It is embarrassing for me to admit my very guilty pleasure. It stems from my childhood and the time before my mother married my stepfather. This felt like a happy time in my life. It was the 1970’s and the midst of the sexual revolution. My mother was a Cosmo girl. Cosmo magazines appeared to be everywhere. The periodical found refuge in every nook and cranny of the house. Mother had them in the living room, in the bathroom, and in her bedroom. In the summer my mother would lay out in the sun and read from her current issue of Cosmo while sipping sangria from a plastic party glass. My mother was gorgeous and the one pivotal thing I knew at a young age was that I wanted to be attractive. I had somehow equated her reading Cosmo to the nature of her beauty.
I began reading Cosmo when I turned 17 years old. I hid the magazine from my girlfriends because in 1988 the popular consensus was that women should be enlightened enough to know that we did not need a magazine to tell us how to look or how to be happy. However, I could not help my need for Cosmo. Like clock work the first week of every month found me in the check out aisle of my local grocery store with a copy of the newest issue. The breakdown for the issue was always the same set of articles. There was always an article describing in detail what men secretly want in bed (this always involved oral stimulation), a segment on new sexual positions (positions that after the age of thirty-five might cause at least a serious sprained muscle), a horror story of something that could go wrong in the process of a pelvic exam (moral: take care of the cha-gina), and pictures of 80 pound women in shoes so tall that they could only be construed as fuck me shoes because you put them on, you fall down, and you scream fuck me as you lie on the ground unable to move. This formula has not change that I have noticed.
Now I am 37 years old and I do not need the instruction of this magazine to tell me how to please a man sexually: I pretty much have that covered at this seasoned point of my life. But every December I find myself at my local grocery store with Cosmo in hand standing at the check out. Why? That is when Cosmo adds its Bedside Astrologer into the magazine. I love the Bedside Astrologer and have not missed one since 1988. It’s crazy. I have to know when my best days for love are as opposed to my best days for sex (both are listed in the Astrologer). There is also a section for zodiac matches as far as hook-ups and romance. On occasion I am shocked when the Astrologer predicts hot carnal action for me with a random Gemini (Sex with a Gemini: isn't that equal to a manage-a-trois) or an organized Virgo. Regardless, I’m addicted and must have my annual fix of sexual astrology via bad female propaganda.
I know I should be smarter than this. I’m intelligent enough to know why I shouldn't subscribe to Cosmo philosophy, but I just cannot fight it. I need it like I need good Indian food at least once a month. I have to know if I should plan a frisky picnic with a gallant Scorpio in mid July or if that Aries guy is finally going to commit in early May. A gal has got to be prepared for anything. Maybe admitting I have a problem will be the first step to possible recovery, however I seriously doubt it.
Causes Kali Meister Supports
Sexual Assault Crisis Centers, Amnesty International, West Memphis 3, Doctors Without Borders, GLTB Activism