Essay on Kinky Feminsim

Hey all!

(Who do I mean by all? There are like, ten of you, ya? Hi ten!)

Last week, I wrote an essay on kink and feminism (and what it's like to live in a body where both flourish) for a friend of mine over at the Vodka Press. It's a pretty decent essay, I think, and their podcasts over there are pretty fantastic.

Anyway, check it out!

Other People's Herpes, or, Why I Wouldn't Give Up My Herpes for Anything

damn right, Boromir

When I first got diagnosed with herpes (see the tag at the bottom for reflections on that process) I went resource-bananas. I talked to doctors (some which weren't so helpful), and talked to friends who have it, but mostly, I binged on google. One of the most comforting, inspiring articles I read was about how having herpes can, in some ways, actually help your sex life. Or at least, tell you more about the people you want to bump uglies with, before those uglies bump.

I actually kind of hate that phrase, "bump uglies." Maybe "bump lovelies" instead?

Today, a friend of mine (unaware of my love for the first article) sent me a new essay by the same author, "How I Found Out I Didn't Have The Herpes I'd Been Living With For Four Years."

It's full of good information, statistics, and reasoning as to why tests for herpes are crappy, why doctors often don't do blood tests, and why herpes isn't (that's right, isn't) on the standard STD. Most fascinating (and something that I hadn't seen before) is that new research is suggesting that genital-to-genital HSV-1 transmission is pretty rare, and that far more common is oral-to-genital HSV-1 transmission. Which makes some sense, when you think about the fact that HSV-1 is designed to live at the top of your spine (and exist on your mouth), and so the shedding there would be more likely to transmit than shedding in a place where the virus isn't designed to exist (say, the labia). The takeaway being: folks with cold sores are more likely to transmit the virus than people with HSV-1 genitally, but the stigma around having herpes (and, arguably, how often people probably disclose) is almost exactly the opposite. As the author says: 

"Genital herpes is so stigmatized that the facts are secondary to the myth."

To sum the article up (although it's worth a read, if you have ten minutes): the author was given a visual diagnosis of herpes four years ago. She had a blood test recently, that came up negative (blood tests for herpes aren't great, and don't actually look for the virus, but rather the anti-bodies it makes, but more details on that in the article). She talked to many doctors, and learned many new things, and based on these things, has decided that she no longer has herpes (or, more accurately, never had it in the first place).

Regardless of what I think of her decisions (more on that later), it's the implication and attitude around the decision that bugged me, especially because her first article was so awesomely positive. I think it's best explained (as many things are) by the grammar. Here's the start of the last paragraph, after she's decided she won't be disclosing her history surrounding herpes diagnosis with her partners:

"I thought I’d never have another herpes conversation after being cleared. Recently, I met someone—a doctor, of all professions—and was so relieved not to have to tell him."

Notice the language. It's not "I thought I'd never have another herpes conversation." It's not "I was glad/happy/noticing that I didn't tell him." It's "have to have." It's "relieved." It's that she's been let go of this burden, this awful thing, that she's been carrying.

And I get that. Herpes isn't a party, and it isn't a cake walk. I actually just recently got an e-mail from someone newly diagnosed, and was reminded of all the stigma and pain and awfulness and self-loathing that can come from this.

But is also isn't a death sentence.

And I'm going to go a little farther than that, actually. I think, given the choice, right now, if I had to pick between having herpes and not having herpes, I'd pick to have it. Yup.

If given the choice to go back and not get herpes, or have it now, I'd choose to have it. Go my herpes. You stick around little buddies, I like you.

That sounds really unreasonable. It's not, I promise.

Because I have herpes, I've had some really amazing conversations, both with strangers and friends. Because I have herpes, I've learned how to talk to asshole doctors and advocate for my health, even when the very people who are supposed to be concerned for my health are doing their best to make that advocacy hard. Because I have herpes, I've gotten closer with people I wasn't as close with before (because we bonded, about having herpes). Because of herpes, I've learned (and am still learning) how to confront people who talk about herpes, or makes jokes about herpes, in shitty ways. Because I have herpes, I've had to explore a million kind of low-risk behavior (read: not putting someone's mouth or genitals on my genitals), which has lead to all kinds of creative sex that I wouldn't have imagined before. Because of herpes, I've taken new sexcapades with new partners slower (I recently had an almost nine-month relationship with no PIV intercourse, which in retrospect, I'm pretty happy about). Because of herpes, I've gotten to know the shame intertwined with my sexuality in ways that I didn't before, and have found better means of coaxing it to the surface and showing it the light, so that it might better turn to steam and float away.

Because of herpes, I've done some of my best writing (on this blog), writing that I wouldn't have been able to do otherwise. That writing has made a difference to other people, both with herpes and without. And that, if I were to pick a singular feeling in all the world, is what I want to do with my life. And I got to do it a little more, because I have herpes.

So yeah I'd pick herpes. And while I don't think the author of the article is necessarily wrong in not disclosing, I don't think she's exactly right either. Because if she is (like I am) working to combat the stigma around having this STD, then talk about it. I think the right answer is as simple as that. You don't have to say you have herpes, but I think, if she really does believe that herpes helped her not sleep with fuckwads (a la the first article), then telling the story of a false diagnosis would be, regardless of ethics, a pretty enlightening experience to have before sleeping with someone.

Or, maybe, she doesn't care as much about sleeping with fuckwads anymore (which sounds flippant, but I mean it seriously; sleeping with fuckwads isn't necessarily a bad thing, and I'm not trying to get all moral-high-ground about someone else's sex life).

Are there luxuires about my herpes that make these declarations easier? Yup. I have HSV-1, so my outbreaks are far less frequent and severe than if I had HSV-2 (I've had three, maybe three-and-a-half since the first one a year and a half ago). I don't take medication every day, because my outbreaks are so inferquent and minor. I'm at less risk of transmitting to a partner. I have the feel-good comparison to oral herpes, and feel-good statistic that more people have my numbered virus than those people who have HSV-2.

And I just want to put out there that it's probably partly because of these privileges (yup, herpes privileges, they do exist!) that I feel this way. Maybe if it was worse, I wouldn't be so staunch about it, or it would have taken me much longer to get here.

Are there things about not having herpes that I miss? Sure. I miss the whimsical, thoughtless fuck. The random night out, in the back of the dance party, up against the wall without talking or really getting to know the person at all. I miss the escalation, with no conversation, from kissing to being bent over a table. I miss the fairy-tale belly-flop feeling of a fling, without the hiccoughs of discussing serious real-world STD repercussions.

Except that really, I don't miss those things at all, and if I do, the reasons for missing them are basically bullshit, when I think about them for more than five seconds. Having sex without talking about sexual health is stupid. The random night out can be just as hot with a jerk-off against the closet door, or even a make-out, and it doesn't put my body or their body at risk. And the fairy tale? The fairy tale is baseless, and cheap, if the bubbly feeling doesn't keep going through, and after, a serious conversation about sexual health. That's a fairy tale I'll pass on, thank you.

Because yes, conversations are hard, and yes, having herpes can, at times, be full of shame and hurt and rejection. But hard doesn't mean worse. Hard doesn't mean avoid. Hard means difficult, hard means thinking, hard means talking and debating and probably crying some (for me, anyway). And without those things, without the difficult, I don't learn anything. Given ignorance or a good old-fashioned grapple in the mud, I take the grapple, every time.

I look fantastic in mud.

The Slippery World of Sexual Education; or, Back To High School

I was working in Jamie's classroom yesterday. Two students walked in, both women, both seniors. These students have been especially nice to me, although they are definitely high school-aged girls. It's sort of like being around another species, one that's very other-ing, in part because I used to be one (although, I hope, not exactly like they are). They like to push the boundaries of what's appropriate, they like to talk about boys and fashion, they like to giggle at texts that, when read aloud, aren't recognizably funny at all. All of it amounts to an amusing, and sometimes very surprising, interaction. In theory, they were there for study hall. In practice, they did a little bit of work, a lot of facebooking, and some talking to me.

If I were a teacher in high school, I doubt very much that I would be the "cool" teacher. But lucky me, I'm not a teacher, and being not-a-teacher affords a weird kind of limbo position. It's less restricted, and I can get away with a little more (like, for instance, talking about birth control), but I'm still an adult, and my spouse is still a teacher (usually, a teacher of the student I'm talking to), and there's still an air of authority. Or, not authority, but... if there's a word for connecting with someone younger than you are, and being able to offer help, or have what seems like a rare conversation with them. Mentor, maybe, without all the condescending bullshit that can go along with mentoring.

That's the dynamic, between me and these girls. Kind of. One of them doesn't seem to give a fuck, some days, and others, she's really engaged. The other one, within five minutes of meeting me, asked if I had ever had a boyfriend I didn't tell my parents about. To which I replied "oh yes."

Anyhow.

The conversation in class, as we were leaving, came around to having kids (which Occasionally More StandOffish Girl does not want) and then joking about condoms. Less StandOffish Girl turned to the OMSO Girl and said "what, you gonna make 'em wear one every time?" They laughed. I said, under my breath, that it would be a good idea to do that, yes. The girls descended into giggles again. As a throwaway, on their way out, OMSO Girl said "Nah, but I've got birth control." To which I said, good for you, in the most serious, I-really-care-about-this-and-you-and-no-really-that's-actually-awesome voice I could muster.

These are the same girls who, a month ago, rode around with me in the back of an SUV (we were moving boxes for a friend) and told me they didn't know what an IUD was. I told them about it, how it worked, how to get it. They listened, patiently, and said nothing much at all (the parent/boyfriend awareness conversation came after that one, which looking back, might have more connection than I initially thought).

And it's strange, having had both of these conversations (the IUD, and the condoms/children) with the same pair of women, and knowing that both of them (the conversations) are under the general umbrella of sexual education, but taking a moment to recognize how different they are. I've been thinking about it since the second conversation, which was much shorter, and much more in-passing. There was, by any measure, less information exchanged. But the second conversation, however awkwardly it may have ended, is the far, far more important one to have.

Do you remember the banana demonstration? Or maybe it was the "what if he tells you it's too small?" demonstration, and then your teacher pulled a condom on over their heads to show that no, in fact, he is not too small*. I do. Or rather, I remember all the sex ed I ever got, in schools, and not because of the facts it taught me.

* Addendum: condom fit is important, but the "too small" excuse shouldn't ever be a reason to have sex without one. It should be a reason to go out and find a condom that fits you.

Let me say that again.

As important as the facts were, it's not why I remember them. Learning how to put a condom on is something that you can pick up from the outside of most condoms boxes. And I sort of can't believe I never figured it out before, but: the act of learning how to put a condom on isn't why, I don't think, learning how to put a condom on is so important. It's because within those lessons, those oh-so-antiquated group-structured awkward in-school lessons, you are learning that this is what you do. As best we can, the adults are trying to impart that, no really, this is what you should do when you have sex. It's setting precedent as a thing that's talked about, it's introducing a dialogue, however awkward and strange that dialogue may be, and it's presenting it as something that is important for everyone to know.

Not just the girl who doesn't want kids. Not jus the girl who has lots of sex. Not just the boy who looses it at fourteen.

Everybody.

Because it wouldn't matter if the women I know here didn't know what an IUD was, if they knew, and believed, that sexual health was important. It's almost like the factual stuff is a gateway, or a coverup, for really drilling in the message of: it doesn't matter what you do or how you do it, as long as you do it safer. As long as you understand the risks of what you're getting into.

Which isn't to say that facts don't matter. Of course they do. But it is to say that: when those two women walked out of Jamie's classroom, I wasn't thinking "Oh, wow, I hope OMSO Girl knows that she should take her pill every day, and that it doesn't protect again STDs, and that she should still use condoms." (I mean, I do hope she knows all those things, but it wasn't my first thought). I was thinking "Oh, wow, I hope OMSO Girl has the backbone to stick to her guns about the health and safety of her body, because she is doing the right thing, but she lives in a culture, globally and locally, that tells her over and over again that the right thing isn't cool, isn't sexy, and isn't necessary. That taking the risk of having unprotected sex is somehow worth whatever social face it is purported to save, or that the risk doesn't exist in the first place."

It's familiarity and comfortability through repetition. Just like saying herpes out loud. Just like yelling PENIS at the top of your lungs in a restaurant. Just like negotiating. Being comfortable in what you know allows you to be comfortable that you know it, that you believe it, regardless of what the culture around you says. Makes your guns stickier in a slippery, slippery world.

But they don't have that. And I think that's the heart of what's frustrating about being a part of a young adult population that has zero sexual education. It's not that there isn't information offered. It's that the very idea of asking for information is sacrosanct. It makes it impossible to even get to the gun, much less hold on.

Although if there's one high school senior I know who can do it, it's this woman. Good luck, OMSO.

The Herpes Joke: An Analysis

Here's what happened the first time someone told a herpes joke, around me, after I knew I had herpes:

Location: a stage, pre-show.

Characters: various backstage professionals, including the Flyman (Bob), and the Production Assistant (yours truly), and one actor (Sugar Ray) doing vocal warmups.

Tensions are a little tight between Bob and the PA, as tensions can sometimes be between two departments that function together on a show, but have no clear lines of hierarchy between them. For the most part, Bob and PA make the best of this, although there are, occasionally  spats. The PA is relatively new at her job, and Bob has been in the business a long time. As a result, the PA is often unsure of herself, and frustrated with how little she seems to know; Bob, alternatively, like to demonstrate how much he knows at every conceivable opportunity.

Lights up. The stage is busy with four of five people walking across it from time to time, carrying furniture, checking lights above their heads with tiny palm pilots, etc. BOB enters, vacuum in hand, slightly before THE PA, who enters holding a clipboard.

BOB: Fucking events. I hate fucking renting this fucking place for events.

PA: Yup. They fucked with a bunch of the props too.

BOB: Ah man. You roped 'em off?

PA: I did... Yup, the whole section. Bright green gaff, big sign "DO NOT TOUCH." Maybe that makes it too interesting. Might do better with no sign at all. Was it kids, this weekend?

BOB: Yeah. Some kind of elementary cultural thing. Lots of fucking glitter.

PA: Fuck.

BOB: Yup. Theater herpes, whoohoo!

The PA looks at him, and then quickly at the floor. Bob notices nothing, and turns on the vacuum.

BOB: (yelling over the noise of the vacuum) Have a good weekend, Sugar?

SUGAR RAY: (also yelling) Yup, yup. Whatchoo vacuuming for?

BOB: An event over the weekend - they used lots of glitter.

SUGAR RAY: (looks at the floor) Ah, yup yup.

BOB: Fucking herpes of the theater, man. Once you got it, you got it, and it spreads like that (snaps his fingers).

Bob pushes the vacuum a few more strokes as we see the PA walk quickly back across the stage one more time, carrying a mirror and hand towels. As she gets to BOB, she stops, and just as he turns off the vacuum, she speaks.

PA: (yelling, loudly, although there is instantly no more vacuum): CAN WE CUT IT OUT WITH THE HERPES JOKES PLEASE.

Silence.

The PA walks offstage. BOB and SUGAR RAY watch her leave, say nothing. Bob turns on the vacuum again. Blackout.

Needless to say, I was pretty hurt. I tried not to show it much, and basically failed. I didn't want to make a big deal about it, because we were at work, and I wasn't sure it was appropriate, or more so, I wasn't sure I wanted to deal with the fallout. But I said something because I had to say something, and there was (as there usually is) fallout (Bob and I had a conversation that involved a non-apology apology, and he avoided me for a while).

And those are basically the two things at odds whenever someone makes a joke like that, I think: the importance of my hurt (and by extension, how I might mend that hurt according to my beliefs and values), and the importance of propriety.

I haven't really learned to handle it much better, to the point where, most of the time, I just let it go. Which is... sucky. And not really holding with my personal philosophies about sex positivity, or life, or anything. So, here's where I'm stuck, and maybe telling you why I'm stuck will help unstick me (as it often does).

Options for responses to herpes jokes:

1. The Outing: fairly straightforward, I-have-herpes-please-don't-make-those-jokes-in-front-of-me statement. And even without the first part, I always feel it's sort of obvious (why would I ask you not to make those jokes if it didn't matter to me in some intrinsic way; the herpes-ally isn't really a thing, or if it is, I don't think other people think it is).

Pros: I feel better for having spoken up, the irking behavior (usually) stops.

Cons: I'm outed, or at least outed as being "sensitive," or "easy to offend." There's also often a long an obnoxious conversation involving various versions of "I didn't man anything by it," and "I wasn't trying to offend." (my response to which is, most of the time "I totally understand - it still did/you still did, and I'd like you to take responsibility for that, just as I can acknowledge that your actions weren't motivated by malice, and weren't intended to hurt someone."

2. The Silent Partner, or, I Say Nothing.

Pros: I don't have to deal with any of the above.

Cons: I don't get to deal with any of the above, and I feel bad about myself, usually for a few days afterwards.

3. Joke-for-Joke, or, Anything You Can Do I Can Do Smarter: in which, when a herpes joke and/or inappropriate reference is made, I come back with a rebuttal that's both funny, and also points out how sort of fucked up it is to make those kinds of jokes. Something like:

"Hehe, fucking theater herpes - it gets everywhere!"

"Yeah! And hey: ninety percent of people who have it don't know they have it! Have you checked whats in your pants lately? Never know..."

That's not the best example, but something like that.

Pros: If the person gets it, they get both that the joke they made was ignorant and inappropriate (and sort of inaccurate, maybe), and they get to save social face, because nobody has to directly confront what's going on.

Cons: Sometimes people don't get the second joke, at which point you're stuck with options #1 or #2, again.

My favorite, by far, is #3. I've never really pulled it off.

But wait, dear reader. You might find yourself saying "but herpes isn't that bad! so jokes about it aren't that bad!" or, "in making it out like these jokes are terrible, you're painting a profile of herpes that's terrible, which it isn't really, and you're sort of undermining the whole point you're making with these incessant blog posts about STDs."

And I agree with you. A little bit.

I came around to all this because, the other weekend, a friend of mine (who doesn't know I have herpes - not that that should matter, really) made a herpes joke. We were sitting around, watching a high school volleyball game (like you do when you live in an unbelievably remote place and that is what there is to do on a Saturday afternoon), and someone passed a man we were sitting with a soda. He hesitated before drinking it, and my friend said "Oh, don't worry, his herpes is all cleared up." Everyone laughed.

In my logical brain, there are two things that make this difficult:

1) This friend of mine who made the joke is an excellent person. She's sex-positive, open-minded, accepting, non-judgmental. She likes me, and she likes my partner. Something from here wouldn't, I believe, ever be malevolent.

2) On the inside, deep down where things are most true, I know that herpes isn't really that bad. I haven't had an outbreak in... six months? (knock wood). Most days, I don't think about the fact that I have it.

Combining these two things (lack of bad intention, and trust of the joke-maker; as well as internal knowledge and security), there's really no reason for me to feel bad about this joke. No reason at all.

Except that I did. Terribly. Sitting there, in the high school gym, with the few friends I do have in this place, I felt like someone had dropped my gut out from under me, partly because it was my friend making this joke. Partly because she is one of the only people within a thousand miles who I know, let alone who I like and who likes me (I'm talking, count on your fingers here, folks. A thousand miles, and I've got... maybe five people who I could tolerate, and who could tolerate me, for the length of time it takes to eat a meal).

And the reason for the feel-bad, I think, is the same reason rape jokes aren't acceptable, even when they're made in a comedy club, by a lady comedian, on the ever-sacred-anything-goes-stage-of-modern-comedy (not that I'm equating the herpes and rape, at all; they are not the same, they are not the same, they are not the same). It's the reason why racist jokes are shitty even when they're made by "people who have lots of black friends and stuff." It's because the jokes themselves, no matter who tells them or who hears them, are based on a narrative that's shitty. They represent shitty things, and in telling them, those shitty things are given credence, period.

My friend's joke was based on this assumption: having herpes is bad enough, and rare enough, that the idea of almost-getting it from something as benign as drinking a soda is funny (which is doubly hilarious, to me, because people get herpes from sharing drinks a lot, in real life). And that's a shitty assumption. My friend is not a bad person, and I am not overly sensitive, but the assumption that herpes is bad enough, or that the social stigma around having herpes is legitimate enough to make that joke funny: this is why it's not an okay joke.

I don't have to be uptight for it to not be an okay joke, and my friend doesn't have to be a bad person to have made a not-okay joke. But it's still a not-okay joke, and I still sat there, and waited until the nausea died down, and waited until my face stopped flushing, and watched high schoolers slap a volleyball back and forth across the gym until I could swallow enough to talk and re-join the conversation.

Because this shit makes me feel bad. Period.

So how am I going to handle it in the future? I don't know. I think things like people declaring they have herpes (as my friend did on twitter last year) helps, reading things like this post and this post helps. But what will I do in the moment? I don't know. Work on better #3 rebuttals. Get smarter, get better at talking about it. And, probably, come here to write more. Because the writing at least helps with the feeling better about it. Sort of like, in the early days, saying it out loud and calling it by it's name.

All together now: herpes! herpes! herpes!

Context, Context, Context

Because the town we have recently moved to is very small (and very remote), I was, as Jamie promised, the "most qualified substitute teacher in town the moment [I] stepped off the plane." And I was excited about that; I've worked with kids a lot, although never taught them, and I was excited to learn new things, make a bit of money, feel more a part of the community, etc. etc.

Never did we think that I'd fill in for Jamie's class, though, because we figured that when he'd be out of town, I'd be out of town with him.

That was, until the computer lab needed fixing, and he was the only one to fix it. I stepped in, last minute (and did pretty well, especially considering all the students know we're a couple, and what a fun meandering minefield that was to navigate).

But never did I think I'd be writing about it here. That was, until I was up at the board, writing my name in front of twenty seventh graders, and a kid asked a question. To which I answered.

"Yup, I'm Mr. Jamie's sub."

Needless to say, nobody else got the little joke I had with myself there.

Oglaf Nails It (again)

Oglaf is often great, but this one was particularly relevant to my own personal current events. The "kinkier than thou" attitude has come up a few times in the last week, but mostly, I've just seen it closer than usual. I've seen it do more damage than usual. I've seen how much it's just complete bullshit.

I'm really pulling for an occasion to use that sentence in real life. Stamping my feet and balling my fists and scream "Just because I'm not into your stupid pain cake doesn't mean I'm a blushing virgin!" Although, I am pretty into the pain cake, so... maybe that won't work so well.

Up next: Kink from the Frozen Tundra; an expedition.

Moving: A Short Play in One Very Short Act

(Two characters, one lady, one man, sit outside on the porch behind their apartment. They have just come from the post office where, having made it there just before five o' clock, they discovered that their bathroom scale was wildly inaccurate, and that the large totes they had lugged into the post office from the truck did not weigh what they previously thought. The weight limit on shipping was seventy pounds; the final tote, the lightest tote on which any hope of success rested 'neath their sweaty hands, was seventy pounds, six ounces).

Lady: This sucks.
Man: Yes.
Lady: (takes a drag from her cigarette, takes a swig from her diet coke, sputters, manages not to spit up on herself) What if... what if we weren't moving.
Man: We are moving.
Lady: Yes.
Man: We're moving tomorrow. Like, tomorrow we have to be moved.

(pause. Man takes a drag from his cigarette).

Man: You know what's great about moving?
Lady: What? (takes another sip of soda)
Man: Nothing.

(Lady does spit up on self, just a little).

Lady: What if... what if instead of moving, we just had foursomes all the time?
Man: That's what we've been doing.
Lady: Yes, but...
Man: That's why... that's why today is... today.
Lady: So... so there's not some magical equation where we have lots of awesome sex and then the apartment is empty?
Man: Nope.
Lady: Okay...
Man: Wait!
Lady: Yes?! Yes?

(pause. Man thinks hard).

Man: (shakes his head) Nope. Thought I had it. Nope.

(long pause)

Lady: Yeah, okay.

(both look wistfully into the setting sun).

END

Further Thoughts on Herpes

one of the first results googling "herpes is great!"
(exclamation point included)

Because what else do I ever have to talk about? Plenty, sometimes, but as of late, this is a mine that still warrants more delving.

Brief disclaimer before we go under: I've disappeared for a while lately. That'll be the case for a little while longer, because in a few days, Jamie and I are moving states and jobs and basically our whole lives. One of the things this means for me is full-time writing, so in a fews weeks, more regular updates again (I hope).

Speaking of Jamie and I, another brief disclaimer: we're engaged! That's a story for another time, but it's a pretty good one, and applicable subject matter to this blog too (the ring is fucking perfect, in so many different ways).

So: the herpes. Oh, herpes. Right.

Last night, Jamie and I played with some new people. I haven't talked to them yet about what's okay to disclose, or what the privacy stipulations are about our shenanigans (which we totally should have talked about, but didn't, so for now, I'm erring on the the far side of caution). For this post, all you really need to know is that they're humans, and they're excellent. As with every new sexual partner I'll have for the rest of my life, we came around to the subject of herpes. It's helpful for me to practice talking to new people about it, although talking with Jamie today about talking with these humans last night, I realize I'm learning new things all the time, and that even when I think I've got this whole sex-positive STD-having racket figured out... well, I don't. Not even a little bit.

Going into last night, I didn't really know what the boundaries of these other humans were going to be, but I was pretty sure about my own preferences: while I trust them as educated adults, and while I know (I know!) they have the capacity to make adult decisions about their own sexual health, I wasn't sure I was ready to take on, for myself, the possibility of passing herpes on to one (or both) of them. I wanted to keep my pants on, although I was good with anyone else's pants coming off. And that's basically what I said. They asked me what kind of measures Jamie and I took, with the herpes, and we told them. Basically: I'd like to be on suppressive meds, but I can't afford them (acyclovir without a prescription is fucking expensive), and because of all the reasons previously discussed (we're in it for the long haul, herpes isn't actually such a horrible life-ruining kraken, we've talked a ton, etc), we don't use condoms. I answered some other questions, and I felt pretty comfortable doing so. At the time, I thought this was just me getting more comfortable talking about it, but looking back (a whole twenty four hours later, wow!), I'm not sure that's all it was.

I'm not sure I'm being totally honest with myself about the reasons behind my own boundaries ("I'm game to do whatever, but I'd like to keep my pants [skirt] on, please"). Just looking at that language, it's telling: I'm not ready to take on doing something to someone else. Which isn't what's happening. I'm not doing anything to anyone; they're making the choice, one way or the other, to take a risk or not. Sure, I can have acceptance issues with that, and self-worth issues with that, but I don't think that's all it is either.

Part of it, I think, is that these humans are not humans I'm dating. I was dating a guy for a while (who I'm not longer dating, and more on that later, maybe) with whom I talked a lot about herpes, and he came to a conclusion, after a bit, that he was ready and willing to take that risk (and excited about the activities that risk opened up). And while we didn't get around to PIV sex, nor oral sex from him to me (so, his risks considered, it was pretty much nil), I think I was more comfortable with someone I was dating taking the risk, rather than someone I was just sleeping with.

Jamie asked me, just now, if I could imagine a scenario in which I would be comfortable with someone risking getting herpes, from me, if we were just fucking, or if it was a one-off encounter, or if it was otherwise not the dating-type-scenario. And there totally is, which was surprising, and in my head it had everything to do with that person's (or people's) reaction. I can imagine, upon disclosing that I have herpes, someone saying "Yup, sure, been there, done that," or "Oh, type one or type two?" or "Oh, my last partner had type one orally, funny story." I don't think it's as much an attitude thing as it is an information thing.

I'm not comfortable being both herpes educator, and herpes sex-partner, at the same time.

It would be fine for me if someone made the decision to sleep with me, and to potentially contract herpes from me, if they were already (and obviously) well educated about the STD. If I knew that they knew what they were getting into.

I don't know how much of that discomfort is bunk, or how much of it is legitimate. The conflict comes, for me, in the different emotional approaches I have to each... I don't know, herpes role? I have in my life. Herpes character. Herpes superhero! There will be illustrations shortly (there have to be, now. Hurray).

The Herpes Educator is passionate, straight forward, and talks a lot about practical risks, about statistics, about societal stigma and myths that need deconstructing. The Herpes Educator comes at herpes from the angle of "Herpes is an STD, and you have it for your whole life, but it's a lot less frightening than you, non-educated herpes person, have been lead to believe your whole life. Here's some sex-positivity and a dose of realism that isn't usually associated with herpes."

The Herpes Sex Partner is a little more... personal. Vulnerable? Nervous, maybe. It's important for her that the people taking risks with her are extremely aware and educated about those risks. It's important that they understand that they are taking a risk. That herpes is something that, if they get it, they will have for the rest of their lives. It's still a little unbelievable to her that people (even Jamie) would take that risk. It's also extremely important to her that there be space, lots and lots of space, and maybe time, for people to make whatever decision is best for them. That her desire for touching and sucking and fucking not have any bearing on that decision. It can be an enthusiasm tricky to box, but I do try to box it, to make that most-important space.

And those two don't go well together, really. It's super hard to say, in one breath: "Herpes isn't so bad! Really! Hurray Herpes! Facts Facts Statistics Herpes, if they can't do it, nobody can!" and in the next breath say: "I want you take all the space you need, and I'm fine with whatever decision you want to make, and this is an important decision, and I understand that."

It's hard both because they conflict, and also because I don't think I trust myself to be unbiased. That's a tough one, a really tough one. To think that I'm someone's only source of herpes knowledge, and to trust myself to present the STD in a way that leaves a completely neutral ground for whatever decision they might make: that's not something I think I can do. Or, that's not a combination of those roles I'm comfortable with yet. But that's maybe the big, deep whopper that's gonna sit and lurk a while.

So, for now, I just sort of... forgo the second one, I guess. Or, in preemptively not giving people that choice, I avoid the second one. So that I can be herpes-sex-educator to the max. It feels safe, and responsible. It is safe and responsible. It's also kind of shitty, for me.

And here's the part where I get all selfish about it. Because while it was comfortable and safe and great to keep my pants on last night, there were also moments where I really, really wanted to take my pants off. There were moments where I really wanted to be touched, and I wanted people to touch me, those people, those humans. It's my own doing that they didn't, and I appreciate beyond saying how respectful and great they were about it. I think it shows how far I've come, since first getting the STD, that I can even kiss someone (who's not Jamie) without feeling like an infected pustule of a person. But it's still sort of... Sad. It's sad that I can't let someone choose that. I didn't even want anyone touching me with their hands, which is essentially a risk-free activity, which maybe should have been a tip-off, in terms of there-is-something-else-going-on-here-shenanigans.

So, what's the moral? I don't know. Practice. Patience and practice and all the things that have gotten me this far. Part of it, I think, is doing some thinking and coming to terms with the moment of someone saying "I'm not willing to do that," and feeling like I could still have a good time if that was the answer. And all of this for a really good reason, I think. It's not about being the perfect herpes-having person, and it's not about being what other people want or need or prefer. Mostly, it's because taking my pants of is really fucking fun.

To taking my pants off more often, then. Or at least being able to ask people if they'd like to take them off for me.

Pain: An Interview With Myself

Self: Hey there, self. So, you had a a long conversation about sex with your mom the other month.

Self: Yes, yes I did.

Self: While you guys were hiking in the gorge.

Self: Yup. There’s really nothing like talking rope and power exchange and pain with your mother, whilst passing other PNW outdoorsy-types and their dogs. The brook was babbling, the evergreens were shading. It was classic, really.

Self: I bet. And how’d it go? The conversation, not the hike.

Self: Well, it went okay. She’s actually been really great and supportive. I don’t think conversations like this, about kink, are on the level with coming out about sexuality, but it is interesting to explain to her... well, that my sex life lives in a different world than most peoples. It’s maybe the same flavor of conversation. It’s maybe a cupcake version of the cake, or something. For me, anyway.

Self: Uh-uh. But it went just okay?

Self: Yeah, just okay. We got to the part about pain, and that was confusing for her.

Self: Oh? How so?

Self: Well, she really got most everything else. Even told me that she had, ahem, ‘let some guys tie her up and blindfolds and things like that,’ which is in itself a pretty fantastic sentence to hear your sixty five year old mom say out loud. She just didn’t understand 'the pain part.' Why I liked it, why I wanted it. In her words ‘I just don’t know why anyone would want to be in pain.”

Self: Did you try to explain?

Self: Kind of, but I wasn't doing it very well (it was a long hike). I told her about the blog. I told her I’d written something there, that was pain-related, and that I’d send her a copy (she doesn’t have the blog address - and it’ll probably stay that way). But then I looked through, and I don't really have a post like that.

Self: No, you don't.

Self: No, I don't.

Self: Bummer.

Self: Total bummer.

Self: So, lets start at the beginning. When did you first start liking pain?

Self: I don’t know. I can point back to a lot of young kinky fantasies (which a lot of kinksters can, and it’s strange (we're going to go on a tangent here), because I find people citing these kinds of things - long-held fantasies or games from childhood - often in the context of defending, or backing, or in some way legitimizing their adult kink-hood. And I think it’s great to have a part of your identity that’s so deeply seeded in that way, but I also wish we lived in a world where that evidence wasn’t a requirement. Like, isn’t it just as okay to be kinky if it isn’t what you’ve dreamt of since you were four? But that’s another post). But I can’t point to the same fantasies about pain. I had an early relationship with pain, but it was a different kind of thing. I remember slapping myself, pinching myself, pulling my own hair, in grade school. I started cutting when I was twelve.

Self: Do you think that’s related to your current relationship with pain?

Self: I think it can’t be left unaddressed. Again, a lot of writing about sexual masochism, or adventures in kinky pain, makes a very loud distinction between previous relationships with pain and current ones. I'm talking about self-harm  and sadomasochism, just to be clear. Usually they’re characterized as unhealthy and healthy, and I think, again, it comes from people wanting to distinguish BDSM from a lot of the stereotypes out there, which is good.

Self: But you’re not here to talk about other people’s relationship to their pain.

Self: No, I’m not. For me (the only person I ever claim to speak for), they’re... not related, but they have a relationship. It’s hard to admit, because it’s part of what scared my mother (she and I initially started talking about kink with this conversation) when I first told her about identifying as a masochist, because she’d known about the cutting, there had been a lot of heartache, for her, in my adolescence, surrounding that. But I think it’s important to acknowledge that the cutting, the slapping and pinching: these were the ways that I learned to process, at a young age. These were part of how I found release, and catharsis. Whether they were healthy or unhealthy is a question I don't know the answer to.

I don’t think that description (using pain as "process") encompasses my current adventures in pain, not even a little bit, but that’s a part of it. It’s still cathartic for me, it’s still a way of processing with my body what is often difficult to keep inside my head. I’m especially wary, because of my history with this, of my sex life or play with Jamie turning into some kind of therapy. I don’t think kink as therapy is a good idea, but that doesn’t mean kink can’t be therapeutic.

Self: You’re all about those parts-of-speech distinctions today.

Self: I am, in addition to many other things, a grammar slut.

Self: Okay, so what else? Did you always like pain with your sex?

Self: I think I always liked it, yes. But I don’t think I always knew I liked it.

Self: When did you first get pain with your sex?

Self: There was a guy, in college. We slept together a few times, it was actually pretty awful (I accidentally broke up an engagement - bad news), but he was a kinkster, and he brought a little of that to the table (with me over the table, at one point, which was pretty awesome. I remember I had a broken finger, and my arm was in a cast, and it was this ridiculous neon blue thing that I stretched out over the tabletop, as I was bent forward and he was spanking me from behind. I think I was... eighteen? I remember thinking ‘how can he take me seriously with this thing on my arm?’ but I imagine, now, that he was concentrating on other areas of my person).

Self: And then you took an interest in masochism?

Self: In a manner of speaking. It’s like when you pull the bottom stick out from a beaver damn (note: I have never actually seen a beaver damn, but I imagine this is what it’s like). Everything went tumbling over itself, and it was kind of a mess, but full of movement and energy and a kind of... whole different shape when it was over. I was a but of an overnight sensation with myself, suddenly this self-identifying, vocal, advocating little kinkster. I didn’t have much practical experience, because I did what I usually do when I take an interest in something: I read a lot of books. But I wanted to get some. So... well, so...

Self: So you went out and got some?

Self: Yup.

Self: Like what?

Self: I had this really intense friendship with this woman in my Spanish class. She wrote me a love letter towards the end of the year, and it was the cutest thing: she hand-delivered it to my dorm room wrapped in the explicit personals page of a cheap weekly. If there was ever a way to my heart, it’s a love letter wrapped in bad porn...

Self: And?

Self: And I was dating someone else at the time, but then after a little while I wasn’t, and she... well, she may have been some of the impetus for that. It was the big end-of-the-year party at the college, which is sort of like a little wee burning man, and she came to my floor on Saturday morning under the pretense of making pancakes. We spent the better part of the day in bed. I remember her running her nails up and down my body, hard, looking down and seeing the marks she left. I remember her holding me by my hair, remembering her digging her fingers into my arms, into my tits. I remember feeling... closer, about that pain? Like, with the pain, in that relationship with her, there was a vulnerability I hadn’t had before, with anyone? We didn’t actually ever get together again, and we didn’t stay in touch. I wonder where she went...

Self: So, we’ve got catharsis, we’ve got processing, we’ve got connection. What else we got?

Self: I don’t know if this is related to the other ones, but it’s a way that I feel really beautiful. And I’m not talking centered, from-the-inside, everything-is-beautiful-in-its-own-way beautiful (although I do believe those things, a lot, and I believe that there might be a time in my life when I do feel that about myself. For now, it's a rare moment). I mean, I feel gorgeous. I glow.

The first guy I ever seriously dated who was at all into this, he took me to the moment where I figured that out, I think. On maybe our... third date? He suggested we go to the hardware store and buy some chain. Which, in retrospect, is pretty fast, but whatever, chain is cheap. I lived in this studio apartment that was shaped like half an a-frame house, and it had these white rafters that started about ten feet off the floor and crisscrossed all around the high ceilings. Fuck, that was an awesome apartment...

Self: Your readers don’t care about the apartment.

Self: Right!

Self: They care about the sexy stuff. And also this pain exploration. Maybe. We hope they do anyway.

Self: Right. Anyway, so, we were playing around one night, and I was wearing this black slip, a super ratty, old-fashioned full-body fifties slip that I used to wear in high school, over another one like it, as a dress. And I’m wearing this slip, and he puts me in leather cuffs, practical ones, wide and double-layered, and chains my hands above my head to the rafters. It was high enough so that I couldn’t bring them down, but so that I could stand, or kneel on the bed.

Self: You’re sending this to your mother?

Self: Yeah... yeah maybe not. We’ll see.

Anyway, he had me chained up, and I was kneeling on the mattress, and he pulled my breast up and over the top of the slip, and he started pinching it, and pulling at it. I think he was touching me too, or kissing me, but we weren’t fucking. It was exquisite. The lights were off, it was night. My bed was next to the window, and the blinds were down, but they were still blinds, and not curtains, and the light from the balcony of the apartment across the way sort of cut into the room, cut across me in slats. My shoulders got more and more sore, and he just... didn’t let go. He just kept pinching me, would bite around it, would twist. And I remember, at some point, just breaking. I just broke, cried a little, just sort of gave into it. I saw myself as maybe he saw me, a little, in that moment. I felt, for a second, that he was a lucky boy to be there with me. It was pretty cool.

Self: What does that mean, you gave into it?

Self: I think... I think it can be a kind of test, for me, in a few ways. It’s a test in the obvious way, the how-much-can-you-take, how-tough-are-you way, and I’ve always been drawn to those sorts of things, especially when they’re... macho? I guess? I like to drive a nail down in one stroke, so to speak (although I’ve never actually been able to do that). I like to be tough. And yeah... yeah, it’s not just for me, I like other people to think I’m tough too. I think the part that’s for me is more important? But it’s also because... because I wanna be that tough chick. I like that tough chick, and I want other people to like her too.

Self: But there's another kind of test? A second kind?

Self: The giving in, the surrender. That can also be a kind of... threshold to cross. To be able to give in to my body, to what it’s experiencing. To stop fighting it, or to... endure it long enough that I can’t fight it anymore. Maybe it’s more like a test, and reward, although some days, it seems like I could take all the pain in the world, and still not get there.

Self: You’re talking about it like it takes you somewhere? Is that an actual place?

Self: I don’t think so. I’m not talking about subspace, or the forever place, or the experiences like those that bottoms talk about. I mean, sometimes that’s there too, but I think what I’m talking about it more personal. When I can get to a place with myself where a lot of pain isn’t scary anymore, or it’s scary, but I’m okay with that scared: that’s an honesty with myself, and an confidence, and a... very present existence that’s hard to find another way.

Self: You can’t be present in sex without pain?

Self: I can be. It’s a lot harder, and I don’t like it as much.

Self: Is that... worrying at all?

Self: I don’t think so. I don’t know, but I don’t think so. I have a busy brain. Even when I don’t want it to be busy, it’s busy. Pain is a way to quiet my mind. It’s not unlike meditation.

Self: And now, for the hippie woo-woo portion of the interview.

Self: No, no. Nothing like that. I mean, I’m kind of a hippie sometimes, but I’ve already written about buddhism and pain. It’s here.

Self: So, you like pain. You had some partners who liked to give you pain. Then what happened?

Self: Then I met Jamie.

Self: Who is Jamie?

Self: Jamie it my fusband. Future husband, fake husband. He's my fiance. He’s my man dude friend. When we first started dating, he identified primarily as a sadist. We’ve gotten into all other manner of things together, but sadomasochism is still a big part of our play together.

Self: How big?

Self: I’d say we don’t do a scene without it ever, and we don’t fuck without it hardly ever.

Self: What’s the difference between those two things?

Self: I don’t know. I sort of actually hate the word “scene.” But what I mean is: even in the quickies, even when the... I don’t know, focus of what we’re doing is sex and getting off, as opposed to power exchange or pain or bondage, there’s still a lot of pain.

Self: Has having a consistent kinky partner changed your relationship with pain at all?

Self: It’s let me explore a lot of new things, things I don’t think I would have explored the same way with other partners, or other people than Jamie, even if I had found other long-term play partners. Our relationship is... awesome, in a lot of ways, and exploring pain is one of them.

Self: What kinds of new stuff have you gotten into?

Self: Well, I tried a lot of new implements with him that I hadn’t tried before. Nothing to outrageous, by kinkster standards, but we’ve got a nice wall of toys now.

Self: What’s your favorite?

Self: Favorite? They’re all different. Flogging is, in a way, the easiest to take. It hurts, and it hurts a lot, but in a way that doesn’t scare me as much as the rest of them, most of the time. So that’s good in some ways, and... not as affective in other ways. Caning is very difficult for me. It’s frightening. Remember the second kind of test? The threshold? That’s really hard to get a sense of with caning. It’s just... exactly the wrong kind of pain. Which is why it’s also a lot of fun, in exactly it’s own ways.

Self: Is there any kind of pain you don’t like, in a real don’t-like way?

Self: I haven’t had good experiences with electricity, but I haven’t had very many experiences with electricity, so I’m leaving that one open. I don’t like pain on my genitals. I haven’t done anything with cutting or burning, because those are a little too reminiscent of what I used to do with pain. I’ve never done play piercing, but I’m fantastically curious about it. Everything else... everything else is great. I guess, mostly, I like hitty things. Lots and lots of different kinds of hitty things.

Self: Is there anything you would change about your relationship with pain?

Self: Not really. The classic answer that people give, when asked, like my mother asked, why someone would want pain in their sex life, why it would ever be in the same category of appealing as caressing or squeezing or what have you, is that these people, who like pain: they want the whole breadth of sensory experience. And I think, for me, that isn’t quite right. Because I don’t really want the gentle touches. I mean, I like them (a lot) in certain contexts (as reward, as manipulation, as part of voyeur/exhibitionist dynamic, etc), but I don’t want them the same way I want pain.

I just... it’s delicious. All by itself. The toys aren’t essential, although they’re awesome. The feeling of a hand slapping, hard, against my skin? That’s... where I feel connected to the person I'm with, where I feel connected to myself. That’s long walks on the beach and piña coladas, for me.

Self: So really, there’s nothing you would change?

Self: I would bruise easier. They don’t tell you this, but often, when you bottom for a while, you stop bruising and marking as much. For some people it’s a relief. For me it’s a huge bummer. I like the marks, I like seeing them right after, watching them fade, showing them off (in appropriate, or mostly appropriate, contexts). That’s probably another part of it. Watching the external heal, feeling marked, owned, like someone’s territory claimed.

Self: But... (prepares bad British accent) do you have a flag?

Self: Actually yes. But that’s another post.

Self: So. Are you gonna send this to your mom?

Self: I don’t know. I keep trying to write something here that’s appropriate for her, and it keeps... not happening. My mother and whatever readers I have here are... very different audiences.

Self: This is a sex blog.

Self: It’s true.

Self: Last words on pain?

Self: More please!

Long Time No See, MetaBlog thoughts, and the DiCarlo Escalation Ladder, Part Deux

Hi internet.

It's been a while.

Here's the part where I'll tell you why it's been a while.

I'm writing a book, and working two jobs, and my man just got home from four months away, so it's been a real busy few weeks (month... yeah, month). And I'd say I'll try to post more, and I will, but to be perfectly honest, there are a few (maybe more than a few) things in my life right now that take precedence over this. Although, come September, things might go back to normal, as I've got plans to move to the frozen tundra that is far west bush town, Alaska. We'll see.

On to some substance, shall we?

I recently got a big spike in hits, specifically on one post, the DiCarlo Escalation Ladder mocking back from June of 2012. Looking at my traffic, it came from reddit. Someone, hilariously enough, has linked it as an example of the actual DiCarlo Escalation Ladder.

Side note: that post is my most viewed, even with the porn posts thrown in there. It's also the third hit when you google DiCarlo Escalation Ladder.

And that's all fine and dandy, as far as I'm concerned. I'd like nothing better than for someone looking for the actual creep-tastic piece of rapey filth to find a mocked version of it, especially because the post doesn't link to any PDF of the Ladder, but rather intersperses commentary throughout a copy-pasted version (so I'm not directing any traffic to those sites, which is good).

But I had a comment come through this morning from one of these guys, and it almost spoiled the whole fucking thing.

Because I just rage. There's no quippy way to put it. There's no getting around it. I read the comment it made my fucking feminist blood boil in my giant, patriarchy-smashing muscles.

And I responded, which I probably shouldn't have, but I did. You can go back and look at it if you want. It's not even a particularly good response. I just wrote it because: rage.

But it leaves me with a bit of a conundrum. Based on the traffic of this blog, is more philosophical than practical. I guess it's an issue a lot of bloggers run into. I don't want to provide space for assholes to say their asshole bullshit, but I also don't really want to regulate my comments section. And not for the "free speech blah blah" bullshit; nobody is infringing on your right to free speech if they don't agree to host your comments. It's more that, if I want to have a dialogue abut these kinds of things, then I actually want to have a dialogue. It's also that, in part, I want to leave the super shitty comments up as an example of the fact that these kinds of shits actually exist.

The comment would have been easy to deal with if it was hateful, or mean, or angry. It wasn't. It was placating. It was wheedling. It was "oh, the Ladder isn't really so bad, it's just writing stuff down and it's just the way men and women are. Don't worry about it."

Because that's what drives me up the fucking wall. When somebody says, about my experience, about my deeply held beliefs "really, it's not such a big deal. You shouldn't be so sensitive. You shouldn't take is so personally. It's not really a big deal. Don't worry about it."

Fuck you. Of course I worry about it. I worry explicitly, and sometimes with great verbosity. And yeah, I do take it personally. You're commenting on my fucking personal blog.

I don't really know what to do about it. Nothing, I suppose. Seethe. I'll seethe about it.

More content come. To brighten this a little, here's a link to a rad video game company run by a friend of mine. Their philosophy about the new stuff coming out is excellent, and it's a little ways down.

Delectable shame

Real post coming soon. In the mean time, here's a link that I'll probably be referencing forever. I love finding things on the Internet that are exactly the answer to a question I get asked a lot. Feels less lonely, and also adds a comforting weight to the arsenal of "no, I am not disturbed, and here's why," in which I seem to always fumble, trying to answer those oft-asked questions.

Anyhow, enjoy:

http://freethoughtblogs.com/greta/2013/04/22/an-open-letter-to-people-concerned-about-kink/?utm_source=feedly

Falling in Love All Over Again

I know my partner is a feminist, and a radical, and a sex-positive, patriarchy-smashing rockstar. I know it, but sometimes it slips into the background, like many things in long term relationships tend to do. It's there, but I'm not watching it every second like in the beginning. I don't think this makes me a bad partner; I just think it's part of relaxing into a life with someone.

But then he goes and writes something like this (see below), and it's right in front of my face again. It's reflective and informed; it's simple to understand, yet broadly applicable. It's one of the best working definitions of privilege I've seen.

He posted it on facebook, as a status, in response to nothing in particular. Many women commented. They commented in funny ways, in heartfelt ways, in (oddly and ironically) joke(?)-romantic/sexual ways ("Swoon," "If I wasn't already married, I'd chase you..." etc). I understand where they're coming from, as I felt similarly; so rare is an understanding like this, and even rarer from a cis-male-identified person. It's a precious thing, and it feels like a precious thing, to see someone speak about their own privilege without shame or guilt. With proud awareness and active responsibility. Makes me want to get up on something tall and wave my arms above my head and whoop.

But I didn't comment. Some of it was that I knew I would get to talk to him about it later, not on a facebook wall (we hardly ever communicated in public that way, which I like). Some of it was not wanting to seem overbearing or possessive by commenting on a thread where other women expressed desire and love for my partner (not that those things are bad - see later paragraph).

But the biggest part of it came from a feeling of smallness, which I don't like, which I want to unpack. I read his post, and read the comments, and felt bad that I was having the same reaction as these women. Felt bad that I didn't react more normally, that his post wasn't something that immediately registered as "of course he wrote that." Which is not to say that it didn't fit with his character as I know it, just that: in being similarly surprised and delighted as all the other people, I felt somehow that I'd been taking him for granted.

I felt guilty, but also that I was somehow slacking, and in that laziness, that I was wandering into dangerous territory. Yes, I thought the same things as all these women, and of course I did, because they're true. Because the man that I am with is a really, really incredible man. And if I don't remember that, if I let the luck of being with him go squandered, then I might not be so lucky anymore. Obviously, there are many women lined up. Obviously, some of them are pretty amazing feminists, are pretty amazing thinkers and writers, are (and this is no small piece of the puzzle) simply very pretty. I couldn't distinguish myself from them, and if there is nothing different or unique about me, then I must make up for it by treating my partner like gold. In that moment, realizing that I might be less acknowledging of him than these other women was, in short, very threatening, and very scary. If I'm not special, and I don't do a good job of realizing how he is special, then why would he stay?

This is all, of course, bullshit. I don't actually believe in a) an emotional starvation economy, or b) that anything I was "slacking on" could possibly loose me my partner. (If he didn't feel appreciated, and we talked about it, and he still didn't feel appreciate, that would be another story, and something we would work through (or not, but we'd talk about it first). He isn't going to magically leave me one day because I haven't praised him enough times in the last forty eight hours). But feelings don't really listen to the things I believe in, a lot of time. Feelings are gremlins raised and fed by the patriarchy for twenty years, and I'm just now weening them onto a healthier diet. And, as they say with any diet, old habits die hard.

This wasn't supposed to be a post about my reaction to Jamie's writing. This was supposed to just be Jamie's writing. Ah well.

Down with the darkest gremlins, in the farthest reaches of the Caves O' Patriarchy, I am scared that finding more feminist communities or being more active is social justice circles is going to mean that Jamie will leave. Part of what he loves about me is my politics, is talking about them with me, is what I think and how I think about it. And I'm scared that it's a unique part of me, to him; that it's part of why he stays, and in meeting other people who are also like me in that way, I will become less special. He will discover that the things setting me apart actually do not. This isn't any more real of a fear than any of the rest of the bullshit, but I think it falls into a more real category. Or a more identifiable category.

I am scared that an aspect of our relationship that makes it special won't anymore, and then what does?

And now that I've said it out loud, it'll probably get a whole lot better.

yup, i really did this (not this time around, but perhaps more than once in the past)

It's the same as any boundary that we work on, although this one is more specific to us, I think, than say, physical boundaries or kinky boundaries. What defines our relationship, what sets it apart from other relationships is just exactly that: that we each choose this, that he is who he is and that I am who I am. That our relationship is the two of us together. I forget what book or podcast said it, but somewhere there's a quote about poly that goes something like "Non-monogamy is having so much faith in your relationship that you don't have to have faith in anything else." And while I'm a long way off from that as yet (and don't consider in an absolutely goal or anything), it's a principal I stand by. I just have to cajole the feelings into going along with the principals. Gremlins, fall in line.

So, without further ado, here's what I've actually been talking about. This is a post, un-prompted, by a man who, even if I wasn't real in love with him, I would respect deeply, and like a whole lot.


Here's what it comes down to (my point of view):
When my date drinks too much I never worry about my safety.
When I was in NYC, walking around at night with torn clothing, I never once was stopped and frisked.
I'm secure in the knowledge that no one out there wants to beat me to death or drag me behind a truck, and certainly no one with the power to do so.
There is no law in place or proposed that will deny me anything based on any part of my identity.
When I'm walking from my car to my front door at night I never put my keys between my fingers.
If I get too drunk at a party I know the worst I'll wake up with is Sharpie on my face and embarrassing facebook photos.
When I get pulled over by a cop they never once imply that I shouldn't be out driving, might be up to something illegal, or search me or my car.
When I was in college if I interrupted someone they stopped talking, and no one interrupted me.
No one looks at any part of my body when I'm talking except my face.
No one's implied any part of my identity is a phase, something I'll grow out of, a sin, a crime, or an affront to them.
I never worry that someone is hiring, promoting, listening to, agreeing with, or talking to me because they want to sleep with me.
If I feel depressed I can look for inspiration in the heroes of every movie and video game ever - they all look like me, and never imply I need someone else to come rescue me, I have all the power to do it myself.
If I decide to vote, no one will make any effort to dissuade me.
If I come to work disheveled, people will be ask if I'm sick and respect me no less than they did yesterday.
I've never had to commit the small deception of wearing a ring on a different finger to ward off amorous advances of someone who might turn violent in their persistence, unless a metal band indicates I belong to someone else.
I spent 12 years of school studying people who look like me doing great things.
I've never considered whether the person I'm with might sexually assault me.
I've never had to talk in anything other than my native tongue to get respect.
I get to wear the clothes my parents and peers have always worn without judgment.
No part of my identity is subject to ridicule, mockery, questioning, nor am I ever called to educate those around me about what it's like to be one of me.
No one's ever implied my weight casts aspersions on my abilities.
I get taken seriously.

I feel like that confers a responsibility to share those advantages with those who might not have them in any way I can. Don't you?

I love him for this. As a caveat, I love him for many reasons, both describable and not, but his politics are a part of it. And being afraid to say that in a public forum because of petty, patriarchal constructs is just sort of bullshit.

Because he is really incredible, and even if it isn't at the top of my thoughts every day, I shouldn't be scared to whoop from the rooftops when it is.

Kink Fest; The Quotes Post

I'll write a big 'ol missive on the event later, I'm sure, but for now, here are some favorite quotes from the last day and half. Heard in classes, around the festival, and in the dungeon (no names posted, because I don't have anyone's permission, or even what some of their names are). From hilarious to quippy to profound, perverts say it all.

[from a presenter, on people arriving to his class on time] "I appreciate your radical acceptance of the schedule." 

"We cannot have power exchange unless everybody has power to begin with." 

[on suffocating someone with your hands, and using different smells (wasabi, fish sauce, scat) to make breathing unpleasant] "Some people, when they smell certain smells - they stop breathing. They're like 'fuck you, fine' and just stop." 

"You, darling, might be an asshole" 

"I had a partner who identified as a human ferret." 

[on being asked to bottom in a double penetration rape scene by five new-ish tops, in a lecture given by the bottom on how to play with new tops] "I was laying there, after they'd tied me down on my back, while they were trying to figure out how to put it in. And I was just sort of waiting. And then I suggested, gently "Hey, maybe the problem is the position of the bottom..." They flipped me over and got right back in. It was awesome." 

"But I said 'Sir' at the end, so it was all okay." 

[from a very shy person, in a lecture on negotiation for shy people] "I wore a name tag that said 'My name is ___, wanna fuck?' It opened up a lot of doors."

More details later! Now: on to further adventures!

Getting to Kink Fest: A Fable

I was pretty excited for KinkFest this year. Although I was going to be working four shows over the weekend (as per usual), I was probably going to do what I did last year: buy a ticket for Friday, go to the lectures during the day, shop around at the vendors, maybe check out the party post-show.

And then I lost my job. Which is another blog entirely, so we'll leave it at that for now.

I was (among many other things) both excited to have the entire weekend free, but also a bit hesitant, because my financial situation had changed with the loss of that job. So I looked up kinkfest, and what it would cost for the weekend.

And holy fucking floggers, batman. 185$?! Plus an extra 40$ if you wanted to attend the leather dinner on Friday evening, with the keynote speaker and the fancy schmancy attire?

185$ is almost exactly what I make in a week now. I can't spend that much money on anything other than rent, much less a luxury like a kink conference. I understand that these events cost money, and I believe that, could I afford to buy a ticket, I would definitely regard my money more than well-spent. But right then, it just wasn't an option.

Wait! Excitement! There are work study volunteer opportunities! I apply! I am excited! I'm a great volunteer, and have experience, and I sent them this blog, and although I'm not super active in the Portland community, I am enthusiastic and express such enthusiasm with grammar and punctuation! But not emoticons! Because I have standards!

A few weeks later, I get an email informing me that, unfortunately, I have not been awarded a workstudy. That there were limited spots. That they are sorry, but that they hope to see me at the event. I am saddened, but spend the afternoon moving money around, to see if I could maybe pay for a day ticket. Alas, no dice.

Another email the next day, from the Education Committee, telling me that if I still want to volunteer, I can volunteer to set up the lectures and classes (which are my favorite parts anyway). I extrapolate (and learn later: wrongly) that this means I can show up and attend just the parts I volunteer for without having to pay. I am excited again! There is hope! I write an e-mail back to Eddy (we'll call him Eddy), the Education Committee Coordinator, with my schedule preferences for working the lectures and my grammatically evidenced gratitude!

Eddy is very kind in his reply, but has bad news for me. Everyone must register for the event, and if I wanted to volunteer, I would have to buy a ticket for the weekend. I tell him "oh." I tell him "bummer." I tell him "thank you for letting me know," and still, I am enthusiastic, because Eddy really is very kind, and he offers to maybe help me get involved in other kink activities around Portland, which especially right now, with Jamie and my boyfriend out of town, would be a nice refreshing burst of fellow kinksters in my life.

We ping back and forth a few times.

And then, and then... and then he tells me, don't hold your breath, but oh, there might be a few more workstudies available! And oh, he has asked that maybe I get one, to help the Education Committee! And oh, the next day, an e-mail from Vicky (we'll call her Vicky), the Volunteer Coordinator of Kinkfest, saying yes, she is pleased, saying yes, I have been awarded a workstudy! Full workstudy!

Hurray!

So, there's a meeting on Saturday, of the volunteers. I'm really excited to go, and I'm really excited to volunteer (and there will, I'm sure, be much writing on this blog about kinkfest over the weekend).

But it was interesting, this whole financial process. Because there have been times in my life where yeah, a workstudy would have been nice, but not necessary. There are times when I would have applied, and been rejected, and somehow scrounged up the money to go anyway.

This just isn't one of those times. And it was interesting to see, in many of the emails (not Eddy's, but some other ones) how it seemed... optional? Somehow. How in the underlying message, there was a "we know you applied for this thing because you can't really pay for this, but just in case you can still: here are some options."

I'm not trying to criticize Kinkfest. I understand that continuing to offer opportunities to those who might be able to afford them is awesome, and they asked, in between emails about workstudy and further offers, if I still wanted to volunteer - it was overtly consensual, and finance-conscious. Rather, I'm reflecting on my own personal difficulties in having things offered to me, and not being able to take them for financial reasons. I am, for the first time in a little while, farther on the other side of the line; I am definitively more poor than I was a month ago.

It's not something I'm unfamiliar with, but in a way, I'm learning to be poor again. The timing of all this is remarkable, because not only has my financial situation shifted, but there's the kinkfest scholarship thing, as well as the graduate school scholarship thing. I'm getting acceptance letters (yup! two!), and in the same breath, they offer me spot in their program, and a letter saying how much money I'm (not) getting to go there. One of the schools I've been accepted to (ranked 24th in the country, wow) is already out because I can't pay for it.

But I'm learning to sit with it. I'm learning to trust that, along the way, the right school or the right festival will come along ("right" including the money aspect of what it is to be right for me). I'm not especially bitter about it. Money is just another factor, and this is just where I am right now.

Anyway, that was a serious digression into non-feminist non-kinky territory. Or maybe: thoughts about economic barriers in the kink world deserves it's own dedicated post.

To end on a more relevant note: I just read a Lee Harrington blogpost on "asking," which links to Amanda Palmer's recent Ted Talk on the same topic. Asking is good, asking is important, and like Palmer says, when you connect with people, everybody feels good about giving.