I Have Been Trying
I have been trying to write a story. I have been trying to write a story about a scene I did with the Boston Boy late during one of the last play parties in New York, before I flew away.
I’ve been trying to write it down, but I can’t remember how the words should go.
The Boston Boy is short, not small. Thick in his legs, round like apples and then broad like bodies of water. He has dark curling hair that twists into his ears and twines around my fingers.
Where was Maymay, the night of that party? I can’t place him in my mind, which makes me think he was at home. This piece will explain why I will never write a non-fiction memoir; I fill the gaps of my life in with fictions I create from the vapor of nothing, because the gaps themselves are huge and dark and frustrating. Last weekend I walked down the street with Maymay and said that I felt sad, and tried to explain my reasons. He turned to me and said gently, “That’s the same reason you were sad before we moved, six months ago. Don’t you remember us talking about it?” And I had to say no: I remember sitting, I remember words in my mouth, but I don’t remember why I was sad back then, in that anonymous time six months ago. I barely know why I’m sad now.
I remember the Boston Boy closed his eyes tight, and closed his face up as well. When he was finally against the wall of Rob’s little bedroom with his shirt on the floor at his feet, he stood perfectly still. I remember I ran my hands over his body.
“I’m sorry I’m so quiet,” he said, and his words came out odd in my ears. “I know you like it when there’re noises.” I think that I told him it was all right.
And then there is a gap. Trying to fill it with fiction makes me lonely, so I’m going to leave it unfilled.
Later, I grabbed the meat of his shoulder and wrestled him down onto the floor. He went down easy, and when I sat on top of his chest and pinned his elbows to his sides I could feel the muscles of his arms flexing and relaxing as he grabbed at the waistband of his shorts.
“What are you doing?” I leaned over him softly.
“Just trying not to fight back,” he said.
And I remember I asked him what he meant, and then I said, “Let’s try that, then,” and I kept hitting him.
I hit him until he wrenched his arms from under my body, flipped me easily and pinned me to the floor. I struggled a little, then looked him in the eyes. “All right,” I said then, “that’s enough.”
And I remember he threw himself backward, put his back to the corner and curled in a ball with his hands over his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He cried it in something that sounded like fear. I almost melted away.
And then, another gap. Writing like this makes me frustrated, makes me miss the golden sheen of the bubble I’ve capped over my time in New York. I don’t know if capping it makes things better or worse. A few days ago Maymay and I sat in a cafe, and I said maybe I want to move back to the States. No more guesswork, no more tentative movements or subtle disconnections. My life feels faded, fragile, incomplete.
“Let’s go to San Francisco,” I said.
I remember toward the end of the scene with the Boston Boy I pressed the pointed tip of a knife between his eyebrows, and he sank against the wall and made one low noise, without opening his lips at all. I remember deciding that noise was enough, and I remember it so clearly because I keep it wrapped in my head in a bit of tissue paper, that one beautiful noise.
I’m trying to write it down now, how the scene ended. Did we sit on the floor? I think we did. Did I put my arms around him? I hope I did. Some of this piece was fictional, but my hope in that hypothetical moment is real.
Casanova
No, not the romanticized idea. The man. Giacomo Casanova.
I’m utterly cheating on this post. I admit it. At least this cheat is words, instead of the rambling audio journal I’ve been picking up in random moments. Do ya’ll need to hear my musings upon the deliciousness of guacamole? I think not. Obviously guacamole is delicious.
I walked into a little bookstore in the Rocks and picked up a slim black paperback with a rose etched on the cover: Of Mistresses, Tigresses, and Other Conquests. The inside cover informs me that this is a selection of excerpts from Casanova’s unfinished 3,600 page memoir, Histoire de ma vie.
And I took it home and started reading, and ridiculously, laughed out loud sitting alone on my couch. Because Casanova? A pre-computer-age sex blogger. Definitely.
Here are a few choice excerpts that pushed some of my blogging buttons:
If, dear reader, you examine this preface well, you will easily guess its purpose. I have written it because I want you to know me before you read me. Only in coffee-houses and inns do we converse with strangers.
I have written my history, and surely no one could take exception to it. Still, am I wise to present it to a public I know only in the worst light? No. I know it is foolish. But since I need to keep myself busy and to laugh, why should I refrain from committing such a folly?
…
In recalling the pleasures I enjoyed, I relive them, while I laugh at the pains I endured and no longer feel.
…
What depraved tastes! And how shameful to acknowledge them without blushing! This reproach tickles me to laughter. Thanks to my coarse tastes, I am so shameless as to believe myself happier than the rest, first of all because I think my tastes make me more sensitive to pleasure.
And for a little something extra, some 18th century T&D action:
With a trembling and timid hand, and watching her with eyes that begged for mercy, I untied the six wide ribbons that closed her dress in front, delighted that she did not stop me, and found myself the happy master of the most beautiful bosom. Time was running out. She was obliged to allow me to devour it after contemplating its charms; I raised my eyes to her face and there read an amorous sweetness that said to me, be happy with this, and learn from me to suffer abstinence. Driven by love and all-powerful nature, and in despair because she would not allow my hands to roam elsewhere, I did everything I could to guide one of hers to the place that might persuade her that I deserved her mercy; but with a strength greater than mine, she would not move her hands from my chest, where there was nothing of interest to be found. Nonetheless, this was where her mouth landed when her lips left mine.
Out of necessity or the fatigue of spending so many hours without being able to do anything more than continuously swallow our mingled saliva, I fell asleep in her arms, holding her close in mine.
Dating Guidelines
Today I want to talk about FetLife.
As I mentioned a while back, I have found FetLife to be primarily a good resource, although the site occasionally regurgitates the problems of the kink macrocosm into my email, which drives me mad. I have yet to really gain personal (distinct from professional) value from any social networking site, mostly because I end up being more annoyed than amused.
So I don’t read the digests, and I don’t browse the groups, and I don’t join the discussions even when they do drive me mad. XKCD brilliantly illustrates my view of the inherent futility in this sort of argument.
But I’m still on Fetlife. Why? Because I still hold the at-this-point-very-tenuous hope that through FetLife I might manage to find someone to date.
Because FetLife is designed for social networking rather than dating, I don’t have the patience to try to find possible partners through it for more than half an hour. I can’t, for example, see everyone who lives in New South Wales, is under the age of 35, queer, and into having sadistic women beat on them. Who is funny enough to make me laugh, and smart enough to make me think, and sexy enough to make me come, and honest enough to make me comfortable, and honorable enough to make me trust.
I sort and sort, and then I give up. Half an hour is not enough, and I don’t really have the time for a full-blown campaign.
I don’t want to imply I am content with (or politically aligned with) sitting back and trusting that the presence of my sexy young dominant vagina will bring in dates. I think I should do some work in the dating process. But I don’t know if I want to do that work on FetLife. I’ve seen nothing to imply that my efforts would be rewarded.
I debated, for a long time, advertising here on this blog that I’m looking for dateable folks. Once upon a time I did mention this in my contact page, but I’ve since taken it down. I’m still not sure about that decision. I’m not sure how I feel about advertising my availability at all.
But while I figure this out, I still get messages on FetLife all the time. I am privately messaged about twice a week, and although I have made a few new friends, I don’t see dating in the cards any time soon.
Most of the messages aren’t bad, persay. But at the same time, these messages consistently betray their authors as unsuitable dating potential. For example, I won’t respond to people with empty profiles. And (sorry, anonymous man I’m about to criticize), I won’t date you if you’re trying to cheat on your wife. While it’s nice of you to put that in your messages up front, it’s just not going to happen. And I find it a little insulting, but how were you to know that?
How were you to know I won’t be the other woman? Or that I won’t reply to one-liners, or that sexual advances from strangers freak me the fuck out?
Do you see where this is going? I am debating becoming one of those people with guidelines. I am actually debating whether or not I should spell out a number of suggestions to people who are interested in speaking with me.
Look, call me crazy, but I think if you’re interested in my profile you might click through to my blog. And I think that my blog might give a pretty clear picture of who I am. And I think that once you’ve got that picture, you might be smart enough to figure out how to approach me on your own. I don’t think you need a guidebook to my brain. Although I suppose if there’s an interest, I could write one.
I have to admit that the practice of outlining dating guidelines on a website or a profile is one of my annoyances. It annoys me that people do this. It annoys me that I’m considering this, because it implies a kind of arrogance I don’t appreciate.
And most of all, it annoys me that this is even necessary. Because yes, I can see how it might be necessary. It saves time on both sides. It heads off the cycle of hope and disappointment. It would stop that little pang of sympathy and guilt when I get a polite, sweet message and all I have to say is, “Thanks, but no thanks.” Or if I have nothing to say at all.
So is it ruder to give guidelines up front, or ruder to never respond to the messages I receive? Should I head the hopefuls off at the pass? I’m wary of this idea, because honestly, how am I to know who might read those guidelines and decide not to contact me? I could accidentally end up cutting out someone who’s genuinely interesting.
Keeping the nebulous possibility of that person alive is worth dealing with a bit of stupid guilt and a lot of random messages. But I do wonder about the hopeful people on the other end of the wire, waiting for my words to appear in a little black square. I wonder who they are, and what they’re like, and what brought them here, today.
Pornographer
One afternoon a few weeks ago, I’m sitting with an older gentleman who’s become something of a writing mentor for me in the past few months. Among other projects, he’s helping me in my attempts to wrangle out a book about kinky young people, and kinky sex, and deviance in general.
We sit for a while, and he reads bits of my story, and we talk about the relationship of character and action. He becomes interested in a character: a boy who stands against a wall with his shirt off, his eyes closed and mouth open, completely silent as a girl with a grin presses a knife to his face, and then hits him in the shoulder. He’s a character I based off the Boston Boy, except I’ve changed his name and re-imaged his life, and kept his face, his body, and his nuances of sound.
How does this character’s silence betray his personality? My older friend asks me these and other questions. He calls my writing “acceptable” and I laugh at him, a little.
We talk, and I think aloud, and then he apologizes for kicking me out so soon. A famous author is coming to see him, and I just don’t rank. That’s all right, I assure him, I understand. And as I say it, the famous author is at the door of his office. We are both caught by surprise.
My friend introduces him to me. “Nice to meet you,” I say as I shake his hand and smile.
“Nice to meet you too,” he replies. He is very short, and round, and I like him. I have heard his books are terrible.
My friend then introduces me to him. “This is Eileen,” he says. “She’s a pornographer.”
I smile again. “Well, aspiring.” I amaze myself with my own suaveness.
The famous author looks between the two of us, and then everyone chuckles. “I’ll be one of your best customers someday,” he jokes, although I wonder if he’s really joking.
“Great,” I respond, “someone’s got to read it.” And I smile one more time, and say goodbye. As I walk out of the office, down the stairs and into the light rain, I think how proud I am that I caught that curveball and threw it back. And I wonder when I became content with my pornography. And I wonder how many times I’ll have to catch that ball again.
I go to a library and find a desk by a window. I curl up in the chair, and then I write about sex.
Have A Pretty Girl
I’ve been fiddling in Photoshop recently, as my work piles ever higher and I feel the incessant need to create pretty, distracting things. So here, have a pretty girl to look at. I feel vaguely as though she should have a comic bubble, but I’ll save that for another evening.
