Danish Teenagers

By Annabeth Leong

Lately, I’ve mostly been reading in Danish. We seem to take some of these posts as recommendation lists, but I’m guessing there aren’t many fellow Danish students checking this blog out.

I do think it might be interesting for you to hear about one of the most striking differences I’ve noticed between the YA I’m used to reading in English and the Danish language YA I’ve read so far.

I particularly enjoy the work of Anika Eibe. I read Er Du Okay, Marie? and immediately downloaded its sequel, Er Du Okay, Fie? (The titles mean Are You Okay, Marie? and Are You Okay, Fie?). I’m not sure if I’m good enough at Danish to judge how well written something is in that language, but I do know whether a story is compelling. Er Du Okay, Marie? kept me up at night with dictionary in hand, powering through the book despite difficulties of translation, all because I had to know what would happen next.

That’s full marks for the story. I learned a ton of Danish working my way through the book, and I loved every minute of it.

Anyway, Eibe’s series is about adolescents with various sorts of difficulties. Marie’s book is billed as being about bullying, but I’d say it’s better described as a book about the bewildering experiences a teenage girl has when she suddenly becomes hot and highly sexually desirable.

I think part of what grabbed me so much about this book is how unflinching it is, and at least some of that, I think, comes down to Danish culture. While English-language YA tends to be very squeamish about detailed sexual description, this book didn’t pull back from any of that. And it was a much stronger story for that. I’ve never before read a portrayal of the teenage sexual experience that I could identify with so much, largely because it feels like writing about that at all in detail in English is forbidden.

Also unlike many heroines I’ve encountered in English language books, Marie is forthrightly lustful. She feels a lot of conflict about whether she really wants to make out with particular boys at parties, but she often gets caught up in the thrill of exploration and physical lustful urges. I so rarely see that in female characters, especially when the lust kind of exists on its own rather than for a particular “special” boy.

She also has a sort of passivity, a sense of going with the flow that I really identify with, too. It’s always been difficult for me to figure out what I actually want, and my default is to say yes to things. That’s Marie, too.

And being this way gets her called a whore and a slut at school, which also happened to me when I was a teenager, and is, I suppose, where the bullying element comes in.

A final difference between what I’m used to when reading in English and what I found in this book was that the ending was much less neat, though it did tie up the main character arc. Throughout the story, there’s a boy that it seems is the “right one” for Marie, and he is a part of the ending. The story, however, is about her, not about a romance, so the note it ends on is a note of Marie figuring out more about how she wants to conduct herself, solidifying her friendships, and telling that boy that, while she’s interested in him, things are too confusing right now for her to jump into anything. That felt like such a realistic ending, and I loved it, but I am so conditioned to expect a romantic ending that I was a bit shocked.

Anyway, I’m only in the beginning of the sequel about Fie, and I’m impressed all over again. This book is an unflinching portrayal of self-harm that seems like it will be just as daring and profound as the first book.

So I’m excited to read this series (there’s a third book out soon, and perhaps more in the future), but I’m also left wondering why I feel like so much is missing from portrayals of teenage experience in my native language.

With Love and Gay Pride

by Jean Roberta, roving reporter

Hello, fans of the LGBTQ (or GLBTgenderfuck2spiritwhatever) press. Remember when the fashionable way to sign any letter or email was “with love and gay pride?” That seems to have faded, but I’m proud to say that a pride has volunteered to be interviewed in their home in Africa.

JR: Simba, are you the only male in your family unit?

Simba: No, we have some male cubs, but I’m the head of the household. Every group needs a leader.
(All the females show their teeth while making a sound somewhere between a growl and a snicker.)

JR: So what does a typical day look like for all of you?

Nala: Lazy-ass here stays home with the cubs while we hunt. We still have meat from our last kill, so today we get a day off.

Simba: I organize the hunting parties.

Nala: As if! I’m the head female.

Lucy: Uh, Nala, that depends on what you mean by ‘head.’ Hello! We’re female lions. We know how to hunt.



Simba: Little human, we have typical mammal families. I dominate my harem and father all the cubs.
(More growling/snickering from the females.)

Nala (in a condescending tone): You’re a good lay and a good dad, Simba. That’s why we feed you.

Lucy: We like having a token male with us. He can babysit when we need time away from the cubs.

Patches: But not all of us want to be moms.

Lucy (insinuating): You’re good at something else, Patches.

Patches: You know it.

Nala: Human, you should spend a day with us so you can learn how real families function in the wild. You humans have such an unnatural culture.

Snaggle-Tooth: One male for one female. What’s up with that?

Lucy: I couldn’t cope. (All the females shake their heads.)

JR: Um, well, some of us have alternative lifestyles.

Nala: It’s about time. Do you hunt?

JR: Only for packaged meat in the grocery store.
(All the females look aghast.)

Snaggle-Tooth: What do you do with your bottled-up energy? Everyone knows females are more aggressive than males. It’s only natural.

Patches: But look at her claws. Useless, if you ask me.

JR: They’re not for hunting. I keep them short for mating.
(All the lions look at the interviewer.)

Simba (apparently clueless): Human mating habits must be very strange. I would like to meet the male of your pride. I’ve seen documentaries about human families.

Nala (sarcastic): You know so much, Simba.

Simba (to JR, as if this just occurred to him): I hope you’re not a Christian. We kill them.

JR: I’m not.

Lucy: There’s hope for you, she-human. When you tell the other humans about us, make sure you tell them to leave us alone. We’re not hurting them.

Patches: More species should live like us.

JR: I’ll pass it on. And thank you all for sharing your lives with me. Some of us had no idea.
-----------------

Love, Sex and Artificial Intelligence

by Thomas "cmdln" Gideon

I love my computer. I'll admit it. Does that mean I have a deep, meaningful relationship with it? Not so much. I like to think that I've gotten beyond a mere techno fetish into deeper considerations of how programmable, general-purposes computers are able to help us create beauty, discover meaning, and effect change.

Sure, it started more with a fascination for form and style rather than any sort of substance. My relationship with my computer, and computing in general, has taken time to evolve.

I guess it isn't so different from the emotional relationships that characterize my rich social life as a human being. For those intriguing similarities, though, the notion of an intimate relationship with any kind of artificial construct still strikes me as preposterous.

Why is that?

Moore's law, which describes the acceleration of raw computing power as a function of transistor density on a chip, has some researchers in machine intelligence drooling over finally achieving comparable raw computing power to that housed in our humble brain pans. Recent specialization in this field of research has shown promise on the necessary software to transform brute gigaflops into something approaching general intelligence. Despite the constant promise of artificial intelligence being just beyond the horizon for the past few decades, it actually does seem like we may hit a tipping point within our lifetime.

I still cannot see having an emotionally fulfilling relationship with a synthetic being. There are more optimistic researchers betting that intentionally and craftily inspiring emotional connections will form a valuable part of the repertoire of human-machine interaction in future systems, computational and robotic.

Donald Norman's latest book, Emotional Design, Why We Love (or Hate) Everyday Things, goes beyond his earlier efforts in understanding the rational basis for design. He explores how emotion can override reason and lead us to making irrational but inwardly satisfying decisions. His work and others in the same vein suggest value in exploiting that phenomenon to ease the frustrations many users encounter in existing hardware and software designs. It is not that emotionally designed products are better but they consciously tug at our inner chords to get us to put up with their other less endearing quirks.

That's a bit cynical but you can see the optimistic scenario easily enough. Couple thoughtful, rational design with compassionate emotional design and the potential boggles the mind. Not only would you get greater effectiveness or productivity, but you'd feel good as you used the tools that made those improvements possible.

MIT has been exploring these threads of social technology for quite a bit longer, most notably with the Kismet project. Little more than a robotic caricature of a face, Kismet and its researchers seek to discover some of the core components of our emotional interactions. To hear the researchers talk about Kismet, the results are surprising and compelling.

When presented with a noisy information channel, the human mind is adept at filling in the blanks. We have apparently evolved considerable neural machinery to pull off this feat. In emotional interactions, we may have similar but less well understood abilities. We want to project and fill in the emotional gaps even in the most rudimentary systems.

More recently, tweenbot explored similar social interactions with an equally minimalistic construct. Norman, Kismet and tweenbot suggest that a simulacrum doesn't have to be pitch perfect for us to form an emotional connection.

Of course, if the appeal is made to even baser instincts, there appears to be even more latitude. Well before the media rich web, enthusiasts of the form flooded Usenet groups with strings of seemingly random characters that with the right arcane invocations could be transformed into prurient images to suit all tastes. At the risk of understating things, technology and the sex industry have a long and storied relationship. Many folks have already suggested that key technology innovations, such as the DVD format and high quality video codecs for online distribution, are the direct result of our monkey sex drives.

Sex and technology is a whole other topic to explore. No doubt there is plenty of research comparable to the emotional technology writings and projects I have cited. We, as a species, don't seem to have a problem with emotionally connecting with our technology nor do we collectively blink an eyelash at its increasing role in the development of our sexual natures.

I remain skeptical and my objection really crystallized when Helen Madden expressed a simple idea on a panel on which we both participated at a recent science fiction convention.

What if your sex toy could say no?

It would be easy to devolve from that simple question into some pretty heavy and potentially disturbing psycho-analysis. Or to be flip and dismissive. At that moment, in the context of a discussion of love, sex and artificial intelligence, it really captured a latent but necessary leg to the tripod of a satisfying relationship. I've discussed emotional connection and intimacy but I think these aren't able to get past technologically-mediated self-gratification without some degree of agency, of free will.

It seems so obvious in retrospect. It also represents a largely unspoken holy grail of artificial intelligence. When discussing our relationships with other social animals, we completely take it for granted. It isn't even worth mentioning.

In the context of a relationship with a constructed being, it is critical because we haven't been able to instill true agency into any of our creations as of yet. We are not even sure how to measure it, to know when we truly have achieved it. However, it is only when our creations are capable of evolving beyond their programming, to follow independently derived desires, to say no to us, that they achieve equal footing with the other social agents available to us. Only when there is the risk of rejection is there a sense of satisfaction in successfully developing a healthy emotional, even intimate, relationship, regardless of whether the agent's programming executes in flesh or in silicon.

*********************

Thomas "cmdln" Gideon is a self-described hacker, curmudgeon and hacktivist who ponders the intersection of technology and society on his twice weekly program, The Command Line Podcast, which can be found at http://thecommandline.net/. A student of The Hacker Ethic, he is particular fascinated by its contentions that computers can be used to create beauty and that they have the potential to effect positive social change. He follows a number of related topics of interest such as the creation and distribution of social media as a form of peer production, the future of computing both as realized in its physical architecture and the ways we program these forthcoming systems, and how computing relates to our own astonishing capacity for reasoning.

His interest in artificial intelligence combined with his habit of speaking at science fiction conventions led to his being a co-panelist with Helen Madden contemplating the intersection of social relationships, intimacy and machine minds.



Love, Sex and Artificial Intelligence by Thomas "cmdln" Gideon is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 United States License.

Based on a work at thecommandline.net.

Dying to Please

by Lisabet Sarai



Is thin sexy? Sexual attractiveness is in the eye of the beholder, but I know from personal experience that our cultural obsession with thinness can be deadly.

In high school, I was what might be called pleasingly plump. Zaftig, as my Jewish grandmother would say, with more than ample curves for a teenager. Like many teens, I thought that I was fat. I always wanted to be thinner, but somehow, I could never manage it. I enjoyed my mom’s cooking too much.

Then, in my senior year, faced with all the stress of applying to colleges and the uncertainties of moving into the adult world, I began to lose weight. First I stopped eating bread and potatoes. Then I stopped adding milk to my coffee, drinking it black with artificial sweeteners. I ate all the salad I could put away, leaving the meat on my plate – cut into small pieces and spread around so that my mother wouldn’t notice. I’d check the scales every day, feeling pride whenever the numbers dropped, guilt and self-disgust when they didn’t. I still recall my intense flush of pleasure when I went for my annual checkup and weighed in at ninety-nine pounds. I’m just a bit over five feet tall, so my doctor was not alarmed. I was thrilled.

During my senior summer, I worked as a clerk in a grocery store, ate raw cucumbers and drank diet soda for lunch, and dropped more weight. By the time September rolled around, I was in the mid-eighties. My parents refused to let me enter university unless I gained weight. I got back up to ninety-two pounds, started school, but dropped out in a month, unable to muster the physical and emotional energy required.

My life for the next year and a half was spent in a limbo of medical and psychiatric institutions. At one point, I dropped below eighty pounds. I stopped menstruating. My limbs were grotesque sticks. My face was gaunt. My hair started to fall out. I was weak, constipated, subject to palpitations and anxiety attacks. I read voraciously during that period – that was about all that I could do. I don’t recall anything now. Zilch. My brain didn’t have enough nutrients to register new memories. In retrospect, the whole period is shrouded in a fog.

Anorexia had not yet become fashionable. I spent three months on the crisis ward of a state psychiatric hospital with suicidal housewives and drug addicts. I had to learn to trust my therapist when he told me that it was okay to eat. I had to suppress my feelings of disgust when I saw my weight climb back into a healthy range, and to deny the supposed evidence of my distorted self-image when I viewed my “fat” body in the mirror.

I was one of the lucky ones. I didn’t die. I didn’t suffer any permanent damage, other than my loss of memory. I have personally known anorexics who were not so fortunate. Without treatment, anorexia is fatal 20% of the time. Even with treatment, the mortality rate is 3%. With treatment, only about 60% of anorexics fully recover. (http://www.mirror-mirror.org). It took more than a decade for my body image and my eating habits to return to “normal”.

Can I blame my anorexia on the pervasive myth that “a woman can’t be too thin”? Not directly, of course. Research has shown that anorexia is as much about control and fear as it is about food. Still, if I hadn’t felt fat, I wouldn’t have started to diet, giving the obsession a chance to take hold. And I don’t think that I would have thought I was fat if I had not been continually bombarded by images of skinny women who were hailed as the ideal of beauty.

As the average weight of super models and movie stars has dropped, the prevalence of anorexia has risen dramatically. Is there a relationship? I think so. I was seventeen when I was diagnosed. Now ten year old anorexics are becoming increasingly common. One study found that 81% percent of ten year old girls and 46% of nine year olds dieted. The fear of being fat is so overwhelming that young girls have indicated in surveys that they are more afraid of becoming fat than they are of cancer, nuclear war or losing their parents. (National Eating Disorder Information Center, Canada)

So what, if anything, does this have to do with sex? I personally find skinny women far less sexy than ones who are more well-endowed. It occurs to me that the glorification of being thin in our culture could be an unconscious repudiation of sex. Today’s models and movie stars, with their narrow hips, flat stomachs, and A-cup breasts, look more like children or young boys than adult women. They are cool, graceful, elegant – but asexual.

They are safe. They offer no ample flesh to tempt the mind and raise the temperature, no perilous curves that lead you down the road to sin and perdition.

You may laugh, finding my thesis absurd. I have to tell you, as I watched the pounds drop off, I felt pure and clean. Virtuous. My adolescent sexual fantasies disappeared at the same time, melting away with my fat and muscle. Eating became the cardinal sin, because it nurtured the flesh, the evil blubber that threatened to consume me. Whenever the attendants in the hospital made me eat, I felt dirty, disgusting, smothered by my own body.

I’m intensely grateful that that I escaped from that madness. Even now, it’s all too vivid when I bring back the memories.

Now when I see a woman walking down the street or on the subway with the tell-tale bony knees, wasted arms and protruding cheekbones, a chill runs through me. I want to shake her, show her a mirror, strip away the hallucinations that make her believe she is still obese. When my eleven year old niece complains about how fat she is, I choke back my scream of frustration. You’re beautiful, Allie, I tell her, absolutely perfect, not fat at all.

With a sinking heart, I know that she doesn’t believe me.

It Hurts To Laugh!

By Helen E. H. Madden

At the beginning of this week, Lisabet paid me a humongous complement by calling me funny. I'm glad she thinks I'm funny. Actually, I hope lots of people think I'm funny. I make my living, such as it is, by being funny. And let me tall ya, being funny is a lot of hard work!

Being sexy is also a lot of work, but not like being funny. Being funny is worse. People will put themselves through all sorts of torture to look sexy - think corsettes, high heels, bikini waxes, the hours spent in the gym with some sadist named Hans to get those bulging biceps and six-pack abs. All that stuff hurts, right? But humor exacts a far more painful toll. Mel Brooks once said, "Tragedy is if I cut my finger. Comedy is when I fall into an open sewer and die!" He was not joking about that.

Think about the last thing funny that happened to you. It probably wasn't funny when it happened, was it? But memory and the passage of time have a way of bringing out the humor in the most painful moments of your life. I often like to relate the tale of how I gave birth to my second child some years ago. Now that was painful, probably more painful than anything else I've ever done in my life. It was like pushing an object the size of a bowling ball out of a hole in my body the size of a grape. I tore of course, right up the front into the naughty bits. Any of that sound funny? No, you're probably too busy wincing over the whole tear-into-the-naught-bits thing to laugh, right? How about if I also mention that the drugs I was given for pain management did NOTHING for the pain, but did allow me to communicate with my dead grandmother and Attila the Hun? Yeah, that was a fun conversation. I'm trying to squeeze out a baby, I'm tearing into my clitoris, and I've got my dead grandmother standing to one side of me saying, "Honey, get off your ass and push!" And Attila the Hun is on the other side nodding and shouting, "Listen to Babushka! Push, woman, push! You must give birth to the entire Hun army" To this day, my husband and my obstetrician still wonder who I was talking to when I screamed "Will both of you fuck off!" in the delivery room.

Now in spite of the fact that I made specific, explicit mention of my genitals in that previous story, we still haven't achieved that which Lisabet praised me for earlier this week - sexy humor. It's not a hard combination to achieve, however. Remember, if comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die, and your mind already lives in the gutter, it really is a short trip to Ha-Ha Land. Still need a road map to get there? Start by recalling the most embarrassing moments in your sex life. Like the time the Hubster and I were trying out a complicated new sex position that involved him holding me upside down while kneeling so we could perform 69. I ended up with my head trapped in the nightstand, bare ass shoved in his face, legs splayed everywhere. And I couldn't get out of that position! It was humiliating, and even worse, my then-fiance, love of my life, couldn't stop laughing at my predicament and pointing at my exposed behind. Naturally, I blew up at him and it was a week before we had sex again. But that was years ago and nowadays I look back on that night and have to chuckle myself. I mean, it was kind of funny. And of course I remember that while playing racquet ball later that week, I did inadvertently get revenge on my husband by smacking him in the genitals with the ball. Twice. It was an ACCIDENT, I swear!

Other funny moments in my sex life. How about the time my husband and I were having sex in my college roommate's lazy boy and we broke the chair? After untangling ourselves and crawling out from the splintered remains of wood and upholstery, I found a dusty can of hash rolling around on the floor. Apparently someone else had broken the chair previously, knocking off a leg, and my roommate fixed it by propping it up with the hash. When I, still picking debris out of my ass, demanded to know why my roommate simply hadn't replaced the stupid chair, she stated, "First off, I'm cheap. Second, I don't have sex, so **I** certainly wasn't going to break the chair. Third, I sure as hell wasn't going to eat a can of hash, so what else was I supposed to do with it?"

It's amazing the things that I find funny about my sex life. I have suffered through broken condoms and infertility, quiffing and squirting breast milk into my husband's eye at the height of orgasm. I have fallen off the bed, out of the chair, and even once been dumped by a recalcitrant and poorly balanced coffee table, all while doing the nasty. I had a tent collapse around my ears while I screwed a man senseless. I even killed my husband once during a multiple-screaming-orgasm. Best sex of my life, I swear. But then while I basked in the after-glow, the Hubster's eyes rolled up into the back of his head and he collapsed on top of me, and suddenly I was screaming again as I tried to wriggle out from under him to grab the phone and call 911. Fortunately, he was only stunned, not dead ("He got better!"), and when he came to, he said, "Gee, that was great. I guess I should get up now, though, and get ready for karate class."

None of these events was funny at the time, but I'm betting you're all laughing now, and I say go ahead, laugh. Because A) turning my personal pain into humor is part of what I do for a living, and B) when it happens to you, I'll be laughing right back at ya. I promise };D

For more quotes on the definition of comedy, check here.

If you want a taste of my sexy funny writing, go here.

And to really see how funny I am, take a look at this place!

Humor or no?

Like Lisabet, this is a topic that's made me squirm. Over the years I've been accused of having no sense of humor, a childish sense of humor and a dry sense of humor. Since I began writing, when I was a child, I've written exactly one humorous piece and while I did send it to several publishers/friends/editors and such, and got a variety of comments. And here, without any further ado, is a tiny piece of my humorous piece:

Dingus, an over-stimulated Horned Brillo Buzzer, was watching Muff and Cunny, also very stimulated Horned BB's, flying overhead towards home. Their sleek blue feathers enhanced the beauty of their slender forms. He thought to himself, 'I've got to do something, and fast or I'll never catch those two,' and so flew after them, being careful not to snag his growing Captain Standish on the branch as he took off.

What Dingus had failed to notice however, was that Muff saw him and told Cunny that he was following. While they both desired Dingus, they wanted to make sure that their joining would be a memorable experience for them all. Landing on the uppermost branch of the home tree, the two fems began planning, and stroking each other in preparation for Dingus' arrival. It was difficult to talk, as you can well imagine, beaks you know… as well as the rapidly growing excitement, but they managed to form a plan.

Minutes later Dingus clumsily landed, but to his dismay, he was quite alone. It seemed as if he was forever, that moment too late and was disheartened, but still incredibly stimulated. His mighty stalk protruded and throbbed before him, threatening to over balance him. (Dingus was a very well hung Horned Brillo Buzzer) Although he ached to pop a nut, he was also terribly tired of the touch of his own wing. So, gazing lustfully around, he searched for some alternative.

Low and behold, he found it, a knothole that reminded him of a furburger. With wicked glee, he approached, his crack haunter leading the way. The tip dripped and his danglers throbbed, he was beside himself with unmitigated desire.

Okay, okay, I'll take pity on you all. Needless to say, Dingus' Adventure never has been published.

I do love it when an author can add humor into his or her works. I'm slightly jealous too, but don't tell. My partner in crime, Jamie Hill has a knack for making her characters come alive, each one with a different sense of humor. Some are wicked and edgy, others are more innocent, while another has a more somber humor. Sigh, she's even added it into the stories we work on together.

Now, limericks I adore, yet even those I have real trouble putting together.

There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose dick was so long he could suck it
He said with a grin
As he wiped off his chin,
"If my ear were a c#%+ I would f@#* it!"

And another, cause I can.

There once was a man from Peru,
who fell asleep in a canoe,
while dreaming of Venus,
he played with his penis,
and woke up with a hand full of goo.

Did I put these together, you might ask. Well, unfortunately no, I've had these stashed on my computer for years. I've no idea where they came from but they're funny.

In real life, I've had a number of hilarious experiences, yet I rarely try to put them into the writing I love so much. I don't tell jokes, I married a man who can tell them by the hour and still makes me laugh hysterically. Why would I tell jokes when I have him around? Yet, there have been moments: making wild passionate love in the early morning when the little ones were supposed to be in bed, sleeping. In the throws of a mind blowing almost orgasm when a little voice asks, "Daddy, why are you making mommy cry?"

OMG! What a way to end a beautiful moment. No, she's still alive. I didn't kill her, but it may be that having my fella on top of me at the time is why.

Life provides us with a plethora (word of the day folks) of humorous moments, yet how many of us don't talk about them? I stumble over jokes, forgetting lines because I'm trying too hard. Knowing what I do wrong, doesn't help. Writing them, I read over what I've written and to me, it's just not funny. Doesn't fit the character, or the moment, or I'm just not sure.

So, Jamie Hill, Helen Madden and all you others who can dip into the humor pot and paint your work in dazzling jokes, I bow to you. And, I thank you for making my reading just that little bit richer and more interesting.

Who likes a bit of humor integrated in your sex?

Furry Preditors

Okay, I saw a television show about people with Furry Fetishes. It was a crime show and I was instantly fascinated. I mean why would grown men and women dress as animals to get their groove on? They hold conventions etc. I don't think I've ever heard of a shoe fetish convention or panty fetish convention, have you?

As the above mentioned show progressed, there was some talk about Furries using their outfits to hug children. That it could be a way for a pedophile to get a welcome hug from a child. Think Mickey Mouse at Disney World, or a mascot at your favorite game. No one suspects they are out to get their rocks off. So I nabbed this topic with gusto thinking, "Surely the web has some info on this type of predatory crime." Sadly (in the case of my blog) there isn't one. Not a single solitary one.

Now I refuse to believe that any grouping of people, including religious nuts (waving hand high), won't have a least one deviant in there to mess things up. Maybe the Furry crime I'm looking for just hasn't been uncovered. So I am taking a spin on the predator blog. Hang on.

First off, what is a Furry? Wikipedia gave me this definition: a context of sexual fetishism in which a person becomes sexually aroused by descriptions or depictions of transformations, usually the transformations of people into other beings or objects. This definition is a bit off the beaten path but refers to those who enjoy a little anthropomorphistic sexual play. In particular Furries find that being an animal is cuddly, soothing, and sexual.

Of course I delved further. Apparently there have been a few articles on the subject. I found this one too, at The Register: Furry is a word which has probably been asked to do a little too much work. It has numerous meanings, and it's not particularly easy to find two people who agree on the precise definition for any of them. The original two definitions we supplied in the first version of the FAQ are: 1. an anthropomorphic animal character. i.e. an animal with human characteristics. 2. a human who relates strongly, in whatever way, to the idea of the characters outlined in the previous definition. This may involve anything from a person who simply enjoys viewing furry fanzines or films, to someone who actually desires to be a 'real' furry, or believe that they are literally a non-human trapped within a human form. But not all ALF regulars are interested in anthropomorphics. Some are largely unaware of the 'furry fandom,' or are simply uninterested in it for a variety of reasons. Most of us who created ALF were 'fans' of one kind or another, and this coloured our view- point perhaps more than we realised. So, after much discussion, we'd like to add a third definition, one that tries to include everyone who has made ALF a home. 3. a person with an important emotional/spiritual connection with an animal or animals, real, fictional or symbolic.

Note that the latter definition does not center on sex. This was a problem for the purposes of my blog. How dare they (please note the sarcasm)! My spin is this, animal predators. TADAAAA!

We see them everywhere right now. There are people like those mentioned above you really enjoy dressing or fantasizing about furry creatures. They practice life this way, the associate with the animals, they spiritually connect. And guess what? Many of our readers do too. I don't mean that they dress up. I mean that they crave the primitive link with something mystical that is a-human to their experience.

Exhibit A: The Vampire. This is anthropomorphic. There is shifting involved between the human and the "other" paranormal embodiment of something basic and primitive to our fears. And the Vampire book is everywhere.

Exhibit B: The Werewolf. Even more obvious than above because we are actually talking about a shift between human form and full-on animal form, right? RIGHT. There are other types too involving the panther craze, the hawk, the bear.

And what do these things have in common but the predator. We humans are fascinated by the predator. It speaks to the core urge of self-preservation. It takes us back to early humans grunting to create fire and save ourselves in a night where predators lurk. It produces adrenaline and in a romance can hint at desires too instinctual to put a name to. It offers an excuse for accepting those urges because we claim them to be a part of the "animal" within.

Where am I going with this, you might ask? Well, humans are drawn to the things which logically defy us. We, or at least I, don't understand the desire to dress like an overgrown stuffed animal (by the way, Furry Community, that doesn't mean I don't want to understand. In fact, contact me if you are one, I'd love to interview you on my own blog.). And I'm not claiming that doing so is the overriding instinct of humans as a whole.

However, think of the predator. The predator is what we have feared from the beginning of time. Some Furries act this out... being taken by a predator... because it is stimulating to them whether spiritually or sexually. But in our common experience you are more apt to find society fearful of the predator. And yet, we gawk, we explore their psyche through books or prison interviews. We want to know why, don't we? We want to understand how someone becomes a predator when humans are supposed to have evolved above that primitive, instinctual crime into a cohesive, communicative environment.

Perhaps it's why this blog topic appealed to the six of us. We want to understand. Our morbid curiosity demands it.

I don't know. Maybe the Furries have it right. Maybe if we allow people to safely act out their aggression, we will find fewer deviants in normal social intercourse. If it means one less child is harmed, I say dress up the Mansons and Dahmers of the world. Go Furry.

~Kelly~