90's Internet

I'm really amazed at how far the internet has come since I first used it. I was nine, maybe ten years old when we got our first computer, and I remember making a sandwich and eating it in the time it took to dial up to AOL. Once I figured out that there was more to this grey box than just aol, I remember fondly sits like the Hamster Dance, and Frogger. This was a golden age of pixels and bright color pallets, an era of choppy scrolling and over-decorated side bars.

We moved on to sleeker, more elegant times. Times of blogger, of facebook. A time when even sites like reddit and live journal have a faster, sleeker aesthetic.

But somehow, I don't think the kink community got the message.

Seriously, do a search, any search, for a kink-related thing. Once you get past all the porn (or filter it out), there's an incredible number of pixelated skull-and-crossbone rose-adorned headers, or bright fuscia scrolly fonts. And I know some of these sites have been up for a really long time, but... I find it hialrious that, in a community where the aesthetic is something that I usually love, their internet style is so very dated.

It's not a serious thing (although I do think it's a shame that some of these websites have such good information, and that that information might be disregarded because of the poor quality of their website). But it might behoove us to, amidst our flogging practice and discussions of protocol, to geek about something else for a while, and learn a little CSS or HTML.

Okay, out of my system. More substantive posts to come.

Imagery of Kink

A couple of posts ago, I mentioned that I work in theater, and that I'm currently ASMing on a play that is very much up my alley, re: feminism, consent, kink, etc.

Because it's a new play (and because the rehearsals/reading are all under a workshop umbrella), I can't talk about specifics. But there is something that comes up in the play that... really challenged my riteoughness about kink and consent, I think. Or not challenged; maybe, put in perspective. Maybe.


There's an arc in the play involving a woman, in the attic of the house they live in. She's gagged, but not tied up, and debatably drugged. The details aren't important, but the debate we're having in rehearsals is, basically, whether or not it's consensual. And how that affects... a lot of things in the play. Choices characters make, what kind of people they are, what the play says as a whole.

The debate about whether the woman is there consensually (or if that's even possible, with the debatable drugs involved) isn't one I can tackle here. I mean, I could, but I don't think it's appropriate to go into the details of the play, as it's still a play in workshop. But the dramaturgy happening in the room; that is simple, and that is fascinating.

Dramaturges are the literary and research department of the development of the production (for more info, see the above link).  For a play in workshop/reading (which is what this is), they're another analytical voice in the room, as sometimes (as with our play), they bring a smattering of visuals pulled from the text of the play. For this play, those images include frat boys, frat houses, the anatomy of a cell, a pair of slippers, images of strippers and strip clubs, and, of course, images of bound women.

They're all pulled from metaphorical images, or actual events in the play.

We refer to it as our "wall of porn."

I didn't think much of it until a few days ago, when I was moving it between rehearsal spaces, and actually looked at the images of the bound women. There are two.

The first is a highly styalized photo, maybe even from a photoshoot with a professional model. The woman has a blindfold over her eyes, and a band of fabric around her nipples, pressing her breasts in so they bludge above and below. The shot cuts off just above her brow line, and just below her breasts. Both the blindfold and the band of fabric are muddied, but in a professional photoshoot kind of way. Her collar bones are promiment, her lips are full. We can't see her eyes.

The second is less professional looking. It's a full body shot of a woman in normal underwear, cuffed at the wrists and ankles, with chain running from the cuffs to the wall behind her. She's spread eagled, but standing, sort of almost smiling. It looks like it was taken for an instructional manual of some kind, like "this is a woman in leather and chain bondage, see illustration 2.43." It's well lit and simple.

The two photos couldn't be more different, but they have a couple of similarities that make them both problematic for the play.

1). They scream consensual.
2). They scream organized kink.

Scenario one is that, from a dramaturgical point of view, the woman in the play is there consensually, and there's some kind of kinky shit going on. If this were the case, then the play assumes a few things about kink: 1) that it's sort of like abuse, or is abuse, and 2) that it's okay to leave a bound person (or gagged person - it's never specified if she's bound or not) alone in a room for extended periods of time (or, at all, really).

Scenario two is that, from a dramaturgical point of view, the women in the play *isn't* there consensually, which brings us around to an even more problematic, albeit similar point. Namely, that consent doesn't matter in kink, and that the women in these pictures actually are representative of the woman in the play; that there is no difference between being tied up with consent, and being tied up without.

To put this all in perspective, I know that there was probably .02 seconds of thought put into these pictures, and that our wall of porn is mostly for comedic affect. The work of dramaturgy is not clip-art. But in a room where the subject of women, consent, gender relationships, and feminism are at the heart of what we're discussing, I think it's fascinating that we have obviously consenting, styalized women tacked up to a pin board in order to represent a woman who may or may not be stashed in an attic against her will. I think it says a lot about the split second assumptions we make about kinky imagery.

But I am, as always, an ASM. So I sit in the corner and keep my mouth shut. Would you like irony rare, or medium?

The Interneteth Providetheth

That post I made about the argument I had with a moderator on the bdsm subreddit the other day?


This is exactly what was happening.

Also this.

Oh, and a smattering of these as well.


Wow, internet. I take comfort in your sarcasm, refuge in your satire. Thank you, oh internet, for all the tiny nooks and crannies of good in the giant mass of slowly spinning crapola. A little nebula of cleverly laid-out truth in the solar system of bigotry. I thank my lucky, feminist stars.

Female: beep motherfuckin' boop.

Remember how I was going to take a break from feminist arguments on the internet? Whoops...

Granted, this one looked hopeful. This one looked civil. This one didn't even look like an argument, at first. Or maybe it did, a little. Maybe I really am more of a masochist than I give myself credit for.
Part of why I started in the first place is because my counter-debater was a moderator of the subreddit I enjoy so much. I'd seen his writing and I'd seen his arguments, and aside from his sometimes arrogant tone, he's pretty spot-on most of the time.

We talked about feminism, the definitions of feminism, how political ideologies affect personal relationships and how theories like feminism affect personal sexual identity. I cited (as many feminists have before me) the "personal is political" quote, and took it one step further (or rather, put in the context I've always thought it's sort of implicitly in anyway) in saying that I think the political is personal as well, that there isn't a clean-cut line, and that there is a reason why so many people write about this. Hell, that there's a reason we care about politics in the first place; the world is not, in fact, populated entirely by isolated libertarian hermits. Although sometimes I wish that were the case.

The argument devolved. I held out hope for a long time, and there were a lot of good things that happened along the way. But eventually, I had to let it go, with a comment that made some final points, and stated very simply that I thought the conversation had run it's course, that I would think about what he said and that I hoped he would think about what I said.

And then he replied with more arguments, to which I did not reply, which as an action in itself is so fucking hard. My partner was with me, and it was with his unbelievable support that I shut the computer, that I went to bed, that I tried and tried and tried to forget about it. Just breath. Just let it go.

I went to bed feeling that way, with an undertone of this:

And then in the morning, the undertone became the overtone became the only tone, so of course, I come here and write about it. Because I can't let it go, not totally. Because having an argument like that always results in me wanting to point, specifically, where the problems with each side fester. Or rather, my problems with his side, as it were. They're two fold.

1) He states, basically, that he doesn't let things like racism or sexism affect him, and that allowing those things into his personal sexual life just doesn't do any good.

"You go looking for things to be upset about and you'll find it. I choose not to look, but to address as it happens."

It's the verb choice here that exemplifies our essentially different perspectives, and life experiences. "Allows"? "Choose"? Do you think, if I had a choice in all this, I would voluntarily intertwine these two inherently complex things? (I mean, maybe I would, for like, an interesting exercise. But everyday? Hell no). I don't mean that in a victimized sense; I mean that in an essentialist sense. As in, these two things, for me, and for many people out there, are inherently linked. Because of their linkage (sounds dirty... "ooh baby, I wanna see your linkage"), the need to parse out the intricacies of their interaction becomes a calling. Or if not a calling, at least a point of interest. For more than a day. For more than a class or a paper. For me personally and for me politically.

2) I called him out some misogynist language. It wasn't a big deal, but I asked about it in a comment. He didn't reply about it (but addressed everything else in my comment), and so I asked again. And it was here that he got defensive, that the argument devolved, and that was when I let go of it.

The second problem isn't really even about the language (in brief, he used the words "females" and "men" as equal in a sentence), but about the reaction I so often encounter when I call people out on their use of language, or their comments, or their actions. I see it when it's not me doing it; it's obvious in arguments... in general. And "Call out" isn't even the right verb phrase to use, either; I pointed it out, I addressed it, I inquired about it; I did this in a calm and reasonable manner, making it clear I wasn't angry or trying to involve hostility. I did this because I wanted to my best, without just letting something go, at having a constructive conversation about misogynist moments.

Which is, of course, where the conversation got defensive and hostile. Where I got called a looking-for-trouble angry feminist. Or rather, to pull a quote directly:

"I can't see you there looking at your screen wagging your finger saying "That's a BAD word! You're a BAD word!" As amusing as such a scene may be :)"

(Just how I like my put-downs served: equal parts condescension, insult, and belittling. Yeah, those might all be kind of maybe synonyms. But I like them all anyway).

And this is what gets me, more than anything, about this. There is no humility. There isn't even a shadow of "hey, I might have been wrong in using those words; no, I'm not a misogynist, and she's not saying that I am, but everybody makes mistakes. Sorry I made it. Here's a correction." How hard would that be? How hard would it be, not even an apology, but a recognition of a mistake?

There's a hubris that seems to be everywhere when I argue feminism, and it seems to go in a predictable cycle:

Person A: I am a feminist. Here are some of my beliefs.
Person B: I don't agree with feminism. Here are some of my beliefs.
Person A: Counter point, also, do you recognize your language/framing/insinuation there?
Person B: Good counter points. Counter point. Counter point. Counter point, here's why you're wrong about my framing.
Person A: Good Counter points. Framing is still a bit off though. Nothing personal, I promise, but maybe take another look?
Person B: Feminists always do this. Fuck you.
Person A: Misogynists always do this. Fuck you too.

And even in the most civil of discourses, this happens.

I'd like to think that I'm better at taking criticism in this way. I'd like to think that if somebody called me out on my language, I'd stop and think about it, I'd give credence to their experience, I'd take responsibility *at least* for being a part of something that was offensive/hurtful/perpetuating a [insertcrappythinghere]culture. And even if I kept it in that non-apology-apology zone, that would be okay. That would be better than this.

And what's crazy, and almost funny, about the whole thing: I wasn't offended. It wasn't hurtful. I actually just saw this instance of language (which I'd seen before many, many times on reddit), and thought I should point it out. I didn't even want a real apology. Although I think I did want, a little bit, a confession. An admittance. And I think it's okay to want that.


But maybe I'm not better. I don't know. Maybe people are never better when they're on the criticized side, no matter what the argument. Maybe I expect too much.


When's that break I'm supposed to take again?

For the Love of Sex

I've been exhausting myself with feminism lately. I've been saddened and frustrated with how many arguments are uphill, how many points go unanswered or dismissed, how many times a day I feel the need to be feminism super-girl. I posted about it here (a new reddit group! And it's a lady safe space! Hell to the fuck yes!), and the chief advice they gave was: take a break, get off the internet.

Which I have intentions to do. Soon. But before that, I thought I'd get back to what this blog was supposed to (but maybe never was) about. Sex. Kinky, feministy, well-written sex.

It's basically porn. But I like it! And I think it's good for me to remember that there are really great, hot, sexy things in kink and feminism, and not just assholes and MRAs. Hell, this is the reason I got into this in the first place.

Without further adeui:


We're laying on the couch; he came over to comfort me, after a bad dream, I think. I'd woken up from a nap, startled, the way waking sometimes happens in daytime. We're pressing together, slanted towards the back of the couch, the weight of different parts of my body pressing on his body pressing on my body pressing on him. A big tangle of pressure.

Some days, I like this; cuddling, being sweet to each other. Some days, I love it. And some days, it pulls from this place in me that makes every touch, every breath, into another bet, another bump in the stakes. I tell him it's one of those days, leaning down to whisper in his ear, how I'm turned on, inexplicably, so fast after the jolted waking into the word. He pets my head, tells me to hush. It just makes me wetter.

His hand makes its way over my thigh, thrown over his torso, traces the skin up to the top and back down again, his palm flat against the inside, then the outside, then the inside again. Never quite stopping at the top, barely grazing the fine hairs there, waiting until I beg for it. Which I do. His hand finally stops, after I've asked nicely, sweetly, like a good girl should. He slaps my thigh open, displays me to the empty living room. His fingers make their way up, pressing on the outside of my swollen lips, just pressure. I hold my breath, look him in the face. He meets my eyes, examining, like a scientist would a specimen, the utmost objectivity, and slips one finger into the wet, the lightest pressure on my clit, slowly, so slowly, back and forth as we breath. He keeps looking. I pant, objectified, wetter by the second under his hand, his little object, his salivating, dripping play thing.

In one move he's up, standing above me; he snaps his fingers and point to the floor. I kneel there, as quick as instinct, watching his fingers shining with my slick, and then my eyes to the floor. I expect his cock in my mouth, but instead:

"Go get your collar." I scurry to the bedroom on all fours, swollen, feeling my lips rub against my clit with every step. I pull out the tiny drawer in the bedside table, and grab the collar with my teeth. I crawl back to him, in the kitchen now, and kneel again in front of him.

"Good girl." He tells me, and takes the leather out of my mouth, and lays it around my neck, the familiar weight, the familiar click as the padlock closes at the back.

He strokes my hair, reaches down, unzips his fly, and pulls out his cock. It's hard and big and the skin is soft in my mouth. He thrusts in and out, pushing down into the back of my throat. I gag and sputter, long lines of spit trailing out my mouth when he pulls all the way out, slapping my face with it, asking me if I want it, if I want to taste it. I nod, my mouth open, eyes beginning to well, gazing up at him. He stuffs me with it again, and again, and I loose track of the time and the thrusts. At some point, my dress comes down, my bra comes undone. My hair is falling out of it's pins and I'm a mess, disheveled, his fingers pinching each nipple, still pushing down my throat, pulling harder at my tits with each thrust, a mathematical calculation of the angels and momentum of pain.

"All fours. Now." He pushes my head away, and I flip over, hiking my skirt up, the entirety of my dress bunched around my middle, bare ass in the air. He runs a hand up the outside of my thigh, and I feel his cock resting on the small of my back. He slaps me, open palm, up the flank. Lightly, like testing a good horse.

"Touch yourself." His hands grip either side of me, fingers sinking into the flesh of my hips, and he teases my lips, still dripping, with with head of his cock. My fingers are furious and fast on my clit as he slips inside, fucking me slow at first, then faster and faster. Face in the linolium, hard points of cheekbone and shoulder against the floor with every thrust, I'm swelling for him. He slaps me, open palm still but harder, as he fucks me into the floor. He runs a finger down my back, resting the hand over my ass, the thumb pressing on my asshole, holding me like an animal, calculated and raw.

"Do you want to be a good girl?" His voice shakes with each thrust.
"Yes Sir."
"Be a good girl. Be my good girl."
"Yes Sir Yes Sir Yes Sir." I mumble into the floor.

He gets faster still, his hands digging in, hurting all the right places, all the right places wet and slick and on fire. And then, in a sudden movement, he pulls away. I feel a hot over my back, feel it land in my hair, a sticky mess.

I pause, collapsing a little.

"Did I tell you to stop?"
"No Sir." I start in on my clit again, right back to the edge again, but my hole is aching, empty. My fingers can hardly find it, I'm so wet.
"Go get the black toy. Don't stop touching yourself. Kneel on the bed."

I crawl to the bedroom and find the dildo, black silicone, and hold it in my mouth, one hand running circles between my legs the whole time. He walks in, stands in the corner, watching.

"Fuck yourself with it. Fuck yourself for me."

I spread my knees open wide, hold the toy underneath me, and slowly lower myself over it. It slips in, tight, up past the swollen, pink outside, and I'm riding it up and down, up and down, holding the base to the bed with one hand, flicking fast on my clit with the other. I'm moaning for him, trying to look at him, tearing up with shame, face flushing, every time I do. I'm cresting, close and desperate for it, filling up fast.

"May I come Sir, please Sir?" I look at him and falter, suddenly embarrassed, knowing that he's watching me, that he sees everything.
"Who do you come for?"
"You Sir." He walked towards me, takes the back of my head in his hands, pulls my hair down, making me look at him. I rub against his chest, riding still, eyes squeezed shut.
"Look at me."
I whimper.
"Look at me."
I open my eyes, my face shining with tears and spit.
"Yes, you may."


It comes out a gasp, and I'm crying, a hot mess of come and sweat, clothes hanging off me, his come down my back, tits bouncing against him, hands slipping between my legs, cunt grinding against the toy for all I'm worth, crying out and coming hard, Yes Sir, Yes Sir, Yes Sir.

I fall into him, and we collapse on the bed. I cry, and he pushes the hair back from my face, and we kiss.

"There's my good girl."
I smile at him, big relief smile, still crying. He wraps me up in his arms.
"Yes Sir."

weighted with the salt of her

Poems like this one make me want to write about sex more.

After all, this is kinky blog, right? When I get home from work today, maybe yesterday goes down on paper (much like myself... har). Three in one day? Never done it with a blog, but hey, first times can be fun.

Anyway. In all seriousness, I'm a cis woman, but that poem is really gorgeous. Makes me want to hit on people with lines like "Hey, my body wants to crash your body... Wanna get wrecked?" Or maybe just read to them:


"Make the arch of her back a language
Name the hollows of each of her vertebrae
When they catch pools of sweat
Like rainwater in a row of paper cups
Align your teeth with this alphabet of her spine
So every word is weighted with the salt of her."

Because it doesn't get much sexier than that.

A Listening Exercise

I work in theater in my everyday life (I don't know what "everyday life" means there. Seems like everything, including kink, including writing, including the blogo/redditsphere, should count at my everyday life. But anyway). Right now, I'm working as an Assistant Stage Manager at a festival, held at my during-the-year workplace, of new plays. There are six plays; I'm working on two of them. Without going into detail (because I'm not allowed to), one of mine is about a young girl, a one-woman show exploring drug addiction in parenthood and childhood abuse and identity. It's interesting and well-written. I'm enjoying it.

And the other? The other is written by a young woman, fresh out of her MFA program at Yale (basically: what I want to be). It deals with gender. It deals with abuse. It deals with feminism and misogyny and consent, and a little bit, kink overtones It's brilliant and funny and chock full of delicious thematic ambiguities.

Because it's a new play workshop, we've spent the first few days sitting around, talking about the play. The actors are smart, the director is smart, the dramaturg is smart. The writer is really smart. They offer insight and analyses. And what do I do? I sit. I take notes. I, as a part of the Stage Management team, remain silent and nuetral. I refill the water pitchers.

Reading back, that sounds bitter. It's not meant to be. It's my job, and I'm doing it how I always do it (it's pretty essential for Stage Managers to be neutral; reasons for which are many and, at this point, boring to explain). It's just never, ever been so hard before. I am just exploding with things to say about this play, this play that's so far up my alley that it's made friends with the stray cats and the garbage cans, this play that has become my alley. And to my job well, I can't say any of them.

Instead, I've resorted to alternately scribbling down furious notes on my yellow legal pad to write about later, and distracting myself with the internet because I just can't take it anymore.

One day, I'll be in the writers seat. Or here's hoping, anyway. For now, I've got one well-scribbled legal pad.

Hippie Sexual

It's been a hot minute since I posted anything here; real life gets put on hold for the festival I attend every year, and although I do get internet in my tent (right?), there hasn't been much time for it.

I work in the kitchen here, feeding the other crews that set up the festival site. It floods every year, so prep takes about a month and a half. I'm not down here for that long, but I've been here since Tuesday, pulled a thirteen hour day yesterday (which is about average, these days), and I am tired.

Part of the weird hippie-sexual stuff might be because I'm tired. I might be über-sensitive to comments that I wouldn't normally notice, or (because I'm not in my regular super-supportive feminist environment) I might be hyper-aware of what's different from me, and over-reacting accordingly. But that's sort of beside the point. First, this hippie-sexual stuff.

I feel more comfortable with nudity and (until this year) sexuality at the Fair than I do most other places. I shower in co-ed sauna showers, I walk around topless. I even did a (mostly) naked photo shoot in the bakery, with me riding the Hobart (our industrial mixer - I'm a baker) in nothing but my underwear and electrical tape.

But this year, things have felt really different. Like I don't have the space to talk about feminism, like I don't want my body to be sexualized, like I don't want to hear comments or whistles or hollers when I dress pretty. It's especially hard to pin down, in part, because the hippie personality (and the Fair vibe in the general, especially in the kitchen) is so hyper-sexualized; my misogyny-dar is all outta whack.

Let's take yesterday, for example. At the hottest part of the day, it hit 92º in the bakery, and standing in front of the 400º convection oven when it's that hot out, you don't want to be wearing any more clothes than you have to be. So, I stripped down to my boots, my underwear, my bra, and an apron. Okay, maybe I went back to my tent really quick while the dough was rising to change into more awesome underwear and a more awesome bra, but still.

I understand that, in taking my clothes off, I'm revealing more of my body, and that comments and flirtations are probably going to come up.* And I'm also aware that, by changing into underwear that has red ruffles and a big black anarchy A on the butt, I'm probably going to get more comments than had I gone with the more drab granny panty option.

*I don't think I deserve it, or that I'm asking for it, but that's the reality, and I haven't had enough coffee yet to tackle the "should it be this way" questions yet.


And, for the most part, I was comfortable. I danced around had a great time. But I wonder what I would have done in that situation were somebody to come up and make a comment that I was uncomfortable with. How do I say, standing in my underwear, in this place where sexuality and nudity are very prevalent, and very openly discussed, that I'm uncomfortable with how they're treating me?

It's a hard catch-22, even though it's not. The answer, I know, is that I *should* have the freedom to simply ask somebody not to say or do whatever it is that they're doing. But it's hard when I want to be flirtatious but *not* inherently sexualized by the people around me.

I think part of it is the lack of support around here. And I don't mean personal support, but support for a feminist perspective. Part of that is lack of education (and I mean that with zero condescension). It's just an idea that a lot of people here haven't been exposed to. Another part is the personal vs. the communal. As in, the communal perspective here is very inclusive, very loving, very sexual. I love the communal perspective, but I don't love when individual people hide behind that perspective, or use it to skirt my requests. Like "Oh, you know I don't mean it, it's Fair, I love you," when I've asked them to stop doing or saying whatever they're doing or saying. Like somehow, when you come to this place, you cease to be an individual person with individually responsible affects on other people.

Anyway. Mostly, it's amazing here; this is just a small piece of the pie. It's my other family, my chosen family. But, like family, they're sometimes slow on the modern uptake.
-

My mother, part deux

My mom and I haven't always had the best relationship, but we're on pretty solid ground these days. I posted about her seeing my 302.83 tattoo here, and was surprised to get an e-mail on the same subject a few days ago. I think I like that, in our relationship as it is now, we can bring up and talk about awkward moments. But this is most in-depth I've ever gone with my mother about my sex life, kinky or not. And... well, it's a tad awkward.

Her first email was very sweet, actually. She's honest and open about how she feels about "my masochism," and asks "what that diagnosis means to you?" It was hesitant, if supportive, and I do appreciate her delicacy. As if she's acknowledging this as not only important to me, but a subject we both need to be careful talking about, with each other, lest it get... unnecessarily awkward.

It's refreshing, in a way, to have somebody I love who's so outside of my kink world actually ask about it. Actually want to know about it. As if she's saying "this freaks me out a little, but I love you, and I want to know about you." I feel really supported.

All of that said, I haven't actually talked about it much, and my mom, bless her heart, is trying to... identify, I think, a little too much. Here's a paragraph out of the second e-mail she sent me, after I'd replied to the first:

"I know talking about sex with your mom is tricky. I understand. I am curious but if not, I understand. Proud of masochism is hard to get my brain/heart around. I have always been sad about my own masochism and one of the reason I left your dad was because of his sadism(though not sexual). So, hope that is not saying too much. I don't take the word disorder very seriously...I am open...I am always interested in knowing you and love you much and... respect your privacy also. I value how much I learn from you too."

And I mean, wow, that's amazing. That's amazingly supportive and respectful, and yet true to her own feelings. That is an incredible response to get from a parent about kink.

We're using the terms "masochism" and "sadism" pretty differently, and that's where the over-identifying comes in. It makes me bristle in an automatic way, which is both an honest emotional response, as well as vaguely inappropriate, because I know she's saying what she's saying with really good intentions. Nonetheless, I end up wanting to stamp my feet and say "No, mom, YOU don't underSTAND!" Which is not to say that I don't think she will in the future, just that... well, take the sentence about masochism:

"I have always been sad about my own masochism."

I don't think we're talking about the same masochism. As for my father, he may have been violent and very angry at times (the jury's still out on that first one; I wrote my undergraduate thesis about it, actually), but he wasn't a sadist. My Dad didn't enjoy causing pain, and my Mom didn't enjoy experiencing pain. I think my Dad probably hurt my Mom, and my Mom probably endured a lot of pain in their marriage. But I wrote her back, and tried to clear it up a little, without being confrontational. As much as I have that initially bristled reaction, I know that's not where she's coming from.

So I explained, briefly:

"As for the other stuff, I'm not sure we're using the words "masochism" and "sadism" in the same way. As in, I don't think Dad is a sadist; not anywhere close. And I don't mean that as defensive - it never seemed to me that you were a masochist either. Causing hurt, being in hurtful relationships; that isn't Sadomasochism, by the definitions me and my community use. That's abuse, that's really terrible, but it's unrelated to what we do. 

By my definitions, masochism is enjoying pain, or wanting pain, reveling in the experience of pain, etc. Sadism is the enjoyment or desire to cause pain, reveling in the causing pain. Simply experiencing pain, or causing pain, don't qualify as masochism or sadism. And not all pain is enjoyable to me. Say, stubbing my toe? That's still a crappy experience. Burning myself on the oven while baking? Ouch, bummer. 

But other kinds of pain - and I don't know how specific you're comfortable with me getting (I'm good with talking about anything, but I want to be cautious of your boundaries - are wonderful. And, most of the time, pain is a turn-on for me. So... that's sort of an overview of what that 'diagnosis' means to me."

And I guess that's sort of it, for now. She's on vacation for a week, and I'm out of town after that, so we'll see where the conversation picks back up. But mostly, I think this post is meaning to say:

I talked to my mother about kink and it wasn't terrible!

Which is worthy a post all on it's own, I think.

Ex; why? (or, I tried to talk to my former boyfriend about kink. It didn't go well).

I've had isolated kink negative moments over the years. It happens in much the same way that misogynist moments happen, most of the time. Almost unnoticeable, almost too subtle to point out in the moment. The sneaky nature of these moments are part of what makes them the most frustrating. When they're obvious, I feel totally fine speaking up, and can point out clearly and discuss with someone - that's the easy one. But when I speak up at the sneakier bastards, I end up feeling like an oversensitive whistleblower. Sometimes it's because I get painted that way directly, sometimes it just worms it's way in.

I sometimes imagine the subtler moments, the ones where I don't speak up (because yeah, sometimes, I don't), collecting in a reservoir somewhere. Like every time I push them under the rug... well, the bulge in the rug gets bigger. So big that, eventually, I trip over it (har har). And it creates a tension that comes out at inappropriate moments. I wonder if I read into things too much, or if I'm becoming actually oversensitive. It's a self-perpetuating problem, really.

All this theory comes in the context of an exchange I had with an ex-boyfriend. We've been trying to be friends again, and I had asked how much, in our e-mail exchanges, he wanted to hear about my romantic life, trying to gage how comfortable he was. Not even trying to gage; I actually asked, flat out, how much he wanted to hear about my romantic life. And he said "Tell me whatever you want to tell me, it's okay." And so I did. I told him a little bit about my current partner, but mostly, I told him about discovering kink for myself, in a way I never had before. I told him about kink fest. I told him about being glad, excited, revelatory in exploring this thing I'd wanted to explore for so long.

And he flipped.

To be clear, the e-mail I wrote him was about all kinds of things: photography, books we'd both read, the college we both attended, Chicago, Portland, etc. There was lots in there, including a few sentences in the middle about kink, and going to kink fest. I mentioned the lectures and the vendors, and mentioned that the play party in the nighttime had been intimidating.

When I got his response, it was all about kink, sex, and how insensitive I'd been in talking about it. It was angry and hurt, and that's okay, and I feel bad about that (even though I'd really, really tried to avoid that by asking in the first place). I was pretty pissed off, though, because parts of his response were borderline misogynist, and just sort of... asshole-ish. Which was surprising to me, having known this man fairly well and thought him to be a pretty decent person. So I wrote him a fairly scathing e-mail back.

And then I went back and re-read his e-mail, a few days ago, and I'm not sure if I was reading in more than I'd thought. Below are the most offensive parts of his e-mail, and at the moment, they don't seem that bad. Or maybe I'm apologizing for myself. Who knows.

"In fact, from my perspective, a lot of our most intense sexual experiences together involved me opening myself up (or trying, at any rate) to being the kind of dominant figure that turned you on.  Do you really---I mean, really---think that I want to hear about how effectively this guy is getting you off?  I'm not sure what's intended by a "totally overwhelming playtime at night..." but I'm pretty sure nobody that was there needs me to know about it."

I really appreciated what you did, accepting my kink, telling me so, trying to expand your own horizons. And that was awesome in it's own right, and isn't threatened (I promise) by what's going on in my life now. And no, I don't think you want to hear about that. WHICH IS WHY THAT'S NOT THAT I TALKED ABOUT.

And like anybody there would care what you knew about their sex life. That woman was paddling her eighty year old boyfriend under his pink frilly tutu! She DOES NOT GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOU.

"I don't need to be reminded of our sex life, (such as it was) in the context of your new, better sex life.  I don't need that kind of emotional... noise." 

I didn't really even know how to respond to this. I thought, when Edward (let's call him Edward, shall we?) and I were together, our sex life was alright. I mean, we did the weird long distance thing, and it was really tame, but other than that, I didn't have any complaints. And yeah, my sex life is better now, but I wasn't talking about that. Oy.

" I mean, on what planet is it normal to email a guy whose heart you broke eight months ago to tell him just how sexually satisfied you are in your new relationship?"

Okay, 1) I didn't talk about sexually satisfied I was. Ever. And 2) Welcome to Planet We Are Adults. We here at WAA try to respect each others boundaries and speak to each other in mature and emotionally aware ways. And when someone doesn't, we call the WAAmbulance, and they're escorted back to earth.

"...you are either unwilling or unable to recognize that that sort of shit can really stay between you and your man."

The parts that make me most angry still (besides the general... hostility of his tone) is his comment that "that short of shit can really stay between you and your man." We had a few exchanges after this, and I quoted it back to him, except that I mis-quoted, replacing the "can" with a "should." Which of course, sparked a long argument about semantics. Which is pretty irrelevant now, because whether you can or you should, the tone implied is "you should have known better," which is... stupid.

Whether I overreacted or he overreacted, it's pretty clear that we have fundamentally different views of kink. When I wrote to him about kink, I didn't even mention sex, and in his response, it's all he talks about. And I'm not about to try and claim kink as some kind of above-physical-sexuality-über-etherial-hippiewoowoo-force, but, in my life, it's about much more than sex. It's part of identity, a huge part of my sexuality, and intellectually fascinating.

And maybe that's part of what hurt the most. That this person, who I was trying to be friends with again, is someone who I can't share this part of myself with yet. Either because he's not ready for that (which I totally respect), and that un-readiness manifests in focusing entirely on my sex life, or because kink can't ever be about anything other than sex, for him. And that... well, that sucked.

We haven't talked in a couple of months. I wish it were different.