6. Fuck-Ups Part 1

I want to talk about fucking up. Because I have, and I think it’s not talked about enough. We speak to each other about the things we’ve done, what we’ve learned, how we’ve succeeded, but it’s hard to talk about the times we’ve failed. So I’m starting a series. That’s right. I’m going to tell you about every single time I’ve fucked up a scene. Because in the end, I learn from my mistakes, and that almost – almost – makes the mistakes worth making.

I fucked up my very first scene.

We played without communication, and that was the problem. I didn’t really know what I was doing. I knew if I ran my nails down his back just so, over and over, he sighed and hiccoughed and moaned in a way that made my stomach knot and my labia quiver. So I made him moan, and then I made him moan again, again, again, until he dropped to the floor and said “Please, please stop.” And I did stop, but I admit, not right away. He had no safeword and was too submissive (and too in love) to stop me. I look back now and wince at how stupid we were.

Afterward he pulled a shirt gingerly over his shoulders and we went downstairs and sat on a picnic table. He smoked a pipe and told me, slowly, how scared he was of me. That he wasn’t sure if he could ever trust me again. I’m not sure he ever did trust me again, not totally, not the way he wanted to. All through the thread of our relationship, for the next entire year, this was one of our defining questions: Do you trust me?

I cried at the time, and I learned fast and hard. I became a rabid communicator. I learned everything I could about power dynamics and safewords. I apologized to him. We laughed together and talked about how hot that scene was, once we’d both come down from the peak. And I was horribly, scarringly guilty. I still am. I keep that scene on the rotation, and there’s a part of me that knows I shouldn’t, that finds such conflicts wrong.

And he forgave me. I wonder, sometimes when I’m a titch on the tipsy side (like now), what would I be like if he hadn’t?

1. Again?

Yes, although at the time I said I’d probably never do drabbles again, I am taking the 200/words a day challenge up again. (I think I might only go 25 days this time, instead of 50.) I’ve found that I keep losing post ideas, in my bed or on the street or in the folds of our very squishy couch. I feel a sort of obligation to this space, as though I don’t want to release any of my thoughts until they’re fully formed and ripened. I’m trying to loosen that death-grip, a little bit. It is part of an ongoing project I have to trust myself more.

It seems strange to say that I don’t trust myself, but it’s true that I can see my own weaknesses, and they worry me. One that occurs to me tonight, as I sort over password requests and Fetlife messages, is that I am not an immediately good judge of character. I never have been; it takes me quite some time to solidify my understanding of a person. (This is one reason I like blogging, where I can mine the characters of people from the tunnels of their archives.)

Until my opinion settles, I always give people the benefit of the doubt. This is usually okay. Sometimes it is not. And it worries me. I alternately worry that I trust too much and not enough. I worry that I’m going to get myself hurt over and over. Then, I worry that I worry too much. Then I generally laugh at myself, until I am all right again.

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3. Saturday Night

I’m altering this 50 posts in 50 days plan to accommodate a more flexible word count. I think I’ll post at least 200 words a day. Hmm. Yes.

I went to a ‘nilla party last night, one train stop away. The party itself was quite fun: I curled up in an armchair with a Dita Von Teese book and an awesome chick I’m trying to trick into being my friend. (I think it’s working.) We made creamy chocolate drinks in the blender and talked about dating men, and dating women, and the differences therein.

I timed my trip back to catch the 12:07 train. At the station I met another girl from the party. We chatted, keeping each other company in the light drizzle. When the train pulled up and we got in the door, we found a group of six or seven young men who immediately started talking to us. “Hey ladies,” they hooted, “how’re you tonight? How about you stay here with us?”

We walked to the other end of the car and sat down, still talking. When my stop came a couple of minutes later I turned to her. “Do you want me to stay on the train with you?” I asked, nodding at the group of men.

“No thanks,” she said. “It’s only more one stop, I should be okay.”

As I got off the train one of the men was hanging from the open door. “Hey girlie, hey, you fucking slag,” he yelled. “Does your friend like to suck dick?”

As I walked up the stairs I looked back at the train windows. One of the men was walking toward her seat. The train slid under the tunnel and out of sight.

I wish I had stayed on the train, and just taken a cab home from her stop. I wish I knew her last name. I wish I had her number. I wish I knew what had happened.

I hope she’s all right.

When Does It Get Better?

Last night I drove up the West Side Highway with Rona. Technically she drove, I fluttered from a late night adrenaline attack, and we talked, loud and long. I said something then that stuck with me:

How can my life be simultaneously so fucking easy and so fucking hard?

I have a family I love, who loves me. I am overwhelmingly grateful. And yet, thinking of my travel plans for the holiday makes me feel ill.

My discussion with my family member broached a topic that I have not yet touched upon. A large, I might even say central topic. A topic with soft skin and red hair.

Yes, of course. Mixed up in this whole damn mess is the boy I love.

There was a question broached, some months ago, about whether May would accompany me to my family’s for a portion of this holiday season. I broached this question, I believe, in early September. I understand now why I never got a straight answer.

I was told at the time to make my own decision. This infuriated me; I felt it entirely unfair to be asked to make decisions about other people’s homes and lives, in a potentially explosive situation, with absolutely no input from the people involved.

Last Sunday, in the afternoon before May and I talked, I called my family member’s home. After some brief, friendly conversation I asked the question.

“Should he come up with me? It’s okay if he shouldn’t,” I added quickly. “I just want to know what you think, and if he shouldn’t then I’ll just go home to New York a little earlier, so I can spend the holidays with both of you.”

I felt as though my heart was choking me, asking this question. I thought of the email, that stupid joke that made me laugh. I thought Maybe it’s really all right.

“I know you said it’s my decision, but I really think it’s unfair to ask me to make that decision. I would appreciate some guidance.” I closed my eyes.

They paused on the other end of the line. “I guess you should go back to New York, then.”

“Okay,” I said. “I will. Thank you. That helps. That’s all I wanted to know.”

When I hung up the phone I pressed my hand to my forehead for a second. Silly girl, you knew better. Nothing has actually changed.

It didn’t actually hit me until I was sitting on the subway platform. Suddenly I curled up in a ball and started crying, leaning over the hard bench. May made a distressed noise and rubbed my back.

“I’ll be right back,” he said. He walked to the booth a few feet down the platform, bought something, and came back. It was a fashion magazine; one of my silly guilty pleasures. He smiled as he handed it to me.

“Here,” he said. “A distraction.”

I smiled, then laughed slowly. I thanked him, kissed him.

You stupid shit, I thought to myself as I flipped through the pages. It was far too soon to ask that question.

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When “No” Is Not A Safeword

I wasn’t going to write this post yet. I wasn’t going to write it ever, actually. You know. The post about having rape fantasies.

I read a post by Calico this morning that is full of righteous anger. If you’re taking recommendations for reading material today, put this one on your list.

I have seen that righteous anger before, wrapped up around a subject so touchy that even skirting its boundaries causes flares in the firestorm. I had thought to not write about my fantasies and rape play scenes, out of what I thought was respect but I realize now is simply my dislike of confrontation. I commented to May recently that I am simply not controversial enough to make for riveting reading material.

So this is not quite the post about having rape fantasies. This is the post about why I’m going to talk about having them.

It is argued that involving rape in our fantasy life or acting out mock parodies of it in our bed trivializes the tragedy. It is said that my fantasy is disrespectful, and I should shut the hell up.

This argument is based on rage and pain, and it is false.

Saying that having or acting out rape fantasies trivializes the crime of rape assumes many wrong things:

It assumes that everyone involved, the fantasizer, the arguer, and the audience, is incapable or unwilling to distinguish fantasy from reality. It furthers the misconception that thought is deed.

Thought is neither intent, nor deed. Think about the myriad logical problems of equating thought and deed; if thought were deed we’d all be dead. Pulverized. Space dust.

This distinction needs to be made. Not just in BDSM; everywhere, to everyone. Teach a child that having a fantasy does not mean they’ve consented to the reality, and maybe that child will grow up able to recognize rape.

It also, in a related point, assumes that the fantasizer doesn’t understand or respect what rape is.

I have never been raped. In a world where the right to speak out is gained through suffering, I have no right to speak. But I understand what rape is.

Rape: a girl sitting in the vinyl booth of a restaurant explained to me with a smile on her face that she’s sexually frigid because she was abused by a family friend when she was a toddler.

Rape: a young woman crying on my shoulder, telling me the story of her date the night before. He fingered her, she said no, but she was too drunk to stop him.

Rape: a lover who wouldn’t let me feel his anus with my fingertip, because he was gang raped as a teenager and the reconstructive surgery left scars he thinks are ugly.

Rape is not what I do in my bedroom on Saturday nights.

I have spent hours discussing what consent is. I have an awareness of the concept of consent that is not echoed in the public consciousness. The existence and purpose of safewords, the very first thing any good BDSM educator teaches, crystalizes the concept of consent into a recognizable, vocalized issue.

Why don’t we teach all children and adults what safewords mean? We ignore the issue of consent, assuming that our children will grow up knowing their own rights and the rights of others. We assume that “no” is a safeword, when almost any kinky person will tell you that you cannot assume your safewords.

We ignore or eliminate everything about sex and expect people to just figure it out. Tab A into Slot B, how hard can it be, really?

I am consistently amazed that BDSM organizations do not teach sex education. Perhaps the argument is that we’re not the right place to be teaching about sex, as a specialized culture with specialized skills. There are other venues for sex education. Where? I have to ask. Where are those other venues? How many kinky folks can swing a flogger, but don’t know how to use a dental dam? How many kinky people get regular STD tests?

How do we close that gap, the space between what we can teach about sex and what we can learn about it? There’s knowledge to be had on both sides.

As long as we don’t talk the gap is only going to get bigger.

The reality is that saying we shouldn’t talk about the place rape has in our fantasies and in our lives is a dangerous, damaging fallacy. Calling an issue off limits is ineffective. You cannot stop people from thinking. Saying we shouldn’t talk about rape fantasies is the same as saying we shouldn’t teach teenagers about sex. It’s abstinence only education for the mind, and it does not work.

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Ally

The third word is ally.

Three months ago I did not know who Kate Bornstein was. Despite what I write here about gender, power, culture, and the like, I have no academic background (or self-educational background) in sociology or gender theory.

So I didn’t know the woman I met at Pleasure Salon all those weeks ago, the woman I bugged for a class description and biography, was famous. But I read her class description when it came, and then people started mentioning her name with that little hitch of awe, and then I started getting excited. And then I realized she was a writer, and that everyone I knew seemed to know her name, and I grew into an awareness of how much I wanted to see her speak. And of how silly I was being, and how awkward I felt, because let’s face it, even if you meet me for the first time and think I’m charming, outgoing, or sweet, the reality is I’m awkward as hell, I dread meeting new people, and I’m simply a very, very good actor.

So when I started plotting my Sunday morning around her class, my thoughts swung between It’ll be crowded and I probably won’t even get to say hello and Christ, woman. You’re going to make a fool of yourself.

And I did make a fool of myself. But of course, it was all right.

I’ve written before about how we, as scene member or simply fellow humans, form tight-knit groups, often around common interests or experience. The groups I frequent are more often than not characterized by being deliberately academic and/or consciously fluid. And such is Kate.

So when I sat down in her class, Survival Tips For Sex and Gender Outlaws, I did not know what to expect. The class was small, ten, maybe twelve of us who’d gotten out of bed early and made it to that space. She got out a big pad of white paper and began drawing Venn diagrams. The intersection of identity, desire, and power.

She talked about oppression and “isms” and politics. She has this remarkable gift of performance; she’s brilliant, and her words resonate. It’s a shock to hear someone say out loud the ideas you haven’t learned to articulate. I won’t regurgitate her research here; go read her books if you’re interested. It’s great stuff.

Then, as the group began to open up, to share experiences and talk, the conversation shifted. She talked about suicide. Her book is subtitled “101 Alternatives To Suicide,” and she talked about compiling that list, throwing in everything she could think of that would encourage people to stay alive. Illegal things, stupid things. The camaraderie in the room built up, threaded through the conversation.

We understand. We went through this. We’re with you, Kate. We struggled too.

And very, very quietly, I started to cry.

I didn’t have that experience. I’m sorry, but if you’re expecting me to eventually, after I’ve been writing here for a while, come out and talk about all the horrible trauma of my childhood years with maybe something touching and dramatic thrown in about kitchen knives or pills, you will be disappointed. Once, in the very young stages of our relationship, May turned to me and said “You’re the only emotionally smart person I know who’s actually healthy.”

I did not have an abusive childhood. I did not overcome a disease. I did not question my gender. I did not have a struggle which forced me to think. I did not attempt to reject my identity. I did not have a difficult time coming out. I had a difficult time growing up, but really, I was, and am, lucky. Overwhelmingly lucky.

And then sometimes, maybe a handful of times, people have seen me hugging May and sneered. God, I hate straight people. Or closed me out with their shoulders when I walk around in makeup and trendy clothes. I can’t stand these vanilla tourists. I can walk down the street and not get a second glance; I can work a corporate job, and get into bars on weekends. I can find partners, and be loved, and have orgasms and sex.

Apparently my luck shines through, and it makes my life look easy.

So this feeling, of having no right in a world where right is gained through suffering, this is a feeling I know very well.

Familiar as I am with being a crazy overthinking crazy person, eventually I calmed myself down. I did some breathing techniques. She continued to speak, drawing on our sense of community and mutual support. Of being allies. And I figured that she, if anyone, could handle this question. So I raised my hand.

“Could you give some ideas on-” and then I started crying again. The minute I open my mouth every time, damnit. Only this time I was really crying. May put his arms around me, Blaise reached back and hugged my knee with his hand. I held up my fingers and took a deep breath while everyone watched me. I laughed and cried at the same time; laughing because I felt so silly and crying because the words were hard.

I got it out eventually. “Could you give some ideas about supporting or being part of a fluid community when you identify with one pole of that community?” And I thought to myself, Well, fuck, that made no sense at all.

Except I watched her process the words, and I watched her understand. “Ohhh,” she said, drawing air in through rounded lips. May hugged me harder.

If you ever meet Kate, you will notice that she has amazing eyes. They are warm; they can make you feel toasty with just a glance. She fixed those amazing eyes on mine. “You have every right to this community, honey. This is your space too.” Other people murmured around me. I gave up on trying not to cry.

After the class was over, my friends started turning around to hug me. “I was getting teary too,” May said in my ear. “So were we!” cried Jen, her arm around Tyler’s waist. Blaise just grinned.

Natasha and Barbara came up and hugged me. Then Kate was kneeling by my chair.

She pulled me in me tight and spoke into my ear. “You are fluid, you know. You tell anyone who gives you shit that Kate Bornstein will come and beat them up. You tell them I said that.” I started laughing helplessly. She gives good hugs.

When the doors to the classroom opened and the rest of the convention started mixing back in, I walked with ragged steps. Tyler, Jen, May and I made a little cluster just outside the door. I had finally stopped sniffling.

Tyler had her big smile on. “I feel like we all just had an emotional orgasm,” she said.

I threw my head back. “Ha! Yes!”

And running through my head, over and over, was the word ally. That’s what I felt like. That’s what I am.

One thing Kate said during the class is still with me clearly, although much of the class itself has sunk in the haze of that emotional orgasm. She gestured at the room, the twelve of us up close in plastic chairs. “In here, this is my family.” She raised her hands to indicate the rest of the convention center, the 700-odd people running through that kinky space. “Out there, that’s my tribe.”