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.