"Your hero is searching for the real. And that is something that doesn't exist in life. Only in art." "But for us art becomes more real than life." (Very rough paraphrase from Passing Strange, a flawed, and extraordinary new musical (hey, that sounds like me!). Go see it if you possibly can.)
So it got me thinking--what is it that I yearn for? To me, 'sex' in American culture is this commodified shell of what sex can really be. There is this deep eroticism that is so much larger than just body parts vibrating and frictionating. It is like the moment in Beethoven's 9th when the voice's break the form of the symphony and ordinary life becomes 'quotidian'--something of beauty and meaning; transformed and utterly the same, ordinary and sacred. It is this thing that happens in the mind, where the mind stops thinking. No thoughts. No analysis. Just light and the space of a shell unfolding to reveal itself. And then you look at this person. This ordinary, boring, average, extraordinarily beautiful person who can take you out of your own sense of self and into places you never dreamed of.
And then I wonder, am I asking for too much? Maybe, sex is just sex. Nothing about eros and the life force and the transcendental. Nothing all that special. Nouns verbing. Bodyparts adjectiving. Emotions adverbing. Cigarette. That's it--maybe I really just need to try drugs!
Maybe my quest for the 'real,' or really the thing I'm yearing for is the 'sublime,'--maybe it is unattainable. I spent years actively searching for God. Praying to believe. Trying to show up to find a mystical experience. Only to decide that the quest validated itself, but I could no longer continue on a quest I didn't believe in. Maybe "sex" is just sex and God is a metaphor or a myth. I don't know.
And yet, I've experienced flashes of that sublime (and when I say sublime, I mean it the way the Romantics used it, with terror and aws), with Peter (a guy from long before the blog, 2005) and with Steven. Only brief flashes, fleeting and ordinary and extraordinary and beautiful. But if I've experienced it (although never with a man I actually had sex with), then it must be possible? I hope the 'real' I seek can be found in life and not 'just' in art. But I know how to find it in art. Over and over. Beethoven's 9th. U2. The 7th track of Sunday in the Park with George, Silly Wizard. Tchaikovsky's First Piano Concerto. The Beatles. Gershwin & Kern & Michael John LaChuisa and Caroline or Change. I know the sublime is alive and well.
Music and sex are the two things that make the knowledge of our own mortality somewhat bearable. Probably drugs too although I don't think I'm wired to find joy there. We, as a species, have moved from wine, women and song to sex, drugs and rock-and-roll. We keep trying to reinvent the wheel, make it 'real' and make it our own because living only in art is a way of ignoring, killing part of your soul. We have to have it in our quoticial lives. We crave the real. We need to make it our own. And the quest for the real, like the quest for God, validates itself because it keeps our soul vital and real.
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Wow!
So, Steven and I seem to have come to an understanding, which is that I will continue to see other people (as will he), and we both love each other and want to be with each other right now. I seriously doubt I could sleep with someone else at the same time that Steven and I are involved. And he knows I would want to peruse the possibility of finding a soul mate, when such a thing becomes possible. (We talked really openly about this. Plus, he knows this URL. It amazes me I'm comfy with him reading what I'm thinking and he seems to be comfy with the fact that I have the blog. I have a sneaking suspicioun he wouldn’t find this blog boring—I’m always intrigued when someone writes about me—Hi Steven!). So we’ll let the future take care of itself in whatever way it does. But in this moment, here and now, Wow!
We spent most of Saturday in bed, or around the bed, or backed against the wall, or, well, you get the point. And this hosting site doesn’t allow ‘obscenity.’ But wow! Who knew all of this could be, actually, fun?
Steven used several things on me that I would have thought I couldn’t handle. Especially a riding crop and a TENS (that is some sort of electrical thing) unit. At 30% that was delightful. At 70% it was odd and close to something that might be defined at pain. Really intense but not misery creating. It fell into that transitional place that is difficult to define.
Originally, he had me standing, and that brought out all my fears. All the things I hate about wiitwd and being that way. He was SO sweet. He undressed me that way I love—carefully unwrapping me, like a present. Telling me I wasn’t supposed to help. Kissing every square inch of my body. But when he flogged my legs and butt, very lightly I just got so tense. I wasn’t there anymore. I was enduring for my ex. Then he started flogging my shoulders and I just relaxed. Softening into his presence, I could unwind and let go of what has happened. And I actually enjoyed it. Later, he had me tied, spread-eagle, to the bed, and I just wanted more and more and more and more. I handled everything—even the pointy end of the TENS unit running all over. I wanted him to devour me.
It made me realize how much my relationship with my ex wasn’t healthy for me. I won’t say it was ‘abusive’ because he would have stopped if I said so. I was a full and consenting party, and I accept responsibility for that. But I really grew to dread everything except snuggling.
Now, I should say, my ex gave me several wonderful gifts—most especially the self-esteem to finally leave him. He continually built me up as a human being, even if I felt torn down as a submissive. For the most part, he thought I was beautiful (if a little plumper than he’d like, and he wanted me to dress in less conservative, more revealing, sexier clothing). More importantly, he relished in my mind. Instead of hiding my mind, feeling like it was something someone would overlook if I was lucky, he taught me how much fun it could be.
But, we were not well matched in the erotic world, and I think we both knew it from the beginning. From the start, we agreed that I would compromise by not having many limits in the bedroom and he would compromise by not demanding obedience outside the bedroom. I was OK with that because it didn't feel like I was denying my erotic self and we clicked on a vanilla level.
The biggest problem, for me, is that he liked me scared. And he was angry whenever he moved towards sexual relations. This made me feel like I'd done something wrong--I wasn't good enough the way I was. And he managed to make me scared, which I don't enjoy. The more scared I was, the more turned on he was. (There were other problems too—most especially his belief that I shouldn’t have any sexual needs and that all my needs should be met by the pleasure of pleasing him--I’m just not wired that way. While he finally came to accept that I just got bitchy if I wasn’t having regular orgasms, he always treated that like a chore that I was allowed to handle after I’d done the important stuff of pleasing him, when he was groggy and didn’t really care anyway. I’m not quite sure why I put up with it for as long as I did, but that’s another issue.)
Anyhoo—I used to act. I’m actually pretty good at it. I even got a couple of leads in local theatre productions. Stanislavski--all the way. It wasn’t an attempt to manipulate things on my part (although it may have had a similar effect) but, I couldn’t ‘act’ scared. I could just be scared. It is hard to explain, but every time something happens, I have a choice as to how I respond--do I take the red pill or the blue pill? The blue pill is simple--I focus on the present moment. I take a slow breath in and out, focus on my breathing, listen to my heart beat, and know that I’m OK and I’ll be OK. The red pill is different. I don’t focus on my breathing. Instead, I focus on my helplessness. My inability to make the situation different. I breathe too fast and lose control. And I get scared. And as soon as I start there, I get more scared.
By a certain point with the ex, I was having panic attacks a couple of times a week. It was actually a routine that grew to work for both of us--he’d get off on my panic attack, then he’d comfort me and I'd love the comforting. The problem was, a panic attack leaves a chemical residue in my body, where I feel more helpless and jittery until I’ve had a good night’s sleep and it did something weird to my self-concept, so going to that place on a regular basis, it made me even more susceptible to it.
Sex with my ex was like a bad fight with my folks. I hated it. I really did. But it was home. Not everyone likes their home. I’d put up with bad vanilla sex my whole life--it wasn’t worse than that because at least it was honest, and I was home. It was the way the world was supposed to be, right? I just drew a bad hand, and this is what a relationship looks like if you are in the kinky world. I’m finally learning, that is what a bad relationship looks like in the kinky world, but it has left traces on my soul and scripts in my head that I don’t want to replay for the rest of my life. Steven actually talked with me about it (in part, because he knows my secrets--he knows my fears and he is so lovely with them), and I think he will help me let go of those scripts. Who knew all this could be fun too?
We spent most of Saturday in bed, or around the bed, or backed against the wall, or, well, you get the point. And this hosting site doesn’t allow ‘obscenity.’ But wow! Who knew all of this could be, actually, fun?
Steven used several things on me that I would have thought I couldn’t handle. Especially a riding crop and a TENS (that is some sort of electrical thing) unit. At 30% that was delightful. At 70% it was odd and close to something that might be defined at pain. Really intense but not misery creating. It fell into that transitional place that is difficult to define.
Originally, he had me standing, and that brought out all my fears. All the things I hate about wiitwd and being that way. He was SO sweet. He undressed me that way I love—carefully unwrapping me, like a present. Telling me I wasn’t supposed to help. Kissing every square inch of my body. But when he flogged my legs and butt, very lightly I just got so tense. I wasn’t there anymore. I was enduring for my ex. Then he started flogging my shoulders and I just relaxed. Softening into his presence, I could unwind and let go of what has happened. And I actually enjoyed it. Later, he had me tied, spread-eagle, to the bed, and I just wanted more and more and more and more. I handled everything—even the pointy end of the TENS unit running all over. I wanted him to devour me.
It made me realize how much my relationship with my ex wasn’t healthy for me. I won’t say it was ‘abusive’ because he would have stopped if I said so. I was a full and consenting party, and I accept responsibility for that. But I really grew to dread everything except snuggling.
Now, I should say, my ex gave me several wonderful gifts—most especially the self-esteem to finally leave him. He continually built me up as a human being, even if I felt torn down as a submissive. For the most part, he thought I was beautiful (if a little plumper than he’d like, and he wanted me to dress in less conservative, more revealing, sexier clothing). More importantly, he relished in my mind. Instead of hiding my mind, feeling like it was something someone would overlook if I was lucky, he taught me how much fun it could be.
But, we were not well matched in the erotic world, and I think we both knew it from the beginning. From the start, we agreed that I would compromise by not having many limits in the bedroom and he would compromise by not demanding obedience outside the bedroom. I was OK with that because it didn't feel like I was denying my erotic self and we clicked on a vanilla level.
The biggest problem, for me, is that he liked me scared. And he was angry whenever he moved towards sexual relations. This made me feel like I'd done something wrong--I wasn't good enough the way I was. And he managed to make me scared, which I don't enjoy. The more scared I was, the more turned on he was. (There were other problems too—most especially his belief that I shouldn’t have any sexual needs and that all my needs should be met by the pleasure of pleasing him--I’m just not wired that way. While he finally came to accept that I just got bitchy if I wasn’t having regular orgasms, he always treated that like a chore that I was allowed to handle after I’d done the important stuff of pleasing him, when he was groggy and didn’t really care anyway. I’m not quite sure why I put up with it for as long as I did, but that’s another issue.)
Anyhoo—I used to act. I’m actually pretty good at it. I even got a couple of leads in local theatre productions. Stanislavski--all the way. It wasn’t an attempt to manipulate things on my part (although it may have had a similar effect) but, I couldn’t ‘act’ scared. I could just be scared. It is hard to explain, but every time something happens, I have a choice as to how I respond--do I take the red pill or the blue pill? The blue pill is simple--I focus on the present moment. I take a slow breath in and out, focus on my breathing, listen to my heart beat, and know that I’m OK and I’ll be OK. The red pill is different. I don’t focus on my breathing. Instead, I focus on my helplessness. My inability to make the situation different. I breathe too fast and lose control. And I get scared. And as soon as I start there, I get more scared.
By a certain point with the ex, I was having panic attacks a couple of times a week. It was actually a routine that grew to work for both of us--he’d get off on my panic attack, then he’d comfort me and I'd love the comforting. The problem was, a panic attack leaves a chemical residue in my body, where I feel more helpless and jittery until I’ve had a good night’s sleep and it did something weird to my self-concept, so going to that place on a regular basis, it made me even more susceptible to it.
Sex with my ex was like a bad fight with my folks. I hated it. I really did. But it was home. Not everyone likes their home. I’d put up with bad vanilla sex my whole life--it wasn’t worse than that because at least it was honest, and I was home. It was the way the world was supposed to be, right? I just drew a bad hand, and this is what a relationship looks like if you are in the kinky world. I’m finally learning, that is what a bad relationship looks like in the kinky world, but it has left traces on my soul and scripts in my head that I don’t want to replay for the rest of my life. Steven actually talked with me about it (in part, because he knows my secrets--he knows my fears and he is so lovely with them), and I think he will help me let go of those scripts. Who knew all this could be fun too?
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Date Rape
Every communication textbook in the country says something like "Where there is a conflict between verbal and non-verbal communication, humans trust the non-verbal." You know it is true. Someone says "Oh. Great to see you" and the way they say it is all that matters.
And yet, there are young men in prison for trusting non-verbal communication instead of verbal communication. "No means no" intone posters, counselors and just about everyone who is asked. And a firm clear "No" does mean "no."
But what about "no" with a giggle, a laugh, a smile, a blush, a slow and meaningful downward cast, a biting of the lower lip, or an inching of the body closer? What about "Oh, I don't think we should do this?" with a laugh and an subtle arching of the back to raise the breasts just a little bit closer? What does that mean?
We may want to have a model where men must get consent rather than an absence of dissent, but I'd sure hate that. I can't stand it when men ask permission to kiss me! Trust my body language. Trust me to articulate what I need, but lead this dance, please! But in today's environment, a man would be a fool to take that stance trustingly.
The current view on date rape actually disempowers women, because it makes us helpless. 95% of all men (I actually believe higher) would never want to force a woman to have sex, without her acquiescence. But, there are women who do want to be led. "Bodice Rippers" is a very popular romance genre. There are women who don't want responsiblity for their desires. And frankly, given how totally fucked up our society is about women's sexuality, there are quite a few women who do give mixed signals.
Women are socialized to be polite, charming and gracious. We are sent unbelievable mixed signals--something along the lines of "you aren't lovable if you are beautiful. Only a man can determine whether you are beautiful, and he'll prove it by wanting to sleep with you. So if you aren't having sex (or enough sex), you probably aren't beautiful or lovable and you are a failure as a woman. But if you are having sex (or too much sex), you are a slut, and practically a whore and have no worth but your sexuality, which is so cheap it ain't worth much anyway. So it is no wonder women send such mixed signals.
In the face of this confusing mess, we need more conversation, more respectful dialogue. A century ago (more or less), Tolstoy, Ibsen, Strindberg, DH Lawrence and the Brontes were all trying to figure out how the hell we can navigate relationships with women being partners. Today, we have almost no dialogue. We know the models don't work for us, but we're too scared to talk openly about what might work.
Over a year ago, I came close to being a victim of date rape. I met a guy I couldn't stand. I really didn't believe we had any chemistry whatsoever--he'd spent 20 minutes lecturing me on how global warming wasn't happening and the next 20 minutes about how Paul Krugman didn't really understand economics. When he took of his jacket he had a t-shirt on that I found deeply offensive.
He suggested we go to his place to watch a movie. I said "I don't think that's a good idea" and 3 times he promised he would be a "perfect gentleman." Worried someone from work might see me with his t-shirt, and trusting that there was no chemistry, it seemed a polite way out of the evening. Careful to not give a non-verbal opening, I sat on the edge of the couch, as far away from him as possible with a rigidly straight back, with my legs crossed away from him and my arms folded in my lap.
Needless to say, he and I had different ideas as to how a 'perfect getleman' behaves. I don't need to give the details--you've heard them a hundred times. But after fending him off for a moment, I took a step back to try to figure out what the hell was going on and I realized, I was apologizing! "I'm sorry, but...," "I don't think...." "This doesn't seem..." What the hell? I didn't want to be rude! I was taught to be polite. Always. Gracious and warm and ingratiating.
Once I realized what I was doing, I shoved him off me, stood up, got my coat and left. Now, I would never go out with that twit again. Even if I'd been remotely interested, I cannot forgive a man who makes me be rude to him. But once I sent a very clear message that "No, I'm leaving" it immediately stopped. I don't believe his behavior that evening was acceptable, but I also don't believe it should be something that results in years in prison and a life-time label of 'sex offender.'
And yet, there are young men in prison for trusting non-verbal communication instead of verbal communication. "No means no" intone posters, counselors and just about everyone who is asked. And a firm clear "No" does mean "no."
But what about "no" with a giggle, a laugh, a smile, a blush, a slow and meaningful downward cast, a biting of the lower lip, or an inching of the body closer? What about "Oh, I don't think we should do this?" with a laugh and an subtle arching of the back to raise the breasts just a little bit closer? What does that mean?
We may want to have a model where men must get consent rather than an absence of dissent, but I'd sure hate that. I can't stand it when men ask permission to kiss me! Trust my body language. Trust me to articulate what I need, but lead this dance, please! But in today's environment, a man would be a fool to take that stance trustingly.
The current view on date rape actually disempowers women, because it makes us helpless. 95% of all men (I actually believe higher) would never want to force a woman to have sex, without her acquiescence. But, there are women who do want to be led. "Bodice Rippers" is a very popular romance genre. There are women who don't want responsiblity for their desires. And frankly, given how totally fucked up our society is about women's sexuality, there are quite a few women who do give mixed signals.
Women are socialized to be polite, charming and gracious. We are sent unbelievable mixed signals--something along the lines of "you aren't lovable if you are beautiful. Only a man can determine whether you are beautiful, and he'll prove it by wanting to sleep with you. So if you aren't having sex (or enough sex), you probably aren't beautiful or lovable and you are a failure as a woman. But if you are having sex (or too much sex), you are a slut, and practically a whore and have no worth but your sexuality, which is so cheap it ain't worth much anyway. So it is no wonder women send such mixed signals.
In the face of this confusing mess, we need more conversation, more respectful dialogue. A century ago (more or less), Tolstoy, Ibsen, Strindberg, DH Lawrence and the Brontes were all trying to figure out how the hell we can navigate relationships with women being partners. Today, we have almost no dialogue. We know the models don't work for us, but we're too scared to talk openly about what might work.
Over a year ago, I came close to being a victim of date rape. I met a guy I couldn't stand. I really didn't believe we had any chemistry whatsoever--he'd spent 20 minutes lecturing me on how global warming wasn't happening and the next 20 minutes about how Paul Krugman didn't really understand economics. When he took of his jacket he had a t-shirt on that I found deeply offensive.
He suggested we go to his place to watch a movie. I said "I don't think that's a good idea" and 3 times he promised he would be a "perfect gentleman." Worried someone from work might see me with his t-shirt, and trusting that there was no chemistry, it seemed a polite way out of the evening. Careful to not give a non-verbal opening, I sat on the edge of the couch, as far away from him as possible with a rigidly straight back, with my legs crossed away from him and my arms folded in my lap.
Needless to say, he and I had different ideas as to how a 'perfect getleman' behaves. I don't need to give the details--you've heard them a hundred times. But after fending him off for a moment, I took a step back to try to figure out what the hell was going on and I realized, I was apologizing! "I'm sorry, but...," "I don't think...." "This doesn't seem..." What the hell? I didn't want to be rude! I was taught to be polite. Always. Gracious and warm and ingratiating.
Once I realized what I was doing, I shoved him off me, stood up, got my coat and left. Now, I would never go out with that twit again. Even if I'd been remotely interested, I cannot forgive a man who makes me be rude to him. But once I sent a very clear message that "No, I'm leaving" it immediately stopped. I don't believe his behavior that evening was acceptable, but I also don't believe it should be something that results in years in prison and a life-time label of 'sex offender.'
Monday, November 19, 2007
So Conservative in Private!
I'm a raving liberal in public. I mean really liberal.
So why the hell am I so conservative, in some ways, in my private life? I have never done the casual sex thing. Not once. I've tried to get myself there, but I just can't do it. It feels like it would mortally damage my integrity or numb my soul or something. Which is rather bizarre, because I really don't think there is anything wrong with it. No--it is more than that, I want a fling. I mean, I'd really like a serious relationship, but I don't see one on the horizon. And being fucked to fabulous depths actually makes me a hell of a lot more attractive, and more men show up.
Every single time I've had a purely sexual reaction to someone, I've run away from it.
There was a man in college who I think had some pretty kinky tendencies, and I still regret not getting involved with him. But I couldn't do it.
I think, somehow or other, I picked up that entire 'Madonna/Whore' complex. Different because I'm only interested in having a serious relationship that has amazing sex, but I still want to be the 'good girl,' who doesn't sleep around. Just have amazing sex without promiscuity.
And here I am with Ben and Mike. Ben says it could be ltr, but he wants to establish the D/s dynamic before we do any more vanilla stuff. Mike desperately wants an LTR, offered to introduce me to his family this weekend, wants to meet my sister, and we still haven't kissed! And here I am saying, OK--I'm going to do my damnedest to follow these through and see where it leads. (I have not mislead either guy--I wouldn't lie!)
But I can't sleep at night. I lie in bed and my mind races, because first I get excited about the possiblities with Ben and then I start to freak out. And we can't even get together till December because of family obligations over the holidays. But my gut feeling is that I can't surrender to Ben without giving him far more of my heart than he wants to take responsiblity for. I'm going to try, but I've never pulled that one off.
So why the hell am I so conservative, in some ways, in my private life? I have never done the casual sex thing. Not once. I've tried to get myself there, but I just can't do it. It feels like it would mortally damage my integrity or numb my soul or something. Which is rather bizarre, because I really don't think there is anything wrong with it. No--it is more than that, I want a fling. I mean, I'd really like a serious relationship, but I don't see one on the horizon. And being fucked to fabulous depths actually makes me a hell of a lot more attractive, and more men show up.
Every single time I've had a purely sexual reaction to someone, I've run away from it.
There was a man in college who I think had some pretty kinky tendencies, and I still regret not getting involved with him. But I couldn't do it.
I think, somehow or other, I picked up that entire 'Madonna/Whore' complex. Different because I'm only interested in having a serious relationship that has amazing sex, but I still want to be the 'good girl,' who doesn't sleep around. Just have amazing sex without promiscuity.
And here I am with Ben and Mike. Ben says it could be ltr, but he wants to establish the D/s dynamic before we do any more vanilla stuff. Mike desperately wants an LTR, offered to introduce me to his family this weekend, wants to meet my sister, and we still haven't kissed! And here I am saying, OK--I'm going to do my damnedest to follow these through and see where it leads. (I have not mislead either guy--I wouldn't lie!)
But I can't sleep at night. I lie in bed and my mind races, because first I get excited about the possiblities with Ben and then I start to freak out. And we can't even get together till December because of family obligations over the holidays. But my gut feeling is that I can't surrender to Ben without giving him far more of my heart than he wants to take responsiblity for. I'm going to try, but I've never pulled that one off.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Dominance & Surrender
I had a pang of regret stuck in traffic yesterday. In many ways, I am doing with Ben what I couldn't do with John. My inability to do it with John may be why we couldn't work. Why, oh why? I care about John much more than I think I will care about Ben, and even if Ben and I work on a sexual level, we would not have the emotional intimacy that John and I exuded in every interaction.
But I realized--John never dominated me. John would say "I'm going to whip you this week" and I'd say "Oh! Too fast" and then he'd pull away. He wouldn't talk me through my hesitation, he wouldn't guide or convince or insist. He suggested, and if I couldn't go along with the suggestion, he relented (although I think he resented it). No cajoling. No looking in my eyes and saying "baby--you know this is right. You need to give yourself to me." I wish I could have given John that without needing reassurance, without needing to be dominated, without needing, on some level, to not have a choice in the matter. I think, ultimately, John wasn't really into the D/s--just the SM, and I swim in the D/s waters. SM is just a way of exploring the D/s.
Ben, on the other hand, hasn't worked to have any intimacy on an emotional level. We haven't talked about our families, our hurts, our vulnerabilities. He doesn't know where my insecurities are, or where I've been hurt or what I want to be when I grow up, or that I still don't think of myself as grown up. None of that. But he looks in my eyes and says "you know you will give yourself to me" and I do. I so wish I could have it all, but maybe the universe doesn't work that way.
But I realized--John never dominated me. John would say "I'm going to whip you this week" and I'd say "Oh! Too fast" and then he'd pull away. He wouldn't talk me through my hesitation, he wouldn't guide or convince or insist. He suggested, and if I couldn't go along with the suggestion, he relented (although I think he resented it). No cajoling. No looking in my eyes and saying "baby--you know this is right. You need to give yourself to me." I wish I could have given John that without needing reassurance, without needing to be dominated, without needing, on some level, to not have a choice in the matter. I think, ultimately, John wasn't really into the D/s--just the SM, and I swim in the D/s waters. SM is just a way of exploring the D/s.
Ben, on the other hand, hasn't worked to have any intimacy on an emotional level. We haven't talked about our families, our hurts, our vulnerabilities. He doesn't know where my insecurities are, or where I've been hurt or what I want to be when I grow up, or that I still don't think of myself as grown up. None of that. But he looks in my eyes and says "you know you will give yourself to me" and I do. I so wish I could have it all, but maybe the universe doesn't work that way.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Ah... surrender
I layer my moods as carefully as I layer my makeup. We are meeting just after work--I'm in the field today so I go casual: jeans and a casual top, with a wonderbra. In the parking lot I slip into boots with 4" heels give me the sexy-but-casual-look I covet. (He is 6 feet, so that puts me a couple of inches shorter--I always check a man's height and aim for at least 3" shorter.) As I put on powder, I listen to "Here I am"--a pop song with an unusual beat that I always listen to before dates. (Am I the only one with a 'feel sexy' playlist on my podcast? Of course I don't call it that, in case someone starts browsing, but that's what my 'purchased' list is for.) "Here I Am" has an unusual beat and rhythms, and a message that is so apropos to me as a human, it is rather stunning really: "Something calling from deep inside me, voice I knew but I would not hear. For so long I have tried to hide me." And then the release: "Here I am; ready for your love...I'll never run away." So it builds confidence and reminds me that to be vulnerable you have to be strong. Real surrender can only come from a place of strength, where you are matched and respected and then dominated.
After "Here I am" comes "Because The Night." (I've actually practiced this enough so that if I'm ever doing karaoke, on a date, I wouldn't embarrass myself.) It seems almost like a cheesy love song, but the Patti Smith imprimatur gives it a little more darkness. And it is pure sex. "Take me now baby, here as I am. ... Desirous hunger is the fire I breathe. ... Come on now try to understand, the way I feel under your command."
He, we'll call this one Ben (yes names have been changed for anonymity--not fair to blog about people who could be identified without them knowing about it!), is understated. One of the banker types that hit Seattle during the dot.com boom and didn't leave, but the East Coast patina hasn't disappeared yet. His picture is smiling and more casual, so I don't quite recognize him on my way into the bar. He recognizes me and we passionately discuss politics for a good 45 minutes while the first of two very expensive drinks ($64 for 2 drinks each! Ouch! He paid and I was grateful) starts to relax my inhibitions.
My brain suddenly reels to an e-mail exchange we had. He understood my bifurcation where my body is totally turned on even as my soul rebels and I'm unaware that I'm even enjoying what is happening, and how I need someone to dance with both, to bring my soul along for the ride. And I started blushing, and lowered my gaze. He played with my hand, and noticed I got quiet. He commented on the look of total, beautiful weakness in my eyes. He suggested we meet in private next time and almost kissed me. I wasn't ready for sex--he said fine--"work out the limits you need, because you know darn well that I'll be the only one paying attention to them. There's no way you would keep limits in mind. You will completely surrender. I can see it in your eyes."
As we left he almost kissed me, came in for the kiss, felt my anticipation, knew he could have kissed me any way he wanted and then barely grazed my lips. And I went to the ladies room to 'freshen up,' which, in this case, was a euphemism for wringing out my panties.
And the conundrum enters. I've never been promiscuous. Ben says "it isn't just about sex, but you get only one chance to set the right tone in the beginning" and I believe that there is a 20% chance that would actually be true. But, would it kill me if it were just about sex? I've never really had a fling. Yes, I'll get hurt (again), but hell, I'm close to sleeping with the ex. I haven't kissed anyone since early September with "the man that smote me." My ex isn't satisfying sex and it is well-worn territory. I protected myself with John--we never kissed, and yet losing him (not that I should even count is as 'losing') hurt more than I could have ever imagined. Mike is so sweet, but he looks up to me. He needs my advice and my guidance. (He is going through a crisis at work very similar to one I went through after my first job after.) He wants validation. He needs to know that he can survive standing up to his parents. ]Occasionally he'll make suggestions but he hasn't kissed me after 3 dates and so much conversation--I like to talk more than most people, but after 7 hours of flirting in his apartment, the history of European economist systems starts to lose its pull! I just don't see him being able to match me, to challenge me, to open me. (The Portland guy bored me on the phone--there are blue collar guys with real intellectual interests and blue color guys who watch Faux news and he was in the latter category. Good man, but no chemistry for me.)
And frankly, my panties have never been so wet from a meet and a drink. I had to throw my jeans in the dirty clothes. And all from a little hand-footsie (handsie?) and a graze of the lips. I know his name (I saw his last name on his Amex) and I could figure out where he works. Chances are, we'd meet at a hotel room in the city (and I'd insist on the name and room number beforehand) and have a safecall worked out. But I don't see him doing anything to betray my trust. He gets off on that look in my eyes. He'd push me hard. Very hard. Harder than I think I could go. But not so hard as to snap me out of surrender mode and into flight mode.
I'm actually embarrassed by my 'number' because I've slept with so few men. (Of course, I'm a Clinton gal in more ways than one, which means I don't count oral in that number. I'm sure I've blown less than 20 guys, but I don't know the exact number. Real sex though? 4! Should be more like 10-14 given my age.) So what the hell? Maybe I just need to take sex a little less seriously and be a little less careful with my heart. It will die for lack of oxygen if it doesn't get out for some air soon!
Maybe we could celebrate my birthday a couple of weeks late. I could tell him "I don't need any more stuff. This isn't about a present or a cake. I got that already on my birthday. Just one thing was missing..." Yes--that seems right. But maybe I'll chicken out before he gets around to e-mailing...
After "Here I am" comes "Because The Night." (I've actually practiced this enough so that if I'm ever doing karaoke, on a date, I wouldn't embarrass myself.) It seems almost like a cheesy love song, but the Patti Smith imprimatur gives it a little more darkness. And it is pure sex. "Take me now baby, here as I am. ... Desirous hunger is the fire I breathe. ... Come on now try to understand, the way I feel under your command."
He, we'll call this one Ben (yes names have been changed for anonymity--not fair to blog about people who could be identified without them knowing about it!), is understated. One of the banker types that hit Seattle during the dot.com boom and didn't leave, but the East Coast patina hasn't disappeared yet. His picture is smiling and more casual, so I don't quite recognize him on my way into the bar. He recognizes me and we passionately discuss politics for a good 45 minutes while the first of two very expensive drinks ($64 for 2 drinks each! Ouch! He paid and I was grateful) starts to relax my inhibitions.
My brain suddenly reels to an e-mail exchange we had. He understood my bifurcation where my body is totally turned on even as my soul rebels and I'm unaware that I'm even enjoying what is happening, and how I need someone to dance with both, to bring my soul along for the ride. And I started blushing, and lowered my gaze. He played with my hand, and noticed I got quiet. He commented on the look of total, beautiful weakness in my eyes. He suggested we meet in private next time and almost kissed me. I wasn't ready for sex--he said fine--"work out the limits you need, because you know darn well that I'll be the only one paying attention to them. There's no way you would keep limits in mind. You will completely surrender. I can see it in your eyes."
As we left he almost kissed me, came in for the kiss, felt my anticipation, knew he could have kissed me any way he wanted and then barely grazed my lips. And I went to the ladies room to 'freshen up,' which, in this case, was a euphemism for wringing out my panties.
And the conundrum enters. I've never been promiscuous. Ben says "it isn't just about sex, but you get only one chance to set the right tone in the beginning" and I believe that there is a 20% chance that would actually be true. But, would it kill me if it were just about sex? I've never really had a fling. Yes, I'll get hurt (again), but hell, I'm close to sleeping with the ex. I haven't kissed anyone since early September with "the man that smote me." My ex isn't satisfying sex and it is well-worn territory. I protected myself with John--we never kissed, and yet losing him (not that I should even count is as 'losing') hurt more than I could have ever imagined. Mike is so sweet, but he looks up to me. He needs my advice and my guidance. (He is going through a crisis at work very similar to one I went through after my first job after.) He wants validation. He needs to know that he can survive standing up to his parents. ]Occasionally he'll make suggestions but he hasn't kissed me after 3 dates and so much conversation--I like to talk more than most people, but after 7 hours of flirting in his apartment, the history of European economist systems starts to lose its pull! I just don't see him being able to match me, to challenge me, to open me. (The Portland guy bored me on the phone--there are blue collar guys with real intellectual interests and blue color guys who watch Faux news and he was in the latter category. Good man, but no chemistry for me.)
And frankly, my panties have never been so wet from a meet and a drink. I had to throw my jeans in the dirty clothes. And all from a little hand-footsie (handsie?) and a graze of the lips. I know his name (I saw his last name on his Amex) and I could figure out where he works. Chances are, we'd meet at a hotel room in the city (and I'd insist on the name and room number beforehand) and have a safecall worked out. But I don't see him doing anything to betray my trust. He gets off on that look in my eyes. He'd push me hard. Very hard. Harder than I think I could go. But not so hard as to snap me out of surrender mode and into flight mode.
I'm actually embarrassed by my 'number' because I've slept with so few men. (Of course, I'm a Clinton gal in more ways than one, which means I don't count oral in that number. I'm sure I've blown less than 20 guys, but I don't know the exact number. Real sex though? 4! Should be more like 10-14 given my age.) So what the hell? Maybe I just need to take sex a little less seriously and be a little less careful with my heart. It will die for lack of oxygen if it doesn't get out for some air soon!
Maybe we could celebrate my birthday a couple of weeks late. I could tell him "I don't need any more stuff. This isn't about a present or a cake. I got that already on my birthday. Just one thing was missing..." Yes--that seems right. But maybe I'll chicken out before he gets around to e-mailing...
Monday, October 22, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
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.
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.
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