Thursday, February 21, 2008

late-night ramblings (boy's)

A confession: 
Sometimes i want to be scary.  I've never been scary.  Well, maybe I have, once, but it ended badly. That was the harshly-lit hotel room and the crying and while it was ok afterwards, it wasn't good (see the archives for more information).
But I like tears. I like fear and pain and broken begging. I know that doing something to someone that they don't want done to them turns me on.  I know that that makes me, in the eyes of many and to some extent in my own conscience too, a bad person. But I know that it's true, and I know that, if there's any way to do it that's morally justifiable, it's in kink. I just haven't figured out quite how yet. Being scary is something that's not Good. It's socialized out of you at an early age. It implies not caring what you do to other people, being capable of doing damage and creating not only fear but suffering. It's threatening and terrifying and terrifically sexy and hugely, hugely problematic in the context of a relationship or intimate interaction. It's also about self-confidence, and self-presentation in a way that I'm almost completely unpracticed at. I suspect that if I'd figured out how to be scary, I'd have done much better in acting class. I don't think I can argue a logical connection, but I feel somehow that it's there. I've more or less made it a principle in my life to avoid interfering with the space of others' lives as much as possible, if that makes any sense. Keeping a low emotional footprint, to borrow a phrase from environmentalism. Being scary is the exact opposite of that. It's thrusting yourself into others' space and others' lives (or believably threatening to).
I had a strange moment, during a scene that Switch mentioned briefly an entry or two ago, that brought this to mind. I think I was hitting her thighs with an evilstick. That made her jump, which wasn't a good idea because the wood knob she was impaled on and the metal seat she was tied to were rigid and unforgiving. And so she started shaking her head and begging incoherently. I got hard, and then I stopped hitting her. I got hard because she wasn't enjoying it, and I stopped because she wasn't enjoying it. I got hard because I was hurting her, and I stopped because I was hurting her. I was getting off on something that was making her unhappy. That's not OK in the context of a relationship, or of normal interactions. That's beyond ethically complicated into wrong and bad. In real life. BDSM and the world of kink should, one imagines, be able to provide the setting to experiment with that, but I haven't been able to navigate well enough the intricacies of role and play, of scene-only dynamics and assumed roles and the dance between mindfulness and comfort and scariness and hurt.
It's a project.  But it's worth it, and I've got a partner.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

The Beetle

Sometimes I forget about the beetle.

My father is one of four brothers, each in their own way quite as loud as he, quite as aggressive in some sense, quite as intelligent. We are truly the Jewish Intellectual breed... a noble prize winning physicist, a famous psychologist with a vested and personal interest in queer studies, my father the lawyer and professor of law, known for civil rights and anti-death penalty work, and the youngest, a playwright turned charity founder-and-director. All of them are prone to asking difficult questions, posing riddles, making their daughters and nieces (for my generation is all girls) think in ways they'd prefer not to.

When I was much younger, the youngest of these brothers, my uncle T, asked me how I could prove my existence. He posed that perhaps I was (and am) in reality a 10 legged black beetle, in some swamp somewhere, dreaming this entire life of mine.

I couldn't prove it wasn't so, and I was troubled. Because I couldn't prove it wasn't, some part of me believed that it must be true. But even then, I wasn't sure the question was worth asking.

The beetle's dream is all I've ever known, and I'll I will ever know. Unless someday the beetle wakes up, in which case mine will be a small and scuttling, many legged life, with very different interests than the ones I currently hold dear.

And just as I don't care too much about the beetle, I won't care about the dream I left behind.

I realized today that my own hair reminds me of Boy. It has gotten long, where I once kept it short, and when I let it down in class today, I thought of him. He is the one with long hair in my life. In his hair I bury my face, I feel safe, I hide and I smell him and all is well. In my own hair I can do the same, almost... all with the thought of him. He's in my hair; he's everywhere.

He has become the hero in the dream in which I am the heroine, the black swamp beetle's endless, pointless dream that is my life.

Monday, February 18, 2008

My House (at the Corner of My Street)

Avid or long time readers will have realized a few things about my living situation.
1) I am in college, and as such live on a college campus.
2) But not in a dorm. Oh no!
3) I live in a big lovely hundred-year-old house with 24 of my dear friends, siblings of a co-educated society something like a frat, if frats tended to be geeky and sex positive instead of jocky and skeezy (by "tend to be" I mean "stereotyped as" here).

We are a house full of dramatic people who care about each other, about the house, about how each other care about the house, etc. We talk a lot. My job this semester, an elected position in the house, is making sure that when we talk to each other, we hear each other. That we can be remain kind and understanding to each other even when we feel hurt or angry. That emotions between the members of the house stay smooth and even, so we can be the siblings we've all pledged to be.

It's kind of a bitchy job, and it keeps me up late, but I love it.

Recently Sarah, a friend of Estra's and burgeoning blogger, came to this house.
Reading her impressions of the place this morning made me smile. It's rare that I get to hear the thoughts new people have on a place like this. Like all major organizations, the house has a bit of a reputation around campus, and so one can't exactly get a fresh and unbiased opinion from someone on the campus at large. And besides, my little school is a bubble itself, already warped to see the world one way when it might look another.

But this sweet lady was new, and I am overjoyed to see that, at least if you are looking for it, there's a lot of good to be found in my place. We are a group of very physical people. We make it clear to each other that touching, hugging, cuddling is ok. If you're dating, it's ok. If you're friends, it's ok. If you're dating somebody else, it's ok. This point that Sarah found so nice is a lot of what is getting us a bad rap in the world at large (and by the world, I mean the campus, here).

That makes me sad. I worry that I'll go out into the world and not be able to hug friends, or snuggle up with them for videos, or all the other things I do to show love-comfort-happy. But this lady, she gives me hope. She from the cold and windy midlands of the nation comes saying "Hey, I like this!". If she likes it, the rest will follow.

A nation of physical affection. A world that communicates with touch.

One house at a time.

(Mine first).

Thursday, February 14, 2008

All I Need

I never post about what I'm supposed to post about.
I should post about our scenes, which have been more ritualized, like we planned. I should talk about when Boy put a condom over a wooden tool-handle bolted to a stool made of a metal tractor seat, and sat me there and teased. I should talk about taking Boy bent over a bed and up against a wall with my big hard cock.
I should post about those wonderful scenes, but scene posting doesn't seem to be what I do, anymore.
Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. In an hour and half, it is Valentine's Day. We have no plans, other than watching episodes of Cowboy Bebop like we do every Thursday we can, with friends. Goose, over at her blog, is busily posting about loving her loves.

*A pause, in which I hit a tired and small Boy harder than ever before, until my poor little fists leave the possibilities of bruises on his back. And we sleep.*

Plans changed in the interim. We will try to get some sushi today, for a treat. And I have dressed up for him in tall black boots and a short school girl skirt and a low cut sweater. Just a little treat.
And what can I say? I was pushed to write because Boy's weariness felt overwhelming. My own did. And yet we've played much more in the past few weeks than we often have in the past. I think things are bleeding through into kink the way we always want them to: rather than the troubles of the day spoiling our perfect scene space, I find I can channel all the bits that get stored up in me through my difficult days and pour them out in pounding fists or Toppy attitude. That's nice.

I wore my big sparkly strap-on under my clothes the other day. Under my favorite pair of men's pants. It's too big for that in public, it was incredibly obvious, but it felt so much more real... this is my cock. This is the erection, wrought in silicone, sprung of the excitement of my Boy hurrying across campus to be with me. It is pressing through my pants. It is not subtle.
It has been conjectured that boys like girls with penises because the penis shows its arousal in a way that is more clear to them. If a girl has hard on, you know she wants you. And y'know, I kinda buy into that. Wearing my strap on under clothes made my own desire that much more palpable to me.

And other odds and ends. There are a lot of them. And I am not much of a one for Valentine's Day. I used to wear all black on this day, every year for ages. In relationships and out. Because the cruelty of this holiday for those of us who don't have relationships is not lessened by the fact that I happen to have one. But also because through most of the formative years, I was the one who only had valentines from those kids whose parents made them get one for everybody in the class. That's the real reason, I am sure. A more mainstream childhood and I'd be a joyous girl on this day.

Beh. Some years I'm sure I'll forget this day, and other years I'm sure I'll remember. This year I remembered and dressed up, but that has no bearing on what's important. And what's important is that I love Boy. I have leaned on him harder the past few weeks, and he's supported me. And I think he's leaned harder, too. And I think I've been there. And everything in the world is changing, except I've got him.

What more is needed?