5/8ths

April 12, 2009

Cold linoleum floors are awful, but I usually jump right in the shower so it’s no big worry. Last week as I took off my robe and glanced in the mirror I felt an extra chill of..insecurity? Anxiety? A feeling of  being unsafe, unguarded. Vulnerable. It was so hard to pin down because I so rarely feel that way. I haven’t felt that way in a long time, since high school.

The night before this I got home late, about 2 AM from a date. A date that hadn’t gone very well, in my opinion. Particularly after we’d gone back to his place where conversation and making out took place. Good kisser, decent conversation, no particular inspiration to see him again. I have this a lot. Perfectly nice guys, smart, funny, I don’t want them. I have a very specific idea of the kind of treatment I want to receive, and the kinds of thought patterns I want to see evidence for. 

As we were kissing I felt his fingers run through my hair and abruptly my head was pulled back and his hand was curled up, pulling my hair and my head. I was so surprised and stunned that I don’t think I even recognized the fear I felt when he kissed me again.

Standing in my shower stall, clumps of my hair falling from the buzzing blades of my clippers. All I could think about was how I never wanted anyone to grab my head that way again.

Later when I stood up to grab my things he rose and kissed me. And shoved me onto his bed. And lay on top of me. All I could think was “Please stop. Please stop or I’ll hurt you.” When he leaned in to kiss me, I planted my palms on his shoulders and pushed up with all the force I could muster and said “I’m going home now.

After I got out of the shower and put on my clothes, I realized how close I had come to dismissing it as a bad date. As a mistmatch, poor chemistry. But the hair swirling down the drain and through the pipes, the warm clippers in their case, my cold ears all tell me that it was more. I was scared. I felt threatened. Boundaries had been crossed, boundaries I didn’t even realize the importance of until I clipped a 5/8ths inch comb onto some metal blades and ran the buzzing machine through my hair.

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It’s About Love

April 12, 2009

Amazon.com is full of epic fail. Amazon Rank my ass.

When children ask their parents, “Why did you get married?” what do you want to bet that 99% of heterosexual people don’t say “Because I wanted to fuck the same person for the rest of my life.” When children ask “What’s it like to be in l ove?” what do you want to bet that 99% of heterosexual people don’t say “Well it feels like your father’s/mother’s penis and/or vagina and my explosive orgasm.”

 

Why is it that when so many people think of gay, lesbian, trans, genderqueer, genderfucked, questioning, queer, or just plain kinky people the only thing they can think of is the sex? Is that why when kids ask about gays it seems so hard to explain?

Look. Don’t explain anal sex to your toddler. Don’t explain cunnilingus to your grade schooler. Don’t explain strap-ons, vibrators, cock-rings, lube, or a sling to your kids until they need to know. When your kid asks,”What does Aunt Mary do with Aunt Heather?” or  “Why does Uncle Rob live with Uncle Tim?” or “Is cousin Sean dating a lady or a boy?” or “Is my brother gay?”  don’t think about the hot, sweaty, growling, gentle, tender, loving sex that those people have. Think about the warm smiles, and the loving looks, the tight hugs and the quick pecks. Think about birthdays, graduations, hard nights, and glorious days, fights and making up. Explain that it’s about love. It’s all about love.

That other stuff? They’ll figure most of it out on their own, and if you teach them not to be ashamed, to be strong and safe, and to know that it’s about love then they’ll be okay. If you can’t tell them about that stuff yourself, that’s what all the books are for. At least, if they can find them.

April 6, 2009

When I needed a sense of self, I built one out of words. Words make me who I am, I think about my world largely through words – how do I label this, how do I define that. Instead of seeing words as limiting I see them as offering a great means to explore the truth of what I see around me. If there isn’t a definition that fits the thing I wish to name, I give it a new name with a better explanation. That’s how we get lovely words like poly, kink, cisgender. We take a word, make it mean something new, and then we get to explore it.

But I very rarely trust the words that other’s give me. Especially relating to love. Some of the best writing advice I’ve ever gotten was, “Show me, don’t tell me.”

Show me that you love me, don’t tell me. Show me with the way you treat me, let your actions back up the things you say. Show me that even when you think I’m not watching you that you’re still the same person. Show me there’s no duplicity.

It’s easy to say and do the things I want to hear and see when your dick is straining against your jeans to press against my hand, my ass, my thigh. It’s easy to acquiesce and agree with what I say and want with a distraction like that. Show me that I don’t have to get you hard to get you to be the man I want you to be – and that getting you hard doesn’t change who you  are.

And Then There Were None

March 30, 2009

The problem with my sexual economy is that the supply never matches the demand.

Perhaps when I have more of an income, I will invest in an apartment that could house two people. I could get a live-in handyman/sex slave who work in exchange for food and shelter.

Me: John, I need the sink fixed.
John:Okay.
Me: But first, I need my ass pounded in the kitchen for an hour.
John: Okay! Which lube do you want?
Me: Oh I dunno, surprise me okay handsome?

See? It’d be so handy. He could probably do small remodels and home improvement too. I could finally get the bathroom floor tiled properly.

Disappointment In A Nutshell

March 19, 2009

Or rather, in an e-mail.

I’ve been sort of looking to meet and make friends-with-benefits with a transguy for the past few months in the interest of

A) Expanding my understanding of my own sexuality.
B) Learning more about some of the practical issues of transmen’s genitals. Knowing there’s a sort of man that I don’t know how to get off is really infuriating.

The other day I thought I’d found such a guy, and I was really excited. Maybe a bit giddy, even. I sent him two short e-mails the next day. One mentioning that I had had a dream about us fucking and that I was excited to meet up, the other asking if he had called since there had been an unmarked number in my phone and I had been at work.

What I got back was an e-mail wherein he proved that you don’t have to strap on a dick just to act like one. Insulting, condescending, and just plain rude. Now I’m feeling like it’s not worth the trouble since the few guys I’ve been interested in aren’t interested in me and the one who was turned out to be a dick.

Maybe later, maybe somebody I meet organically from friends or my own activities, but tonight I have a date with a ridiculously smart, bald, cis-boy who has got me all kinds of hot after his intelligent discussion of religion, art, philosophy, and some sciences last night. I sort of swoon when he does his nerdflexing. Rawr, intellectual hots are awesome.

A Call For Advice

March 16, 2009

Alright friends, here’s where I call in the favors. What? You don’t owe me any? Well then may I borrow some advice please?

How do you perform oral sex on a man with a clitoris?

Leave it in a comment below, I am most grateful for any tips you may have for me.

P.S. I will be using this advice fairly soon, I hope. Keep your dildos crossed for me.

A Different Kind Of PnP

March 12, 2009

Not party and play, seeing as I lead a strictly Substance Free lifestyle: No alcohol, no cigs, no drugs, no pot, and as few medications as possible. I’m not strict about no caffeine, but I only drink tea once in a while and very rarely a soda. I take Tylenol or allergy meds maybe four times a year, NyQuil for a few days if I happen to get sick. No morals, I just don’t want to.

Pain and Pleasure.

When I was thirteen I tried to kill myself with a razor blade in the shower. I didn’t because the first little nick of that blade against my skin hurt. I thought I was trying to escape pain, but what I really wanted out of was the numbness. I’d ached for understanding and compassion for so long that all I felt was the agony of numbness. I could feel the pressure of love against me, but none of its warmth. It was always too fleeting, it seemed.

But pain! Ow! Pain was unexpected. Pain was a feeling, a sensation, and I got angry that it had hurt that it hadn’t been easy. Anger was an emotion, and the warmth of it slithered across me like a silk shirt over my head. I felt disappointed and sad and angry and I felt things.

So many people find their lives renewed after a suicide attempt because of the counseling, the help, the support they receive. I’ve never met anyone who got the blade right into their skin and found there their saving grace in the sting of a dirty razor in a hot shower. Pain saved me. Anger renewed me.

I put a band aid on the little slice, not even longer than a quarter of an inch and nowhere near my thick arteries and veins, and forgot about it.

That brought me back to my body and there I found my self. Poor, neglected self. I didn’t know anything about my self except the pain. And now the pain was mostly replaced with dissatisfaction and general crankiness. So I asked myself questions, I read books and formed opinions, I taught myself values that rang true in my ears. Strength flowed into me from books and from some source that to this day remains unknown to me but I have suspicions That brings me to the pleasure.

Relying on my own strength, on my own reserves, on being the extra back-up I need in an emergency, I get such a kick out of it. I find such joy in navigating life with my own guidance and under my own power. I still fall down, I still need help – though I hate to ask for it. I prefer to struggle through on my own most times, because I want to know that I can. I find so much pleasure in being myself, and such a shitty feeling when I’m not. I can’t help but be myself. Not if I want to hold onto a little slice of peace that has been nestled in my  gut, in my heart, ever since that day when the razor hurt me.

My Double Standard Is Fucked

March 9, 2009

If I want to love you, I’ll never seduce you.

I’ll never feel comfortable wearing my sexy underwear for you, moaning your name, feeling your hard on, being naked in front of you. I won’t want you to see me that way, because I’m afraid you won’t see me any other way. That you won’t really love me. That you’ll use me.

If I want to seduce you, I’ll never love you.

I’ll never feel comfortable wearing my baggy sweats around you, or talking when I first wake up with my voice rough and raspy, feeling you hug me, wearing anything less than my sexiest clothes. I won’t want you to see me that way because I’m afraid you won’t want me anymore. That you’ll have used me.

I don’t want to be fetishized, I don’t want to be idolized. I don’t want you to look at me with awe. I don’t want to feel like your pet, your wife, your baby, your everything.

I want your respect and trust. I want it to be uncomplicated. I want us to be sweet like honey – not like refined sugar. I want to fight about what’s important, and sometimes about what’s not. I want honesty and straightforward, awkward reassurances. I don’t need to be seduced, I just need to know what you’re feeling. I want you to want me wanting you – want to want to want to need it.

I want to hold you and I want to be near you and I want to feel comfortable around you no matter what I wear, or what I say. I want to be deeper than friends, love stronger than lovers, more faithful than nuns, more sexual than whores, all in comfort. Comfort and trust and respect. Can you earn my trust? Can you get that deep inside me? I’m ready to be convinced that you won’t leave. Teach me how to fold my love and lust together.

Unarmed Combat

March 4, 2009

Whenever I get hit on by boys – and they are usually boys, no matter their age – but especially online I tend to find out a lot of things by not revealing much about myself. In the end, I feel like I’ve just won a battle of wits with somebody who had a rather limited arsenal.

A perfect example is how many times I’ve been chatting with a guy and we both bemoan the scumbags, the flakes, the bastards that pollute the dating scene and he says “And femmes, bleh! If I wanted to date a girl, I’d just be straight. All that primping, and the silly walk, and that high voice, gross.”

  1. My own family mistakes me for my mother on the phone. Telemarketers assume I’m a mature woman. I always get called Mrs.
  2. On my days off I spend a great deal of time doing my chores in an apron and baking bread for the week, making stew, etc. Basically, being domestic.
  3. There is a definite hip-swivelling action to the way I walk. I don’t even know how to walk any other way.
  4. I spend a wee bit of time primping in front of the mirror.

Tonight a guy said “I hate the fem lame guys!” and I decided that instead of being like “uhm, bye.” or making up some excuse not to talk to him, I said “As a fem guy, I gotta say that fem and lame do not go hand in hand.” After which followed much backpedaling and lame explanations and caveats and asssurances that I’m not at all as fem as the other guys. First of all, he does not know that. Second of all, I am not a loud queeny bitchy kind of femme but I’m definitely not very butch. Why did he do that? Because he wants in my pants or at least wants to have a chance later on. Whatever dude. That clanging sound you hear is my ass slamming shut, and ain’t nobody ever raised that porticulis.

Never Would I Ever

March 2, 2009

The other day I had some mediocre sex with an outrageously hot guy. I’m going to see him again on Thursday, wherein I hope to perhaps to get some better sex by using my words to explain that 10 minutes of anal sex does not cut it. Especially when I then have to finish myself off without any help from him.

The things I will do for a boy who has body hair thicker than a Nicaraguan rain forest.

Interestingly, though, while I will happily fuck him – as long as he improves, anyway – I would never date him. He has a job he doesn’t like, he’s a stoner, he’s bad with money, he parties a lot. None of these things are qualities I admire or desire in a date. But if he’s just fucking me? I don’t really care. Interesting, this double-standard. I guess this is just more proof that my heart is a lot more important to me than anyone might guess from all the fucking around I do.