Thursday, May 31

taking off the collar

Sir and I never did a formal collaring ceremony, but I do have a collar. We have a collar. Or rather, who's collar it is and what kind of possessive pronouns to use for it is another post altogether, so: there is a collar. He puts it on for me, takes it off for me, I wear it. I made a protocol post a while back that explains a little bit about how it functions for us as defining space, as defining play.

It's also a pretty powerful symbol, for me. It makes me feel safe, contained, acts as an undeniable marker of Sir and I's relationship, of this part of myself as strong and excellent and right, a stop gap for all of the doubts and insecurities that inevitably come; I look in the mirror, and there it is, a strip of black and red leather with a hard metal lock: quiet brain, quiet worries, quiet, you've no place here right now. Sometimes, especially recently (we've hit a bit of a rough spot; not huge, but it's been hard. Again, another post), I've been wearing the collar just to bed, with no play beforehand. And even if there were play beforehand, the result is the same: I go to bed, wrapped up in this gorgeous part of myself that feels honored, cherished, and as always, full of dirty, dirty thoughts. I go to bed feeling whole and effervescent about all sorts of things, and not just the kinky parts either, as if feeling solid in this part of my life allows a certain perspective and confidence for other parts of my life.

And them morning comes, as it inevitably does. We do the coffee shuffle and the getting dressed shuffle and somewhere in there, the collar comes off. He usually has to be the one to remind me. He holds his keys in his hand, the smallest, silver and rounded at the base, pinched between his fingers. I kneel, or bury my head in his chest, exposing the back of my neck and curling my hair out of the way in gentle fists. He unlocks, a click, and hands it back to me.

The moment the leather leaves my neck, there's a rush.*

*The language here is getting flowery, but it's not meant to overdramatize; rather, I'm grasping at something I don't fully understand, and in that grasping, I'm talking around it a lot.

The rush is dazing and a little bit sad. Sometimes I cry, and usually I get pretty spacey for a few minutes. I don't know if it's me ascribing more worth to that collar than is strictly necessary, or if it's just how much I love, really love, being in that place. Being there with Sir, it's such a relief, a long breath of stale air out, and I can swim in the fresh, contended with pretty much everything, for a while.

This is starting to sound like the rest of my life, when I'm not collared, is riddled with anxiety and hopelessness. It's also starting to sound like every moment I'm collared is perfect; neither of these things are true. But put those opposites on a spectrum, and the gradient below them is about right. It's not as absolutist as I'm putting it, but there are marked trends.

Which is maybe what's scary, in part, about taking my collar off, and how much I feel in that moment. How much my "real life," (whatever that means) is unappealing, and how much my "kink life" is better. What does that mean, that I need this thing, to be okay? What does it say that, after a while of not playing, I sometimes (not all the time, but sometimes) get antsy and anxious and weird? What does Sir think of all this, and will it scare him, and is it too intense, too serious-about-kink? Can I also be playful, bratty, and funny about my kink? And why can't I just drop the whole thing, be normal, be content during kinky times, during collared times, and during regular times.*

*like right now, for instance, sitting at work. Yes, I'm blogging at work. As a great latex-maker said on his blog: "This blog isn't safe for work, unless your work is AWESOME." And while I'm not sure my boss would exactly approve of this blog, my work is pretty awesome).

When Sir takes my collar off, there's very little I can do to keep from missing myself. Not missing as in, not-seeing, but missing as in longing-for. Like, there's this part of myself that I'm so comfortable with, when I'm collared, and I don't know how to carry that part of myself into everyday life. It's that split again, that meandering divide between a kinky self and a "regular" self that, even as I try to challenge its squirmy, icky division, pops up again and again.

There was a morning, a while back, when we just forgot to take it off. I was wearing a sweater with a high neck, and I think we just didn't notice it as we left the house. When we got in the truck, Sir caught a glance, and we laughed and remarked what would have happened if we'd both missed it until we got to work. I sat in the cab, and he leaned across the mountains of sound gear and coffee cups and unlocked me. But those moments before, I can't imagine I'd been happier about a day beginning in a long time. I don't actually remember, and I didn't know I was still wearing the collar, but there was no letting go, no missing, none of that part of me slipping away. There was no mourning. Because that's what it feels like; not as much, and I'd never make a comparison, but it feels a distant kin to that kind of grief.

Who knows. Maybe that morning was the same as always.

I've been talking to a friend at work (did I mention yet that my work is really cool?) who's an incredible craftsman and jewelry designer about making a formal collar (her work can be found here). Fancier, but also more subtle, one I could wear as a necklace and/or to balls or leather dinners or what have you.

And I'm excited about that, but I think it's also important for me to remember that I don't need the collar. That the collar, whatever collar, is a symbol. That what's actually going away is a certain unity; what I actually need to work on is keeping that partition down, or questioning the partition's existence in the first place.

So, now that I've said the same thing about five different ways, I think it's back to work with me.

Happily bruised, as always,

The Good Girl

Wednesday, May 23

the subtleties of sexism; who I am not

I read an interesting article this morning. Frustrating in the way it was framed, different in that, instead of trying to sum-up two sides of a topic, it actually presented two different writers making on each side of an argument, and kept track of statistics, via a push-button poll, about how many peoples' minds were changed after reading the debate. Sounds like it's on a good track, right? And for some of it, it comes back to that track. But from the get-go, the article shows unbaised, neutral framing to be anything but.

First, the introduction starts off with 50 Shades of Grey. I've had damn enough of this book, and talking about it, and talking about it in a BDSM context. It's Twighlight fan fiction, and while I know talking about it as a bad representation of BDSM to the overall population of... the world; I know that's important to do. But I'm just so pissed off at that book, and I'm sick of talking about it. So I'll stop. Anyway.

Replacing the 50 Shades reference with a general "now that BDSM has been revealed to the mainstream media vis This Thing That Is Not That Book," the article goes on to ask, basically, if BDSM erotica is okay. More specifically, the introduction says:

"...people are asking themselves whether this is a topic that empowers the modern woman, or is a fantasy which promotes their degradation and exploitation"
And I think that's a fine question. I know exactly what I the answer is (on an intellectual level), but I think it's a fine question to ask. Except that it isn't the question the article actually asks. In what little space the article takes up before presenting two different sides of the argument, it offers the readers a push-button response to what they think before reading (and then, after reading, the same question again). The initial, "control," question, if you would, isn't the one the introduction initially poses. In our "pre-debate poll," we're asked:


Tell us your opinion before the debate starts to set the starting line

Modern women should feel empowered by S&M pornography.



And then we're offered an "agree," a "disagree," or an "I'm on the fence" option.

The arguments given are pretty standard. One is by Erika Lust, and one by Dawn Hawkins, each with credentials on either side of the issue. Lust, true to her namesake, talks about the consent-oriented, all around sex-positivity of BDSM culture, and more so, how women can be happy and empowered in liking their bodies, their porn, their sex lives, whatever those kinds of porn/sex lives might be etc. She talks about feminism in the way that feminists talk about feminism to people who aren't feminists; it's great. Hawkins talks about porn, and how it's bad, and BDSM, and how it degrades women. Lust outshines Hawkins both in argumentative style and concision; she's well-spoken, and her argument goes deeper to the heart of the issue in less time, instead of skimming the surface with generalized factoids about all porn ever, or sensationalized descriptions of BDSM. I'm pretty biased, sure, but I really believe that, politics aside, Lust argues better.

I write a lot about feminism and BDSM, and that part of this blog is from a personal, emotional standpoint. I have misgivings, and I deal with shame, and I deal with a delicately fluctuating confidence with my sexual preferences. But I know, really I do, that those things aren't the real thing; on an intellectual level, on a logical level, and on a political level, I'm a proud, freaky pervert. And sometimes, emotionally, I'm there too. There's just a lot of cultural mumbo jambalaya that gets in the way.

Which why I find the framing of the debate so, so fascinating. They're not asking "do women feel this way," but rather "should women feel this way." That 'should,' just a slight change of tense, implies so much. It's not for women to decide; that it's not for individuals to decide. That, even in grammar, cultural opinion and oppression is pervasive and destructive. Maybe I sound sensationalist now, but on a certain level, I believe that more subtle sexism can be as much, if not more dangerous, and go far more unnoticed (and by extension unbattled) than that oppression that walks in broad daylight. A wolf in a feminist clothing, or something like that.

Lust sums it up pretty well, actually, at the end of her article:

"And if shame is taken out of the equation, there will be no need for women to wonder whether they can be feminists, and enjoy BDSM images, or practices. In utilizing good erotica -- and porn of all varieties -- to further educate and inspire on the subject of female sexuality and its expression, we can only further empower women to enjoy their bodies, and their sex-lives."
As for the statistics at the end of the debate, another push button pole asks whether or not, again, you disagree or agree. As of this morning, the proportions of the pie chart were almost exactly the same as before people read the article; meaning, some of the people who were on the fence jumped off, but they jumped off in equal numbers on both sides. As of tonight, when I'm writing this, slightly more have gone with the anti-porn, anti-BDSM side of things. The statistics don't mean much to me, though, aside from the fact that it's disturbing, either way you press either button, that so many people think women "should" do things one way or the other. Maybe those people don't read into grammar as much as I do. Or maybe they just don't notice.

And again, while I battle with this question a lot on an emotional level, it's articles like this that bring me around to a fire that often missed, and much needed. Framing of this sort stirs up my hackles, and when the armor's on, the substance beneath fills in beneath it; that sexy slippery stuff that transforms me from a worried, self-conscious, nerdy kinkster who's a little unsure of herself, to a feet-stamping, cane-taking, screaming crying hurricane of female sexuality and intellect... that's the stuff I'm made of.

I guess I owe both a fuck off and a thank you to articles like this. Fuck you for perpetuating this kind of thing in the first place, but a small pittance for your existence, thank you for reminding that who I am is not you; that who I am is so decidedly against you, I am reminded that I am for myself.

Here's to the good girls everywhere. Don't let the push buttons get you down.

Friday, May 18

Why I Do This; or, Who Cares?

I've gotten into a discussion reddit recently. I get into discussions on reddit often, but few that are ever thought provoking. And while the post I read was really long (you can read the whole thing here if you want), it boiled down to a couple of basic questions/statements:

1) I think a lot my kinks are a subconscious reaction to the way I was raised, a rebellion against things I was told were wrong as I child. This bothers me. Is this wrong?

2) Now that I'm a hardcore feminist liberal recycling über good guy, how do I reconcile that with my cuckolding/hotwife-ing fantasies?

The first one is sort of a no brainer for me, but I can understand how someone would struggle with it. I'm not sure where a lot of my kinks come from, but I'm sure some of them come from my childhood, my parents, the way I was raised. And that's fine. Many of the things I like best about myself are probably nurtured, vs. natured, and some might come from some not-so-nice nurturing, I bet. I understand how it might be difficult for someone to accept that part of themselves, but at the end of the day, who cares where it comes from? I like this thing, a lot, and I'm expressing it/experiencing it in a healthy, communicative, adult way. For me, that's enough.

I'm not trying to bash on the guy who posted this. I think I'm more trying to say that I don't understand what his question is. Because, with number one, I end up in a big shrug-my-shoulders moment. Like: okay, it's hard for you. Okay, you talk about your difficulties with your SO. Okay, you've obviously thought and processed this a lot. And it's still kind of hard. And... that's sort of it. You're going to keep being kinky, you're going to keep playing. And you're going to keep dealing with the stuff that's hard, until maybe it isn't so much anymore. Or maybe it always will be. But if playing is worth it to you, then you keep playing, and this is the way of things.

But the second point makes me really mad. And I don't know why, so naturally, this is a little bit of me finding out along the way.

I totally understand the inner dissonance that comes from these two ideas together. I've got it too, as do many, many kinky people. I'm a feminist; I'm a militant, argumentative, at times even overly aggressive, powerful woman. I'm smart and I'm funny and I am, at times, a force to reckoned with. I also like to be hit, slapped, spanked, flogged, choked, etc. And those two don't really line up. But there's something about the way he talks about his cuckolding fantasies that hits me in the same place misogynists do, and I'm trying to figure that out.

So, to begin this little quest, some quotes I pulled to try and figure this out a little more:
"This [his kink] all flies in the face of my views on body acceptance, slut-shaming, egaltarianism (sic), lgbt acceptance, etc.. The gay acts are seen as "degrading", as is bending gender norms. The idea of a "slut" in the convention sense is not rejected for something higher, but rather embraced & exploited."
"It [his kink] flies in the face of conservative politics, & morality. Rather than being an answer to a sex life rooted in patriarchy, my sexuality inverts patriarchy & spits it's own values back in its-face while committing some of the very same ills & wrongs. In many ways it is exploitative & reveling in that negativity to get off." 
"I want to be emasculated, & to be called a sissy, a girl, a faggot & to lick her boyfriend's cum out of my 'slut-wifes' pussy & then curl up with a Simone de Beauvoir book & pretend that somehow I'm better than the people I criticize in the world. I'm not seeking anyone's approval."


And then, from his response to my comment:
"But it means exploiting someone else. My wife. A woman. The fantasy relies on me (the privileged one) communicating a fantasy where she's degraded as a 'slut', a 'whore', and not for my enjoyment (well it is vicariously and with compersion), but for her 'bull's enjoyment'. It's like living out all the complaints made about all of male heteronormative porn, to an extent and challenging heteronormativity and masculinity in another."

What bothers me most about his general attitude is that, at a very basic level, it seems like he's not taking his wife's experience into account. I completely understand it being difficult for someone to put their partner in the place that he's putting his wife in - and by that I mean, it may be difficult for the topping and/or shaming and/or otherwise-involved-in-the-shaming partner to have issues with his/her role (although in this situation, that's not the role of the original poster). But he doesn't really acknowledge that. He calls her exploited, and doesn't ever really say "I have a problem with my own role in "exploiting" her."

By all accounts in the rest of the post, it sounds like his wife is very much into their sexual play. And I'm not trying to advocate for her experience trumping his, but rather that he needs to talk about his experience exactly as it is - his experience, not his empathetic guilt for her experience. Or... something. She's not exploited. She's enjoying herself. As do many women in this very manner. And him having an issue with what she's doing for herself seems... like perpetuating exactly the norms he wants to avoid.

He puts a lot of stress on the intellectual parts of things, to which I can only say a couple of things. I think that part of what I like about perpetuating slutdom, or gender norms, or whatever it is that's going on subconsciously in my play, is that I choose it. Like I've written here before; it's on my terms, in my safe space, with my own partner. I give that submission, that degradation, that humiliation, and I give it all willingly, happily. I can also say that, on a certain level, I'm not sure how intellectual this issue really is. Because these two things don't go to together, intellectually. I can talk about a lot of reasons why they make sense, but in the end, from the outside, one is decidedly contrary to the other (in some ways... I hate brandishing absolutes like that. But in some ways, I can see how logic could contradict them, essentially and always. I don't know).

What he's dealing with more, I think, is the emotional fallout from the disconnect between these two parts of himself, and for that, I suggested (gently) that maybe more, or different aftercare might be helpful. I know that coming back to myself, with my partner, feeling that he loves me, feeling that I love him, that we're both complete, whole people, even with what we just did (for me, partly because of what we just did, I am whole) is essential to me being emotionally centered about my play.

I think you can play, and then sit back and read Simone de Beauvoir, but I'll leave the "pretending I'm better" part for somebody else. I don't need to be better than anybody; I just need to be okay with me, and I hope the same for others.


Sentimentally (and bruised as always),


The Good Girl


Thursday, May 17

baby's first kink: part deux

I wrote about the first time I remember feeling kinky a little while ago here. It's "part un" of the firsts, because I've got a lot of kink firsts (and will continue to have, I think). Lots of beginnings and new discoveries and revelations. Which sounds a little culty, but it's true, and part of why I continue to love this life as much as I do.

I was a wee lass when I started to like heretofore learned-as "kinky things," but I was almost twenty before I first experienced anything In Real Life, as they say. Like a lot of things I learned as a teenager, the first time wasn't exactly the safest, or most thought out, and I didn't use that fantastic "sense of judgment" my parents regularly boast about. With a lot of things, that doesn't matter as much (smoking pot, for instance. Oh no, I got to stoned! Oh... well, I won't do that again... and in the meantime, I'm going to find some oreos...*); with kink, I think it matters more. I wouldn't trade the way I got here for anything, I think my first foray could have been afforded a little more planning, and some better communication. But that's the not the point of this, really. The point it to tell a (maybe sort of sexy and interesting) story.

*I recognize that this situation could go bad for many people; what I'm trying to stress here is not that other gone-bad experiences can't be as dangerous or destructive as kink-gone-bad; rather, I think that kink, because of the nature of the things it plays with, has a greater possibility to go bad. Like, juggling with bowling pins or juggling with flaming bowling pins; both can hurt, but one begs more caution at the outset than the other.

I was a sophomore in college, sexually active since I was fifteen, and having bunches and bunches of fun. Before my encounter with Jeffry*, I'd slept with men and women, and significantly older men on occasion. I hadn't really been in any kind of serious or long term relationships, save for a very complicated off-again on-again situation with a boy back home. We'd continue to be off-again on-again who-knows-again for many years after, but that's neither here nor there.

* This isn't his real name. Nobody's name here is real, which is actually sort of fun. I get to pick names that sound right, or feel right, for people I know. I just have to extra careful not to refer to them that way In Real Life.

Jeffry was in my drama-lit class. He was six four, broad shoulders, teeth like a horse and big broad eyebrows. He wasn't particularly smart, but he had a serious sense of stage presence and honed flirtation skills. So much so that I found him sort of preposterous and fake at times, but initially, managed to gloss over those minor details. Because that's what you do when you're smitten with someone; the haze of a crush, while softening the edges to perfection, can impair visibility something awful.

Jeffry and I flirted, and sat next to each other in class. I'd rip his arguments apart, and he'd try to convince me "what I really meant was..." after class. Being the impetuous, fiery lady I am (others' words, not mine), my masochistic/submissive curiosities came up conversation, and rather than discuss them, Jeffry's flirtation just sort of... shifted. Like, he'd grab my arm and hold it in place when he wanted to make a point. Or he'd make jokes about me "liking it," standing straight and tall behind me with a hand pinching my shoulder.

And so he and his girlfriend had been fighting, and we'd been talking more and more, and late one night there came the phone call. I remember being in the sort of knowing-but-not-knowing-what-was-going-to-happen place that makes new things so exciting. That perfect balance of probability and uncertainty that allows hope to flourish and adds a pinch of nervous butterflies; the lack of a sure thing allowing for a kind of fearlessness, coupled with anticipation, that tastes so sweet. I sat on the balcony of my dorm room and watched for him. He walked across the fields below, long steps, wearing what he always wore at night: a long trench coat with big buckles and a wide brimmed black hat. Which should have been a tip off from the start.

He cried on my lap when he got there. Cried about his relationship ending, cried about having feelings for me and not being able to do anything about them. We talked and talked and it got later and later, breaching almost to the point where it isn't so much very late anymore, but moderately early. And then he took me by the waist and kissed me. He kissed like a slobbery dog, the kind you love a lot; not unpleasant, but his mouth seemed to big for mine, and there was a lot of spit. I honestly can't remember what it was like, the actual physical, sexual aspects of that night. I was swept up in what I know now to be the kinkier aspects of what was going on, and I didn't so much care what he kissed like.

He didn't ask my permission (consent was there; I was enthusiastic, but there was none of the hesitant, careful touching I'd encountered with boys in the past). He ripped my skirt, covered my mouth with his hand, and, in my single dorm bed, rested the weight of his whole body on top of mine. I felt used, dominated, like I couldn't speak or resist, like I wasn't allowed to breath even, all in the best way. But as it turns out, his mouth wasn't the only thing that was a bit big (that part, I do remember). It hurt when he fucked me, and not for lack of lubrication, but because he was painfully large. It felt like something was tearing, like a burning, and I cried a little. At the time, I remember thinking "I don't like this, but I'm supposed to like this, I'm supposed to like pain, and we've talked about me liking pain, and I can't just stop things in the middle, and..." He asked, towards the end, "are you ready?" and I nodded as best I could, although I had no idea what he meant. In retrospect, it might have been "are you ready to come?" or "are you ready for me to come?" but regardless, come he did, and then it was over. I felt relief when he pulled out, and feel asleep shortly afterward.

Let me be clear: yes, it hurt, and yes, I should have said something, but I didn't ever want him to stop. This is a story about the growing pains of me finding my kinky self, not a story about sexual assault. That's not what it was, for me anyway (and in this case, I think it's me who matters).

He stayed the night in my dorm room, and left early in the morning. I remember waking up and wanting nothing but for him to leave. He stayed and cuddled me for a while, but I just wanted space; I wanted my space back. I think that had less to do with the kink, and more to do with the fact that I actually didn't like Jeffry that much. He walked back across the fields; I didn't watch, and went to breakfast by myself.

We slept together once more after that night, after a dance party in the student union. We walked down into the canyon, below the foot bridge covered in blue lights, called (surprise) the Blue Bridge. Under that Blue Bridge, in full view of those walking by (had they cared to look), Jeffry bent me over a picnic table and fucked me again. He pulled my hair and slapped me hard. He forced me to my knees, in the dirt, and pushed himself far back into my throat. And, again, I loved it.

I realize that there were a lot things that weren't so great about these, but I want to be absolutely clear - both encounters were consensual, and while I was learning my way through my own communication skills, I don't think Jeffry should have done anything differently, and I don't think (really) that I should have done anything differently. When I talk about not liking things, or wanting things to stop, it isn't meant in the "I felt like I couldn't speak up and felt like my consent was violated," or anything like that. I'm fairly certain I'm not apologizing for it after the fact here, either. I really do think I was trying to figure out what I wanted, and how I wanted it. I was learning through mistakes, which is definitely okay in my book.

And I did learn. I learned that I don't like genital pain, that I do like whispered questions or commands in my ear. I learned that I like that feeling of having my permission taken away (or rather, I like power exchange, and giving my power freely to someone else, which is what "permission taken away" is called in the language I have now). I learned that I like a person's full weight thrown upon me. I also learned, over time, that those things can feel even more awesome when I talk about them and negotiate them with my partner beforehand. That stopping a scene sucks, because I don't get to experience that scene, but it's way better than continuing with a scene I'm not comfortable in. I also learned I like the thrill of being found out, the feeling of other people watching, the scrape of wood splinters under my hands, the cut of pine needles against my knees and the stain of dirt smeared there afterward.

So, my first time around with kink wasn't the best, but looking back, none of my sex was very good back then. I never came, but more than that, I rarely experienced much pleasure. Sex was more about being vulnerable with someone, being naked with someone, and I liked penetration for other reasons, for the feeling of being taken, being used. You might even say that before I got sexual pleasure out of the act of sex, I got some of the kinky pleasure I couldn't find anywhere else.

Nowadays, the sex I have is on a different planet. I know I don't like that kind of pain, and that I can communicated with my partner. More so than this, the kinky parts of my life are about way more than sex, which is where they've always been from the get go.

After we'd slept together a few times, Jeffry confessed to me that he and his girlfriend hadn't ever broken up, and that I'd been fulfilling, unbeknownst to me, the "other women" role. We stopped sleeping together, and he told his girlfriend about everything that happened. At which point she broke off her engagement and wrote me an e-mail, after which Jeffry admitted that, prior to our little tryst, his girlfriend had in fact also been his fiance.

So that ended really fast, and post home-wrecker drama ensued. His ex and I actually bonded a bit (not at first - she was pretty mad), but after a while, he got the icy end of the stick from both of us. I moved on to other things, and we all lost touch.

So. What was the point of this again? Besides a story about kink? Maybe that, like anything you learn when you're young, kink has it's hiccups along the way. My hiccups were relatively mild, but I think I was lucky more than anything. Here's to better-negotiated picnic benches in the future.

Thursday, May 10

The Perils of Cohabitation

Sir and I moved in together! And it's going really great. But the title here is a little misleading; the perils mentioned above actually refer to my roommate, let's call her Cindy, and not my newly co-habitating partner. Dominant. Boyfriend. Sir. (I really like all the names for him).

Cindy and I have lived together before, and she's an up-and-up kind of girl. She knew, before we went apartment searching together, that I was kinky, and that the sex would sound like... well, like kinky sex. I make it a point, whenever I can, to talk to people about this beforehand; it's not a show-off thing; it's a consideration thing. I'd do the same if I were... I don't know, grossly flatulent, and thought my gaseous passages would echo through walls into the sleeping space of a future roommate. It's common decency.

Sir and I haven't been officially "living together" until about a week ago, but he's stayed over a bunch in the months Cindy and I have lived together. And we'd joke about playtime, in the mornings after, and she'd giggle about noises she'd overheard. Our apartment isn't particularly small or particularly poorly built, but it's still an apartment, and a certain amount of noise bleed is unavoidable.

We've tried to be conscientious about playing - like anything that makes noise, we try not to do it late at night when she's home (and she's a bartender, so there are plenty of late nights when she's not home, which works well). We live on the second floor, so the late-at-night thing is also for our downstairs neighbors. Nonetheless, I secretly hope that the bedroom below us is actually a converted office or workroom, simply because sometimes, with all our efforts, I'm sure it would bother someone trying to sleep.

Cindy has never been rude about our sexual preferences, and she is, generally, supportive (although her support comes with sort of backhanded language sometimes - see below). She also has no problem speaking up for herself, a quality I value in a roommate. Which is why I think I'm having some trouble with a conversation we had last night. It went something like this:

Cindy comes home.

Me: Hey! How's your night lady?
Cindy: Good! Good. (snuggles with cat on the floor)
(pause)
Cindy: Hey, so, I love your face a lot, but...
Me: Yeah?
Cindy: Whatever you guys were doing last night, you can't do that when I'm home.
Me: Um, okay.
Cindy: And I mean, it's not even just me. You can't do that when people are home. In the building. I mean, it's not just that it's really horrible to fall asleep to. I was waiting for somebody, or the cops, to come knock on the door, and trying to think about what I would say when I answered.
Me: Hey, it's no problem if it makes you uncomfortable. We can absolutely keep it down when you're home. And you don't ever have to answer the door - I've thought about that a lot, actually, and we'd answer the door together, no problem.
Cindy: Okay, sure. And I mean, I'm totally down with whatever you guys wanna do in there - if it's your thing, go for it, do what you do. But I'm just saying, when [insert Sir's name here] is playing the guitar in the living room, and I can hear it when I go check the mail, that's... noise travels, you know.
Me: Sure. And I've got no problem keeping it down when you're home. Thanks for letting me know.
Cindy: Yeah, and really, do what you do, it's just... you can't do that when people are home. I mean, it was like... sounds of ritual slaughter in there (giggles).

Anyway, you get the idea. Our back and forth banter about issues (roommate issues) goes sort of like this. She asks something very directly, and then I tell her what I think about it (usually, that it's totally cool - her requests are fairly reasonable), and then she proceeds to explain many times, in many different ways, it's justification and why it's important to her. Which, if we were arguing, might be productive. Except that we rarely disagree, so it just sort of cycles until she runs herself out of things to say.

It's starting to sound like I don't like Cindy, which isn't true. I like her a lot, and she's a great roommate in a lot of ways. She just has very... particular things about her, which most of the time are funny, and in this case, ended up hurting more than I initially thought.

Partly, it's her language. The way she always frames talking about our play in this sort of "I am supportive, of that thing, of that big freaky thing you're doing look I am supportive." As if the staunchness of her support is proportional to how freaky the thing is that she's supporting. But that's never really bothered me much. Her coming home and telling me, first thing, flat out, that I "can't" do something? That's not okay. Again, it's mostly her language, which is why I didn't have a big problem with the conversation at the time. I know that, although she's framing it in a really condescending way, what she's trying to say is "Hey, this thing made me uncomfortable, and made it hard for me to sleep. Think next time you could keep it down a little more?"

But how she said it really stung. In a few different ways. It stung because (and she does this, from time to time) she was trying to tell me what I should do, not based on her experience, but based on the plausible experience of other people. She was trying to tell me, based on the rules of arbitrary propriety of the neighbors, that I should be secretive about what I'm doing. I would have no problem with a neighbor coming to knock on my door, and telling me that either a) we were too loud, or b) that even though we weren't too loud, the kinds of noises we were making were unsettling or uncomfortable for them to hear. I honor that. I honor that sounds of violence and pain aren't everyone's cup of tea, and that many people have very personal reasons for not wanting to hear them. But the way that Cindy said what she said left me feeling very ashamed of what I do in my own bedroom, which is just... a really terrible thing to feel.

What I don't honor is somebody telling me that I should bend to these peoples, up to the point un-stated, preferences. There is nothing I can or cannot do based on someone's opinion who I've seen passing in the hallway; I don't think we're ever louder than a boombox, and I don't think expecting a neighbor to deal with that level of noise, at a reasonable hour, is that unreasonable. But most of all, I don't think Cindy has any place, at all, telling me to change my judgments of a situation based on her own. I think that's rude, oppressive, and smotherly motherly in all the bad ways.

There might be a little bit of masking going on. And I'm not trying to pop-psychologize (although maybe I am trying to make myself feel better about this by casting it in a different light), but I think Cindy might be a little shaky on telling me that noises were disturbing to her, so she's using out neighbors as a front. Or maybe she's a little embarrassed about interacting with our neighbors because she lives with me, and because the sounds also come from her apartment - again, this is totally valid. I have no issues with the motivations that come from Cindy, I just have issues with her prescribing other people's values (that don't actually exist yet) onto me.

To get meta for a minute: I also think part of the problem I have with what happened because of the way I responded. Or rather, the way I feel about the way I responded. I cut Cindy a lot of slack because I know her, and I like her a lot, but at the heart of it, I'm shaken and a little bothered when I don't stand up for myself; when I don't walk the walk, as it were. I've thought about talking to her about it, but I'm just not sure it's worth the heartache, or the cyclical conversation if would yield. So, there's me feeling not only hurt, but a little disappointed with myself.

At the end of the night, it really is just that I'm hurt. Kink is something I'm really proud of, that I really like about myself, but sometimes it's hard when the people closest to me use words like "animal slaughter," in a dismissive tone, with a laugh, to describe something that's a really integral part of my sexuality. Hell, of my identity in general. So, despite all of my strength, and all of my knowledge and reading about this, I end up feeling like a freak.

Sir and I went out for a cigarette before bed, after this happened, and I talked with him about it, which helped. I told him that I have thought about the neighbors, a lot, and about what I would do if someone came to the door. I looked him in the face, into his sleepy eyes (he'd worked something like a fourteen hour day that day), and told him that if someone, cops or otherwise, rang our bell, I'd open the door wearing my collar and holding his hand, and I'd tell them to kindly fuck off. Not in so many words (or maybe, depending), but that's the sentiment. I have to remember to hold onto that; remember that this is part of who I am, a part that I like. Ritual slaughter nay sayers be damned.

Wednesday, May 9

baby's got religion

Okay, so, not really. But I do think there are some fascinating overlaps between religion and BDSM. And not just because there's a lot of overlap in the two groups, but because my experiences during a scene align, surprisingly, with the little positive experience I've had with organized religion.


Getting more into the public and local BDSM scene in the past year, I've noticed a fair amount of the people who lecture, blog, or demonstrate list themselves as, in one way or another, "spiritual." In their headers or their bios, along with "teacher," "practitioner," "educator," and "artist," I often see titles like "shaman," or "healer," or "priest." And although this is just a general impression, I get the sense that the BDSM community overlaps a fair bit with the more new-agey, alternatives-to-christianity spiritual crowd.


For a while, I chalked this up to the Fringe Group Reduction Theory (capitalized for my own enjoyment; this is not a real thing). Meaning that, if two or more far-from-the-ordinary groups aren't opposed to each other in any kind of real way, they tend to get together. It's why you see nerds and geeks in BDSM; it's why you see ravers and fire dancers and hippies all hanging out together. For a while, I thought it was why people at BDSM events also offered to balance my chakras and read my Mayan calendar. And maybe I still think that a little bit, but I'm not sure that's all there is to it.


First, a little background:


I was raised a catholic/protestant/buddhist. My parents were both lapsed catholics, sort of, and my mother and I attended a presbyterian church growing up. I was an adamant part of the youth group, but that was mostly for the service and community sides of it, and not the religious aspects. I've never really believed in capital G god, or a god, or Jesus. I mean, I think he was a pretty great dude, but I capitalize his name because it's a proper name, and not because he's a deity.


My mother also took me to visit a buddhist monastery for a weekend every summer, where we would stay as guests (they ran a small guest-house program, sort of like a retreat center, out of part of the monastery. It funded that monastery, and their other two locations). It was called Tassajara, tucked in a valley of the Santa Cruz mountains at the end of a fourteen-mile dirt road. It was beautiful, and I loved it even as a baby, and it's where I started to learn about Zen.


When I was sixteen, I decided to try a few weeks as a full time student at Tassajara. They usually require students to be of legal adult age (eighteen), but because I was somewhat familiar with the place, they made an exception. They gave me a mentor, a woman named Joan, who has since become an abbot at the city center. She made sure I stayed out of trouble (mostly), and we'd have long chats over tea or chess. We talked about Zen, about practice, about the dharma and the sangha. And although I identified with Zen in a lot of ways, I learned fairly early on that I would never take vows, never be a Zen practitioner very seriously in my life. But the great thing about buddhism (or the way I've experienced it, anyway) is that there's no attempt at conversion. There's no pressure or alienation for hesitance. So I stayed a few weeks as as student, went back to the city for week, and then decided to return to the monastery for the remainder of the summer. I woke up in the early morning, sat zazen (formal meditation), ate breakfast, worked a full day cleaning bedrooms or tending the garden or chopping vegetables, ate lunch, worked, ate dinner, sat zazen, and went to bed. I had one day off every five days, during which I wasn't required to work, but was encouraged to sit extra zazen periods in my spare time. Which often, I did.


I moved away from Zen during college, and then, when my first serious relationship ended, I returned to the Bay Area to live with my mother, and found that Joan was teaching a class at the city center on the Five Hinderances. Much of class focused on how to sit with the difficult things (the hinderances); how to sit with rage, how to sit with anxiety, how to sit with depression (sitting with too much sitting, we used to joke). It was perfect for that time in my life, and I took sanctuary in the large brick building a couple times a week, sitting zazen again and then going to class. Talking about loss, talking about grief. Talking about the dark emotions as things to be honored for their power and their energy, for their possibility.


I'm getting to the BDSM part, I promise (and starting to sound a little new-agey myself in the process, it seems).


It wasn't until I went to kinkfest this past year that I started putting these two things together; that I started linking the way I felt about buddhism, and the tenants I loved about it, with the way I felt under a flogger, or kneeling at someone's feet. So this is still relatively new, but I'll do my best.


One of the things I have always loved about buddhism is its stress on the present; stay present, be in the present moment; the present is all you have. I believe in that (maybe not the last one as much, but sort of), and I know that when I can do that more often, I'm a more fulfilled person. I'm more contented and more at peace. I also agree with the tenants of Zen that talk about accepting oneself as imperfect, as flawed, as dark and human. These are, at their essence, many of the central tenants that I also love about BDSM, about my own masochism and my own submission.


*The jump that I don't make is that, through some amount of sitting, there is a letting go of the dark and flawed and the desire, and the belief that that is better. I may not always like my dark or my desire, but I think they're really important, and living with them is important, and I'd like to keep them. So that's where Buddhism and I part ways. But that's another post, or another blog altogether.


When I'm in a scene, I create (with my partner) a space in which my own dark feelings about myself (my own loathing, my own fear and my own doubt) can be expressed safely. That leads, for me, to a space where they're not only given free reign to do their worst, but where they are, in a way, valued. The same is true, for me, of buddhism. The darkness** is powerful, and should be honored for that power. So not only do I get to take all the bad and, in a way, excise it, but I'm actually valued (in part) for having this bad in the first place. And I think all people, no matter how hunky-dory their life is, have bad in them. Have dark in them. The problem, I think, lies in how we're conditioned to feel about it, and how we're told it's okay to express (or not express) the feelings that come from it. How darkness is something we're told to put away, push under, deny and cover up.


**I realize I'm using "darkness" a lot. I don't mean it in a woo-woo sort of way; it's just the term I like best to sum up all the negative emotions, negative psychological states/reactions, etc...


When I'm in a scene, there is also pain.


I love pain for many reasons. Some of them I can only describe in flavors; "tangy" is one my favorite words to use when doing this. There's a certain kind of pain that's sharp, but not sting; that's acute, but not instant. It's the moment of the perfect-force hit of cane on a well-warmed ass; enough to make me gasp for breath, enough to push me right up to the edge, but not over it (and I know, a cane is the ultimate sting, but sometimes it's... more than that). It's best described, I think, in the moment when a clothespin left long on my breast is removed, maybe right after an orgasm. A hot rush, filling first the place once pinched and then moving up into my head, up out of me in an open mouthed-scream. That's tang, and I can't get enough.

But I also love pain because, just like sitting zazen, it takes me into the present moment. Getting there through sitting zazen is a lot harder; it doesn't happen as easily or as often, and it's usually fleeting and interrupted by many bouts of non-present-ness (oh man - word choice is getting sloppy). But it's there. In the same way that, each time I'm hit, or flogged, or caned, there's a tiny moment in which I'm nowhere else, thinking about nothing else; completely present in the taste of that impact. With kink, the little moments bleed together, and it's easier to stay present than it is when I'm sitting. They're too entirely different practices, so that makes sense, but even so (differences aside) I think it's fascinating that one is so active (and easier), while the other is passive (and harder).


I miss sitting zazen sometimes, even with a regular kink practice (do I dare start to call it that? Maybe not. Maybe just this once...). But I think I get some of the same aftereffects out of kink that I did out of zazen. I feel more centered and more aware in my everyday life. I feel more at home in my body, and have an easier time making decisions. I feel more awake, more confident, more sure of what I want. And I feel more fulfilled. I like to use that instead of "happier," because I think happiness is both too easily glossed over (and faked), and it's also too simplistic a word. It doesn't carry enough weight for me to hold it on the be-all-end-all pinnacle it occupies for some people, or in some cultural tropes. I choose the Pursuit of Personal Purpose instead. Or some equally as cheesy acronym.


So. This is rambling on. To the point!


I think part of what attracts people to the BDSM lifestyle might also be what attracts them to the alternative religions (and no offense meant there - I just honestly don't have a good word to encompass the group). The emphasis on the present, maybe less so. But the honoring of dark spaces, the honoring of the less-accepted, deeper parts of ourselves? Not the mention the ritual (it's an obvious one, so I didn't get into it as much). So maybe, it's less the Fringe Group Reduction Theory and more the Fringe Group Aspect Overlap Theory. That one's less cool sounding, but maybe more accurate.


And I think it's great, not just in general, but for me and my own perspective and judgment. I tend to be really turned off by the new-agey, horoscope, star sign destiny bullshit (see? I'm calling it bullshit, right here. I should stop doing that). I don't believe in higher powers (my higher power is the complexity of people, but that is, again, another post). But I do, after thinking about this for a long time, have more respect and a greater capacity for acceptance of people who do believe these things. To be able to acknowledge a persons beliefs as completely implausible to myself personally, while at the same time identifying with the reasons why they believe what they do, and the aspects of their belief that draw them to it: I think this is good for me. That it is good medicine in general.


And, looking back, the overlap comes up in all sorts of funny ways.


At the beginning and the end of each of the hinderances classes I took, back in the Bay Area with Joan, we would repent, and then we would take refuge. I don't really believe in repentance in the traditional, culturally-laden sense of the word "repent," and I don't think buddhists really do either. But I loved, loved when we would do this. The idea with the class was, at the beginning, to repent in a way that laid our dark parts out on the table; that took ownership over all we were, including our more shadowed aspects, in order to have an open, honest, and accepting class (both of others and of ourselves). And at the end of class, after we'd splashed around in our own muddy waters, so to speak, we'd take refuge in the buddha, the dharma, and the sangha, as if to ask for some relief from the all of the hard things we'd just dealt with. And I liked this model, in a broad sense. I liked the acknowledgment of the sinking into a thing, and acknowledgment of the coming back up for air. I liked that we knew, in plain words (sometimes not english words, but plain none the less), that this was hard to do, but also worth doing; that we could ask a lot of ourselves, but also ask for help.


I liked the refuges at the end of class, but I liked the repentance more. This particular repentance is called "The Atonement Gatha," and it rings loud and clear in a discussion at the recent kinkfest of the word "atonement." Lee Harrington (I promise, I'm not a stalker - I just like him. A lot) was writing buzzwords up on the board that came to mind when we thought about protocol. And when someone shouted "atonement," murmurs of ascent and understanding rippled across the room in an eerie wave. It surprised everyone (even me - who was among those murmuring ascent). I haven't thought about it hard enough yet (and it too will probably have it's own post), but the word "atonement" and that moment in the lecture was what started this wheel turning in my head.


Below, you'll find the repentance from class. It's a Zen chant, but I can't read it now without thinking of it in a kink context, as if it were meant to be uttered before a scene, or at the beginning of a play party.




ALL MY ANCIENT TWISTED KARMA


FROM BEGINNINGLESS GREED, HATE, AND DELUSION


BORN THROUGH BODY SPEECH AND MIND


I NOW FULLY AVOW




Happily bruised, as always,


The Good Girl

Sunday, May 6

Men Have it Hard (or as hard as women, really, don’t you see?)


Disclaimer: I’ve been travelling for a while, hence the lack of updates. And while the following isn’t really about kink, I think it still falls under the umbrella. Plus, I need a place to put it. On the internet. For reasons heretofore unclear. Enjoy.
I do a lot of reading and writing on a website called Reddit. It’s a forum website, where people write about problems or bring up discussions. It’s also naked pictures and stupid dribble banter, but the parts of Reddit I enjoy are mostly about talking. It can be fascinating - whether it’s a group of kinksters discussing at article, or advising their partners on how to work through a scene gone bad, there are parts of the communities on the site that, I think, genuinely help people. There’s also a lot of crap.
One of the forums I post to and read often is r/sex (among the others: r/Portland, r/bdsm, and r/bdsmcommunity), referred to coloquially as “sexxit.” It’s got a lot of ridiculous to it, but the main objective of the subreddit (as posted in their rules on the sidebar of the community) is to educate and support and sex-positive environment. Which is why I was so, so surprised when, a few days ago, the community when ballistic over a link to an article “Men Have it Hard.”
And I mean ballistic in a good way. An ecstatic, girl-fans drooling on the Beatles kind of way.
The link was posted by the author of the article, and long-time respected member of the sexxit commnity. She goes by Maxxters, and writes for the website where the article was published, “The Sexperts Lounge.” She’s often the top voted comment on posts by people with sex questions; she’s articulate, and argues and defends her points well. And although I’ve always thought there was a little bit of a star-struck nature in the way Sexxit views Maxxters, it wasn’t until the other day that I really saw it flourish.
But I digress. Here’s the article, and here’s the reddit post about it. And here are some of the problems that I have, for all it’s attempts at good advice and equality, with this so-called expert’s advice on the sex lives of men.
The article sets up, from the beginning, a false dichotomy between feminism, or equal rights for women, and the fact that men also have issues with sex, body image, and gender norms. The first two paragraphs of the article alone demonstrate this beautifully:
“When we hear about sexual pain, low libido, laock of interest in sex, difficulty achieving orgasm, or overcoming sexual hang ups, many of us think first of women.
It may seem like men have it easy, but men have all of these problems and many more. Men have it hard.”
The jump between these two paragraphs is my favorite thing about them, I think. The blank space in which cultural assumption thrives, and the false-dichotomy (present throughout the entire article) begins. Yes, many of us first think of women (and maybe that’s because women have, for thousands of years, had all of these problems). But the blank space after that sentence, followed by the set up “It may seem like men have it easy,” somehow implies not only that thinking of women first is wrong, but that if we think of women at all, there is an automatic exclusion of men, and an automatic belief that men cannot have issues, that men live on fluffy clouds of sex life made of unicorn vaginas. Or something.
I challenge that. I challenge the dichotomy that if women have it hard, men have to it equally as hard, or no one is entitled to their oppression. The next paragraph illustrates this well (and I’m going to try not to type out the entier lenght of the article in small segments, but we’ll see what hppens):
“Women are undoubtedly affected more by body image concerns than men, but men have these issues too.”
Turning to grammar, here’s the false dichotmoy (and a somewhat confrontational tone, but we’ll get to that later) again: Sure, women, you have issues; but if you have issues, you must acknowledge and spend as much or more time on men’s issues. Your issues cannot be more important than men’s issues. In fact, by having issues at all, you’re taking away from the limited (what?) energy the world has to devote to men’s issues.
That might sound hyperbolic, and it is a little, so instead, how about an alternative; a simple, very subtle change in the grammar, plus a small end cap:
Women are affected more by body image concerns than men. Men also have body image concerns; I’d like to start a discussion about them.
My issue with this, it seems, is where the blame is lain (lied? laid? Oh dear, and I was just expounding about grammar…) for the lack of education, or lack of awareness about men’s sexual issues. Later on in the article, Maxxters goes on to explain this:
About penis size: “Many younger or less experienced women have figured it was true…”
About picking girls up/being the person to initiate romantic contact: “… many ladies are happy to let it happen the old-fashioned way.”
About difficulties with performance: “Ladies, whether it’s ‘whiskey dick,’ performance anxiety, fatigue, or something unknown, putting pressure on the guy and worrying about it wont help. So try to be understanding.”
Although it’s never outright stated, it’s implied through framing, over and over again, that not only are women’s issues (and women talking about women’s issues, god forbid, standing up for themselves) to blame for the lack of education and awareness about men’s issues (hogging the spotlight, so to speak), but that women themselves are somehow responsible for fixing the problem. That it’s a woman’s responsibility, somehow, to overcome these issues of male sexuality and gender identity for her male partner; that because she’s been given so much attention, it’s time to give some of it back. Or something.
Let me be clear: I’m not saying that people can’t be advocates, and can’t do certain things to support the development and growth of their partners’ gender identities and sexual lives. I am in full support of these advocates, and their partners, regardless of where they fall along the gender spectrum. I am in full support of open, communicative, consent-cultured sex-positive relationships. And I think Maxxters is too. I’m just concerned that, in her article, advocacy for one gender’s sexual issues comes at the cost of advocacy for another. And I don’t think it has to be that way.
The kicker to the previous point rears it’s head in the final paragraphs; the author spells out what she’s been alluding to the entire time; namely, that this article is written for women, about men:
Don’t Make it About You
“Instead, talk to him and find out how you can help make things better. Work to make him comfortable with you and eliminate any sexual pressure you’re putting on him… And always think twice before bashing or shaming a guy while gossiping with your friends about your sexcapades. If women can realize that guys have it hard, too, and take it a but easy on them once in a while, I think that us women are going to have a lot more fun with them.”
First of all, if somebody refers to “us women” one more time, I think I’m going to boycott my own vagina. But the sweeping generalizations of gender identity are small potatoes in this piece, and so obvious that they’re almost not worth discussing. What kills me about her ending, (and what I’ll probably go gossip about with my friends later, insert high pitched laugh here) is that it is, once again, putting simultaneous blame and responsibility on women for men’s sexual issues. And I think that’s wrong, and unnecessary.
What I propose instead, which doesn’t exclude women at all, is that the blame and the solution to men’s sexual issues comes from exactly the same place as the blame and solution to women’s sexual issues comes from: the patriarchal, sex-negative, gender-stereotypical culture that’s been perpetuated for thousands of years. And when I say patriarchy, I don’t mean men. I mean the system. Yup, the system. It all comes back to the system.
The system that Maxxters is perpetuating, and that sexxit so enthusiastically condoned.
Further examples of complicity also in the last paragraph of the article, when it suggests (subtly, of course) why men’s comfort with their own sexuality is important. The purpose of making men comfortable, of course, is not so that men can be comfortable, not because that’s a good goal in itself, and not so that people (regardless of gender) can have positive and fulfilling sex lives. Instead, it posits that women should care about the sex lives of men simply so that women can have [more] fun with them. In order for a women to care about a man’s issue, it has to relate directly back to their own enjoyment; I’d chalk it up to candor and tone, a little sacrifice of her principals for a snappy ending, except that it’s happened before:
“…feel confident that if a guy you’re with is having trouble, it’s usually not because you’re unattractive or bad at sex.”
Women should understand and be sympathetic to a man’s sexual issues, not because men are people and have sexual issues (note: I didn’t say “men are people too.” Men don’t need to be people too. We’re all people. Get with it), but because your sexual hang-ups, which of course you have because you’re female (beep boop) will be easier to deal with. They’ll be easier to explain. And I’m not advocating that women simply “get over” feeling unattractive either - I’m trying to draw attention to a pattern that’s present throughout the article, an aggressive tone that translates to something bigger, to a point where neither gender is given any room to even have sexual hang ups. It’s solutions offered, and the shaming of the problems in the first place. There’s no empathy; there’s no connection; there’s no advocacy of understanding between partners for the simply reason of caring about that partner. There’s no space to say “Hey, I have issues with this. I haven’t found a solution yet. I’d like to have a great sex life with you anyway. Wanna give it a go?”
About what to do with the absence of a hard penis: “The couple can even still have penetrative sex is the guy is comfortable enough with himself to strap on a dildo.”
Come on guys. Get comfortable enough with yourself. If you’re not, or you have some issues about this, that’s not acceptable. Get over it. Be a man.
About lasting too long: “The guy should buy a fleshlight and only use that to masturbate.”
Go out, fix the problem, don’t think about it: here’s what to do.
Any article that uses a sweeping generalization of gender followed by a “should” clause gets a big fat bullshit. And it’s not even that the practical advice is bad - fleshlights, or a different grip with masturbation, probably helps lots of men. But it’s probably not the easiest thing to admit, the easiest thing to do, or the easiest thing to even talk about. There’s no room for discussion, because men don’t talk about their misgivings or their fears; it’s not in the culturally perpetuated male stereotype to do so, and by extension, it’s not in the article either. Whether it’s from women, or from the author herself, men are allowed little to no empathy, little to no space for an individual sexual identity, emotional or otherwise.
But I’m getting away from myself here. Back to basics.
Not just in this article, but in the world, our overarching cultural manifestations of sex, gender (hell, race, class, sexual orientation - throw in what you will, it’s there) perpetuates stereotypes about men and women. The ones about women are, I would argue, worse, but that’s not the point. The point is that, even in an article that aims to somehow equal the playing field, stereotypes about bothgenders are perpetuated, through writing that’s aggressive, heteronormative, mono-normative (is that even a word? I should be), and misogynistic.
What’s scary to me, and what started all this, is the way in which this community (a community that’s usually okay, not great, but okay, with dealing in gender stereotypes and sexual issues) responded to this article. With praise. With excitement. And sure, with dissent - in the comments towards the bottom, having been downvoted into low numbers. As sexism and stereotypes get more subtle, they get more dangerous; as they’re harder to recognize, they’re harder to argue against. What’s scary is that somebody who’s so respected in their community, and (I’ll be first to say) has a wealth of knowledge about sex, can get away with an article like this.
I’m sad and mad now. Which how these things usually end up. Maybe I’ll go open a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and watch a Sandra Bullock movie. Because I’m a female, and that’s how I process my emotions. Beep boop.