Pain: An Interview With Myself

Self: Hey there, self. So, you had a a long conversation about sex with your mom the other month.

Self: Yes, yes I did.

Self: While you guys were hiking in the gorge.

Self: Yup. There’s really nothing like talking rope and power exchange and pain with your mother, whilst passing other PNW outdoorsy-types and their dogs. The brook was babbling, the evergreens were shading. It was classic, really.

Self: I bet. And how’d it go? The conversation, not the hike.

Self: Well, it went okay. She’s actually been really great and supportive. I don’t think conversations like this, about kink, are on the level with coming out about sexuality, but it is interesting to explain to her... well, that my sex life lives in a different world than most peoples. It’s maybe the same flavor of conversation. It’s maybe a cupcake version of the cake, or something. For me, anyway.

Self: Uh-uh. But it went just okay?

Self: Yeah, just okay. We got to the part about pain, and that was confusing for her.

Self: Oh? How so?

Self: Well, she really got most everything else. Even told me that she had, ahem, ‘let some guys tie her up and blindfolds and things like that,’ which is in itself a pretty fantastic sentence to hear your sixty five year old mom say out loud. She just didn’t understand 'the pain part.' Why I liked it, why I wanted it. In her words ‘I just don’t know why anyone would want to be in pain.”

Self: Did you try to explain?

Self: Kind of, but I wasn't doing it very well (it was a long hike). I told her about the blog. I told her I’d written something there, that was pain-related, and that I’d send her a copy (she doesn’t have the blog address - and it’ll probably stay that way). But then I looked through, and I don't really have a post like that.

Self: No, you don't.

Self: No, I don't.

Self: Bummer.

Self: Total bummer.

Self: So, lets start at the beginning. When did you first start liking pain?

Self: I don’t know. I can point back to a lot of young kinky fantasies (which a lot of kinksters can, and it’s strange (we're going to go on a tangent here), because I find people citing these kinds of things - long-held fantasies or games from childhood - often in the context of defending, or backing, or in some way legitimizing their adult kink-hood. And I think it’s great to have a part of your identity that’s so deeply seeded in that way, but I also wish we lived in a world where that evidence wasn’t a requirement. Like, isn’t it just as okay to be kinky if it isn’t what you’ve dreamt of since you were four? But that’s another post). But I can’t point to the same fantasies about pain. I had an early relationship with pain, but it was a different kind of thing. I remember slapping myself, pinching myself, pulling my own hair, in grade school. I started cutting when I was twelve.

Self: Do you think that’s related to your current relationship with pain?

Self: I think it can’t be left unaddressed. Again, a lot of writing about sexual masochism, or adventures in kinky pain, makes a very loud distinction between previous relationships with pain and current ones. I'm talking about self-harm  and sadomasochism, just to be clear. Usually they’re characterized as unhealthy and healthy, and I think, again, it comes from people wanting to distinguish BDSM from a lot of the stereotypes out there, which is good.

Self: But you’re not here to talk about other people’s relationship to their pain.

Self: No, I’m not. For me (the only person I ever claim to speak for), they’re... not related, but they have a relationship. It’s hard to admit, because it’s part of what scared my mother (she and I initially started talking about kink with this conversation) when I first told her about identifying as a masochist, because she’d known about the cutting, there had been a lot of heartache, for her, in my adolescence, surrounding that. But I think it’s important to acknowledge that the cutting, the slapping and pinching: these were the ways that I learned to process, at a young age. These were part of how I found release, and catharsis. Whether they were healthy or unhealthy is a question I don't know the answer to.

I don’t think that description (using pain as "process") encompasses my current adventures in pain, not even a little bit, but that’s a part of it. It’s still cathartic for me, it’s still a way of processing with my body what is often difficult to keep inside my head. I’m especially wary, because of my history with this, of my sex life or play with Jamie turning into some kind of therapy. I don’t think kink as therapy is a good idea, but that doesn’t mean kink can’t be therapeutic.

Self: You’re all about those parts-of-speech distinctions today.

Self: I am, in addition to many other things, a grammar slut.

Self: Okay, so what else? Did you always like pain with your sex?

Self: I think I always liked it, yes. But I don’t think I always knew I liked it.

Self: When did you first get pain with your sex?

Self: There was a guy, in college. We slept together a few times, it was actually pretty awful (I accidentally broke up an engagement - bad news), but he was a kinkster, and he brought a little of that to the table (with me over the table, at one point, which was pretty awesome. I remember I had a broken finger, and my arm was in a cast, and it was this ridiculous neon blue thing that I stretched out over the tabletop, as I was bent forward and he was spanking me from behind. I think I was... eighteen? I remember thinking ‘how can he take me seriously with this thing on my arm?’ but I imagine, now, that he was concentrating on other areas of my person).

Self: And then you took an interest in masochism?

Self: In a manner of speaking. It’s like when you pull the bottom stick out from a beaver damn (note: I have never actually seen a beaver damn, but I imagine this is what it’s like). Everything went tumbling over itself, and it was kind of a mess, but full of movement and energy and a kind of... whole different shape when it was over. I was a but of an overnight sensation with myself, suddenly this self-identifying, vocal, advocating little kinkster. I didn’t have much practical experience, because I did what I usually do when I take an interest in something: I read a lot of books. But I wanted to get some. So... well, so...

Self: So you went out and got some?

Self: Yup.

Self: Like what?

Self: I had this really intense friendship with this woman in my Spanish class. She wrote me a love letter towards the end of the year, and it was the cutest thing: she hand-delivered it to my dorm room wrapped in the explicit personals page of a cheap weekly. If there was ever a way to my heart, it’s a love letter wrapped in bad porn...

Self: And?

Self: And I was dating someone else at the time, but then after a little while I wasn’t, and she... well, she may have been some of the impetus for that. It was the big end-of-the-year party at the college, which is sort of like a little wee burning man, and she came to my floor on Saturday morning under the pretense of making pancakes. We spent the better part of the day in bed. I remember her running her nails up and down my body, hard, looking down and seeing the marks she left. I remember her holding me by my hair, remembering her digging her fingers into my arms, into my tits. I remember feeling... closer, about that pain? Like, with the pain, in that relationship with her, there was a vulnerability I hadn’t had before, with anyone? We didn’t actually ever get together again, and we didn’t stay in touch. I wonder where she went...

Self: So, we’ve got catharsis, we’ve got processing, we’ve got connection. What else we got?

Self: I don’t know if this is related to the other ones, but it’s a way that I feel really beautiful. And I’m not talking centered, from-the-inside, everything-is-beautiful-in-its-own-way beautiful (although I do believe those things, a lot, and I believe that there might be a time in my life when I do feel that about myself. For now, it's a rare moment). I mean, I feel gorgeous. I glow.

The first guy I ever seriously dated who was at all into this, he took me to the moment where I figured that out, I think. On maybe our... third date? He suggested we go to the hardware store and buy some chain. Which, in retrospect, is pretty fast, but whatever, chain is cheap. I lived in this studio apartment that was shaped like half an a-frame house, and it had these white rafters that started about ten feet off the floor and crisscrossed all around the high ceilings. Fuck, that was an awesome apartment...

Self: Your readers don’t care about the apartment.

Self: Right!

Self: They care about the sexy stuff. And also this pain exploration. Maybe. We hope they do anyway.

Self: Right. Anyway, so, we were playing around one night, and I was wearing this black slip, a super ratty, old-fashioned full-body fifties slip that I used to wear in high school, over another one like it, as a dress. And I’m wearing this slip, and he puts me in leather cuffs, practical ones, wide and double-layered, and chains my hands above my head to the rafters. It was high enough so that I couldn’t bring them down, but so that I could stand, or kneel on the bed.

Self: You’re sending this to your mother?

Self: Yeah... yeah maybe not. We’ll see.

Anyway, he had me chained up, and I was kneeling on the mattress, and he pulled my breast up and over the top of the slip, and he started pinching it, and pulling at it. I think he was touching me too, or kissing me, but we weren’t fucking. It was exquisite. The lights were off, it was night. My bed was next to the window, and the blinds were down, but they were still blinds, and not curtains, and the light from the balcony of the apartment across the way sort of cut into the room, cut across me in slats. My shoulders got more and more sore, and he just... didn’t let go. He just kept pinching me, would bite around it, would twist. And I remember, at some point, just breaking. I just broke, cried a little, just sort of gave into it. I saw myself as maybe he saw me, a little, in that moment. I felt, for a second, that he was a lucky boy to be there with me. It was pretty cool.

Self: What does that mean, you gave into it?

Self: I think... I think it can be a kind of test, for me, in a few ways. It’s a test in the obvious way, the how-much-can-you-take, how-tough-are-you way, and I’ve always been drawn to those sorts of things, especially when they’re... macho? I guess? I like to drive a nail down in one stroke, so to speak (although I’ve never actually been able to do that). I like to be tough. And yeah... yeah, it’s not just for me, I like other people to think I’m tough too. I think the part that’s for me is more important? But it’s also because... because I wanna be that tough chick. I like that tough chick, and I want other people to like her too.

Self: But there's another kind of test? A second kind?

Self: The giving in, the surrender. That can also be a kind of... threshold to cross. To be able to give in to my body, to what it’s experiencing. To stop fighting it, or to... endure it long enough that I can’t fight it anymore. Maybe it’s more like a test, and reward, although some days, it seems like I could take all the pain in the world, and still not get there.

Self: You’re talking about it like it takes you somewhere? Is that an actual place?

Self: I don’t think so. I’m not talking about subspace, or the forever place, or the experiences like those that bottoms talk about. I mean, sometimes that’s there too, but I think what I’m talking about it more personal. When I can get to a place with myself where a lot of pain isn’t scary anymore, or it’s scary, but I’m okay with that scared: that’s an honesty with myself, and an confidence, and a... very present existence that’s hard to find another way.

Self: You can’t be present in sex without pain?

Self: I can be. It’s a lot harder, and I don’t like it as much.

Self: Is that... worrying at all?

Self: I don’t think so. I don’t know, but I don’t think so. I have a busy brain. Even when I don’t want it to be busy, it’s busy. Pain is a way to quiet my mind. It’s not unlike meditation.

Self: And now, for the hippie woo-woo portion of the interview.

Self: No, no. Nothing like that. I mean, I’m kind of a hippie sometimes, but I’ve already written about buddhism and pain. It’s here.

Self: So, you like pain. You had some partners who liked to give you pain. Then what happened?

Self: Then I met Jamie.

Self: Who is Jamie?

Self: Jamie it my fusband. Future husband, fake husband. He's my fiance. He’s my man dude friend. When we first started dating, he identified primarily as a sadist. We’ve gotten into all other manner of things together, but sadomasochism is still a big part of our play together.

Self: How big?

Self: I’d say we don’t do a scene without it ever, and we don’t fuck without it hardly ever.

Self: What’s the difference between those two things?

Self: I don’t know. I sort of actually hate the word “scene.” But what I mean is: even in the quickies, even when the... I don’t know, focus of what we’re doing is sex and getting off, as opposed to power exchange or pain or bondage, there’s still a lot of pain.

Self: Has having a consistent kinky partner changed your relationship with pain at all?

Self: It’s let me explore a lot of new things, things I don’t think I would have explored the same way with other partners, or other people than Jamie, even if I had found other long-term play partners. Our relationship is... awesome, in a lot of ways, and exploring pain is one of them.

Self: What kinds of new stuff have you gotten into?

Self: Well, I tried a lot of new implements with him that I hadn’t tried before. Nothing to outrageous, by kinkster standards, but we’ve got a nice wall of toys now.

Self: What’s your favorite?

Self: Favorite? They’re all different. Flogging is, in a way, the easiest to take. It hurts, and it hurts a lot, but in a way that doesn’t scare me as much as the rest of them, most of the time. So that’s good in some ways, and... not as affective in other ways. Caning is very difficult for me. It’s frightening. Remember the second kind of test? The threshold? That’s really hard to get a sense of with caning. It’s just... exactly the wrong kind of pain. Which is why it’s also a lot of fun, in exactly it’s own ways.

Self: Is there any kind of pain you don’t like, in a real don’t-like way?

Self: I haven’t had good experiences with electricity, but I haven’t had very many experiences with electricity, so I’m leaving that one open. I don’t like pain on my genitals. I haven’t done anything with cutting or burning, because those are a little too reminiscent of what I used to do with pain. I’ve never done play piercing, but I’m fantastically curious about it. Everything else... everything else is great. I guess, mostly, I like hitty things. Lots and lots of different kinds of hitty things.

Self: Is there anything you would change about your relationship with pain?

Self: Not really. The classic answer that people give, when asked, like my mother asked, why someone would want pain in their sex life, why it would ever be in the same category of appealing as caressing or squeezing or what have you, is that these people, who like pain: they want the whole breadth of sensory experience. And I think, for me, that isn’t quite right. Because I don’t really want the gentle touches. I mean, I like them (a lot) in certain contexts (as reward, as manipulation, as part of voyeur/exhibitionist dynamic, etc), but I don’t want them the same way I want pain.

I just... it’s delicious. All by itself. The toys aren’t essential, although they’re awesome. The feeling of a hand slapping, hard, against my skin? That’s... where I feel connected to the person I'm with, where I feel connected to myself. That’s long walks on the beach and piña coladas, for me.

Self: So really, there’s nothing you would change?

Self: I would bruise easier. They don’t tell you this, but often, when you bottom for a while, you stop bruising and marking as much. For some people it’s a relief. For me it’s a huge bummer. I like the marks, I like seeing them right after, watching them fade, showing them off (in appropriate, or mostly appropriate, contexts). That’s probably another part of it. Watching the external heal, feeling marked, owned, like someone’s territory claimed.

Self: But... (prepares bad British accent) do you have a flag?

Self: Actually yes. But that’s another post.

Self: So. Are you gonna send this to your mom?

Self: I don’t know. I keep trying to write something here that’s appropriate for her, and it keeps... not happening. My mother and whatever readers I have here are... very different audiences.

Self: This is a sex blog.

Self: It’s true.

Self: Last words on pain?

Self: More please!

Long Time No See, MetaBlog thoughts, and the DiCarlo Escalation Ladder, Part Deux

Hi internet.

It's been a while.

Here's the part where I'll tell you why it's been a while.

I'm writing a book, and working two jobs, and my man just got home from four months away, so it's been a real busy few weeks (month... yeah, month). And I'd say I'll try to post more, and I will, but to be perfectly honest, there are a few (maybe more than a few) things in my life right now that take precedence over this. Although, come September, things might go back to normal, as I've got plans to move to the frozen tundra that is far west bush town, Alaska. We'll see.

On to some substance, shall we?

I recently got a big spike in hits, specifically on one post, the DiCarlo Escalation Ladder mocking back from June of 2012. Looking at my traffic, it came from reddit. Someone, hilariously enough, has linked it as an example of the actual DiCarlo Escalation Ladder.

Side note: that post is my most viewed, even with the porn posts thrown in there. It's also the third hit when you google DiCarlo Escalation Ladder.

And that's all fine and dandy, as far as I'm concerned. I'd like nothing better than for someone looking for the actual creep-tastic piece of rapey filth to find a mocked version of it, especially because the post doesn't link to any PDF of the Ladder, but rather intersperses commentary throughout a copy-pasted version (so I'm not directing any traffic to those sites, which is good).

But I had a comment come through this morning from one of these guys, and it almost spoiled the whole fucking thing.

Because I just rage. There's no quippy way to put it. There's no getting around it. I read the comment it made my fucking feminist blood boil in my giant, patriarchy-smashing muscles.

And I responded, which I probably shouldn't have, but I did. You can go back and look at it if you want. It's not even a particularly good response. I just wrote it because: rage.

But it leaves me with a bit of a conundrum. Based on the traffic of this blog, is more philosophical than practical. I guess it's an issue a lot of bloggers run into. I don't want to provide space for assholes to say their asshole bullshit, but I also don't really want to regulate my comments section. And not for the "free speech blah blah" bullshit; nobody is infringing on your right to free speech if they don't agree to host your comments. It's more that, if I want to have a dialogue abut these kinds of things, then I actually want to have a dialogue. It's also that, in part, I want to leave the super shitty comments up as an example of the fact that these kinds of shits actually exist.

The comment would have been easy to deal with if it was hateful, or mean, or angry. It wasn't. It was placating. It was wheedling. It was "oh, the Ladder isn't really so bad, it's just writing stuff down and it's just the way men and women are. Don't worry about it."

Because that's what drives me up the fucking wall. When somebody says, about my experience, about my deeply held beliefs "really, it's not such a big deal. You shouldn't be so sensitive. You shouldn't take is so personally. It's not really a big deal. Don't worry about it."

Fuck you. Of course I worry about it. I worry explicitly, and sometimes with great verbosity. And yeah, I do take it personally. You're commenting on my fucking personal blog.

I don't really know what to do about it. Nothing, I suppose. Seethe. I'll seethe about it.

More content come. To brighten this a little, here's a link to a rad video game company run by a friend of mine. Their philosophy about the new stuff coming out is excellent, and it's a little ways down.

Delectable shame

Real post coming soon. In the mean time, here's a link that I'll probably be referencing forever. I love finding things on the Internet that are exactly the answer to a question I get asked a lot. Feels less lonely, and also adds a comforting weight to the arsenal of "no, I am not disturbed, and here's why," in which I seem to always fumble, trying to answer those oft-asked questions.

Anyhow, enjoy:

http://freethoughtblogs.com/greta/2013/04/22/an-open-letter-to-people-concerned-about-kink/?utm_source=feedly

Falling in Love All Over Again

I know my partner is a feminist, and a radical, and a sex-positive, patriarchy-smashing rockstar. I know it, but sometimes it slips into the background, like many things in long term relationships tend to do. It's there, but I'm not watching it every second like in the beginning. I don't think this makes me a bad partner; I just think it's part of relaxing into a life with someone.

But then he goes and writes something like this (see below), and it's right in front of my face again. It's reflective and informed; it's simple to understand, yet broadly applicable. It's one of the best working definitions of privilege I've seen.

He posted it on facebook, as a status, in response to nothing in particular. Many women commented. They commented in funny ways, in heartfelt ways, in (oddly and ironically) joke(?)-romantic/sexual ways ("Swoon," "If I wasn't already married, I'd chase you..." etc). I understand where they're coming from, as I felt similarly; so rare is an understanding like this, and even rarer from a cis-male-identified person. It's a precious thing, and it feels like a precious thing, to see someone speak about their own privilege without shame or guilt. With proud awareness and active responsibility. Makes me want to get up on something tall and wave my arms above my head and whoop.

But I didn't comment. Some of it was that I knew I would get to talk to him about it later, not on a facebook wall (we hardly ever communicated in public that way, which I like). Some of it was not wanting to seem overbearing or possessive by commenting on a thread where other women expressed desire and love for my partner (not that those things are bad - see later paragraph).

But the biggest part of it came from a feeling of smallness, which I don't like, which I want to unpack. I read his post, and read the comments, and felt bad that I was having the same reaction as these women. Felt bad that I didn't react more normally, that his post wasn't something that immediately registered as "of course he wrote that." Which is not to say that it didn't fit with his character as I know it, just that: in being similarly surprised and delighted as all the other people, I felt somehow that I'd been taking him for granted.

I felt guilty, but also that I was somehow slacking, and in that laziness, that I was wandering into dangerous territory. Yes, I thought the same things as all these women, and of course I did, because they're true. Because the man that I am with is a really, really incredible man. And if I don't remember that, if I let the luck of being with him go squandered, then I might not be so lucky anymore. Obviously, there are many women lined up. Obviously, some of them are pretty amazing feminists, are pretty amazing thinkers and writers, are (and this is no small piece of the puzzle) simply very pretty. I couldn't distinguish myself from them, and if there is nothing different or unique about me, then I must make up for it by treating my partner like gold. In that moment, realizing that I might be less acknowledging of him than these other women was, in short, very threatening, and very scary. If I'm not special, and I don't do a good job of realizing how he is special, then why would he stay?

This is all, of course, bullshit. I don't actually believe in a) an emotional starvation economy, or b) that anything I was "slacking on" could possibly loose me my partner. (If he didn't feel appreciated, and we talked about it, and he still didn't feel appreciate, that would be another story, and something we would work through (or not, but we'd talk about it first). He isn't going to magically leave me one day because I haven't praised him enough times in the last forty eight hours). But feelings don't really listen to the things I believe in, a lot of time. Feelings are gremlins raised and fed by the patriarchy for twenty years, and I'm just now weening them onto a healthier diet. And, as they say with any diet, old habits die hard.

This wasn't supposed to be a post about my reaction to Jamie's writing. This was supposed to just be Jamie's writing. Ah well.

Down with the darkest gremlins, in the farthest reaches of the Caves O' Patriarchy, I am scared that finding more feminist communities or being more active is social justice circles is going to mean that Jamie will leave. Part of what he loves about me is my politics, is talking about them with me, is what I think and how I think about it. And I'm scared that it's a unique part of me, to him; that it's part of why he stays, and in meeting other people who are also like me in that way, I will become less special. He will discover that the things setting me apart actually do not. This isn't any more real of a fear than any of the rest of the bullshit, but I think it falls into a more real category. Or a more identifiable category.

I am scared that an aspect of our relationship that makes it special won't anymore, and then what does?

And now that I've said it out loud, it'll probably get a whole lot better.

yup, i really did this (not this time around, but perhaps more than once in the past)

It's the same as any boundary that we work on, although this one is more specific to us, I think, than say, physical boundaries or kinky boundaries. What defines our relationship, what sets it apart from other relationships is just exactly that: that we each choose this, that he is who he is and that I am who I am. That our relationship is the two of us together. I forget what book or podcast said it, but somewhere there's a quote about poly that goes something like "Non-monogamy is having so much faith in your relationship that you don't have to have faith in anything else." And while I'm a long way off from that as yet (and don't consider in an absolutely goal or anything), it's a principal I stand by. I just have to cajole the feelings into going along with the principals. Gremlins, fall in line.

So, without further ado, here's what I've actually been talking about. This is a post, un-prompted, by a man who, even if I wasn't real in love with him, I would respect deeply, and like a whole lot.


Here's what it comes down to (my point of view):
When my date drinks too much I never worry about my safety.
When I was in NYC, walking around at night with torn clothing, I never once was stopped and frisked.
I'm secure in the knowledge that no one out there wants to beat me to death or drag me behind a truck, and certainly no one with the power to do so.
There is no law in place or proposed that will deny me anything based on any part of my identity.
When I'm walking from my car to my front door at night I never put my keys between my fingers.
If I get too drunk at a party I know the worst I'll wake up with is Sharpie on my face and embarrassing facebook photos.
When I get pulled over by a cop they never once imply that I shouldn't be out driving, might be up to something illegal, or search me or my car.
When I was in college if I interrupted someone they stopped talking, and no one interrupted me.
No one looks at any part of my body when I'm talking except my face.
No one's implied any part of my identity is a phase, something I'll grow out of, a sin, a crime, or an affront to them.
I never worry that someone is hiring, promoting, listening to, agreeing with, or talking to me because they want to sleep with me.
If I feel depressed I can look for inspiration in the heroes of every movie and video game ever - they all look like me, and never imply I need someone else to come rescue me, I have all the power to do it myself.
If I decide to vote, no one will make any effort to dissuade me.
If I come to work disheveled, people will be ask if I'm sick and respect me no less than they did yesterday.
I've never had to commit the small deception of wearing a ring on a different finger to ward off amorous advances of someone who might turn violent in their persistence, unless a metal band indicates I belong to someone else.
I spent 12 years of school studying people who look like me doing great things.
I've never considered whether the person I'm with might sexually assault me.
I've never had to talk in anything other than my native tongue to get respect.
I get to wear the clothes my parents and peers have always worn without judgment.
No part of my identity is subject to ridicule, mockery, questioning, nor am I ever called to educate those around me about what it's like to be one of me.
No one's ever implied my weight casts aspersions on my abilities.
I get taken seriously.

I feel like that confers a responsibility to share those advantages with those who might not have them in any way I can. Don't you?

I love him for this. As a caveat, I love him for many reasons, both describable and not, but his politics are a part of it. And being afraid to say that in a public forum because of petty, patriarchal constructs is just sort of bullshit.

Because he is really incredible, and even if it isn't at the top of my thoughts every day, I shouldn't be scared to whoop from the rooftops when it is.

Kink Fest; The Quotes Post

I'll write a big 'ol missive on the event later, I'm sure, but for now, here are some favorite quotes from the last day and half. Heard in classes, around the festival, and in the dungeon (no names posted, because I don't have anyone's permission, or even what some of their names are). From hilarious to quippy to profound, perverts say it all.

[from a presenter, on people arriving to his class on time] "I appreciate your radical acceptance of the schedule." 

"We cannot have power exchange unless everybody has power to begin with." 

[on suffocating someone with your hands, and using different smells (wasabi, fish sauce, scat) to make breathing unpleasant] "Some people, when they smell certain smells - they stop breathing. They're like 'fuck you, fine' and just stop." 

"You, darling, might be an asshole" 

"I had a partner who identified as a human ferret." 

[on being asked to bottom in a double penetration rape scene by five new-ish tops, in a lecture given by the bottom on how to play with new tops] "I was laying there, after they'd tied me down on my back, while they were trying to figure out how to put it in. And I was just sort of waiting. And then I suggested, gently "Hey, maybe the problem is the position of the bottom..." They flipped me over and got right back in. It was awesome." 

"But I said 'Sir' at the end, so it was all okay." 

[from a very shy person, in a lecture on negotiation for shy people] "I wore a name tag that said 'My name is ___, wanna fuck?' It opened up a lot of doors."

More details later! Now: on to further adventures!

Getting to Kink Fest: A Fable

I was pretty excited for KinkFest this year. Although I was going to be working four shows over the weekend (as per usual), I was probably going to do what I did last year: buy a ticket for Friday, go to the lectures during the day, shop around at the vendors, maybe check out the party post-show.

And then I lost my job. Which is another blog entirely, so we'll leave it at that for now.

I was (among many other things) both excited to have the entire weekend free, but also a bit hesitant, because my financial situation had changed with the loss of that job. So I looked up kinkfest, and what it would cost for the weekend.

And holy fucking floggers, batman. 185$?! Plus an extra 40$ if you wanted to attend the leather dinner on Friday evening, with the keynote speaker and the fancy schmancy attire?

185$ is almost exactly what I make in a week now. I can't spend that much money on anything other than rent, much less a luxury like a kink conference. I understand that these events cost money, and I believe that, could I afford to buy a ticket, I would definitely regard my money more than well-spent. But right then, it just wasn't an option.

Wait! Excitement! There are work study volunteer opportunities! I apply! I am excited! I'm a great volunteer, and have experience, and I sent them this blog, and although I'm not super active in the Portland community, I am enthusiastic and express such enthusiasm with grammar and punctuation! But not emoticons! Because I have standards!

A few weeks later, I get an email informing me that, unfortunately, I have not been awarded a workstudy. That there were limited spots. That they are sorry, but that they hope to see me at the event. I am saddened, but spend the afternoon moving money around, to see if I could maybe pay for a day ticket. Alas, no dice.

Another email the next day, from the Education Committee, telling me that if I still want to volunteer, I can volunteer to set up the lectures and classes (which are my favorite parts anyway). I extrapolate (and learn later: wrongly) that this means I can show up and attend just the parts I volunteer for without having to pay. I am excited again! There is hope! I write an e-mail back to Eddy (we'll call him Eddy), the Education Committee Coordinator, with my schedule preferences for working the lectures and my grammatically evidenced gratitude!

Eddy is very kind in his reply, but has bad news for me. Everyone must register for the event, and if I wanted to volunteer, I would have to buy a ticket for the weekend. I tell him "oh." I tell him "bummer." I tell him "thank you for letting me know," and still, I am enthusiastic, because Eddy really is very kind, and he offers to maybe help me get involved in other kink activities around Portland, which especially right now, with Jamie and my boyfriend out of town, would be a nice refreshing burst of fellow kinksters in my life.

We ping back and forth a few times.

And then, and then... and then he tells me, don't hold your breath, but oh, there might be a few more workstudies available! And oh, he has asked that maybe I get one, to help the Education Committee! And oh, the next day, an e-mail from Vicky (we'll call her Vicky), the Volunteer Coordinator of Kinkfest, saying yes, she is pleased, saying yes, I have been awarded a workstudy! Full workstudy!

Hurray!

So, there's a meeting on Saturday, of the volunteers. I'm really excited to go, and I'm really excited to volunteer (and there will, I'm sure, be much writing on this blog about kinkfest over the weekend).

But it was interesting, this whole financial process. Because there have been times in my life where yeah, a workstudy would have been nice, but not necessary. There are times when I would have applied, and been rejected, and somehow scrounged up the money to go anyway.

This just isn't one of those times. And it was interesting to see, in many of the emails (not Eddy's, but some other ones) how it seemed... optional? Somehow. How in the underlying message, there was a "we know you applied for this thing because you can't really pay for this, but just in case you can still: here are some options."

I'm not trying to criticize Kinkfest. I understand that continuing to offer opportunities to those who might be able to afford them is awesome, and they asked, in between emails about workstudy and further offers, if I still wanted to volunteer - it was overtly consensual, and finance-conscious. Rather, I'm reflecting on my own personal difficulties in having things offered to me, and not being able to take them for financial reasons. I am, for the first time in a little while, farther on the other side of the line; I am definitively more poor than I was a month ago.

It's not something I'm unfamiliar with, but in a way, I'm learning to be poor again. The timing of all this is remarkable, because not only has my financial situation shifted, but there's the kinkfest scholarship thing, as well as the graduate school scholarship thing. I'm getting acceptance letters (yup! two!), and in the same breath, they offer me spot in their program, and a letter saying how much money I'm (not) getting to go there. One of the schools I've been accepted to (ranked 24th in the country, wow) is already out because I can't pay for it.

But I'm learning to sit with it. I'm learning to trust that, along the way, the right school or the right festival will come along ("right" including the money aspect of what it is to be right for me). I'm not especially bitter about it. Money is just another factor, and this is just where I am right now.

Anyway, that was a serious digression into non-feminist non-kinky territory. Or maybe: thoughts about economic barriers in the kink world deserves it's own dedicated post.

To end on a more relevant note: I just read a Lee Harrington blogpost on "asking," which links to Amanda Palmer's recent Ted Talk on the same topic. Asking is good, asking is important, and like Palmer says, when you connect with people, everybody feels good about giving.

The Conflation Game

it's a pie chart! kink is the red. just 'cause.

I get pretty excited when kinky articles or posts pop up in non-kinky settings. Feminist blogs, or blogs of my friends, will occasionally feature kinky subject matter, and it puts my worlds together in a really great way. It's both that my sexuality feels less relegated to a dark corner of the internet, but also that it's somehow less pigeonholed, less quarantined (because even when kink isn't judged worse than... other aspects of being human, it's often very insular: people talk about kink in kink spaces, with kink people, and that's the only place it happens). Coming across it this way, it feels like part of a whole, an integrated whole, as opposed to a separate space.

I had a moment like this with a post by sex geek on feministing; the post is long, really long, but it does a good job of breaking down how the mainstream media talks about kink, and tackles a couple of recent and particularly egregious examples. One of my favorite of sex geek's points, and a thread throughout the post, is the conflation of kink and violence; or rather, the mainstream's choice to ignore how pivotal, and how essential, and what a cornerstone, and what-other-language-can-I-look-for-to-reinforce-this-point, consent is to the kink community (I've also written about this conflation before, from a more personal context, so I'm excited to see it getting discussed other places).

It's like the flour in bread, dudes; if you leave it out, you don't have "sorta kinda something like bread." You have water and yeast and sugar. Which is both gross, and very, very far from bread.