Meta-blogging

Very interesting article in the NY Times Sunday magazine this coming week, about blogging about your personal life. The author and I are very different in several ways, most notably that her blog was very well read and she was not anonymous. And so of course, those differences lead to other differences.

I no longer had the luxury of writing something and imagining that the only people who might read it would be a handful of funny, supportive friends.

I do have that luxury. I expect maybe 4 people read this blog, if that much, and I assume you are all in my corner, a little. Or at least, I assume you (if any 'yous' exist) mean me no harm. There are no nasty comments on this blog--no one has ever left one. "Attention is my drug," one of the characters in the story confessed. And I get no attention from here--so I don't do it for that reason (although that comment someone left a month ago or so touched me deeply). But I crave the clarity that I sometimes get from exploring a topic.

I had been getting up each morning at 7 a.m., my thoughts jostling in my head, eager to escape.

I'm not a morning person, but that sense of allowing an idea to escape, not just escape, blossom, is a strong compulsion. Somehow, I believe if I can truly understand what makes me feel something, than I can accept it and live peacefully with it. I think for me, this is a sort of therapy. And I'm pulled here when I'm feeling something I can't explain.

The will to blog is a complicated thing, somewhere between inspiration and compulsion. It can feel almost like a biological impulse. You see something, or an idea occurs to you, and you have to share it with the Internet as soon as possible.

For me, it is not so much the sharing as the exploring, but I'm more likely to explore an idea if I put it here, if I think I can tease out the underlying issues, but I crave the idea that I'm not alone in struggling with these issues and that someday, someone out there will say "yes--that's how I feel too." I also believe that women my age have been dealt a very difficult hand and by discussing those contradictory pulls on our lives we can, hopefully, treat ourselves with a little more love. And knowing we're not alone, helps give permission to accept.

I was in the 6th or 7th grade when I snuck into my first "R" rated movie--Fame. And the scene when the Irene Cara took off her shirt--it was so important, because it was the only time I saw a woman who had breasts like mine. I didn't have real nipples till I was older, and I always thought there was something wrong with my breasts. Seeing her's were just like mine made me feel much better about my own. I hope that exploring my neuroses on the little screen can, maybe, help have the same impact.

But there are some similarities.

I’d been clinging to [him] for months in spite of our differences because, in addition to the comfort and stability he gave me, he was my sounding board — someone with whom I could share my unfiltered thoughts, without worrying about being entertaining. In his absence, I was becoming more and more open on Gawker.

I miss John because of the same reason. I don't even know if I miss John, or I miss the idea of John. Do I miss the "John" of the 700 e-mails or the guy who's name isn't John that I can spend 8 hours with and wish for 8 more. Or do I miss the guy who's name really is John that cherished my self-analysis even if he didn't partake? Where does "John" end and John begin? Do I really even know "John?" They were powerful glimpses. I loved knowing him. But did I really?

I've got a date with one of the guys I went out with last week on Friday. He is taking me ballroom dancing. Just about the best date I could ask for from anyone. He is a sweet man, and he seems to like me. But there isn't that restless search for clarity, or that self-awareness. He isn't tantalized by words. Maybe somehow we would start that dance of the 7 veils of self-disclosure, but I don't see how we'd begin. There are no hints that we could go there. The NY Times gal writes:

I wanted him to know everything there was to know about me.

Yes, exactly. But I don't just want a mythical him to know everything about me. I want him to embrace and accept and cherish and adore. Even my horrible sides. The idea that someone could know my most private details. And still say "OK. You're worth it. I'll take the good with the bad."

The Republican wanted to see me naked, physically. And I can name every single one of my physical flaws. If I had done it, it would have made me feel incredibly vulnerable because would he be rejecting me because my stomach isn't flat, or my scar or the stretch marks on my breasts? And if he had looked at me and said "yeah--you're good enough for me" it would have bound me emotionally to him. It really would have. He never would have been enough for me, but it would still have glued me to him for a while. But that physical vulnerability and sharing is nothing compared to the emotional. Lot's of women have stretch marks. They even sell different things for dealing with them. And intellectually, I believe lots of women have the psychic stretch marks from feminism and yearning for acceptance and MTV and high-school popularity contests and being mocked and believing ourselves to be unlovable, if only for a brief, fleeting moment, and all the things that defined us. But it lives in the shadows. Unknown and unembraced. Maybe it is too much to ask to share that with a romantic partner. I don't know.

Needs that Matter

I’m 38 years old. And more than anything, I want someone who would put me first. A man I’ve been flirting with, who seems quite compatible on many realms, but he repeats the line ‘you would come second. Literally.” And I think, no.

My parents never put my needs first. Part of the ‘me’ generation, they figured their needs came first. This imprinted on me time and time again. I’m continually shocked when I see my friends putting their kids’ needs first. Sometimes at great sacrifice, sometimes at mild inconvenience. I never had that. And how does that affect the D/s dynamic?

To me, ideally, we both put each other first. I don’t know that I can be with someone who puts himself before me and also expects me to put him before me. But I naturally put other people’s needs first. That is quite natural to me. I don’t know how to put my own needs first, and I don’t enjoy it. It brings me no joy to put my needs at the top and then fulfill them.

With my ex, I went along with the line that my needs weren’t as important. But I would argue that my needs mattered. I think we literally discussed whether my needs counted for 40% (which I was pushing for) or 20%, which was his view. I somehow believe if I lived that life, I would come to accept it. In fact, just the opposite happened—I came to see why that wouldn’t work for me.

Steven, on the other hand, put my needs first. And that was lovely. An incredible gift. But Steven seemed an anomaly, and he made his decision.

Part of me, a big part of me, doesn’t believe I deserve to have my needs put first. And there are 2 contradicting reasons for it. The first is quite simply that I’m a grown up now. I need to get over the wounds of childhood and take care of myself and in the real world, people do not put other people’s needs first. Except I always do. But aside from that, people don’t/ I put my sister and my parents’ needs ahead of my own in my dealings with them, and I don’t know that they even notice. If they do, they take it for granted. Although, I do think they noticed that I moved to another coast and only see them once a year. But other than that, I don’t do a good job of setting boundaries with them. I never do a good job of setting boundaries with anyone. I always want to take care of the people I love.

The second issue is that I’m not thin. I’m not huge. I can shop for clothes in the regular stores. In the whole D/s world, there are a lot of women that make me look thing. But my tummy isn’t flat. It jiggles. You can’t count my ribs. Who would want to be a with a woman if you can’t count her ribs?

When I saw the pictures of ‘Kristen,” I was surprised because she just didn’t seem like that big a deal. She seemed like the minimum of what you would expect from someone you might love. Never mind that I don’t think the governor loved her. My guess is he couldn’t love anyone who didn’t even know what he did. I doubt he respected her. But he clearly wanted to have sex with her an my little mind has interwoven the issues of who you’d love with who your fantasy chick is.

And then there is the whole D/x issue. Is this endemic to all the D/s relationship? Is it endemic to male female relationships? Is it too much to wish that someone would take care of me, just in a difference way? Someone would want to have that level of control, to thrive off it, to get hard from it, but not to abuse it for his own gain? I truly want someone who would put my needs first.

That said, I wonder how important it would be for someone to acknowledge my needs as mattering? Does that affect the whole D/s dynamic if I force him to acknowledge it? The guy I’m flirting with right now, let’s call him, Greg, I think he would meet my needs. I think he would actually really enjoy my orgasms. But I think he would argue that my needs are secondary to his. Does that abstraction matter?

I want someone who will spoil me rotten. Who will put me on a pedestal and worship me. And grab me by the hair, throw me over the couch and spank me. Is that too much to ask for? Probably. Especially when I throw in all the other things I want (someone I can look up to, respect, admire, who has intelligence and quick wit.) But this is an issue that I think will return to. I’m not sure what it means. Maybe Steven is right and I should just look for eharmony. But I need someone who can actually tame me, and I don’t think any of the men could there.

Silda, Kristen and Camille

The Elliot Spitzer thing really did shock me. When we played "dream cabinet" (I can't be the only one starting to think about cabinet and judicial appointments, now, can I?), he was my pick for AG. I genuinely liked him. And I wonder: what the hell?

Evidently he adores his wife, Silda. Absolutely adores her. Enough that she had the final say over whether he resigned or not. This is a woman who, according to the The Times, "gave up a high-powered career as a corporate lawyer to raise three daughters and support her husband as he sought elective office." And Spitzer supposedly absolutely cherished her:

The only person whose approval he values so much that she has even, at times, been
able to take the edge off his abrasive style. They cite her willingness to quit her job...as
something for which he has always felt especially grateful.... "The fact that she believed
in me enough to put her very promising legal career on hold was a great source of
inspiration," Mr. Spitzer said.

So why would the man risk not only the governorship, but also the woman he loved? I think it comes back to the virgin/whore dichotomy. (I'm totally making this up--I base it on nothing other than my gut feeling and Peter Segal of Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me and The Big Book of Vices, had some terrific theories on Talk of the Nation.) We know some part of Spitzer wanted "unsafe" and "dangerous" things. And I'm guessing, he viewed his wife as a truly wonderful and amazing being. She gave up her career. She's the mother of his children! How could her ask her to do that, to go to the dark places of his eroticism that his soul craved? He could never ask that of her, and so he went elsewhere.

Kristen, meanwhile, is 22. And, it seems to me, a rather ditzy 22. There is no way this woman could be a partner, a confidante, a respected equal. She is pretty and sexy in a cold, antiseptic sort of way. Perfect, but generic.

But that seems to be what so many men want. A generic girl with a cute butt and a flat stomach.

And that is the difference between eroticism and sex. Just imagine, for a moment, if Spitzer had had the courage to tell his wife what he wanted, back when she was his girlfriend? And if she had had similar areas she wanted to explore? But how the hell do we have that conversation? You never see a chick flick where the couple discusses what nourishes their erotic lives. It is completely unspoken in our culture. Scary. Dark. Bad. Wrong.

I'm not really a fan of Camille Paglia--in fact, for no reason at all, I've actively disliked her without knowing enough to justify that dislike. However, she raised a really interesting comment yesterday:

I am very concerned by a degeneration of erotic images in American media. It isn't
their mammoth proliferation that disturbs me (as it does many other feminists); it's
their antiseptic quality in this era of Botox and plasticized Barbie boobs. American sex is
all flash and no sizzle.

I think her analysis doesn't go far enough, and her examples, I don't think, do justice to her argument, but she raises something I've been trying to articulate, which I would label the difference between 'sexiness' and 'eroticism.'

Our popular culture has denigrated eroticism to a shocking degree. It is, I believe, a force too scary to be harnessed and impossible to be marketed. Contrary to popular view, advertisements don't sell sex as much as they sell dissatisfaction with your current sex life. If they just sold sex, we'd go have sex and we wouldn't buy their products. But they are feeding us this insiduous idea that our current sex lives aren't good enough (which they often aren't because we, as a culture, are so damn scared to actually talk about what we want and go to those dark places), so we need this product to be fulfilled. Meanwhile, while they are busy trying to sell us products we don't need based on insecurities they've invented.

Meanwhile, in order to sell us products they have to tell the women they aren't pretty enough the way they are, so they will obsess about the fact that their stomachs aren't concave. It is no wonder that Hollywood starlets are discarded by the time they are 40. It is no wonder that Susan Sarandon is an exception to this rule--that woman has eroticism in her bones.

Meanwhile, the men are told they aren't virile enough without a sports car, or a blackberry, or whatever the gadget du jour is. And the woman at his side isn't a partner; she is yet another gadget to show the world his power. She is an item on his list of acquisitions.

And eroticism falls by the wayside. Too dangerous.

Fear and Desire

Why do fear and desire so often accompany each other? Usually, a little fear just wakes me up, excites me, makes me feel a little more alive. Whether it is biking aggressively is traffic and taking corners too fast, roller-coasters or pushing myself skiing, the fear makes it all a little sharper and more vital.

But when it comes to sex, and even more extremely S&M, the fear is much greater even as the risks are less. Surely biking in rush hour traffic, dodging taxis and delivery trucks and potholes is far more dangerous. Cabs don’t stop for safewords and gravity doesn’t check your eyes to see how you are doing.

It is the fear of who I might become, or maybe who I actually am, even as I’ve done my best to play the ‘nice, sweet, innocent, and pure’ part.

A dance concert this week juxtaposed some flamenco dancers with a couple of African women. The European ladies were uptight, upright, controlled, and composed. The African women were uncontrolled, joyous, and spontaneous; it is a tradition so despised in the European world that it has been reviled, mocked and compared to animals. The European composition, control, and denial runs in my very veins. Even in my blog about sex, I’m careful to be consistent in my inclusion of the Oxford comma. Control and denial.

And what are my fears if I follow my denial? On one level, I have rational fears that it could make my job much harder, but those, just like unwanted pregnancy, are dealt with and controlled.

The visceral fears that control my behavior are much more primal—that I will surrender entirely to my desires—that I will lose my sense of self, my chance to impact the world, the respect I have in one long, shuddering orgasm. Think Agave, in The Bacchae, tearing off the head of my own son as I've lost all contact with reality, morality, logic or my individuality. The Greeks believed we needed to balance the primal with the logic. In contrast, since the fall of the Roman Empire, the Europeans have tended towards binary views: the Puritans simply banished erotic yearnings in favor of the logical. In the 20th century, Jung said basically women were ruled entirely by eros while men were ruled by logic.

I still want a little fear--enough to keep me vital, alive and aware, but I hope to find people who can lead me through it and not allow the fear to imprison me in motionless stasis.

WD-40 for my Emotional Armor

"Sometimes you're happy, sometimes you're sad. And the world goes round."

So, I had to let John go. I was one of the first two people he met in this world, and he, rightfully, wants a chance to play and not be tied down. He also wants to do piercings, extreme play, far more extreme than I could ever do. And part of me wants to scream 'are you insane? do you know how rarely it is to have this emotional connection? this intellectual connection? How rare and precious to find that with the BDSM?" But I know he needs to go there and he won't be happy until he explores it himself and figures out what he wants. So painful and I find myself again looking for ways to look at how I protect myself and at what cost.

It seems like there is this cost/benefit issue--the more I protect myself, the less open I am and the less open I am, the less attractive I am. For some reason, in the past 2 months I've decided "to hell with it--I'm going for it." And I met these two amazing men. And I have felt so bereft by their loss. Intellectually, I am trying to force, seduce, and tantalize myself to stay open, and I can feel every part of me saying "are you insane? This roller-coaster yet again? I can't do it."

I don't know where the right balance lies. Intellectually I'd rather go through the pain of opening, mourning and learning to be open again, but I just don't know how strong I actually am.

Someone To Watch Over Me....

The ad I run on the kinky website is superlative. I say that not only because I can become occasionally enamored of my own posts, but because women write to say I've articulated what they've always felt and men write saying "Like you, I have no interest in long distance, but wow--you're going to make some man very lucky." A co-owner of the local S&M club contacted me, and he has many more-experienced women, but clearly my ad intrigued him.

Unfortunately, it is a double-edged sword--a man last week was 'shocked' I would say 'slow down.' He was edging perilously close to cybering, and I want someone in flesh and blood. Cybering might be great for someone you already loved who was away, but for me it would only ever be for that. But then he earnestly exclaimed "But I feel like I've known you my whole life, I've been searching for you my whole life, you are my lost half." Which may have been a line, but I believe it has a kernel of truth to it (especially as he then deleted his profile from the site). The problem, of course, is that I didn't feel like I knew him at all. He knew me from my ad--his was 3 sentences.

But this one man, John, this gem of a human. We haven't met yet, and I don't allow myself to fall for men I haven't met. It is foolish (and look what happened the last time I fell for a man, and I'd met him!). Nevertheless, as Joni Mitchell might say "Help me, I think I'm falling..."

I look up to him, a rarity for me. For several years I've attempted to convince myself that I don't have to look up to a man because there are so few that I honestly look up to. I didn't respect the choices my ex was making, and that, fundamentally, is one of the 2 reasons we had to break up (the other is that his erotic mind craved all darkness and I thrive on an interplay between darkness and tenderness). I believe that this inability to look up to most men is egotistical, obnoxious, and self-centered. So I tried to wish it out of existence. Problem, though is that it is true.

John, is so clearly smarter than me, which I adore. (If he didn't appreciate my mind, it would be problematic, but he does.) As we talk, I'm learning things about myself. The quality of our conversations is like nothing I've ever seen. I've never met a man who could match me on that level. If we do hit it off, well, I think we could compile our e-mails into a book. He has only recently come to terms with wiitwd, and I still have much angst. But the angst on both sides is linked to some of the fundamental philosophical questions plaguing gen Xers, the interplay of sexuality and power, of what Eros looks like for both of us.

He had me do one small thing for him last night, and it was a complete surrender. And much of my protective defenses melted in that moment. All of which terrifies me. But his tenderness, his cherishment (is that a word?), his care. Maybe I'm just being a silly girl, but once again, this is worth risking the possibility of getting hurt.

The one strength I've developed in the last few months is the ability to open up to someone, get hurt, accept that, and move on without allowing pieces of emotional armour to ensnare their way into and around my heart. I seem to open more and more with each connection and loss. I don't know how or where that strength is coming from. In the past, I believed I could only open myself up to a limited number of men before it made me hard and bitter, but now it feels like I'm opening more deeply with each person, allowing myself not to run from the emotional pain, and letting go of any recriminations. Compared to my past declarations that "I'm strong"--this is a very different strength. This strength to be vulnerable is an energy that I find enriching. The only cost is allowing myself to feel the pain fully in the present moment.