Because 140 characters can't express this..

Looking at photos of a kink event, I nearly squeed to see embroidery supplies on someone's lap. I love taking my craft everywhere. There is a wonderful picture of me on fetlife, undressed to the nines, knitting the sleeve of a sweater.

Go you, whoever you are.

It Gets Better

I think.

I watch a lot of documentaries about the Alphabet Soup crowd (LBGTQ). I think Netflix thinks I'm gay. I've watched Milk, Boys Don't Cry, Transamerica and that Drag Queen pageant movie. (Please do keep in mind that I also favor documentaries about the food industry, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Julie & Julia - I do have multi tracked interests.)

It would be easier to be gay. To want to marry a woman. My mom could wrap her head around that. We've de-pathologized homosexuality in "Enlightened Western Cultures." But really, I like penises (the real kind, attached to male bodies) too damn much to start fucking women. Also, could *never* marry a woman. I have been seeking the company of men for most of my life. I don't understand women well enough to be friends with most of them, let alone want to date and marry them.

It would be easier to feel as though I ought to have been a man. It would mean that a wrong switch was flipped when I was being formed and I came out with the wrong body. It would necessitate expensive surgery, and then the problem could be fixed. But really, I like my boobs. Took me long enough to grow the damn things. I like my hips, I like my ass. I like wearing corsets and bodices and things that make me look more female. Even when I dress in drag, it's always slanted femme. I never try to pass.

Instead I have a normative gender identity, normative sexual orientation, but a societally disapproved means of sexual fulfillment. It's not that I can't orgasm from vanilla sex. It's not even "well, I have a whole menu to draw on, but I order the bondage fun more often because I like it better" kind of thing.

The orgasms are fundamentally better. They happen more fluidly, with less determination. My body works the way it's supposed to when it's tied up or being hurt (or tying up and hurting someone else). My brain switches into "let's have sex now please" mode from being insulted and degraded and owned (or insulting and degrading and owning) in a way that "I love you sweetie" just doesn't make it happen.

There isn't a YouTube campaign for people like me. No one is raising money for a hotline so that kinky 16 year olds don't kill themselves. I never wanted to kill myself. I just wanted to bury the dark part of my sexuality forever. I was a good girl, good girls didn't want that, didn't need it with their sex like they needed air. I'm not a part of that lovely set of letters. I'm a straight white girl. What inner turmoil did I have?

Never mind that I rebuilt my self love over years. That I had my own outing and coming out processes.

It does get better. I've had some amazing friends, people who accept me not in spite of who I am, but because of it. I've had some amazing men in my life, men who've let me teach them and teach me and let me be precisely myself in their arms.

It got better. But it also stays hard.

Sing My Name

Sing my name to me. Sing to me in pain, in stings, in thuds. Sing a song made of slaps.

Remind me who I am. Who I am to you, who I am to myself, and who I am to the world.

Tattoo my skin with tracks of your presence. Write your name and mine in the bruises you leave behind, marks to show you the way back.

Take me to my Elsewhere. Take me to Elsewhen. I was not born for this earth, and only you can show me the way out.




(This vignette is inspired by a couple of posts from Shira Lipkin's Blogathon postings, which were in turn inspired by her nascent novel Cicatrix)

Because I Made Him

I don't date in "The Scene." I don't know how. The formal etiquette bores me to tears, it's harder for a switch to find a partner, and the observant Jewish men are hard to find.

Instead I find the boys whose idea of a sexual fantasy is having some. Boys who know that there is this thing out there called "kink," but have no direct experience. And I tell them what gets me hot. What "lifts my luggage " as Dan Savage would have me say. And because getting me naked is something they want to do anyway, they're willing to oblige me my proclivities.

Then something beautiful happens. They discover that they like it. The mild-mannered vanilla guy discovers his inner dominant or submissive. Sometimes both. And the sex is amazing, because we both enjoy what we're doing so much that there is this deep emotional connection.

Sometimes they leave, after staying for a time. They usually leave me better than they were before. Better partners, better lovers, better men. And they often leave me kinky. Toys have been acquired, tastes have become wired into the brain.

When my ex got together with his now-fiancee, I was horribly petty in my enjoyment that he hadn't told her about just how kinky he was. I knew how much he loved it, especially how much he loves to bottom to a woman. And I would giggle to myself that after he left me, he wasn't getting that anymore. I got to shock her with my boots (that he bought for me no less), corset, mini and fishnets at Wicked Faire.

And then I saw that they were engaged, via the lovely monster that is Stalkerbook. And all I could think of was how much this hurt me. That I wasn't good enough, that it took him far less time to decide he wanted to marry her than to decide he didn't want to marry me. And now all I can think of is that it's a waste of my hard work. I took time and effort to craft a beautiful sexuality, to mold a man to some exquisitely perverted tastes. And what has he done with my work? Left it to gather dust.

Of course, it's possible that her good girl face is just an act. She could have a leather wardrobe, a perfectly crafted inner bitch goddess. But he was supposed to be the last one. The one I got to keep. And now she has him.

And all I can do is cry.

Because It's Wrong....

I could have anything. Anyone. Even you, Spike. I could ride you at a gallop until your legs buckled and your eyes rolled up. I've got muscles you've never even dreamed of. I could squeeze you until you pop like warm champagne and you'd beg me to hurt you just a little bit more. And you know why I don't? Because it's wrong.

I often hear people refer to things as wrong. Gay sex, for example. And when you ask them why it's wrong, the answer may entail a long list of reasons. But all of those reasons boil down to the following:

"Because it makes me feel uncomfortable."

My sex life tends to be one of those things people say is wrong. They call me immoral. What's immoral about it? I'm monogamous and faithful to my partner. Oh, I'm not married? Planning on that. Even if I was married, it would still be wrong? Can you explain why?

Because you wouldn't do it. Because it tickles those deep reptilian impulses you thought you buried. It intrigues you in ways you didn't know you could be. Because it isn't how you've ordered your life. Because it shatters your comfy little paradigm.

It turns me into something other. You can hate something that's other. I become something less than human. A thing you can put in a box. You can classify me, you can study me.

But it's not wrong. It's just me. I'm not wrong. I'm just human.

And you can't stop me.

Feed Me

In the interest of keeping myself fed and clothed, I have started a cafepress shop. You can now buy bumper stickers, mugs, and various t-shirts (buttons to come soon) with an amusing line from a footnote in a previous entry.

Advertise safewords! Support me! Make asparagus funny!

My Shop!

I Aten't Dead

I promise more posts forthwith, including Spike having the living daylights beaten out of him by Buffy. Also Dr. Jack Hodgins making that lovely sad face that he does so well.

Yes, that does mean I'm writing again. This time it's fanfic.

I also haven't felt very philosophical about kink as of late. Hence the lack of postings. Hope you've missed me!