Monday, November 30, 2009

Cuddle paradox.

On the one hand, I wish there was more nonsexual touch in my life. I wish my friends and I hugged more and that when we shared a sofa there wasn't an Invisible Line of Doom between everyone's personal bubble. I wish there were people who, whether they fucked me or not, would sometimes just cuddle.

On the other hand, I know that self-control has certain limits, and not only would some jackass go and ruin it by getting all humpy and creepy, that jackass would be me.

(I have multiple experiences getting in bed with guys with a stated intention to just cuddle, and in every case things got unintentionally way too sexual, and in every case it was mostly my doing.)

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Accepting pain.

I love pain, but I can be kind of a finicky masochist, because I also hate pain. That is, it turns me on, but it hurts like a motherfucker. And unless I'm very turned on--as in, getting pretty close to coming--it doesn't really cancel out. Getting to the pleasure means either toughing it out, or having a top who understands and is comfortable with the idea that "ow" isn't a safeword. I'm a masochist... but I'm a masochist who has to push herself. I'm okay with that.

So it deeply weirds me out to see someone who doesn't have this same conflict. I was playing with a guy and every time I hurt him he just smiled and got harder. There was no tension in his muscles, no gritted teeth in his smile. He really just liked it. Not "I hate it but I love it" like me--straight up.

It was weird. And amazing. And in a way almost scary because I didn't know how far I could go. I was doing things to his cock that made me wince and he just grinned and urged me on. There was no pain in his pleasure. It was like magic.

I don't know if I'm jealous. I kinda take pride in my ow-mmm-ow brand of masochism, or at least I'm used to it. But I'm awed.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

The Boner Line.

There's a lot of bemoaning the inability of media to include sex without being all weird about it. Books, movies, and TV shows tend to fade to black or to tasteful montage even if it completely clashes with the style. Video games have to be even more circumspect, and even mentioning that sex exists in a game is pretty much a guarantee of scandal or disreputability. For the most part, a creative work is either erotica or totally non-erotic, and there's little integration.

Some of this is societal hangups, there's no question. And some of it is justifiable; a lot of the time, we don't really want to know exactly what fictional characters do in bed, not down to specific body fluids and muscular contractions. But I think some of it is also due to the Boner Line.

Because, I don't know about everyone, but I don't really watch or read porn. I use it. I don't just sit there thinking "yep, that's some sex there all right," I get physically aroused by it and I masturbate. Consequently, about five to ten minutes in I'm not going to want to find out about how the characters' relationship has changed or where their adventures take them next; I'm going to lose all interest and probably want a nap. Or if I'm looking at porn somewhere I can't masturbate, I'm going to feel very awkward about my arousal or have to devote a lot of attention to suppressing it.

There are few questions more awkward than "Should I be masturbating to this?", when I'm watching or reading a work of fiction. It's a significant gearshift. An action scene may feel different than a comic banter scene, but at least neither one physically takes me out of the story.

So I don't think it's sex-negative or buckling under to Moral Guardians to leave sex out of art--while it may be wrong to tap-dance around the very existence of sexuality, if you try to present sex as matter-of-factly as you'd present an intense conversation, you run into the Boner Line. If you don't want to badly distract your audience, you have to do a little tap-dancing. Sex and non-sex can never completely be integrated in art, not while audiences are susceptible to boners.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009


Not dead, just got Fallout 3. Can't talk. Raiders. AUGH THERE'S ONE BEHIND ME AUUUGH BOOM HEADSHOT what was I saying?


Anyway... I'm always sort of weirded out by the social norm of people hating their exes. I can understand if they were abusive or if the breakup was over a really major betrayal, but it seems like I see a lot of people (especially women?) calling their ex a rat bastard kind of just for being their ex. Which bothers me. I still like most of my exes, either as friends or at least as someone who represents a lot of good memories for me. The entire relationship isn't invalidated just because of how it ended.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Short thoughts.

Is it just me, or does it seem like (with the exception of grocery and clothing stores) you see a lot more men than women alone in public? Seems like on the sidewalk, in restaurants, at movies, in parks women are usually with partners or groups, and more men go around by themselves.


Vagina Mints! Probably not a good idea. Plus, even if it wasn't ridiculously unhealthy, the whole idea is missing the point. I like my snozzberries to taste like snozzberries, if you know what I'm saying.


If there is one thing in life I will never understand, it's men online sending/displaying pictures of their penises to strangers and expecting a positive response. If I already like a guy, it can be a thrill to see his penis, but your generic disembodied penis really doesn't do much for me. It's only arousing if there's some sort of context. (Or if it's like whoa.)


I think the idea of consent as The Big Important Concept in sex-positivity is helpful in nonsexual life too. There's a lot of situations where you find yourself "harmlessly" pressuring someone to do something they don't want to--even something innocuous like go out when they're tired or try a food they don't like--and it helps to step back and remember that "I don't want to" is all a competent adult needs to say. You can ask why, you can decide that you don't want to hang out with that person, you can suggest things, but you have no right to demand or pressure a friend into even the most innocent things.


Add "witches" to "sci-fi fans" and "Ren Faire folk" on my list of people who always seem to be kinky and/or poly even though there's no obvious connection. Although really, I'm just describing the same twelve people over and over again.

Getting my night's worth.

There have been times that I haven't gotten further than a kiss that I've gone home with my head swimming with satisfaction and warm fuzzies, and times that I've full-on fucked and stayed the night and gone home feeling nothing but alone.

The real question to puzzle out here, though, is how much of each one is my own fault.

Friday, November 20, 2009

Geek boys.

Geek boys are easy pickings, they appreciate it more, and--not to come off completely evil here--afterwards, we'll actually have things to talk about! And we can watch Firefly.

Everyone's a geek these days, too. I remember being a geek when it was still underground. Back in the day it was actually unusual and unpopular to like computers and sci-fi, now everyone's online and every blockbuster has spaceships. And yet geek boys haven't changed much. I think they actually do get laid more, but they still focus on and appreciate sex in a way that mainstream boys often don't. Geeks don't take sex for granted. I love it.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

Links Time!

LabRat on masculinity.

For as long as I’ve known him, [Stingray] has always acted as though it were a long-since forgone conclusion that his testicles came factory-equipped and were, are, and ever shall be firmly attached to his body, no matter what happens short of a purely literal castration event.

He doesn’t feel the need to check and see if they are still there, or re-bolt them back on later if he is served an egg pie. The presence of homosexual men within his zip code, or even living room, does not cause him to curl into the fetal position and cradle them lest they scamper off over the horizon. He can wash his face with something gentler and more scented than a bar of lava soap and still rest so secure in the assumption that the testosterone-producing apparatus that will still require him to shave it the next morning is still hanging in there that he needn’t even make a few precautionary laps around the block in a pickup. Likewise he seems entirely capable of trying new and different things without needing to look up their gendered implications in a checklist or guide before deciding whether he enjoyed it or not.

I agree completely. I've always thought it was weird when people feel a need to (or urge others to) "prove" their gender. I'm a woman no matter what I do, aren't I? I think the problem is that "woman" and "man" each have two very different definitions:

1. A person who has [female/male] physical characteristics.
2. A person who is [nurturing/tough] and wears [dresses/pants] and likes [ponies!/muscle cars].

A person who fits only one of these definitions creates a weird dissonance in some people. It's not that simple, though, because it's not just overtly masculine women or feminine men who get shit about this--you can be female, be nurturing, wear dresses, and like muscle cars... and certain people will be unable to accept the muscle car thing, or you will feel like you have to suppress it and try to like ponies. As if a dress-wearing vagina-owning person could become disastrously male by that single drop of impurity.

Stingray's no one's girly-man (that's very clear if you read any of his posts...). He's just not a MANLY MAN MAN MAN in everything he does. Rejecting the full package deal that supposedly comes with your gender doesn't mean you're rejecting your gender. Just that you're, y'know, a normal person.

Secondly, even though it's a little embarrassing, I've found Succeed Socially to be surprisingly useful reading. There's a bunch of articles on social skills, pitched at a borderline-Asperger's audience; a lot of it is the guy saying (in more polite words) "other people don't want to hear a four-hour lecture on your model train collection." But a lot of it is really good, thought-through, well-written advice on how to meet and make friends and treat them well.

It's easy for someone like me, who's somewhat awkward but definitely not at the train-collection level of social disaster, to brush this off as something they don't need. Or even to feel a bit humiliated to be looking at it, an admission of dorkness second only to wearing Pull-Ups to bed. But a lot of it has been very helpful for me. I have a lot of bad social habits--"everyone listen to me!"; "I'm only making cruel fun of you because I like you"; "screw it, I'm going back to my cave"--that this site has helped with.

And more than anything, it has a good attitude. The guy's outlook on life is that most people are worth knowing and that the best thing you can do is genuinely like other people. If you're interested in someone and want to spend time with them, you should basically just say so. The site doesn't directly address dating at all, but I'd say it's the best dating-advice site I've ever seen.

If you're wondering why this post is tagged "PUA," that's a hint. (Well, okay, it's really just a cue for Eurosabra--oh lord, I said his name, he's like Candlejack--to appear and explain why he doesn't find this "treating people decently technique" nearly as effective as the Performatively Masculine Half-Neg Strength Word of +2 CHA.)


When I lost my virginity, the movie on in the background was Tron.

Back in the day, Kevin and I almost had to watch a movie to have sex. It was relaxation, it was distraction, and it was almost the only way to make things feel natural. We couldn't just crawl in bed together, that would be like we were having sex on purpose, that's way too intimidating. Instead we had to play the "we'll just lie on the bed to watch a movie and see what happens" game. Usually we didn't get to the opening credits.

(During an awkward reunion several years later, we were watching the Evil Dead trilogy, I started getting all gropey and he uncomfortably told me he didn't want to have sex during a horror movie. With glorious obliviousness, I patiently waited out the first two films, then started arguing that Army of Darkness is really more of an action comedy. See, this is what you get when you make weird excuses instead of just saying you don't want something.)

I still like moviefucking as a way to keep things slow. When you're in bed just to have sex, you tend to cut to the action, and sometimes that's awesome, but it can be hard to pace yourself if you're in a mellower mood. Just lying there groping without getting to the wet bits can be frustrating, even boring--it'll feel like you're drawing things out.. Whereas telling yourselves that you're supposed to just be watching a movie, but if you get a little naughty, no one will know... even as a grownass adult, that's just fun.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Cosmocking: December '09!

White cover! I always like the white covers, they're so much nicer than the ridiculous screaming-neon-colors ones! Fergie! Right after Kim Kardashian, too! Cosmo's really classing it up here! The word "SEX" is in 45-point type, I measured! Fergie is so Photoshopped her neckline appears to be hovering in a totally different plane of reality from her chest!

Also, she is the Joker.

Hm, as long as I've got the scanner out, I think I'm gonna save myself some typing on this one.

This is a common theme in Cosmo "embarrassing stories"--as soon as something goes wrong, no matter how minor, the object of your affection will just fucking vanish. There's no laughing it off and there's not even any words you can say--they just back out in open-mouthed horror like they walked in on you fucking the dog.

I've had guys continue to mack on me after they've watched me vomit (CB, wherever you are, you are a true man's man), so if a little thing like hair extensions takes him from 60 to 0, he has some serious "DOES NOT MEET MAH STANDARDS" issues. It's also pretty harsh to ditch a girl for wearing cosmetics--obviously a girl with no cosmetics isn't appealing to this type, so what the fuck was she supposed to do? I guess she's supposed to create an illusion of natural perfection and seamlessly maintain it.

Meanwhile he's supposed to wash his face and maybe shave.

Gosh, what's in it for me then? Faking arousal for his benefit while I sit there with my pants on sticking my fingers in a jar of grape jelly for the sound effects is something I'd do for $1.99/minute, but it's not something I'd do in a relationship. Partly because, shit, I'll masturbate in front of anyone who won't call the cops about it--but also because being dishonest about something like that would make me feel all hollow and weird. What's the point of having a sexual relationship if it isn't genuinely sexual for both of us?



I'm not sure if this advice is terrible or not, but I do know that it's classy as fuck.

This is so, as Twisty would say, pornulated. And it brings up the "what, am I getting paid?" issue again. If I'm groping my own breasts during sex, it's because they're fucking aching for it and touching them feels so fucking good. Or because he likes seeing me like that, don't you, you naughty boy. But I don't do it to make him think that he's sexy. (Doesn't that imply that he's actually not?)

There's a whole article on the noises men make during sex. The frustrating part is, after every category--the grunter, the moaner, etc., "your move" is how to get him to stop! Why the fuck would I want to do that? It's primal, it's beautiful, and it means he fucking loves it! The article is written as if my partner's ecstasy is some sort of petty annoyance to me.

And they say Cosmo isn't topical.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

First time.

There's nothing quite like the first time you have sex with a new person. There's an element of permission-seeking, of discovery, of tension that will never be there again.

Neither of you knows exactly how far the other is going to go. Oh, it may be damn obvious where you're headed and you may have even said it aloud, but there's still a sense that every touch is a risk. I touched his thigh, and he liked it; dare I go up an inch? Of course I dare, and of course he likes it--now another inch. If I ever fuck him again, I'll know I can go for the goods, and even if I draw it out it won't be the same.

Another silly fear: oh god what if he doesn't have a penis? Or if it's really tiny or weird or something. Of course this is ridiculous, of course he would warn me if he was very physically different, but it's still such a strange sense of relief and joy to clasp your hands around something really nice in his jeans. I love the feeling of a man's cock in his pants, being able to trace the outline but not quite hold it, to make him feel it but not quite stroke him.

Not just the cock. Every inch of his body is a discovery. Where he has hair, where he has muscles, where he's soft and where he's rough are all new and wonderful. Are his nipples sensitive? How does his skin respond here, and here, and here... ah. Finding the right spots to draw those little gasps out of him is a journey that will never be the same again.

First-time foreplay is longer and more amazing than any other kind, which makes it a bit of a letdown that first-time intercourse usually sucks. No two bodies fit together in quite the same way, and an "ow," "oops," or "sorry" is nearly guaranteed. But when it works, even fleetingly, it's just that much more rewarding.

I like coming, but that's nothing new; I know what it's like when I come, fireworks, screaming, clutching, quivering, whole skin on fire, post-ictal phase, yadda yadda. His orgasm is all new to me. Some men scream and moan; some close up their face and body and just grunt; some look almost unmoved; some throw themselves completely into the motion and just rock with me. However he comes, it's animal and beautiful.

Fucking a new guy is like listening to a new band; the instruments are all the same and they may be played much the same ways, but the sound is fresh. Even if it's not good, the sheer newness of it is something the best band in the world can't replace. Can't listen to a different band every night, of course; most of them suck and it's good to be a steady fan when you find someone really talented. But there's just nothing like new.

Spam bleg.

Does anyone know why I'm getting constant spam on just one post?

It's kind of a vitriolic one, so I'm concerned that somehow someone deliberately directed a spambot at me. Although maybe it's just random.

It keeps trying to sell me medication, but not the cool meds like oxycodone or Viagra, just stuff like lisonipril and lansoprazole (isn't that OTC anyway?) and acyclovir. Either our healthcare system is in such sad shape that people are treating their hypertension and shingles with gray-market Chinese meds (actually this sounds plausible), or spambot doesn't know what the fuck.

Anyway, if anyone knows how to close comments or ban anonymous commenting on just one post on Blogger, I'd appreciate advice.

EDIT: Thanks to Sevesteen for Showing Me The Way.


I used to be a lot more... specific... in this blog, didn't I? Used to go through practically every time I had sex in detail. I don't do that as much anymore. There's a few reasons.

First, a lot of people I know read this blog these days. This creates potential awkwardness, from "you wrote about me?" to "you did him?" to "oh God, you were doing that just last night?" Not that I have any really terrible secrets--just a lot of small weirdnesses. This blog has, for good and ill, gone from being My Secret Garden to being practically my social hub, and that affects exactly how much I can talk about my orifices and where they've been.

Secondly, it feels like trodden ground. Every sex act is a unique and transcendent pearl of experience, but it can be hard to convey that in writing after a while. There's only so many ways I can say "yeah, I blew a dude and then he screwed me doggy, it was awesome" before I start repeating myself and sounding jaded.

Third, I don't think a simple accounting of events is valuable, either erotically or intellectually. And if I write about every time I have sex, I'm going to slip into just saying what went where, and lose sight of how it felt or what it meant. Generalizing my experiences sometimes helps me to focus what I want to say about them.

Fourth, shit, I can't be updating this thing twelve times a day.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Historical reenactment.

The Beatles' White Album was on, disco lights were playing off the walls, and I was sitting on a beanbag chair, my clothes sort of pulled out of the way but not entirely off, making out with a guy I'd met a couple hours before.

"Wow," I told him, "this is exactly what I picture the entire Sixties being like."

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Speaking of experimenting...

Also, I can fit four fingers in my butt.

It's weird how quickly an act can go from being something I've only heard of, something that's only in the really extreme and nasty porn, to being part of my own life and as natural as a kiss on the cheek. I'm capable of so much (and I don't just mean physically) more than I ever expected and it's very exciting.

It's also increasingly weird seeing anti-porn advocates cite sex acts that are so horrible they're meant to essentially serve as proof that no woman would freely consent to such things, and realizing that, shit, I do that stuff for fun.

Midday on the sixth day.

I was at church the other Sunday (what can I say, I'm an inveterate experimenter; also, it was a UU church and I don't think you can lose your Jew card for that) and the part of the sermon that grabbed me was about creation. "I was looking out at the mountains, thinking about how I would've liked to be around for the creation of this beautiful landscape... and then I realized I was. The mountains were crumbling in front of me and becoming new mountains, beautiful ones."

In other words, every end is a beginning. The world wasn't created and left to decay; it's still being created. It's probably too naïve to try and claim that it's all equally beautiful, that a burn scar is as beautiful as a forest or a cloud of dust as beautiful as a solar system. But though entropy may win out in the very long term, on a scale as small as my life there is no necessary downward trend.

I have a bad habit of holding on to the past. I want to sleep in the bed I slept in as a child and watch Sesame Street again even though I already know how to count. I want to keep friends forever and have them stay the same forever. I want to have all my old boyfriends back. Maybe take them back to the places where we had really good sex, so we could have that same sex again. I'm twenty-four years old and I'm already obsessed with reclaiming what's gone--heedless of what might be coming.

It can never be the same. The wind has blown, the dust has shuffled, my old life is never coming back. My life as of last week is never coming back. I've known this for a long time, but what I'm only just learning is that "you can't go home again" isn't just true; it's good! Because I have a new home, and the more time I spend pouting around my old stomping grounds, the less I have for living in my life now. Is this the best life I've ever had? That's an utterly academic question. It's the best life I have now and it doesn't suck.

Not that everything old must be thrown away. If an old friend is still my friend, or a friend from the past comes back, thank God for that! But thank God for the friend, not for the oldness.

So yeah, I should probably go on new dates more often.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

The Mile High Ladies' Auxiliary.

So, um... does it still count as the Mile High Club if you only have sex with yourself?


(Warning: annoying porny image host because the non-porny ones keep ganking me. Sorry about the ads.)

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Out of town.

I'm going to Boston tonight and getting back next Tuesday night. Updates will be sporadic (and agonizingly pecked out on a handheld) until then.

Oh, and I'll be 24 when I come back! (As of Sunday.) Very exciting! And sort of horrifying. I worry that might be the cutoff age for excusing all your activities with "I'm just a kid," and at the stroke of midnight I'll develop an irresistible urge to take out a mortgage and eat broccoli, or whatever the hell grownups do.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Lifestyle choice.

Man, not only did I not choose to be attracted to both men and women, I don't even get to choose which ones.

Management has the right to refuse service.

So I was talking to a guy at a kink event about the awkward little dance of kinky pick-ups, and I mentioned that it's extra awkward when you get approached by someone you just know you're not going to play with.

He recoiled like I'd said something horribly racist. "How can you possibly just know that?" And I was too afraid of looking like a bitch to say "well, some of the dudes here are really ugly and are exuding very loud 'hello I am a weirdo' vibes." Because that would be discriminating. (Incidentally, my standard of "ugly" is neither fat nor old--I like big dudes and some guys definitely hit their 50s still going strong. But some people are ugly to me and I know it when I see it.)

I don't think being ugly or even weird is cause to treat a person badly. But refusing to play with or fuck someone isn't an abuse. I'm not an equal opportunity employer, and I don't think I have any ethical obligation to be. I think there's also an implication that since play isn't sex, it shouldn't matter if you're attracted to someone--but c'mon now, this isn't doubles tennis, it's a fetish and even if I leave my panties on I'd still like them to get a bit wet. And tragically, physical appearance and presentation are important fuel for my panty-wetting mechanisms.

Kink communities that are so devoted to "acceptance" that no one stands up to creeps have been a pet peeve of mine for a while. But when you start telling me that I should be "accepting" with my body... fuck that.


R-71 passes. (By a narrow margin with not all votes entered, so I shouldn't count my chickens, but oh my how many chickens I have!) Washington can continue to have gay not-marriage, and The Children will just have to cope somehow.

Yay. I'll commence fornicating in the streets immediately.

Okay, "continue."

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Radio Ad.

Someone is putting way too much money into opposing R-71 (domestic partnerships), and I really wonder what they possibly have to gain by it. "Ewwww, queers" is one thing, but who has thousands of dollars to spend on that sentiment?

Anyway, here's the radio ad that just drove me insane:

*kindergarten class noises*
TEACHER: Okay, kids, put away your instruments. Music time is over and now we're going to hear a story. This is a very special story. Instead of a mommy and a daddy, this story has two daddies.
KIDS: *Gaaaaasp.*

And then the ad just sort of ends and a narrator says "Vote against R-71."

What's supposed to be the problem here? Does it somehow go without saying that this would be a terrible thing? These ads are apparently targeted at people who think "well, if they want to get married that's one thing, but telling kids about it, that's crossing the line." I guess the idea is that being gay is explicitly sexual, and somehow there's no way to say that Billy loves Robbie without bringing buttsex into it? That's my best guess here. Either that or being gay is really shameful and harmful, like being an alcoholic, it's the sort of thing that happens and you don't hate alcoholics, but kids shouldn't be told it's normal to drink Thunderbird at 9 AM.

Shit, there might be a kid in that class who has two daddies. He better not tell anyone, that would be totally inappropriate.

Monday, November 2, 2009

It's rude to say "Well, DUH."

Man, leaving Benny was about the best thing I ever did for myself.

Not just because of the little abuse incident, but because it shook me out of "meh, I have a play partner, sort of" complacency and kicked me back into the kinky world and all its wonders and annoyances. And because it stopped me buying into his ideas that casual sex is always lesser, that if you don't love someone you're supposed to kind of hate them. And because it stopped me thinking that his big dumb ass was the best I could do.

Sure, I don't have a regular Friday-night fuck anymore. What I have instead is freedom. Sometimes it's better to risk sleeping alone than to settle.

Gateway Drug.

My gateway drug was The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I watched it for the first time when I was maybe 13, at home in the middle of the day on a VCR, but with friends there who knew the callback lines. Pretty soon after that we went to see it live and I played the "virgin games," deep-kissing a girl I didn't know and moaning out a fake orgasm in front of a packed theater. Before I was 18 I was on a shadow cast (backup Tranny, whoo) and drunkenly took my clothes off mid-performance and promptly lost them altogether, walking home in sub-freezing temperatures in my underwear. (I'm still not embarrassed of that. I was free dammit.)

Rocky is a terrible movie, but for me it represented a wonderful world. Inside and outside the frame, Rocky is all about fluidity and openness of sex and gender, a polymorphous perversity that says you can play with these things. Men are sexy in garters and the flamboyantly gay and flamboyantly straight can fuck side-by-side and with each other and let's all of us roll around in a pool together for the sake of nothing but pleasure. Sex doesn't have to be defined and controlled, you can be amorphous and promiscuous and that's wonderful. Swim the warm waters of sins of the flesh. Don't dream it, be it.

(Of course this is naïve, and it's true that Rocky--and unfortunately a lot of our cast--didn't give full thought to safety and consent issues. We don't live in a world where everyone can literally roll around with everyone and have it be fine. But it's a beautiful ideal. Just recognizing that ideal existed as opposed to the "meet a nice boy, settle down, do it to seal your love" ideal was a watershed moment for me at 13.)

Even the callback lines, as silly as they were, were part of the personal evolution that led to this blog. Those words you're not supposed to even say? At Rocky you can scream them.

Rocky is also a great way for a geeky young girl to meet kinky people and learn that such things exist outside porn--and that for all the black leather, most of them are surprisingly nice and laid-back about it. That lady with a flogger on her belt isn't a "dominatrix," she's a person and you can go talk to her. Ditto that man in a dress and that girl with a collar and leash on. You might have more than you'd ever expect in common with them. You might realize there's nothing stopping you from being one of them.

And Rocky is a great movie for doing really dirty things in the back aisles and up behind the screen. I'm just saying.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

all i really want

Sometimes I'm embarrassed how little it takes to make me happy. I think I'm supposed to want to change the world somehow, to discover or create something new, to have a big house and a perfect family.

But all it takes is the touch of skin on skin to make me want nothing at all.