Monthly Archives: December 2016

Goodbye Adolescence

Another day, another celebrity death. And while there will always be celebrity deaths, this year managed to pillage my adolescence pretty hard. David Bowie. Prince. And finally, George Michael.

That one hit harder than I expected. I’ve now spent a day and a half listening to his recordings, some studio and some live. And I am stunned at how good he actually was. Sure there were some embarrassing moments early on. But even with Wham! he matured quickly. By the 90s, he was more than just a sex object, though he retained every bit of his sex appeal.

Songs like Praying for Time showed his depth. Videos like the one for Outside showed he could laugh at himself. And once he was out, he was unabashedly out – take a listen to Fastlove.

As an adult, I lost track of what he was doing. Every now and then, I would hear about a drug arrest and be disappointed in him, but I always had bigger things to worry about.

So why make such a fuss only after he’s gone? I think it’s easier than trying to discuss the complexities of the rest of the world’s problems. We 80s children all knew who George Michael was. For many of us hungry little school girls, he was our first crush and informed much of our sexuality. That’s not nothing.

Today, it is a  uniting thing. Some of us can come together and remember. Maybe even be inspired again.

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I only regret how much I trusted you

You came into my life with the force of a hurricane and swept me up into all your plans. Going with you was never a choice. It was just what one did because why would I want to do anything else? You knew everything and everyone and you still thought I was awesome.

Eventually, I started to see the cracks. As life drew us further apart, they got bigger and I decided it was okay that we weren’t so close anymore. There wasn’t any animosity, but I stopped going out of my way for you and you for me. I told myself that’s just how life is – people come and go.

And then the light coming through those cracks revealed things I never wanted to see. Things I had glimpsed before, but excused because I thought you had good enough reasons. You don’t. Or maybe I just can’t be bothered with your reasons anymore.

It’s true. People come and go from our lives all the time. We grow apart. Sometimes we come back together. I can deal with that and I’m used to it. There are people I’m still fond of who I rarely see, but I know would be there for me if I needed them. You used to be there for me. You helped me out of some real jams and nothing will ever change that.

But sometimes…sometimes a door closes for good. And that click of the lock sounds so final. Man, it was all but audible last night, too. I don’t enjoy shutting those doors and I don’t do it often. But it’s never arbitrary. I didn’t wake up one day and decide we weren’t friends anymore. I woke up one day and finally faced how wrong I had been about you.

I’m not sorry I loved you. I don’t regret being friends with you or trusting you. I only regret how deep those feelings went.

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Consent. Sexy, sexy consent

I came across an online discussion recently where some of the commenters (men, naturally) argued that consent is not always explicitly given. It can be done with body language, or even a look.

No. No it can’t.

If you know a person, if they are your partner, I can understand a certain amount of implied consent. I don’t think you have to ask someone every time you have sex. But you do have to listen to them if they’re not feeling it. If they pull away, say “I’m not in the mood,” or otherwise indicate that it’s not a good time, talk to them.

There are people who think that getting explicit, enthusiastic consent somehow ruins the mood. I couldn’t disagree more. I’d rather get a yes then proceed and wait for a no. I’ve had a relationship start because the other person literally asked me, “Would you like to have sex?”

Spoiler alert – I did.

I’ve been in bed with someone new and had them ask about each new thing they were doing. Usually in a seductive whisper. And then they actually waited for the reply. I’ve been on dates where we made it clear – before the endorphins started flowing – what was on the menu for that night. I’ve been hanging out with someone – just chatting about music mostly – when they asked, “Wanna make out?”

Spoiler alert number two – I did.

I consider these the sexiest questions I’ve ever been asked. They tell me most of what I need to know about the person asking, too. If you’re not asking, why not?

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Be This Guy Instead

Straight, white, cis guys. They’re the worst, amirite? Entitled, whiny mansplainers who are incapable of understanding the effects of their actions. They hate feminism, foreigners, and gay men (though lesbians are totally hot, especially if they let him watch). They love America, boobs, and beer. And they always claim to be “nice guys.” If only the girls would give them a chance.

Aren’t generalizations awful?

The night of the election, I was a wreck. My only consolation was watching my friends feed on Facebook and seeing I wasn’t alone. We were all scared, upset and angry. Everyone was looking for answers, and most of us were at a loss about what to do next. This included one of the few straight, white, cis dudes on my feed.

“What am I going to tell my kids in the morning?” he wrote. Maybe I was projecting, but the words carried an incredible amount of pain and sadness. And ever since, he’s become much more vocal in his support for LGBT people. I’d seen that support in person, but have been pleasantly surprised to see it online too. He has a large audience and has stood up to people who insist that he should just be an artist, and not political.

As if art has never been used to make a political statement.  But I digress.

My favorite part is that he doesn’t go around proclaiming what a nice guy he is. He just does it. If you mentioned it to him, he’d probably look at you confused.

He gives me hope.

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Don’t Be That Guy

Why is there always a “that guy”?

A couple of years ago, I started vending at a con in Columbus. I was at a table next to guy with tasers and “horror videos.” He was just over middle age and gave off a creepy vibe. He had some of his models with him and they looked barely legal. Every time he demonstrated his tasers, I jumped. I did my best to ignore him, and prayed the girls with him were older than they looked.

This past May, another vendor, selling corsets and other leather items, gave off a similar vibe. He also made inappropriate comments to me. In talking to others, I found I was not the only person who had had issues with him. I reported him.

Last weekend, I vended at a show I have come to love. The man who runs it earns more of my respect almost every day. Late on Saturday, I wandered around in order to shop some of the other vendors. I came across a table with geeky t-shirts – a weakness for me. No matter how many I have, there is always another design I’m sure I “need.” They had Firefly ones, specifically one that said “Big Damn Heroes.” There was only one though, size small. I held it up and it didn’t seem that small. They were unisex sizes.

A man working the booth asked what size I was and I told him it depended – in men’s sizes, I can wear a medium. He held up a medium and it looked like it would fit. A small would be pushing it though and I told him as much. Rather than simply agree, however, he looked me up and down and replied, “Well, I’d enjoy the view.” I gave him a wan smile, already done with the interaction. He went on to tell me about another big-breasted gal he’d seen squeeze herself into a too-small shirt. I walked away.

Today, I reported him too. I also talked to a couple of other vendors and made sure they knew about him.

Neither of these incidents is egregious enough for me to want the other person banned or for me to boycott something they will be vending at. They’re relatively minor compared to some of the harassment I know goes on at cons. But I hate being this person. I feel like such a tattle tale, like I’m running to the teacher saying, “he was mean to me.”

Unfortunately, I don’t come up with good responses to these incidents in the moment. I tend to freeze, wonder if they’re really as bad as they seem. I tell friends to see if I’m overreacting. Once I feel validated, only then do I feel like I can tell someone who can actually do something about it.

I also know that if I don’t say something, I will feel worse. If these guys go on to worse harassment, I’d feel at fault for not doing my part. I just wish it wasn’t necessary. I want these guys to not just understand, but care about the effect they’re having. I want these cons to be safer spaces than this.

So yes, I will continue to speak up. I encourage everyone to. At the very least, I want my reports to corroborate someone else’s. I want someone else to know they are not alone and that they aren’t overreacting either.

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There’s a smile when the pain comes…

The walls and a few shelves were covered with images of the macabre. Skulls, death masks, horror film portraits from Friday the 13th, It, Dracula and Silence of the Lambs. Loud, heavy rock music played in the background, including Marilyn Manson. There’s also a plastic princess crown, complete with pink ribbons. I’m dying to know the story behind that, but I don’t ask.

Someone alert my conservative college self, I thought. I’m sitting in a tattoo parlor getting a large, geeky tattoo and rocking out to Marilyn Manson. She’d never believe it.

“Tell me if you need a break,” my artist said when we started. I promised myself I would. But I’ve only ever safeworded out of a scene once. I was pretty sure I could get through this. I sat there, eyes closed, getting lost in the sensations, and only occasionally wondering how much longer we had to go.

But eventually, I started to wonder if I could make it after all. The pain was starting to get monotonous and bordering on just a little too much in some places. As I considered whether it was time for a time out, a favorite song came on the playlist.

She never mentions the word addiction, in certain company…
She’ll tell you she’s an orphan, after you meet her family.

We both sang along with Chris Robinson and suddenly, I barely noticed what was happening on my back. I even found myself fighting back tears.

There’s a smile when the pain comes
The pain’s gonna make everything alright.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my place in the kink community . How much to continue and at what level of involvement. I find myself more drawn to the geeky side of things, and having a difficult time getting myself pumped up for kinkiness.

But I’m still a masochist. And pain can still provide a catharsis when I need it to. With so much uncertainty right now, it’s nice to have that to cling to.

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Letting Go of a Grievance

An ex of mine operates on a pretty predictable pattern. He calls himself polyamorous, but it’s really just a front. When he starts dating someone new, you know the person he’s already dating is on the way out. I was the replacement for his second wife, in many different respects, and I’ve seen this pattern repeated often in the years since our breakup.

I got along with the woman who followed me while we were both dating the same person. Afterwards, well, it just got awkward. I have a feeling now that there were more than a few misunderstandings as well. Eventually, we ended up running in different circles. Until this past weekend, I hadn’t seen her in years.

And then she walked into an event I was vending at in Columbus. My eyes rolled into the back of my head and I mostly hoped we wouldn’t have to interact.

But she ended up being one of my best customers. We chatted and it was more than just being civil…it was downright friendly. As if there was no shared history or ugliness at all. I had my books out as well as my chocolate, and I briefly considered mentioning the asshole fire player who makes a brief appearance – surely she would find him familiar.

But what would be the point? It’s  past and no longer relevant. We’ve both moved on, and it was better to leave him out of it altogether. You can barely call what we did getting closure because we addressed not a moment of the past. We were just two humans, without bitterness or angst.

How lovely.

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I don’t even think of you that often

“You can hit her harder than that,” I heard her say.

I was bottoming for a mutual friend, and he had borrowed her heaviest floggers for the occasion. When she hit me with them, I could feel the impact in my teeth. Until her entrance, this scene had felt more like practice for someone who was still learning – both about themselves and me.

Only much later would I reflect on what bad form it is to interrupt someone’s scene. With her, I didn’t even question it. She and I had a history, a connection. She knew me before we’d even played. After the scene, I would learn a little more about the nature of that connection and the effects it had on both of us.

In the moment, however, I was glad she intervened. Not because our friend was doing anything wrong, but because I always wanted to play with her then.

There is no real point to this, no lesson learned or great insight that I’m willing to share. If you read my first book, and you should, this will likely sound familiar. But that’s all it is – a nice memory. A moment in time that stands out.

“That’s all, I don’t even think of you that often.” – Leonard Cohen, Chelsea Hotel #2.

 

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Year in Review- NSFW

I think we can all agree that it’s been a pretty shitty year, right? We’re united in that much, at least. So, fair warning, many obscenities will follow.

First, a note to death itself. Fuck you. You are a goddamn thieving, selfish son of a bitch. I’m too young for this shit. The people I lost this year were too fucking young for this shit. You came for my favorite celebrities and I was sad. And then you got personal. How fucking dare you. I want my goddamn friends back, you motherfucking, cocksucking, son of a fucking whore.

Nothing against cock sucking, by the way. It just sounded right.

Ages 46 and 49…too fucking young, too fucking unfair. I can’t stare out the window at work without thinking of her and how the simple act of shopping for fucking groceries will never be the same. Because it was never about the cheese. Not really. It was about being able to count on seeing my friend – someone I wouldn’t normally see that often – once a week. That smile, that hug, could erase a week’s worth of work stress. And now it’s gone.

Mother. Fucker.

I can’t walk down the hall at work without passing his desk. Someone else is there now and it’s just so fucking wrong. I like few enough people there as it is. Taking my fellow geek, someone I could talk movies with and compare notes with, was a shitty move. And I still don’t have a reason, so fuck that shit right up your goddamn ass.

And to top if all off was this fucking election. That’s literally the only way I can refer to it – this fucking election. Fuck the polite niceties. I am all out of fucks to give. This is some bizarro world shit on acid right here and it matters not a whit what I do. I can’t change any fucking part of it. Even the recounts probably won’t change a goddamn thing. So now I’m forced to try to imagine four fucking years of the Orange One. Il Douchebag. The Cheeto Elect. Whining fucking crybaby is more like it. I’m not a sore loser – he’s a sore winner who can’t even handle a goddamn comedy skit aimed at him. It’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t destroy us all.

Jesus Christ I need some good news.

Because of course I’m fucking crying again. I can’t even get through my favorite fucking musical without thinking about Obama leaving office. “We’re gonna teach ’em how to say goodbye…one last time.” Goddamn fucking ninjas are chopping onions again. Shit.

Yes, I’m fully aware how immature this is. See above for how many fucks I have left. That would be none, zero, zilch. They were spent as soon as an entitled dudebro douchebag admitted to assault and then acted like he was the one who was wronged. Fuck him too. And most of his followers. You don’t get to simultaneously claim that you were a leader for more than five years and that you are new to this. You’re not fucking new. You’re being protected by your own fucking bylaws and it is a goddamn fucking disgrace.

Shit. I’d be in a hurry to get to 2017 but…see above for This Fucking Election. Sure I have moments of optimism, but they are extremely short-fucking-lived. The venting helps though. Later I will be productive.

Until then…fuck this shit.

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Moar Words!

When I published the first book, I tried to build some momentum by posting small excerpts. For various reasons, most of them related to lack of time, I didn’t do that with the second one.

Let’s correct that. If you’ve already read it, yay! If not, maybe this will provide a little extra motivation.

Anal play is new for us. But once Seth figures out how much more quickly I can come with a plug in – and how much more difficult it is for me to prevent an orgasm with it – he uses it often.

Tonight, he inserts the plug and has me lie down on my bed, the one with the railed headboard that doubles as one big tie-down point. The pressure alone is enough to make me uncomfortable, but his demeanor says this is only the beginning. He ties my wrists above me and I take a deep breath. Having my hands taken away makes me feel particularly helpless, even when the rest of my body is still free.

He attaches my ankles to a wide spreader bar and now I can barely move at all. Still I wriggle and squirm, see how far I can go and what I can get away with. It’s not much, but I have to try.

“One more thing,” he says and reaches for the nightstand where my favorite glass dildo rests. It slips in easily. Between the bondage and the anal plug, I am more than ready. But he’s not. And that’s all that matters here.

Look for Aces and Spaces by Daphne Matthews on Amazon to read more!!

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