felt like adrenalin was pulsing through my veins and squirting from my pores. If we continued much longer, I'd tackle some poor stranger right there in the parking lot and start humping them like a dog. As angry as I was, I went to sleep that night all tingly and smiling. I never wanted to see him again, but I knew I would and I couldn't wait. It was going to be so fucking hot.
And so, though I was "so DONE with this, I mean it!!" I shagged him rotten the next night, leaving me feeling like a drunk Indian on a wild horse, digging the ride but wondering how to get off before I throw up.
What is that? Make-up sex? No, it's not even that. Did we ever really make up? As silly as it sounds, this started, literally, the moment we set eyes on each other. He passed me as I waited in the lobby for a job interview, and we exchanged a look. Not just your average smoldering glance, but a weird "fuck you, I want you" look. It wasn't long before we were saying it out loud on a near-weekly basis.
What does one do with a relationship like this? Now that it does appear to be over for real (depending, I suppose, on my ability to tolerate extreme levels of sexual frustration in the weeks to come), I reflect upon the year that I spent doing that "thing" with the Relentless Tease.
You might expect, after years of therapy and study on dysfunctional relationships, I'd be wise enough to belay the drama and steer well clear of a man like this. But remember, a drunk Indian never knows how wild the horse really is until the urge to throw up is more a reality than an urge, or she finds herself suddenly, painfully ejected from the horse and bouncing gracelessly upon her buttocks.
And yet, I recognize that this ending represents a break in the pattern. Certainly I could have hopped back up on that wild horse and let him take me for another ride, as I have done so many times before. I did not, and I sense no real urge to do so. Is that progress? As much as I seem to crave stimulation and drama, my strongest craving now is for peace. Maybe I am finally growing up.
Once, the Tease and I were having a "thing" on the phone--he in the parking lot of the club where I was supposed to meet him and me in the parking lot of my friend's apartment complex. Each of us in our respective parking lots on our respective cell phones, screaming at each other at midnight and taking turns hanging up and calling back. During one brief intermission, after I screamed something like this: "Oh just fuck off and die, you giant Mountainous TURD!!!" I hung up and lit a cigarette while I waited for him to call back. I turned to find that my friend had sent her husband out to check on me. He sat quietly on the steps, having heard all of the ridiculous things I'd been shouting and probably some of the ridiculous things the Tease had shouted as well, through the tiny speaker of my cell phone.
"Ah, it's one of those relationships, huh? Where if you were in the same room together right now, you'd be ripping each other's clothes off instead of fighting?"
I had time to chuckle at his apt analysis of our "thing" before my phone rang again for the next round. I had to admit, I felt turned on like never before. I felt like adrenalin was pulsing through my veins and squirting from my pores. If we continued much longer, I'd tackle some poor stranger right there in the parking lot and start humping them like a dog. As angry as I was, I went to sleep that night all tingly and smiling. I never wanted to see him again, but I knew I would and I couldn't wait. It was going to be so fucking hot.
And so, though I was "so DONE with this, I mean it!!" I shagged him rotten the next night, leaving me feeling like a drunk Indian on a wild horse, digging the ride but wondering how to get off before I throw up.
What is that? Make-up sex? No, it's not even that. Did we ever really make up? As silly as it sounds, this started, literally, the moment we set eyes on each other. He passed me as I waited in the lobby for a job interview, and we exchanged a look. Not just your average smoldering glance, but a weird "fuck you, I want you" look. It wasn't long before we were saying it out loud on a near-weekly basis.
What does one do with a relationship like this? Now that it does appear to be over for real (depending, I suppose, on my ability to tolerate extreme levels of sexual frustration in the weeks to come), I reflect upon the year that I spent doing that "thing" with the Relentless Tease.
You might expect, after years of therapy and study on dysfunctional relationships, I'd be wise enough to belay the drama and steer well clear of a man like this. But remember, a drunk Indian never knows how wild the horse really is until the urge to throw up is more a reality than an urge, or she finds herself suddenly, painfully ejected from the horse and bouncing gracelessly upon her buttocks.
And yet, I recognize that this ending represents a break in the pattern. Certainly I could have hopped back up on that wild horse and let him take me for another ride, as I have done so many times before. I did not, and I sense no real urge to do so. Is that progress? As much as I seem to crave stimulation and drama, my strongest craving now is for peace. Maybe I am finally growing up.
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