Fleur de Renaissance

Sex Toy Review: Bubblies the Pop

2012-02-14T21:04:00.000-06:00

It's Valentine's Day! So, naturally, I'm reviewing a sex toy. What else would I want to do today?

I'm actually not a huge fan of Valentine's -- It's a bit overplayed for me, and I believe love should be given and shared every day of the year. How radical, hm? But I won't lie -- I'll take an excuse to get dressed up and party for any holiday. I'm heading out to a V-day themed drag show in a few hours with many of my friends, and I'm sure we'll be tearing up the dance floor. Whether you're spending today with family and friends, with a lover, or by yourself, I hope you have a wonderful day. I'm sending you all my love.

If you're home alone, then get online a check out some vibrators.... because self-love is fantastic. :) Give yourself the gift of love for Valentine's Day!

This month I'm reviewing a very unique little vibrator from EdenFantasys sex toys, Bubblies the Pop. I received this toy for free in exchange for an honest, independent review of the product. Bubblies fits in the palm of my hand; it's a great travel vibrator because it's small and easily disguised. The picture below is almost the size of the actual vibrator. I held it up to the screen, and it's only about a half inch taller and a bit wider than the one in the photo.

Bubblies is extremely low maintenance; you can hide it anywhere and even take it in the shower. If you live in cramped quarters with someone, this would might be a fun option. It is pretty quiet, and it requires only one AAA battery. Like most (all?) of the toys I've chosen to review, it's phthalate-free and rates pretty highly on the safety scale. Please wash all toys after use, and don't share a toy with a partner without putting a glove or condom over it. I realize this is a bit small to comfortably stick a condom on, but safety is always smart.

The trade-off for such a small, discrete toy is that it doesn't have the power of something larger. I didn't expect one AAA battery to wow me, and it didn't. Bubblies did get me off, but it took a lot more work than I'm used to. I know, I know, I'm spoiled. Rotten. I wouldn't recommend Bubblies for an everyday vibrator, or even for someone starting out. Personally, I think a first vibrator should offer a range of power, so you can figure out if you need something stronger or softer. But if you need something to travel with, whether to pack in an overnight bag for a lover's house or for a trip across the country, this is a great option. (Do take the battery out first, so it doesn't accidentally turn on and send a TSA agent through the roof.)

Bubblies is designed as a clitoral vibrator. The round end is a turn-dial, and the longer end has the actual vibrator inside. It might work for some gentle anal stimulation, nipple stimulation, or for rubbing against the head of the penis. It's not really good for insertion, unless you want to slide it in for really shallow anal sex. The bubble at the end should stop the toy from going all the way in, which is ideal for anal sex. (Please, please, please don't stick it all the way in. You'll be on the way to make friends with the ER staff at your local hospital.)

Happy Valentines' Day!

Show Him What I've Got

2012-01-31T18:40:00.002-06:00

(photo credit unknown, posted by Sex in the Suburbs, a sex ed group in Washington that appears to be part of the excellent Our Whole Lives - OWL - sex education program from the Unitarian Universalist Church.)

I love this. It's simple, very to-the-point, and shows the basic differences between gender identity, gender expression, and biological sex. I spend a lot of time explaining the difference between gender identity, biological sex, and sexual orientation. But sadly, gender expression often gets left out. Seeing this chart struck something in me. Leaving out gender expression leaves out... me. This chart shows how someone can be both feminine presenting and genderqueer. That's huge. It also reminds people that someone's gender expression and gender identity have NOTHING to do with their sexual orientation. We conflate gender and sexual attraction so often in our society. I can't tell you how many of my trans friends have to explain that they are trans, not necessarily gay. Of course, queer doesn't fit into one of these sweet, clear, non-messy charts. But that's ok. I'm glad it doesn't.

I will add, I saw a diagram of gender once that that was a octagon. I love that it made me really think. Does a spectrum have to be linear and one-dimensional? I don't think so.

On an unrelated note, someone sent me another blog from OkTrends, the brainchild of the people who created OkCupid. They use their massive database of self-reported quantitative data and run trends and statistical analyses. (I'm so jealous. I'm also such a nerd.) Anyway, the blog I read is on Gay Sex vs. Straight Sex. I learned SO much. Using a sample of 3.2 million OkCupid users (n=3.2million), here is some of the information they found:

Median Reported Sex Partners

straight men: 6
gay men: 6
straight women: 6
gay women: 6

(Credit: OkTrends)

26% of self-identified straight women had sex with someone of the same sex and enjoyed themselves

7% of self-identified straight women had sex with someone of the same sex and enjoyed themselves

Another 18% of self-identified straight women haven't had sex with someone of the same sex,

but would like to

7% of self-identified straight men had sex with someone of the same sex and enjoyed themselves

6% of self-identified straight men had sex with someone of the same sex and enjoyed themselves

5% haven't, but would like to

Then they broke down who is "gay curious" by state. I wish someone would run an analysis to determine if this correlates with how people in those states vote, and another correlation with the number of LGBTQ-supportive laws in those states. Really, if you sat me down, I'd run all sorts of fun, fancy, ridiculous cross tabulations. (Why didn't they use this as data set examples in stats class? More fun that how many snowcones each kid bought.)

The personality traits are fun. The gay mens' traits versus straight mens' traits read like a stereotype. The gay womens' is FASCINATING. I'm not even going to try to analyze this. Go for it, if you're that crazy.

(Though when will OkCupid add additional options for gender that aren't on the binary? Please!)

(Credit: OkTrends)

Sex Toy Review: Rock Star Janis

2011-12-22T20:45:00.000-06:00

Eden Fantasys sex toys provided the Rock Star Janis vibrator to me for free, in exchange for an unbiased review.

I started off pretty skeptical about the Janis. As I've explained before, I find battery-operated toys to be a bit annoying. They're great for travel, yes. But around my house? Batteries are expensive, need to be constantly changed, and produce a lot of environmentally unfriendly waste. Plus, when the batteries run down, damn, the vibrations get weak. So I grumbled and groaned my way to the store to get the two AAA batteries required for this toy.

Also, I have this mental block that battery-operated vibrators just don't have the same power.

Was I wrong? Yes.

The Janis packs a punch. It gives my Hitachi wand (on the lower setting) a run for its money. That says something. The vibrations are solely concentrated in the rounded tip (further from the silver band), so it works fantastically well for clitoral stimulation. Personally, I get off much easier from clitoral stimulation; I can give or take g-spot stimulation, depending on my mood. But the shape of this toy is perfect for g-spot stimulation. It's not designed to go deep; if you're looking for that sensation, try a much longer toy with a bit more girth. It's designed to get shallow and dirty, to put pressure right into the urethral sponge. If the g-spot exists, which is pretty hotly debated, this is where it is. If you're interesting in squirting (female ejaculation), using a toy like, once you are already very aroused, this can be a great entryway into squirting. But don't expect it to do all the work :) It's an aid, not an easy way out.

A review on the sale page says this vibrator is "a little too loud for everyday use." I'm going to beg to differ. I didn't find the sound to be a problem. It's not extremely quiet, but manageable.

I love the shape of the Janis. It feels great in my hand, it's light, and it's a fantastic almost velvet texture. The center silver band unscrews to insert the batteries, and the bottom of the "ball" base is a dial for adjusting the strength of the vibrations. I definitely prefer the dial to the switches; it's easier to fine-tune your power. The Janis is made of silicone, which is non-porous and phlalate-free, making it a very safe toy. I'd recommend using a condom on it for partner play, just in case. You definitely can't boil this vibrator, so using a condom is the absolute safest you can make this toy.

The packaging is a clear box with Ed Hardy-like designs. I don't know who dreams up this stuff, but damn, the marketing for sex toys can be a bit ridiculous. I'm not sure I would have grabbed it if I saw it on a wall.

Moral of the story: 4 out of 5 stars. If you want a battery-operated clitoral or g-spot vibrator that isn't going to break the bank, go for the Janis. It might become my favorite travel vibe.

On a side note, I was talking to a heterosexual, cisgender male at a party the other night, who was complaining that his girlfriend has trouble getting off during penis-in-vagina intercourse. She needs clitoral stimulation, and she isn't getting it, clearly. In addition to a vibrating cock ring, I would suggest trying the Janis. Holding a bullet in place when you're fucking is a pain; they slip and slide. But this has just enough of a handle, it might work well. I told him that one of my favorite solutions to this problem is doggie style. It's a great position for g-spot stimulation and deep penetration, and she (in this case, anyway) can hold the vibrator to her clitorus for that extra stimulation. Brings me to my knees every time, no pun intended.

Holigays

2011-12-18T23:47:00.001-06:00

I feel like I've been on a fucking mind-blowing streak since I came back from San Francisco. All I do is win. I'm waiting for the fall out, for the other shoe to drop, but I'm totally ok with the fact that it hasn't yet.

My fantasy football team did a 180 and ended a long losing streak to make through TWO rounds of playoffs. I'm going to the fantasy Super Bowl for my league this weekend!

Doors opened for me to both of my career dreams. Even though they are both vague possibilities and include take many, many baby steps, I still have a sense of hope I didn't before.

I'm realizing I prefer to go by masculine pronouns and a masculinized name (which was given to me by a friend on accident). This isn't possible at work, and the vast majority of people will continue to call me by my birthname. But when my friends call me by my masculinized name, I get this jolt of excitement. I don't know how else to describe it. I've started using that name to introduce myself, though only in queer settings. It's scary. But I'm taking little steps, and trying to enjoy the moments when I'm not holding back.

I used some of the money I had saved up from advertising revenue on this blog to buy a new harness, a cock I've been wanting, and a packer. I created this blog for my own sexual exploration and renaissance, so it seems appropriate that it is helping me achieve that -- and explore gender -- in very concrete ways.

I had an amazing tarot card reading with a friend from the Boxes workshop via Skype. It was... illuminating. A lot of what we discussed and felt is the need for more purposeful exploration in my life. I need to break down some boundaries, push myself into places that scare me, and take the time to process -- or sometimes, just to do. I'm setting that as a goal for 2012 -- self-awareness. The reading helped me collect my thoughts and feel more focused about heading into a new year and closing out this one.

The Saints are doing fantastically well this year. Playoffs, here we come! LSU is going for a National Championship, too, so you can imagine what football season in New Orleans has been like.

My school semester ended very well. Looking forward to one last semester of classes before my thesis; I'm so over giving up my nights and feeling exhausted constantly.

I started a new "tradition" with a friend. It's a bit of a story, but the end result is this: each Christmas, we'll buy each other some slightly bizarre or unusual sex toy. In return, I expect her to write a review for this blog. I received the famous (infamous?) bacon lube, and you can find out about hers when I post the review :) I'll review the bacon lube, too, if you're curious. Choosing her gift was probably the most fun I had this year buying presents. It was definitely a challenge... and I hope to get myself one, too.

I've had a really wonderful time catching up with friends, going to a massive number of Holiday parties, cooking crazy dishes for Thanksgiving, drinking until 3am, and causing trouble. Singing Madonna at the top of my lungs with friends. Big potluck meals. Leg wrestling. Deep conversations about gender and kink. Shutting down parties and practicing my pool playing. It's been... so much fun.

Getting geared up for traveling to Colorado in 9 days, after the Dirty Birds/Saints game. Trying to wrap up everything at work, finish gift giving, and try to enjoy what little "break" from school and work that I get. I love this time of year. I hope everyone is enjoying the holiday season!

Even if the Sky is Falling Down

2011-12-18T23:15:00.000-06:00

I've walked by the shop a number of times. It's a small storefront in the French Quarter, sandwiched between on one of the less notable side streets. The sign proclaiming "Erotic Cakes and Toys" takes up the whole front window. The shop always looked closed for some funny reason. But on this gorgeous, sunny Saturday I feel compelled to pull open the door and walk in. I'm honestly surprised when the door does open. It's a tiny shope, and there's a huge man behind the counter. He must be over 6'3 and sporting a massive beard. I greet him and walk in a circle through the store, examining the many sex toys lining the walls. It's a cheap collection, packed from floor to ceiling, mostly jelly toys, cock rings, low quality vibrators, very little of note. I probably wouldn't be interested in most anything they had.

"Are you looking for anything in particular?" The man has a very pleasant expression, almost curious. I wonder what he thinks when he sees me.

"I'm ok. Just looking." I pause for a minute to focus away from the wall, back toward him. "Can I ask you a weird question?"

He laughs. "There are no weird questions."

I think he is expecting some sort of sexual question, but that's not on my mind. "How did you get around the permitting and zoning?"

He does look a bit surprised at this question, but answers me quickly. "Well, we're technically a bakery. So it's a non-issue." I know the city enacted a ban on adult novelty stores in the French Quarter years ago, grandfathering in one locally owned leather/toy shop that caters primarily to gay men. There's another store, owned by Hustler, but I assumed they just paid someone off. His answer twists my mind in a different direction. Hustler sells half toys, half lingerie and clothing; maybe they are listed as an apparel business for permitting reasons. That's the secret: there's always a way around the rules, if you think creatively.

"That's an unusual question. Are you looking to open a store?"

I swallow the fear rising in my throat. I find it impossibly hard to express some of my most private and deeply held secrets to anyone, especially a stranger. I waiver on the answer. "Well...possibly. But I had assumed it would have to be outside the French Quarter."

His response floors me. "My wife and I are looking to sell this place in two years, if you're interested." I'm left speechless for a second, stumbling.

"Can I ask why?"

"She's finishing school, and we're not from here. We'd like to move back home."

"I'm not sure I'm equipped to run a bakery."

"Well, that's not necessarily required. You could do something else. But our profits from toys have increased significantly, so if that's what you're interested in... it's there."

We continue talking about the zoning and permitting, rent, their landlord, and other aspects of the business. I get his card, and express my serious interest. As I'm about to turn and walk out, an object hanging from the wall catches my eye. I walk across the shop, to the far side of the counter, and reach out to touch a black and white braided leather whip, about three feet long, hanging from the wall. It looks incredibly out of place in this shop, and I can't help the smile spreading across my face.

"I have this exact same whip. Got it in San Antonio at the Mexican Market. Can't find hand-braided leather like that for so cheap anywhere else."

It's his turn to smile. "A friend of mine gave that to me. It's not for sale." He gives me a look of recognition -- I'd swear it was one kinkster to another.

I feel like it's a sign, from somewhere. "I'll be back." I leave the shop, practically skipping down the street, thoughts swirling in my head. I have few dreams, but one of them definitely involves owning a sex shop.

All of the Lights

2011-11-29T23:23:00.001-06:00

I can feel her tensing up. It's incredibly subtle, but my complete focus is on her body. Her legs are spread wide across my bed, lower back arched, shoulders and braids burying into the pillows. My tongue is wrapped around her clit, and I'm caught mid stroke, trying to interpret what I need to change. She's so difficult to read. It doesn't help that I've barely heard a sound from her.

I pull my fingers back, slightly, releasing my grip on her g-spot. I want to play this very carefully. I pull my tongue away, but it's not a complete disconnect. I move slowly, climbing over her, kissing my way across her body. Leaning in, toward her neck, I catch the lobe of her ear between my teeth. I whisper, between biting her neck, "Don't be afraid to tell me what you want."

She shifts a bit, stiffening but moving her hands onto my thighs, and I swear I can hear the wheels turning. I don't know how she will respond, but I can tell, clear as day, that she knows exact what she wants. I just want to coax it out of her. I move back down her body, scratching my nails down the outside of her thighs, and pulling her legs roughly apart so I can tease her. She breaks her silence, as I'm leaning down to find her clit. Her voice comes out rough, unsure, "More head. Less penetration."

I crack a smile. "I think I can handle that." I push my shoulders up against the insides of her thighs, locking my lower arms around her hips, and run my tongue deep inside her. "How's that?" I get so fucking cocky sometimes. But damn. I just want to feel her melt. I get a soft moan in response, and she cups my head in her hands and pulls me back into her. I don't stop again until she comes, bold and unforgiving.

********

I'm sitting up on one end of the bed in a position that can only be described as awkward. I wish I could see her in the dark, and I curse myself for a second for turning off the lights. She's still spread across the bed (how does that usually end up happening?), and I've got her clit between my right thumb and forefinger. I'm not used to anyone who can take this kind of direct stimulation, and I'm enjoying the hell out of the opportunity while I have it. I can feel her swelling under my fingers.

"That feels really good." I'm grateful for her praise, simply because it means I'm doing the right thing.

"Is there anything else you'd like?" I lean down to punctuate the question with a bite to her thigh.

She cocks her head to the side. I can see the motion faintly in the reflection of the street light outside the window. "I like you. In bed, I mean."

I can't follow her train of thought. I don't know her well enough. "What do you mean?"

"I like that you tell me to say what I want. I like that you ask me." I don't know what to say. It's a deeply flattering comment, simply because it's taken me so long to get here, too. But I always feel like I've got so much left to learn, to experience. I want so badly to ask about her history. I want to know where she comes from, what she thinks about her body, what she secretly desires. I want to know what she fears. But I'm already significantly pushing her boundaries. Any more could be overkill.

"I'll tell you a secret." I'm still rolling her clit between my fingers, tracing her labia, dipping around her vagina. There's nothing quite as sweet as the feeling of someone get wet in my hands. "I had the same reaction the first time someone asked me that question. I remember clearly I had to stop and think -- what was it that I wanted? Really? And where could I get the courage to say that out loud? It's why I ask. I can't give you what you want, what you deserve, if I don't know." She falls silent as she focuses into her body and comes again, her clit pulsing.

I pull her up after she finishes, reaching to bring her into my lap. But she stops me, telling me no, and pushing me gently toward the other side of the bed. "Lie down," she tells me, and for once, I don't put up any resistance. "Now tell me, what is it that you like?"

Pleasurists #157

2011-11-21T20:13:00.001-06:00

The lovers are crazy by tasteofomi

Welcome to Pleasurists, a round-up of the adult product and sex toy reviews that came out in the last seven days. If you like what you see and want more of it be sure to follow the RSS Feed and Twitter for updates.

Did you miss Pleasurists 156? Read it all here. Do you have a review for Pleasurists 158? Be sure to read the submission guidelines and then use the submission form to submit before Sunday November 27th @ 11:59pm Pacific.

Want a shiny new toy? All you’ve got to do is enter.

600 Follower Giveaway Deadline: November 25th.
Happy Spanksgiving Kinky Contest – Win a Neon Wand! Deadline: November 25th @ Noon.
RodeoH Harness Giveaway Deadline: November 27th @ Noon Eastern.
Dirty Movie Deadline Giveaway Deadline: November 27th.
In Celebration of My Husband’s Birthday, I’m Giving Away a Fun Factory Cobra Libre and Tenga Eggs! Deadline: November 30th.
Win an Extase Couture Vibrator Deadline: November 30th @ Midnight Eastern.
Giveaway Bonanza Deadline: December 5th.
RodeoH Giveaway Deadline: December 8th.

Editor
Scarlet Lotus

On to the reviews:

Vibrators

Dildos

Anal Toys

Sleeves, Rings, & etc.

LELO Insignia Oden by Dr. Ruthie

Lube, Massage Oil, Bath Stuff, & etc.

BDSM/Fetish

Adult Books/Games

Adult DVDs & Porn

Lingerie

Miscellaneous

RodeoH by Karen Blue
Bound By Diamonds by Midnight Boudoir

Trans Day of Remembrance

2011-11-20T22:11:00.003-06:00

Some of my closest friends are trans and/or genderqueer. A handful of my lovers have been trans and/or genderqueer. I can't imagine what I would do if one of them was violently attacked, or worse, killed. My heart hurts, just thinking about it.

It happens all the time, though. I can't imagine the fear many of them feel when trying to navigate the simplest of tasks -- putting down a credit card for a meal (which is a nightmare when your name doesn't match your gender); using a public restroom; even walking through the French Quarter alone. Their fear is justified. Whether the persecution, criticism, or harassment comes from strangers, the police, the media, family members, or partners... it's equally damaging and unnecessary.

My heart goes out to all those we've lost, whether by murder or suicide. My heart goes out to the families, friends, and partners of those we've lost.

I want to live in a society where no one is harassed, persecuted, or killed for their gender expression and gender identity. I want to live in a society where no one feels like suicide is a better option than life.

A commenter on Autostraddle made a really great point that I want to emphasize here:

"A few years ago at a Trans Day of Remembrance event I attended, someone I knew gave a short speech about what it means to be safe–not just physically but also in your own relationships, bodies, communities, etc.–and about how queer people have to look out for each other. We have to stand up for each other and protect each other, because clearly it can be a dangerous world for some folks, especially trans women of color. We have to fight for laws that respect and protect ALL of us.

What does safety mean on a personal level? If your trans* friend is heading home from a bar or party or somewhere, you could offer to drive or walk them home. If someone discloses that they’re trans, honor and use their preferred names, pronouns, identities–but also ask which words to use in which contexts, so you don’t accidentally out them or put them in difficult situations. If you’re dating someone new, respect their boundaries and identities and find out what’s okay with them. If someone uses transphobic language–even a queer person–call them out on it.

Those actions may not make up for the sad losses of any trans* people being remembered today, but they might help protect someone else from facing the same fate."

I would add a few -- offer to go with a trans friend to a doctor's appointment, if they are feeling nervous. Offer to escort them to the bathroom, and stand protection outside the door if you're in a public place. If you know someone who is coming out, offer to introduce them to other queer and trans people in the community who can provide support and community. Connect them to resources or people who can provide resources. Model appropriate language. I find that many people want to be respectful, but don't know how to ask what pronoun someone would prefer, or don't know that "transgender" is an adjective, not a noun.

See also: This Advocate piece.

As a friend posted on FB, "In the words of Mother Jones, 'Pray for the dead, but fight like hell for the living.'"

A Note on Sex Toy Reviews and Language

2011-11-20T21:27:00.003-06:00

When I came home from San Francisco and finished writing the most recent sex toy review for Eden, I had a bit of a conundrum. I've been writing sex toy reviews intermittently for at least six months, but I feel like I have a lot to learn and improve on in my writing. I write about what works for me, because I know my body. It's tough to make recommendations. I'm not passing toys around to a large group of people for multiple opinions-- and everyone's body, expectations, and needs are a little different. I hesitate, because a toy that works beautifully for me might not for someone else.

I'm also hung up on language. When I write a review or make a recommendation, I want it to be clear that it shouldn't just apply to cisgender women. I usually describe my own anatomy using words I feel comfortable with. But those words fluxuate and change depending on how I feel -- for example, I can have a clitoris or a cock. I also realize the words I use are not the words everyone uses, and the anatomy I have isn't the anatomy everyone has.

Many sex toy stores divide their websites into "men's toys" and "women's toys." But the truth is, you don't need a clit to enjoy a vibrator, and anyone can wear a strap on. The beauty of brick-and-mortar stores is that you don't need these artificial divides; you can go and pick up any toy without someone putting the idea in your brain that this toy is "only for women." The flip side, of course, is that the privacy of the internet offers a space where anyone can buy a toy without fearing harassment, embarrassment, strange looks, or dealing with insensitive or uneducated staff. If you live in a place like rural Louisiana, the internet offers a world of access to toys when brick-and-mortar stores might be hard to come by -- or, worse, exist only as sleazy highway pit-stops filled with cheap, poorly made toys for marked up prices. Eh. Both have benefits and detriments, I suppose.

For me, it comes down to this: how can I make reviews more accessible for people of all genders? I play with people of all gender identities and expressions. I play with my own gender during sex, and it's often changing and unrestricted. I play with toys of all types, and all meanings. As I was discussing with a friend the other night, sometimes a strap-on is just a toy, and sometimes, it's an extension of the body in very personal and intimate ways. I don't know if all of these realities affect my reviews, or even if they should.

But I do think part of sex-positivity is looking at toys as just that -- a piece that can be used by anyone in many possible ways. It's about recognizing and affirming all forms of gender expression and sexuality.

How can I make reviews more accessible for people of all genders?

Sex Toy Review: Jenna's Velvet Jewels

2011-11-20T18:36:00.001-06:00

Jenna's Velvet Jewels Royal is a plastic traditional vibrator with some extra bling. It's sleek and simple, made of black velvet-like plastic, and shaped like a dildo. It measures a respectable 6 1/2 inches long, with a diameter of 1 1/4 inches. The packaging is a cheap plastic case with a fade-out photo of Jenna Jameson and the kind of flashy design you would expect from a toy bought in a backroom shop on the side of the highway.

The standout qualities of this vibrator are the safety and the jewels. Many lower-end vibrators are made of jelly plastics which can contain unsafe materials like phlalates. These jelly plastics, and most any plastics beside medical-grade silicone, can also trap bacteria in the porous surfaces. Jenna's Jewels ranks fairly high on safety as it is phlalate-free with an 8/10 according to Eden Fantasys' scale. I would recommend using a condom on it (or any toy) for shared play, just to be safe.

The vibrator is bejeweled with two rows jewels in clear, blue, and pink, adding a little pizazz. The vibrator comes in four color options: sky blue, violet/purple, a soft pink, and black. I requested the black. While the jewels are pretty, I rank quality and performance over appearance every time. Unfortunately, like many lower-end toys, Jenna's Jewels has a lovely aesthetic but it doesn't perform up to par.

To be fair, I need a strong vibrator for clitoral stimulation. (My standard vibrator is a Hitachi Magic Wand.) Bullets don't usually cut it for me, and few battery-powered vibes are worth my time. Jenna's Jewels just doesn't pack the power of a good vibrator. I had a tough time coming to orgasm using it. I do appreciate the turn-dial which adjusts the strength of the vibrations; many vibrators only have an on/off or two speeds. The dial is preferable, and I wish all vibrators came with it. Do take the batteries out when you store this vibrator, though; I found the dial would turn on easily in a drawer or even if I set it in the bed.

Jenna's Jewels is also quite loud. The vibrator hum is quite high-pitched, more so than many vibrators I've used. Even under the sheets, with my door closed, you could probably hear it faintly outside the bedroom. I have trouble with the design, too, though that's not an issues specific to this vibrator. I, like many women, tend to need some clitoral stimulation to orgasm. But these simple, dildo-shaped vibrators, are built for either penetration or clitoral stimulation; you can't do both at once. In terms of penetration, this toy isn't shaped for G-spot stimulation. The more creatively-designed toys can do one or the other well, whereas, I feel like this toy doesn't really do either very well. But this is also part of the price you choose to pay -- for $16.99 (or the currently discounted $12.74), you can buy something simple and pretty. Throw in another $50 or so, and you can get something truly high performing.

If your body is sensitive and you need something less jarring, this vibe might be worth a try. I wouldn't recommend it for beginners -- if you don't know what your body needs and responds to, you could be investing in a toy that doesn't fit your body. Don't let the sparkle and shine distract you from buying less attractive sex toys that pack a bigger punch.

(In full disclosure as required by the FTC, I was given this toy for free to review for EdenFantasys. I do not receive any payment from EdenFantasys for reviewing toys.)

Sex Toy Review: Queer Porn

2011-11-20T11:09:00.000-06:00

In the last few weeks, I've had a lot of conversations about porn, specifically with queer friends who find the dearth of quality porn to be a bit heartbreaking. I've never had a huge interest in porn, but I am fascinated by the quality of queer-produced porn designed for a queer audience. I love the idea of taking an industry that has been dominated by the male gaze, scripted and overproduced, and queering the HELL out of it.

If you've never checked out queer porn, there's two websites I would recommend to start with: Crash Pad Series and QueerPorn.tv. The concepts are similar for both sites: the performers are given leeway to choose their partners, a room to play in, and little direction or scripting. Essentially, you put two (or more) queer people in a room, let them negotiate out what they want, and then film them fucking. There's no airbrushed vaginas, no elaborate sets and few story lines. So what will you find? Fisting, strap-ons, bondage, squirting, spanking, you name it. You'll see people orgasm on screen, and it's not fake. You'll see trans, genderqueer, femme, butch, and cis performers, performers of color -- diverse people who bring their identities and bodies, their sexual attractions and desires, to the camera. You'll see people having safe sex and enjoying it immensely.

These ideas shouldn't be radical, but when most "queer" porn you see on the mainstream market is two thin, white, blonde "lesbians" touching each other in the shower, marketed at straight men... well, you get the idea. Gay male porn opened the door for us, because it's often gay men fucking gay men produced by gay men. But for many of us, the people we fuck, the way we fuck, involves intersections of gender and sexuality and kink in really unique and beautiful ways. Why not have porn that reflects the reality of our lives?

Crash Pad offers a monthly subscription, $22 a month, which you can keep for as long as you choose. There's no year-long requirement or sign-up fees. There are 112 episodes, and over a hundred performers involved in the series. Pink and White Productions have also released a few DVDs of the Crash Pad videos, if you'd prefer that format over the online access. QueerPorn.tv offers a $29.99 monthly VIP membership, or anyone can pay-per-video-download.

If you haven't yet, go check these sites out. Have your mind blown.

Life Lessons I Learned From Kink

2011-11-17T00:39:00.002-06:00

1) If you don’t ask for what you want, you’ll never get it. No one else can read your mind, understand your desires, or negotiate your salary unless you fucking speak up. I’ve learned this the hard way. I didn’t know how to tell my potential supervisor what my expectations are for a job in an interview. I didn’t know how to tell my partner that I really want Mexican food, even though I knew she had her heart set on Thai. But I’ve been reminded, time and time again, that if I want a spanking, I have to ask for it. Bouncing my ass in the air is not a clear enough signal. I think if we were all taught to express our needs and desires in bed – and outside of bed – the world would run smoother. You might not get what you ask for, but if you don’t ask, you’re definitely not going to get it.

2) Negotiation is a vital part of any relationship. I remember, clearly, the first time someone actually sat me down before we had sex and asked me what I liked, what I was up for, what I wasn’t interested in. It was a groundbreaking moment for me. Now I’ve come to expect this kind of negotiation before sex. Negotiation in bed requires the same skill set as negotiation in a board room, in a marriage, or in any other sort of relationship. If you aren’t having these conversations, you should be. If you’re too scared to initiate these conversations, then it’s time to take a good, hard look at how that is negatively affecting your life. I’ve been notorious for much of my life for waxing and waning when someone asks me what I want. Kink has drastically helped me navigate these conversations. I’ve learned to categorize what I absolutely will do, what I’m flexible about, and what I absolutely won’t do. Ask someone from the State Department what they do, and they’ll tell you the same thing – communicate and negotiate. Life skills, baby.

3) Get and give consent. I cannot stress this enough. Consent is a pervasive act in my life; it does not end or begin with my bedroom door. I ask for consent when releasing medical information, consent when asking highly personal questions, consent when engaging in any sex act. I think agency is incredibly powerful, and yet, we often take it for granted. We run through other people’s boundaries – social, emotional, physical, sexual – either without regard or without recognizing our recklessness. We tell children “because I said so.” We enforce social rules and expectations on each other. We don’t actively teach people in our culture how to ask for consent, nor how to give it. I find my relationships with clients, with friends, and with lovers are deeper and more heartfelt when I ask for consent, verbally or nonverbally. For example, I’ll ask a client, “Are you comfortable discussing this (very personal traumatic) event with me?” instead of assuming I can jump right in. I’ll run my hands over a lover’s body in the morning, waiting for them to make a move to signal that they do want to get it on before breakfast. If the answer is no or the response is clearly not inviting, then I walk away. It’s really that simple.

4) Know your boundaries. In the kink world, we have a brilliant, simple signal for tapping out – safewords. Unfortunately, there isn’t always an easy exit button in real life. When my boss is pushing me to take a task I can’t handle, when I’m crying in a corner because my mother is insane, or when I’m so overwhelmed I can’t even function… well, there’s no safeword to save me. What I’m finding is, in kink, I use my safeword when I’m absolutely pushed to the point of not being able to take any more. In real life, that’s almost too late. What I can do, though, is set some boundaries. I know my mother upsets me, so I set a limit on how much time I will spend with her on the phone. I know I overcommit myself to advocacy work, so I set a clear “no” when I know I have exactly enough on my plate. Before you find a lover (or anything and anyone else) is pushing you too close to the edge, let them know what the edge is. Let yourself know what the edge is.

5) Be able to say no, and don’t play with someone who can’t do the same. I’m horrible at saying no. I am such a “yes” person. Yes, I’ll make cupcakes for the class. Yes, I’ll take a meeting an hour after I’m supposed to get off work. Yes, I’ll show up at your event, help you plan your advocacy project, help you write your thesis, and pick you up from the middle of nowhere at 2am. Except…. I find myself wanting to say no. Dreaming about saying no. Saying “yes” and meaning “no” is not acceptable. It negates the whole point of consent and agency. A few months ago, I was playing with someone who had probably never used a safeword. I wasn’t sure, but she has a hardass attitude, and I had a feeling she felt she had a lot to prove to me – and to herself. So, I put her in a situation – with her consent – and then I pushed her to use her safeword, to break that unspoken expectation that she wouldn’t need it. Safewords are useless if you aren’t comfortable with using them. I don’t want to wait to cross your boundaries – or seriously hurt you – simply because you don’t feel comfortable using a safeword. Learning to say “no” is empowering. It ties in almost everything in this list – negotiation, knowing your boundaries, etc. Just like with asking for what you want, if you don’t say what you don’t want, well, you’ll get a heaping pile of it. I practice this skill often lately. “No, I can’t be at every single event this week. No, I can’t babysit your kid for free. No, I can’t want to use bacon-flavored lube.” See, try it.

6) Don’t make assumptions. I had a friend and lover once who was built like a linebacker. He was roughly 5’11 and a very muscular 200+ pounds. His gaze could pierce a brick wall. He looked like he could dominate anything and anyone who came his way. But he was the most sweet, gentle, playful slave. I also had a boss once, a skinny toothpick of a gay man, who worked for a non-profit serving people with disabilities. He was the most homophobic, sexist, disablist asshole I’ve ever met. If you aren’t rolling your eyes yet, you should be. Appearance is definitely not an indicator of identity, beliefs, or desires, and yet, we make these assumptions every day. I do it, you do it, we all fail miserably at this lesson. Tops and bottoms, doms and subs, slaves and masters don’t have defining physical characteristics. (Neither do sexists and disablists. Assholes come in all shapes and sizes, and, apparently, all professions.) As an ex of mine used to say, “When you assume, you make an ass of you and me.” Heh. Smartass she was.

Reality Check

2011-11-15T22:09:00.002-06:00

Can I just say I have no fucking frame of reference for how kinky I am? I overestimate other people's kinkiness all the damn time, and I underestimate my own. I guess I never repressed my own desires, so I assumed they were pretty par-for-the-course. I'm sure there are plenty of other people who feel the same way, and who wouldn't get why some things simply don't turn me on.

I'm perpetually surprised by how tame and vanilla I consider some acts, like being videotaped or tied with handcuffs, when for others, those actions really push the edge. I've been struggling to adjust my very skewed frame of reference, so if I come off otherwise, please forgive me. I can't seem to grasp this line between kinky and vanilla that most (?) people have.

Sex on Fire

2011-11-15T19:51:00.001-06:00

I have a total weakness for flow charts, if you hadn't noticed. I think it's because I'm a visual learner, and pictures make things easier to understand and remember. Or simply because I find them hilarious.

Anyway, on the topic of lube, this flow chart is pretty brilliant. Also, has anyone else heard that a company dropped a bacon-flavored lube on the market this week? No kidding. Personally, it's not one of my kinks. But if it's yours, then more power to you.

(This is the incredible aerial view of the city I got as I flew out of SFO to Denver)

I'm back from San Francisco, which I swear is one of the sexiest cities on this planet. I don't say that because I spent most of the weekend at the Center for Sex and Culture or because pretty much everything I did there over the weekend somehow related to sex and sexuality. San Francisco has a unique energy that pulses through the city. I'm not sure what to compare it to. I'd say NOLA's energy is the equivalent of a second line brass band. But damn. Just walking the streets there, it's a bit magical. I've never seen so much public art in my life. San Francisco has the energy of a thousand paintbrushes, of rock bands in underground bars, of streetcars flying down hills, of radical creation and destruction.

I ate massive amounts of Thai food and soaked in a hot tub and walked the pier in the pouring rain. I slept with the windows open. I witnessed some really transformative conversations, rituals, and actions. I got fucked in a lot of really interesting ways, and I don't just mean in the physical sense. I met some amazing people. I rediscovered the power of building community.

Also, can I just say, I love how people in California, and especially in kinky/queer/poly communities, use safe sex as a default. What a world of difference from Louisiana, where the culture is so anti-safe sex. There's no question there. Everyone just carries (or buys) lube, gloves, condoms and uses them. End of story.

I expected to come back feeling different. I expected to have my mind and senses exploded. I expected to breathe and to listen and to think differently. But the tricky part of these workshops is, there's no way of knowing what "different" is until you experience it. Even as I'm going through it, I don't realize how incredibly intense and radical everything is. It's an incredible offering, to just let go and act... think later.

I cried saying goodbye to San Francisco. I'll be back, I promised the city and myself. But I have work and a life here in NOLA, a home and friends and two cats whom I missed terribly. A part of me hurts realizing that I probably won't see most of those people again. To have such intense contact for three days, to let people touch you, emotionally and physically, in ways I sometimes won't let friends and lovers touch me... and then to just let go. I am immensely grateful and thankful for everyone I met, for everything I learned and felt. I still have so much work to do. I realize how closed off I am at times, how much I don't acknowledge my own feelings -- hell, I don't even let myself feel them. Someone asked me, "Where do you feel that in your body?" And I truly couldn't fathom that other people feel emotions physically. I've just shut that possibility out for too long.

I am in this crazy, energetic, expanded state. I get overstimulated easily, but I'm so fucking happy. I'm like over-the-moon happy. I wish I could bottle this energy and breathe it in whenever I most need it. Instead, I'm just going to ride it. I'm still processing, slowly, but that feels healthy.

How do I feel? Strong. Beautiful, though very much not in a physical way, but in an energy-glowing-kind-of-way. I feel calm. Scared of the paper I have due. Blessed. Unsure of what comes next. Open to the possibilities. Driven to let myself explore.

The River is Wide

2011-11-08T23:40:00.001-06:00

In class tonight, my group did a presentation on the organization I work for. It's an awesome place; we provide federal/state-funded services for people with disabilities. After the presentation, my professor walked down to the front of the class. Now, mind you, I revile him a bit -- he's incredibly sexist, homophobic, and racist, an older guy who loves to say tremendously offensive things to get a rise out of students. But tonight, he told us a story he's never shared with a class. His first daughter, born in 1953 when he was only twenty years old, was deprived of oxygen during a traumatic labor and assumed to be, as he stated, mentally retarded. (Which is, by the way, a word I hate). As he told the story, the doctors decided when she was seven or eight months that she would be intellectually disabled for the rest of her life -- not "normal." So, because they had connections and money as he said, they sent her to a private institution in central Louisiana.

Couched in the language of a man whose understanding of disability is little changed from the 1950s and 1960s, I heard a young father describe the pain of letting go of a child. I teared up, thinking about his young daughter not knowing a life outside of the walls and grounds of an institution. I can't imagine. I hear that same pain in parents who have lost a child, in mothers who gave up their children for adoption, in parents who have made unimaginable -- but still incredibly strong and powerful -- choices that affected the rest of their lives.

I work with infants and toddlers with developmental delays and disabilities. My kids come from every walk of life. Their needs and concerns range from minor concerns, speech delays they will outgrow with a bit of therapy, to neurodegenerative diseases and feeding tubes and breathing machines. I can't imagine if my kids were institutionalized. I can't imagine the pain that would cause for them, for their families -- the loneliness and isolation, the opportunities and lives they would miss out on. I know that in the 1950's, institutionalization was considered humane, even kind. I know that we have made leaps and bounds in society toward decreasing the stigma against people with disabilities, and I know this fight was led by the parents of children, by people with disabilities, by anyone and everyone who realized institutionalization is not humane.

But I still hear this stigma every day. I hear it when my mother tells me approvingly of her friend, who institutionalized her young daughter with Down syndrome in the 1990's. I hear it when someone says, "That's retarded." I hear it when people say things like, "I couldn't do what you do. How do you do it?" What do you mean, I want to ask. My children and their parents aren't pity cases. I don't catalogue the things they can't do, the milestones they haven't reached yet, the ways they are "disabled." We celebrate their strengths. We set goals for them. We work with them, not for them, not at them. With them. We cry with them when they hurt. We offer what we can, and we urge them to go farther and do more and dream bigger than they are told that they can. We give them the resources and the knowledge to advocate for themselves. We listen, We agree, when a grandmother tells me that a doctor said her three-month-old grandchild will never walk... and she tells me that she will never, ever stop believing that he can.

My kids, my parents, are amazing. I have so much respect for them. They have taught me strength in ways I can't even explain. They have more abilities than most anyone I know. They may have specific needs, but who doesn't? They may need help, but so do we all. I don't do my job based on pity. I don't do my job with the idea that I'm offering a service to be passively received, even if that is the way the system is set up. My parents, my kids, are active participants -- they work harder than I do. They have the dreams and goals, and we just help meet them. That's how I do my job.

I cut my teeth on queer advocacy. I became an advocate because I saw a need -- because I couldn't keep my mouth shut when someone discriminated against those I cared about. It's not about identifying as an advocate or an activist for me, and it never will be. It's about seeing injustice and disparity and the pain borne of discrimination, harassment, and violence and not being able to stand by quietly. It's about recognizing that I can use my privilege, my knowledge, my strength, to stand with the people around me who need an ally. It's about holding up a microphone when someone else needs to share their struggle.

Anyway.

I don't claim to know everything -- or anything -- about what it means to be differently abled in our society. I don't know what is best for a community I don't belong to. But I do know that I would fight to the death for my kids to have the same opportunities, to be treated with respect, not pity, to have their needs acknowledged and met, not ignored. Even if advocacy wasn't part of my job description, I will always do it. Social justice and equality isn't just about queers. It's about racism. It's about sexism. It's about poverty and disparities and violence, it's about my kids, it's about adults with disabilities, it's about creating a society where needs and differences can be respected and recognized without being unequal. It's about creating a world where families can raise children with the support they need from the community, instead of institutionalizing them.

Oh, my kids. They are a part of my family, a part of my heart, a part of my pain, a part of my dreams. I worry about them, sometimes, when I wake up in the middle of the night. I wonder who they will become, what lives they will lead years from now. I wonder what their parents would think of me, of my blog and my queerness. I struggle to balance my own life with the drive to want to put all my needs to the side, just to focus on theirs. I closed the case files of three children this week, and I opened two more, and I found that 'hello' and 'goodbye' are equally fraught with complexity. I hear stories, like my professor's, and I am reminded again and again that children and adults with special needs and disabilites are everywhere -- but we don't tell these stories enough, we don't talk about (or against) stigma enough. So I'm making a commitment to do so -- to speak up every time someone expresses pity, every time someone says "retarded" or "crippled" or something equally offensive. I'm making a commitment to remember that social justice isn't just about my community, but about every member of every community.

Young Girls, They Do Get Weary

2011-11-04T00:09:00.000-05:00

I'm hopping on a plane in seven days for San Francisco, and there's nothing that makes my little heart pound more than a weekend of intense, sex-positive emotional bonding with a bunch of queers in a city like San Francisco. I mean. Talk about a dream weekend.

Of course, I'm nervous as hell. I build up social anxiety when I think about meeting new people (versus when it's just spontaneous and informal, which helps cull my anxiety). It's also a bit intense to realize that within the span of two and a half days, these people will know me in truly intimate ways. I have a hard time opening up to close friends and partners. There's something different about strangers -- I don't have to see them again, I don't have to let them in on a regular basis -- but I also know that workshops like this are about pushing my boundaries. That, in itself, makes me fucking nervous. And excited. Trepidatious.

The organizers always ask that we sit and reflect before the workshop. The first day at Easton, we talked about what drove us there -- why we felt called, what made us choose that path, and what drove us to overcome the hurdles to get there. I know that question will arise again. I'm in a much different place than I was a year ago. At that point, I was still very immersed in the pain of my last breakup. I was feeling really lost, and I wanted to reclaim myself, my sexuality, and purge some of the emotional baggage that made getting out of bed on a daily basis very difficult.

Now, I find I have totally different desires.

The first day of one of my classes this semester, the professor had us pair off and answer three questions. I don't remember them exactly. But it was something like this... What are your ultimate career goals, Why did you choose this grad program, and What drives you in terms of your career. It's funny, after seventeen years of school, I'm not sure anyone has asked me that outside of an entrance essay. I'm not sure anyone has asked me it outside of school, either. But I found I couldn't even vaguely answer the question. What the fuck do I want? What are my priorities, past finishing school and paying my bills and cooking dinner? Hell, I'm not sure if I cared enough to answer the question, which made me feel even worse.

While I have some strong ideas -- I really want to open a sex shop in NOLA, and I really want to create a queer/trans health clinic -- I also want to make some changes to my life so that there is room for long-term goals and plans. Right now, I can't see past next semester. I don't want to be that short-sighted, and I want to invest in the things that matter to me. School will be ending soon (after I pick out a thesis topic and, you know, write the damn thing). What do I want after that? Why did I put myself through three years and $15K for a grad degree -- what do I want to do with it, with my time, my money, my energy? I don't expect to find an answer next week. But I do want to create space for finding those answers in my life.

I also realize that I need to let go of some of my need and desire for control -- control over my body, over work, over my environment, over what people know and think about me. A lot of the time, that control is an illusion. The rest of the time, it's a way to shield and protect myself or someone else. Either way, it's unhealthy. I don't like to close myself off from people so tightly. I realize that I put off people because I don't give them a chance to get to know me. I short myself by not letting people in, not letting them get close. And when I do invest, I let myself get frustrated or saddened by someone else's actions too easily.

I remember distinctly the expansive, fragile, and powerful way I felt after the workshop. I remember radiating energy. I remember feeling overstimulated, but if I plugged myself into headphones with a song that I found comforting, then everything was ok. I remember learning to breathe, working toward opening up without getting defensive or scared. I hope to find those feelings, those experiences, again. I hope to find love and life in the city. It's been a long three years since I've been back. A part of me wants to see the Golden Gate bridge since I missed it due to the fog last time. I definitely want to see the bay; I am drawn to water in a peculiar fashion. I want to wander the city at night, stop in small restaurants, blow a kiss to a trolley. I want to connect with queers, I want to talk identity, I want to push the boundaries of how I understand myself. I want to feel the rush of exhilaration that comes from getting on a plane by myself and shooting off to a part of the country that I barely know. I want to take a few days to clear my head, to forget everything I know about my life in NOLA, and to see what sifts out as important after doing so.

And right now, I want to fall asleep, dreaming of flying over the Sierra Nevada mountains, dreaming of the sun setting over the bay, dreaming of laying hands onto someone else's body in healing, and dreaming of that high, that incredible fucking high, of just really, truly, intensely letting go.

Goodnight, loves.

Drip, drip, drop

2011-10-21T18:37:00.004-05:00

I'm digging under the celery, searching the shelf for the last jar of minced garlic, when I feel your palm sliding along the curve of my jeans, where my hips and thighs meet. You lean in, low and close, to whisper in my ear, "My God, you have a nice ass." I suppress a smart comment. Thankfully nothing but the ketchup and the milk can see my smirk, because I'm still bent over with my head in the fridge. The feeling is electrifying, as unexpected touch often is. I feel the hairs rising on my arms as you trace your hands along my back pockets.

Laughter explodes in the living room, and I hear a voice raised in protest. A group of our friends is carving pumpkins and drinking beers; I doubt they've noticed our absence. You've got you fingers tracing up the inside of my thighs. I back out of the fridge carefully, a hard-won jar in my hands, and turn to face you with my best poker face.

"Can I help you, sir?"

You move toward me, carefully pinning me to the counter with your hands on either side of my waist. You've got several inches on me, and I have to look up to make eye contact. You're almost close enough for me to kiss. But instead you ask me, "Where are your wooden spoons?"

I point across the kitchen and wiggle out of your grasp, turning my attention toward the chili pot on the stove. What a mistake. In a single move, you've got a wooden spoon out of my top shelf and it's colliding with my ass.

I can't help but jump with surprise. "...what the? What are you trying to prove?"

There's a cheshire grin stretching across your lips, dimples pulled tight. "Come upstairs."

"Now? With everyone here? I've got cooking to do" -- I gesture hopelessly at the pot to emphasize my point -- "and a pumpkin to carve and..." Your finger across my lips silences me. "It can wait. We won't be long."

I'm half turned toward the sink, and you reach out to pull the string on my apron, causing it to fall forward around my neck. I pull it off and stash it in mock-protest, turning the stove heat down to a simmer. You're already halfway up the stairs when I reach the banister, hoping no one else notices our disappearance.

I step in my bedroom, and you push the lock closed on the door behind me. I've taught you this, enabled this... but I don't say a word when you reach around my waist, kissing the nape of my neck as you pop the top button on my jeans. You peel the jeans and my lace panties down only as far as mid-thigh, running your palms carefully around my ass. I realize you are sizing me up, deciding where your palm will have the most impact. The cold air hits my cunt, and I try to stifle the nerves as the sensation spreads.

You climb on my bed, sitting down with your legs crossed. I know that look in your eyes. It breaks only for my whimpers, only when you have me utterly at your mercy. You coax me onto the bed, and I pull myself across your lap. This isn't my first rodeo; I'm well aware of what you want. I fight it almost out of habit, becoming sassy, wiggling until my ass is draped over your thighs, and my face is pressed south into the pillows.

"Be a good girl, and don't make too much noise. We wouldn't want to alert your guests downstairs, now would we?" You stroke my hair with one hand as you say this, it's a sweet gesture, but the tension in your voice tells me you're only a second away from gripping a handful of my hair and pulling it by the roots. My breath becomes shallow with anticipation.

"You will be quiet, yes? Answer me."

"Yes." The pillow muffled my response.

"I didn't hear you." This time I feel my hair twisting in your fingers.

"Yes... ma'm."

There's no warning before your hand collides with my bare right cheek. I tense from the pain, but don't make a sound.

"That's my girl."

You begin to spank me, a succession of slaps, soft enough that I can tell you are warming me up. I hear voices downstairs, and I hope the echo of my 14 foot ceilings and wood floors prevents our sounds from traveling to the guests below. The pain comes in quick succession, low along the dip where my ass meets my thigh, as you rotate from one side to the other. The first time I whimper, you switch, going for higher on the cheek where the sting from the last hit doesn't reverberate.

I'm letting go, relaxing into the pain, feeling the warmth of the needles along my skin each time you hit me. You stop for a second, and I tense. My stomach sinks. The warm up is over. The silence and the cold compound my tension.

"I love to keep you waiting," you whisper. "You're such a good girl. Tell me what you want."

I've forgotten the crowd downstairs, the stove, the pie in the oven. I've forgotten anything exists outside of my dripping cunt and the cold air hitting my raw backside.

"Spank me again," I whisper, "harder."

"Can you handle it?"

"Yes... ma'm."

You wait, again, leaving me to wonder when it will happen. But instead, I feel your finger reach between my thighs, stroking the lips of my cunt. "My, you are soaking wet."

I smile into the pillow. "You must really enjoy this." You're playing with me, now, stroking so lightly that I'm wiggling and stretching to hold my body still. I want your fingers buried in my cunt, your cock, your lips, hell, I don't care. Anything you can find to put inside me. But you stop, lean down to plant a soft kiss on my left cheek, and bring your hand down so hard on my right cheek that I jump involuntarily.

"Hold still," you growl, "or I'll take your insolence and disobedience out on you." I nod, and you bring your palm down again, hitting me without abandon, until I'm moaning low and softly, almost yelping. The seconds stretch out into minutes, and I find myself holding on tight, wishing for the end, but simultaneously reveling in the pain. Such a love/hate sensation, this need for pleasure and pain, so wound up together.

I can't take much more of this. I breathe a sigh of relief when you stop. You slide your fingers back into my cunt, teasing, as you lean over to whisper, "I'll finish you later."

You land one more good smack on my ass, then pull me up and off the bed. I turn away to pull my jeans back up and unbutton them, hoping I haven't soaked completely through the the fabric. You check to see that I'm dressed and unhook the latch, pulling the door open to let me leave first. But I turn back at the door way to kiss you, quick and dirty and deep, before bounding down the stairs for the kitchen.

Valerie

2011-10-19T19:57:00.004-05:00

"I'm afraid I'll crush you."

She laughs, a little too loud, and cocks her head to the side in that quizzical, puppy dog way. "That's ridiculous! You can't crush me. You're not that much bigger than me."

"It feels like it. I don't know. It's probably just my being self conscious." I climb off her, shifting my weight onto my hands so I can fall on my hip into the bed next to her. She reaches up to slide her hands through my hair. She's been doing this exact move for months, over a year now, and I still turn my eyes down when she looks directly at me. I don't know if it's the intensity of her stare, or the way her fingers feel in my hair. I want to rest my chin in her palm, turn my cheek into her fingers. I find myself hesitating (again). It takes so long to let go. I can't handle this kind of intimacy with someone immediately. I shy away, turn stiff.

The thoughts turn off automatically when she kisses me, and I reach my hand back down between her thighs. She pulls away. "What are you doing?" She's cocky almost, and I immediately wonder if I overstepped my bounds.

"May I fuck you again?"

"May you... hm. You just did." I lean in to kiss her again, pushing my body against her until she falls back, buried in the pillows. I lean in to bite her neck, beginning at her clavicle and working my way to her ear, running my tongue along her earlobe until I can feel her start to squirm beneath me. "Did I?" I mutter softly into her ear. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much. I don't recollect this. How about I try once again, just to make sure?"

She hesitates, and I kiss her neck again, so softly I can barely taste the salt of her sweat on my lips.

"I don't want to be... a pillow princess." It's my turn to laugh. I spin her nipple in my fingers, twisting it before I bite around the areola. "Ouch!" She jumps in surprise, not hurt, but not sure what to make of it. I can see the playfulness in her eyes. "Please. I offered to fuck you. Hell, if you're sweet, I might even beg. Don't be silly. I promise to never, ever think less of you for asking for sex, for wanting to get off, for letting me play with you. If I didn't enjoy the hell out of it, I wouldn't offer."

She squirms again, as I hope my words sink in, wrapping around her self-conscious thoughts, and bringing her instead to the surface, to here, to now.

"I'm going to try this again," I coax her gently, "You're welcome to say no. May I fuck you again?" This time I don't touch her; I want a genuine answer -- not an influenced one. I look directly into her eyes, and even though the impulse to turn away is strong, I fight it. What do I want? This. Her. I can't ask her to not pull away, to not give into those same impulses, if I'm not willing to check my own.

The playful fire melts, and instead of her strength, I find her vulnerability swirling around dark pupils. Maybe this is why sex is intimate -- not because touching genitalia is, not because orgasms are, not because of nudity or skin-to-skin contact or the way her clit slides between my fingers. It's intimate because we bring our fears here, our baggage and our needs. It's intimate because we have to learn to ask for what we want, and more importantly, how to draw boundaries around what we don't. The give-and-take is intense.

She reaches up to put her hand through my hair again, stroking it, and this time I don't break eye contact. I can feel the fear building up under the surface, flooding my body, but I focus in on the crows feet around her eyes, the hit at the beginning of laugh lines. She pulls me in for a kiss, but slides over instead, letting her lips brush my earlobe, and whispers, "yes."

The word sends chills down my spine.

Come On Over

2011-10-19T19:20:00.002-05:00

Outside the Boxes: Celebrating the Queer Body Erotic

November 11-13, 2011 - San Francisco

Your gender. Your body. Your energy. Your beautiful self. How often has the world tried to force you into the gender binary, asked you to assure it that your pronouns matched what it saw rather than what you felt, required that your genitals conform to expectations, demanded that you deny the complexity of all that is you?

What if you could come into a community in which all expressions were possible? Where gender, sexuality and expression were aligned according to your truth? Where no one assumed what parts would go where? Welcome to Outside the Boxes: Celebrating the Queer Body Erotic!,

Come explore your erotic potential through the mind, the body and the heart using conscious breath, movement, process work and massage. Awaken the erotic energy that lies within all of us. Through a queer tantra lens, explore archetypal masculine and feminine energies and the myriad ways they can be expressed. Break down silos of gender and sexuality.

This workshop focuses on the entire body and is conducted in a container that is playful, safe and reverential. Using carefully designed experiential embodiment practices participants will:

explore the innate wisdom of your body
expand awareness, sensation and pleasure through conscious breath, movement, touch, and communication, where each person's choices and rhythms are honored
learn how to more deeply tune in to your body, mind, heart and spirit
to receive more fully from yourself and others, and to give without losing yourself
learn to give and receive full-body massage and to focus on the healing potential of sensual/spiritual energy
learn from your own and others' unfolding, and feel awed witnessing and supporting our uniqueness and commonalities

Outside the Boxes: Celebrating the Queer Body Erotic is a 2 1/2 day workshop (Friday evening, all day Saturday and Sunday), often clothing-optional, for those who are ready to vigorously explore new levels of feeling and aliveness, both within themselves and within a community of queers.

*************

I'm heading here in three weeks, and I couldn't be more excited. I went to a similar workshop in upstate New York last November, and it was a life-changing, amazing experience. I haven't seen San Fran in three years, either, so I can't wait to fall in love with the city again. It's one of the few places I would consider living, other than New Orleans. I know, I know, that sounds like cheating in my head, too. If this interests you at all, check out the website. And hit up the coordinator, Amy, with any questions or concerns. I might can help, too, so feel free to comment here if there's something you'd like to discuss about the workshop.

Under Pressure

2011-10-18T23:47:00.001-05:00

As I always say, you wake up one day (or one evening) in New Orleans and find that the cold has arrived, blowing through your cotton layers and straight into your bones. The heat arrives much the same way; there is no subtlety, no precursor.

Standing in the kitchen, I can feel the wind blowing through the cracks in the kitchen door, from under the cabinets, beating the leaves against the windows. A siren echos nearby, a reminder that we live only blocks from the hospital and even as my life slows down, someone, somewhere, is trying their best to survive a crisis. The kitchen smells like hot pie, Bourbon and apples, and I feel grateful. For a moment today, I wondered if life was returning to normal. And then I remembered... there is no normal. There's today. There is more stability, yes, but my normal now bears little resemblance to my normal of six months ago, a year ago, six years ago. There is no constant except change. Someday my silly heart will stop thinking otherwise and begin to embrace this.

******************

How do you tell someone you know that you can't love them? What a bizarre statement. I don't claim to know what I'll think, what I'll feel, months from now. And yet. I know this.

I know that for all your sweetness, for all the ways my arms long to wrap around yours, that my heart isn't in this. I know by the way you slip from my mind. I know by the way I become short-tempered, even frustrated, when we talk. I know by the way you shut me down in conversation, by the way you can't stop for a minute and consider my view as possible. Not right. Just possible.

I know by the way you touch me, by the way I touch you. I know by the way we miss each other coming and going, like freight trains in the night. I know by the look I give you before I walk into the next room.

How to say all these things without crushing you? I find it cruel, almost, how beginnings are graceful and endings are always akin to a car crash.

I've got to stop putting this off.

Sex Toy Review: Rainbow G

2011-10-10T23:57:00.000-05:00

I'm not sure if the "G" in Rainbow G stands for "gangsta," but a part of me hopes so. Or G-force. It could also be an abbreviation for what I'm screaming, which is along the lines of... "God, that feels amazing."

The Rainbow G is a pyrex glass dildo from SSA, sold at EdenFantasys sex toys. It's not actually rainbow-colored, unless you consider the primary colors to make up the whole rainbow. Personally, I don't see how anyone can truly call something "rainbow" and leave out the color purple. I call foul on this "rainbow" thing.

Despite the misnomer, I'm still a big fan. The Rainbow G has 7 1/4 insertable inches with a lovely curve in the middle which makes it fantastic for a g-spot toy. I definitely preferred it to the straight models. I'm learning that the trick to these glass pieces, due to their unyielding nature, is to try out several and see which one fits the angle of your body best. I'm curious what the reasoning is behind this one, since the curve is in the middle but straightens back out for the bulbous head, making me wonder how the hell it works so well. I don't think the curve is quite as significant as it looks in the photo. For all my analytical skills, I can't figure it out. But I'm past caring. I suppose it's a testament to the truth that every vagina is built a little differently; we don't all resemble the curves of anatomical models!

The rounded head makes for a more graceful exit and entry than some of the glass toys I've used; as I mentioned in a previous review, taking these out after orgasm can be a bit difficult if your vaginal walls tighten. The Rainbow G passed that test for me with flying colors, and for this reason alone, it will probably become my favorite of my glass collection.

The Rainbow G has a wide base, making it suitable for anal play. It has all of the fabulous benefits of glass -- it can be sterilized, heated and cooled, and easily stored. Plus, glass will rock your world. The Rainbow G is definitely capable of giving some earth-shattering g-spot orgasms. And if you haven't experienced glass dildos yet, then stop putting it off. You're got to try one of these :)

A Step Forward

2011-09-21T21:07:00.001-05:00

I remember this fear like it was yesterday. I remember the feeling like I might burst open, any moment, and expose this secret -- and I trembled at the thought of the reaction. It dominated my every thought, pushed me deeper and deeper into this hole in my head. So I let it out.

And even though the reaction wasn't anything like this man's father, nine years later, I'm so glad I did.

I cried watching this. I cried for my own experience, how much it hurt, for the wrecked relationship I have with my own family, for how very much I wanted (and still want) to hear this exact reaction. I cried for this man, thousands of miles from his family, for his excitement at the end of DADT and the fear in his voice as he asks, "Can I tell you something? Will you still love me no matter what?" I cried for that Alabama accent, and for the people who make the South a place I love to live. I cried for those of us who didn't get that reaction, and those of us who feared the worst but instead found support and love. I cried for those who spoke to me this week, telling me the mean, painful, and antagonistic comments their parents and friends made in reacting against their gender identity and sexual orientation. I cried because somehow, coming out gets easier with each successive person. But you never forget that first time. You never forget that first family member.

I send my love to Germany tonight, and to Troy Davis in Georgia.

Pleasurists #147

2011-09-14T20:06:00.002-05:00

Red Sheets by

Welcome to Pleasurists, a round-up of the adult product and sex toy reviews that came out in the last seven days. If you like what you see and want more of it be sure to follow our RSS Feed and Twitter.

Did you miss Pleasurists 146? Read it all here. Do you have a review for Pleasurists 148? Be sure to read the submission guidelines and then use the submission form to submit before Sunday September 18th @ 11:59pm Pacific.

Want a shiny new toy? All you’ve got to do is enter.

Win an Autographed Copy of “Slave to Love”! Deadline: September 13th @ Noon.
Blogiversary Giveaway…for the boys Deadline: September 15th @ 11:59pm Central.
P Style Deadline: September 18th @ 11:59pm Central.
Win an njoy Pure Wand Deadline: September 18th.
Win a Back to Bed Bundle Worth £100+ Deadline: September 31st.

Editor’s Pick

Barbara Carrellas’ Urban Tantra by Lucy Lemonade

I would describe Tantra as the presence of body and mind, breath, and pure enjoyment. This is the description I’ve developed from reading Urban Tantra, what I felt the book was trying to convey to me. Like some individuals I had the thought that Tantra was only for white, upper middle-class couples approaching mid-life crisis. Finishing Urban Tantra I consider it an excellent solo practice for self pleasure which can be combined with another individual.

Editor

Scarlet Lotus

This week’s reviews:

Vibrators

Bodywand Mini Massager by Kayla
Papaya Toys Tattoo by Robin of Robin’s Toy Nest
Evolved Symphony Dolphin by Evil Poptart
Extreme Platinum Rabbit by Bitchin’ Babe
Close2you Rondo by Toys in Love
Toyfriend Shorty by Amber from Scarlet’s Letter
Je Joue G-Ki by Navigator
LELO Siri by Masquerade Minx
Double Flexi-Dong by DIY Orgasms
Thalia Massager by Beanfiddler
Purple Plunge by Evil Poptart
Extreme Platinum Rabbit by Bitchin’ Babe
Symphony Dolphin by Evil Poptart

Dildos

Blue Spiral G by S. Elle
Fun Factory Amor by Kynky Kytty
Xhale Fantasy G-Spot 2 by Kynky Kytty
Phallix Dichroic Wrapped G-Spot by Kynky Kytty
TheTemp by Mistress Kay
Vixen Creations Lonestar by HotMoviesForHer Sex Toy Crew
Vixen Creations Buck by Toys in Love

Anal Toys

Ophoria A-Plug by Kit O’Connell
Trojan Mini Vibrating Butt Plug with Suction Cup by Midnight Boudoir
Rocks Off Naughty Boy by Masquerade Minx
Titus Teardrop by DIY Orgasms
Fun Factory Bootie by DIY Orgasms
Nexus Silo by DIY Orgasms
Nexus Neo by Bzzingbee

Sleeves, Rings, & etc.

Lube, Massage Oil, Bath Stuff, & etc.

BDSM/Fetish

Spring Shaft Heart Crop by Nymphomaniac Ness

Adult Books & Games

Adult DVDs & Porn

Lingerie & Shoes

Miscellaneous

Sex Toy Review: Blue Spiral G

2011-09-05T13:57:00.002-05:00

I remember seeing glass dildos for the first time years ago in a piercing parlor and headshop in the town I grew up in. They sold for a steep $150-$250, but dear me, they were gorgeous. I have such an attraction to the craftmanship of glass -- the colors, the glassblowing process, the way the material catches the light.

I secretly want to build a collection of glass dildos and display them as art pieces, but my roommate has shot down this idea. She's probably right.

That said, I couldn't comprehend why anyone would want to use a glass sex toy. But I admit, my interest is sparked by the usual. When a lover bought one last spring and used with me, I was sold. I bought my first glass dildo within two weeks.

Why glass? I prefer it for two major reasons -- it's safe because it can be sterilized, and the shear unyielding weight of the glass allows me to tighten my muscles around it, creating very unique orgasms. But there's more -- glass can be heated and cooled. It's very easy to grip with your vaginal walls, so it makes a fun toy for dominance/submission play. There's something delightful about making your partner hold it in while being spanked. Glass is also wonderful for anal; the smooth surface prevents friction, which can cause tears in the anal walls. If you're sore (anally or vaginally) after intense play, the cool, smooth surface of glass feels great. And, again, it can be sterilized, so it's ideal for safe sex.

But there are drawbacks to glass. Obviously, glass can break, so it must be stored carefully. The unyielding, heavy nature of the material can be both a strength and a detriment. It's not something you want to use with a lot of force because there is no give and take with your body; I'd wouldn't recommend strapping this into a harness unless you really knew what you were in for. Then there is my least favorite part about glass -- taking it out. After orgasm, your vaginal and anal muscles naturally retract, squeezing tight. It can take a few seconds (or minutes) to relax enough to get the glass dildo back out. The mushroom head on these toys can catch on your vaginal walls, making removal almost painful. If your anal walls or vaginal walls are very tight, I would recommend going with a glass toy that does not have the mushroom top -- but instead, going for something with a smooth tip.

The Blue Spiral G is a classic example of a glass dildo available at EdenFantasys sex toys. It has the standard shape -- a slight curve which accommodates the natural curve of the vagina and the anus, and a bulbous mushroom head which stimulates the g-spot and sits up right against the cervix during vaginal sex. With a little clitoral stimulation, this piece can produce some intense orgasms. It also makes for fun Kegel-ing, though unlike Ben Wa balls, you can't carry it around all day and squeeze. The length, 7 1/4 inches, is enough to satisfy most size queens. If that size intimidates you, remember that it doesn't have to go all the way in; it should leave enough to comfortably hold on to. The wide base is perfect for anal; the dildo will not go in too far.

The spiral adds a really nice texture, which I prefer over the simple, unadorned pieces. The price is incredibly reasonable; $24.99 versus $179.99 for a similar piece. (I cannot tell why there is a $150 difference in these two items, though I'm guessing they are simply from different manufacturers.) To clean, boil it or put it in the dishwasher.

It's a nice toy if you want a simple glass dildo, not something rose-shaped or heavily textured. A word of caution though -- and my only true complaint about the dildo itself -- the mushroom head is proportionately wide to the stem of the toy. If your vaginal and anal walls are tight, this is going to hurt coming out after an orgasm. Give your body a minute to relax, use plenty of lube, and rotate this toy with others -- don't use it every time.

The toy comes packaged in a red velour bag inside a plastic box. Store this toy carefully; the bag is not thick enough to adequately protect the toy. (My other glass toys came in padded velour bags. I wish this toy did, too). If you see a chip or crack, do not use it again.

On a final note: If you haven't played with glass yet, you're seriously missing out. I can't tell you enough how much I wish I had bought one sooner!

The Dog Days Are Over

2011-08-21T20:18:00.001-05:00

Summer is coming to a close quickly; I start school again on Tuesday evening.

I'm not ready. I'm not ready. I'm not ready.

I'm such a sucker for the long nights, Sunday evenings on the porch with friends and a suitcase of beer, deep sunsets out my kitchen window as I'm whipping up dinner for 10 people. There's something about summer that is so warm and carefree. A friend recently got a new tattoo, "Endless Summer" scrawled upon her arm, and I've been reverting to that image often this week. It's a quote from a novel that I can't remember, but I comprehend the sentiment down to my soul.

I fight change so hard, even though the whiffs of fall have stirred me into a frenzy lately. The other morning I woke up and the central air had clicked off for just a few minutes, and I swear the clear sky out my window carried a breeze. I threw on a long-sleeve wrap, just in case, and was rudely awoken by the 95 degree heat on my doorstep.

Most of my friends adore fall. I admit, I can't wait for football season. I can't wait for the heat to abide so I can play in Audubon Park on weekends and go for walks in the Quarter without sweat dripping down my back. Festival season will start up again. Friends will come to visit, and I'll have an excuse to travel home for a weekend. There's a lot for me to look forward to, even if it feels bittersweet right now. Decadence is in two weeks. I've got half my costume picked out, and I can't wait -- the glitter, the crowds, the queers, the madness. I adore it. The weekend after I'm flying to San Antonio for the wedding of two amazing gay men, and, to sweeten the pot, I'm staying with my best friend I haven't seen in months. These mitigate the end of summer, a bit.

In my head I have a list of things I wanted to accomplish before the end of summer. A trip to the beach. A night at the clothing optional pool, hopping from the sauna to the pool and back to the cabana bar. The contract work I owe my old job. A membership at a gym and a commitment to go. Quitting smoking. Taking photos of the city. I have, so far, accomplished none of this. But I have spent many fantastic evenings serving dinner and playing UNO and dancing at the drag shows and... so many things I can't cross off a list because I never dreamed to put them there in the first place. I suppose there is an ever-unending list of unaccomplished tasks. Dreams will always remain dreams until they become goals, or better yet, priorities.

I am ready for school to be done. I'm so fatigued with this degree. It's a wonder I haven't quit by now; I'm not really sure what my motivation is anymore, except to finish what I started. I haven't been enjoying my classes. I don't really know if I see any purpose, and it's looking like I won't finish until December 2012 the way I've put things off. I hope that part flies by. It always does, except when I'm rolling my eyes through three hours on a Tuesday night, ready to go home and eat and shower. I suppose I'm only finishing because education is a privilege that I have access to. Because not finishing doesn't feel like an option. Because I hope someday this degree is useful -- and in some ways, it has been already. Because the thought of quitting and beginning again terrifies me. I don't think I have the drive to do this again.

(Repeat these words to me, please, two years after I've graduated when I have some wild hair that I want to do this again.)

Oh, sweet summer, how I'll miss you.

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.

Grant me a reprieve from the anxiety that comes with change.

Grant me faith to keep going, and peace to live in the moment.

And, you know, while I'm asking for shit, a pony would be great. But I'll settle for someone who will let me tie them up. :)

The King of (Wishful) Thinking

2011-08-15T22:59:00.001-05:00

Her hand rests on my shoulder for a second before she begins to run her fingers down my side, across my ass, looping back up across my thighs. I'm lying, propped on my side, in the big bed, almost swimming in blankets. There's a late afternoon sun struggling to slip through the holes in the curtains, and I can still make out the tinge of green in her eyes in the light.

Her hand rests for a moment on my thigh, and I have a fleeting thought of shame, self-critiquing the size of my body, the parts that aren't soft enough, aren't thin enough, aren't hairless, aren't... I look up at the wall behind her, my eyes land on a photo I took of a friend years ago, and I push the thoughts back where they belong. I have strict rules about the bedroom, and one of the most sacred is not to critique my body or anyone else's in this space. Bodies should be adored, worshiped, touched, fucked, and even (consensually) flogged, abused, and manipulated -- never treated with shame and disrespect. I bring no judgment of someone else's physical appearance here, and I expect and demand the same -- of myself and others.

"Where are you?" She sees my eyes wander.

"Thinking about gender."

"How so?"

"Hm." Her fingers slow their creep as she focuses on the conversation. I find I'm glancing off into the distance again; it's a protective measure, a precursor to revealing something intensely personal.

"I... I'm thinking about 'genderqueer.' It's been on my mind a lot lately. I was playing online one day, as I am wont to do, and stumbled upon an author I'd never heard of before. Ze had some photos on hir blog, and I realized that ze might be the first person I've ever seen who identified as genderqueer and, yet, was also somewhat feminine in appearance."

"The first? Really?"

"Can you think of others off the top of your head?"

Her silence is telling.

"Ok. Let me change that question. What do you think of when you think of someone who is genderqueer?"

"Androgyny. Playing across the gender spectrum. Younger people. That's tough. It's a complex identity."

"Agreed." Not-so-secretly I love these discussions. "I guess, where I'm going with this... I didn't realize I had any preconceived notions of genderqueer. But when I think through everyone I know who identifies as genderqueer, they are all young, often women, often very masculine or androgynous. Sometimes trans, and sometimes wildly varied in their gender expression. But... and here is why I'm thinking so intently on this... I know that I still carry some of the hang-up that I hate, the one that says that the way you present your body, the way you dress, the way you choose to look, reflects on your gender identity."

"Well, it does." She's very quick to respond to this.

"Does it? Maybe on the surface. But I think identities are personal, identities are chosen and claimed by individuals." I roll over on my back, putting my hands under my head to prop myself at an angle. She runs her pointer finger over my nipple ring, giving it a really strong tug. "I don't give a shit what you look like; you can wear dresses and makeup and tell me your male-identified and I'll use any pronoun you please. I have no criticism of anyone else's gender identity, expression, or pronouns and terminology. But when I flip that back toward myself, I find I still have this mental block that I can't be genderqueer because I'm too feminine physically. Does that make sense? Finding this author, who identifies very strongly as genderqueer and uses gender neutral pronouns -- it almost clicked. Like I had..."

"Realized something was missing?"

"YES."

"What do you think that means?"

I'm wandering, tangeting round about. We both know where this is going, and mostly, I'm not going to admit that I'm scared. I'm not going to admit I find playing with gender infinitely harder than playing with sexuality. I'm not going to admit, out loud, that I've backed myself into a corner where I'm simply comfortable, or until I've let fear tell me that I'm comfortable, and secretly I'm playing with a lot in my head. Eight years after coming out, I'm still figuring this all out, and it's still fucking scary. Even though... if someone else came to me, I'd encourage it. Hell, I'd tell them that identity and self-awareness are a lifelong process, a part of being in flux, and that changing the way you look and exploring identities is a huge part of growing comfortable with yourself, finding your place. I'd also say that all of this, while fascinating, is also pretty topical. "Do what you need to do to be happy. Respect and embrace the choices of others in doing the same." I say these things to others, often, over and over again. And yet, I'm boxing in myself.

"I... don't know." But this is what comes out. "I truly believe gender is a spectrum, and the more I think about 'genderqueer' as a word, the more I think it means embracing that -- no matter what part of that spectrum you fall on. I think when I see the boxes for 'male, female, and other,' I unfailingly check 'other.' I think... I need to play with this more."

"I think you know what you need to do."

I turn back toward her and our eyes lock. She's still dead serious, but there's a mess of playful in the way I look at her. "I do know what I need to do. I need to fuck you."

"Do you, now?" I love when she gets a little rough, a little strong. Ok, maybe more than a little.

I hook my hand behind her head, pull her down, deep into the covers, into me, letting this conversation melt into a kiss.

"I can't argue with that logic." She pulls away after a moment to kiss my neck. "Why don't you get on your knees and suck my cock," I whisper right next to her ear.

"I think I can handle that." With her palm, she pushes me down hard into the mattress. "Your cock, hm? I do think you should put some thought into that genderqueer identity." She reaches down, under the comforter, and slides her fingers down my shaft.

*****

As an aside, after writing this, I was reading Sinclair's blog and found this post on butch identity really interesting. I don't know anything about Butch Voices or their changes and controversy, but I did think the commentary illuminates this idea that identity language is a) incredibly personal, b) empowering, and c) defined completely differently by various people.

August

2011-08-02T19:06:00.001-05:00

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of toast and tea.

T. S. Eliot still charms me, years after our introduction, and I find that as I grow older my love for this poem morphs without diminishing. I remember distinctly that my favorite teacher in high school, my junior year English teacher, was a sucker for any poem about mutability. This one comes to mind first for me at the thought of that word. If it wasn't so very long, I'd tattoo the whole thing onto my body. Every time I read it I find myself falling for a different passage.

My birthday is in exactly 11 days, and I've been talking about it almost non-stop. It's not that this birthday is special -- it's not. I adore August; I wait for it, patiently but with one eye to the calendar, all year long. Even the 112 heat index can't sway me, and I find that it is one of the few buoys for me lately amid family drama and the chaos of navigating the healthcare system. August coincides with the beginning of school (which I've never been a huge fan of) and the end of summer, which is always bittersweet. But everyone around me is ready for the end of the dog days, ready for the temperature to drop to (at least!) 80 degrees, ready for the holidays and long pants and the end of summer electricity bills.

Secretly, I love the summer -- kids voices echoing as they play in the streets, long sunlit evenings melting into twilight, beers on the porch, swimming in backyards, nights that call me out till 3am. August is my last hurrah. It's also the month that everything big usually happens. It's when my best friend died -- seven years ago this year. It's a big travel month for me, which is a part of the soul searching my birthday always brings out. It's the two year anniversary of my move to NOLA.

It's also a really beautiful word. August. I'd name a child this in a heartbeat. I love how androgynous it is, and yet, there are these curves to the word, to the letters, than enthrall me.

My birthday is more charming and reflective than New Years for me; it's a time for reflection, a time to gather up all the chaos of the last year and sort through the changes, a time to start looking at the future. I crave the company of friends and queer family most at this time. I find myself going out almost every night this week and probably next. I don't care much for sweets or acknowledgement or big to-do's, but at the point when I'm checking in, feeling vulnerable about what is to come, I love to be surrounded by the people who make me happy. I don't find myself expecting or wanting gifts -- but the opposite -- I find that I want to give more, to mother, to provide for those around me.

I've enjoyed the hell out of being 23. It's been a very good year for me, overall. It's definitely had it's moments -- kicking out my ex was pretty miserable and the hospital visit in March was something I'd prefer not to live through again. The very recent death of my dog, though I've expected it, feels very much like I lost a close friend and ended an era in my life. It's been hard to let go. But this year I've met and become close to a group of really amazing people. I have a job I adore. My cats are happy and healthy, school is going, my family is still nuts, though I'm learning to create relationships with my generation.

My young cousin was in town this weekend, and talking to her was a really bizarre reality check in my life. I'll have to write more about it another time, when I'm not running late to dinner. But a part of that was a reminder of how blessed I am. I wouldn't relive being 18 for the world. If I could go back to a point in my life, I wouldn't. I'd stay right where I am. If I could call up my 18-year-old self and tell her what I know now, tell her what I have and where I live and let her meet the people who surround me on a daily basis, I would. I'd tell her that it turns out very, very differently than you dreamed and better than you thought. I'd tell her a lot of things, but primarily, that it's all going to be ok -- so don't take anything too seriously and embrace your mistakes.

If anything, that's the same thing I'd tell myself now -- it's all going to be ok, so just fucking enjoy it. And if you're not, then make the changes you need to in order to get there.

I'm looking forward to 24. It's a number that means nothing to me and nothing to society, but I could care less. I'm finally settling into the reality that I'm one of the youngest in almost every setting in my life -- work, friends, school, etc. -- though I suppose that will change as younger people come along behind me. But for much of my life I've been in a hurry to grow up, to be taken seriously as an adult, to have the number to match the feeling. Somewhere in the last year or two I left that feeling behind, and I traded it for the realization that I have time. There's nowhere I need to rush to, nothing I need to prove. I like not knowing what the future will bring. I like that where I am now will be nothing compared to where I'll be next year, in ten years.

I'm not afraid of 30, of 40, or even of 50 and beyond. I fear what declining health will mean, yes. But I've met so many people who take age with a grace that I desire and respect. I can't change that most of life is a march toward death, through mutability, and I wouldn't if I could. I'd much rather embrace it.

Baby, Baby, the Stars Are Shining For You

2011-07-12T00:16:00.000-05:00

"I want to get her a toy. What kind of toys does she have?" Megan gestures toward the baby I'm rocking.

"She doesn't have any yet," the baby's mother, Kat, answers.

Kat reminds me of a Tegan-and-Sara-look-alike. She's around 5'4, average size, cropped dark hair, with plugs in her ears and swim trunks with a basketball jersey. She doesn't look like she just had a child, and it takes me a minute to put the pieces together.

"Are you her mother?" I ask.

"Yep. My first and only kid." She laughs. "And she looks nothing like her father or me." I don't know her background or her partner, nor do I want to pry. Considering this crowd, it would be easy to assume she's a lesbian by looks alone, but that's clearly a mistaken assumption.

"Oh, Oh, I want to buy her first Barbie doll!" Megan pulls her towel around her white bikini bottoms and redirects the conversation. We're at a pool party for a friend, and almost everyone present is queer- or lesbian-identified. Megan is a stereotypically pretty girl, thin and petite with waist-length dark hair.

Kat looks slightly averse to this suggestion. "No, she doesn't need Barbies. She'll have legos and boys' toys. They're much more fun."

I'm holding everything in to keep from laughing at the shock on Megan's face. Aside from the fact that a six-week-old child doesn't need any toy with tiny plastic parts, I can't keep my big mouth shut. I glance up from the sleeping infant toward Kat. "I don't blame you for not wanting to give her gendered toys."

"But she needs a Barbie doll. Why can't she have one?" Megan's response comes out almost indignant.

"Needs one for what? She can have legos and fischer price toys and dump trucks and all the cool toys I had as a kid."

"But every little girl needs Barbies!"

"I didn't play with Barbies, and I turned out fine. I was a normal American kid." I'm caught off-guard by her statement. I like the idea of the average American child playing with all kinds and types of activities and toys. But, as I rolled through the McDonald's drive thru earlier that day, I can attest to the fact that the most popular restaurant in America still sells toys based on a gender dichotomy: pink Strawberry Shortcake dolls for girls and light sabers and Star Wars action figures for boys. As does Walmart, Target, and every other retailer catering to the "average American child."

Megan's butch girlfriend wanders up, and Megan turns to her, almost pouting. "Kat won't let me buy her daughter a Barbie. She has no toys! She needs a Barbie doll." Megan's girlfriend takes a sip of her beer, barely registering Megan's concern. "Ok, baby."

"If you want to buy her something pink, then she can have pink legos." Kat responds to Megan, though clearly, Megan's comments were not meant for her.

"Pink legos! Why are legos so exciting?" Megan turns back to wrap her arms around her girlfriend. "But don't you think every little girl needs a Barbie doll?"

Megan's girlfriend smiles down on the tiny child, wrapped up in a blanket and sucking on a pacifier. "She's got a great mohawk."

Kat laughs. "My mother makes fun of her for having such short hair. She keeps telling me she looks like a boy. The other day she goes, 'I just know she's going to be a lesbian with hair like that.' I can't believe she said that! I was like, 'Mom. She's six weeks old. She doesn't look like anything but a baby.'"

We all laugh, but there's a register of shock in the laughter. I don't even know how to respond. I can't help but think that if this sweet child, like most American children, can't escape the confines and pressures of the gender binary at six weeks old -- along with the assumption that gender non-conformity is a label for sexuality -- I can't imagine what an uphill battle she has ahead.

*(I have to admit that I didn't write in a description of their bodies and clothes to color their ideas of gender, but simply because that was the reality I witnessed.)

Sex Toy Review: Sliquid Sea

2011-07-10T23:57:00.002-05:00

Did you know lubricant isn't usually vegan?

I didn't.

I have to admit, I'm a bit wary of putting synthetic chemicals into my body. I'm also wary of living in a culture where we put animal parts and hormones into everything! Ever! Call me a hippie, but I do think about and care about these things.

So when Edenfantasys Sex Toys gave me the option to review a sex lubricant that is vegan, I got a little excited.

Sliquid Sea is a water-based lube, which means its great for use with condoms, latex gloves, and silicone toys. It's also mostly natural, as the primary ingredients are plant cellulose (from cotton) and three types of seaweed extracts. It's hypoallergenic and paraben-free.

I'm rating Sliquid Sea on the three factors I use to pick out a lube: consistency, flavor/odor, and how it feels on my body a minute after sex.

1) Consistency: Sliquid Sea has a great medium consistency. It's not globby and gel-thick like a silicone lubricant, nor is it runny and messy, like many water-based lubricants. I prefer something in this very middle range. I don't like to have to mop up my floor or bed when my cock is dripping, nor do I want to feel like I'm fucking through jello. I want a lube that is very similar to vaginal secretions, but which won't dry out as quickly. I've tried many lubes that really miss the mark on consistency, but Sliquid Sea definitely excels in this category.

That being said, I wouldn't recommend Sliquid Sea for anal sex; it's much too thin. I'd also recommend reapplying if you're changing positions often or going at it for a long time.

2) Flavor/Odor: My favorite part of the Sliquid Sea is the taste. Lube usually tastes awful. It's a fact of life. Either it's "flavored" -- as if I want to taste Pina Colada mixed with plastic and risk getting/giving a sugary-induced yeast infection -- or it's acidic and gag-inducing.

Sorry for the intense imagery, but you know I'm right.

Sliquid Sea isn't sweet, nor is it wickedly bitter. It's has almost no taste at all. There's a tiny hint of flavor, almost acidic. But it fades very quickly, and it doesn't leave you feeling like you just rolled your tongue around a battery. There's no smell, which also helps.

In other words, Sliquid Sea is fantastic for oral sex.

3) Afterglow: I don't tend to shy away from the personal on this blog. Yeah, yeah, I'm sure you know this by now. So I have to be brutally honest: I dread using lube because of the way it feels on my vagina after sex. I hate when, post-orgasm, I most want to be held, and instead, I'm rushing to the bathroom to wipe the lube off so I'm not distracted by the texture of gel lathered all over my vagina. I don't want that moment interrupted; I want a lube that isn't going to leave with that feeling immediately. It's fine if I need to get up and wash it off before I go to sleep; I simply don't want to have a reaction within a few minutes after sex.

So, does Sliquid Sea pass the post-coital afterglow texture test?

Yes! Sliquid Sea is so similar to natural vaginal secretions, it's a bit uncanny. It doesn't feel heavy or sticky. It might not be the ideal for a woman who dries out very easily -- I can't attest to this.

Overall, I'm impressed. I would recommend Sliquid Sea.

(For $12.99 for 4.2 oz, it's very reasonably priced, too.)

Girl From the Gutter

2011-07-06T00:06:00.000-05:00

I left class tonight with every intention in the world of coming home and writing. I've got a few stories on the backburner, and really, sometimes I just have to push myself to write.

But then.

I laid in bed and started reading Autostraddle, as I am wont to do sometimes, and stumbled upon Slate's six-part series on the past, present, and future of gay bars. And because I'm a huge queer history nerd who is absolutely fascinated with the history of the gay bar scene in America, I got sucked in. Hardcore. I mean, who doesn't want to read an account of Alison Bechdel's first experience in a lesbian bar? (Tell me you know who she is because her graphic novel and comics are fan-fucking-tastic.) Who isn't shocked to learn San Francisco had 118 gay bars in 1973 and 33 in 2011?! And, and, and, oh.my.god there is a black and white photograph of queers dancing at a NOLA bar named Dixie's in the 1950's.

Um. I could go die happy now.

So, while I really want to talk all about my week and about the fucked up gender things I can't seem to ignore, and I really want to write fabulous erotic stories for you... instead, I'm going to relive a bit of my own history.

((Musical Interlude))

http://youtu.be/8sPw_yUeD7M

((this song will always make me cry in a gay bar))

Technically, my first time in a gay bar was in Houston, Texas, in June 2006. Four of us -- me, the girl I'd broken up with a month before, my best friend, and her girlfriend -- went to a concert in Houston. Before we got on the road, I looked up every lesbian bar I could find online, and made it clear to them that, as the volunteer driver for the weekend, I was requiring at least ONE trip to a lesbian bar. At least one.

We went to Sue Ellen's, a lesbian establishment in Houston, but we weren't 21. So the butch checking ID's sent us around the corner, to a smaller, unmarked bar.... which happened to be the only African-American lesbian bar in town.

Wow, we stuck out like sore thumbs.

We couldn't drink, so I think we stayed like 15 minutes. Maybe 20. The place was empty. Instead, we took off to try to get tattoos, which also did not happen. Two of us got piercings instead. Thankfully, my ex and my best friend talked me out of getting a rainbow women's symbol tattoo.

(Dear lord, I really was that gay. I guess we all have to survive the baby dyke phase. My first reaction is to think that would have been a huge mistake, and my second reaction is to wonder if it's easier to get laid with a rainbow tattoo. I'll never know the answer to this question.)

Anyway. I don't really count that.

I first went to a gay men's bar on August 12th; I rang in the first hour of my 19th birthday in the bar. It's a tiny place, maybe the size of my living room and kitchen combined, and very rarely does anyone check an ID. The crowd is predominantly white gay men 35+, though there's some give and take. Though I wasn't legally supposed to be in the bar until I turned 21, I grew up going there because it was so easy to get in. Many of my coworkers, fellow college students, former teachers, old high school friends, and old family friends have haunted that place at one time or another. I've seen holidays and funereal celebrations and birthdays there. I feel like I'm going back to visit family when I make it back a few times a year.

But my first real experience in a queer bar was a few nights later. My girlfriend snuck me off campus during orientation, and I talked a fellow staffer into covering for me. I was an anxious ball of freaking-the-fuck-out. I'd never been within 100 feet of the place. I had no idea what to expect. I'd been carefully schooled on what to wear: jeans, no rainbows (do you wear the band t-shirt to the band's concert? No.), a t-shirt or a button-up, no makeup, chucks or tennis shoes, a color-coordinated leather belt, and no jewelry except a men's watch and maybe something leather. We had a plan. I knew the layout of the bar, how to slip past the doorman while my then-girlfriend created a diversion, who to look for once I got in, not to order my own drinks.

By some miracle, though I thought my heart might explode out of my chest, I made it through the door unnoticed. I felt so young, terrified, out of place. I put on my best "I belong here, so don't fuck with me" face and didn't stop to turn around until I made it halfway up the wooden staircase. I remember catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wondering who this stranger was. I'd been having sex with a girl since I was 16, and yet, surrounded by so many dykes, my own identity became shaky. What did I have in common with the butch women in their 40's hanging out at the bar? What did I know about the community, about being queer, about these bars and growing up queer and closeted in the south? Who did I think I was, trying to claim a place here, when clearly I had no experience? I felt like an imposter, and I was convinced everyone saw through me. The feeling didn't pass until my girlfriend pulled me in and kissed me, in front of a room full of people waiting for the drag show to begin. And then I knew I was exactly where I belonged.

I left a piece of my heart in that bar, somewhere between 4am line dances and New Years' Eve and a dance floor filled with so many of my friends. I may hate the town, but I'm damn proud to say I grew up in the queer community there.

(Mad points and eternal glory to whomever gets the post title reference.)

I'm on the Right Track

2011-06-26T23:21:00.000-05:00

This post will be super short because I'm exhausted, but so it goes.

I spent my Pride weekend not in the streets or in a parade, not getting arrested in Russia, not having lots of sex or dancing to Lady Gaga or writing political advocacy letters, though all of those things are well and good.

I spent my pride weekend surrounded by queer family. I spent it being honest with someone I care about. I took a queer friend to the hospital. I caught up with a queer friend I haven't seen in months.

I've been in and seen Pride parades, festivals, and marches. I've written letters and worked on political campaigns. I've done queer public health advocacy and gotten trained in conducting HIV testing and counseling. I've attended gay and lesbian weddings and raised hell in doctor's offices. I've responded with open arms and an ear to strangers who sent me emails and facebook messages, looking for someone to talk to as they came out. I've created a Safe Zone program and put on programs on safe sex and safe bondage. I've conducted three research studies on LGBT issues, and I've spoken on panels and at queer conferences and to rooms full of people I've never met about some of the most intimate details of my personal life. I've danced in queer clubs and drank in queer bars around the world and visited Stonewall and the Castro. I've gone to PFLAG meetings and gotten queer scholarships and read queer theory and become a trans advocate. I have immersed myself completely and totally in queer culture throughout my life.

But the power and the pride and the love I have for this community comes not from most of those things, but from my queer family. Some of them are very close friends; others are acquaintances that I've taken a particular affinity to. I disagree with most all of them on one subject or another. Some I see only sporadically -- at a wedding or on a fluke. Some of them I haven't seen in years (much like many of my blood relatives), but I still think of them as family all the same. A handful of them would do anything for me, and probably every one of them would, at the least, buy me a beer.

I'm blessed, so completely and utterly blessed, to have these people as a part of my life. If I could have them all in one place, at one moment, I'd have my own damn Pride party. But they're spread across the country (and possibly the world), celebrating Pride in their own ways and raising hell and being awesome.

I don't often get the chance to pay tribute and honor to the things they've done for me. The people who've been there when I was in the hospital, struggling through a breakup, morning the loss of a friend, or fighting with my family. The people who make weekends fun, who make sex fantastic, who know how to make me smile. I love ya'll. Happy Pride. I'm proud of the community we've built, the one we're a part of. I'm proud that I can be there for you, some more than others. I'm proud to share my life with you. I'm proud of the person you've helped me become.

So maybe I didn't do anything big and crazy this weekend. Maybe I wasn't surrounded by thousands of my lgbt friends. But I did find love and support, I did give love and support, to my queer family, and for that, I think this weekend was definitely a wonderful Pride.

I've Had Just Enough Time

2011-06-22T18:28:00.001-05:00

I can tell getting off birth control is fucking with me emotionally. I never realized how large of a role my hormones play in my emotional and mental health until I got on birth control at 18; it was a massive difference. It's not as bad as it was then, thankfully, but still a mess. In the last three weeks, I can cry at the drop of a hat. There's this song that comes on the radio every once in awhile (as if I need more reasons to hate the radio) about dying young, and every time I hear it, I think of Will and turn into a messy puddle. I second guess myself, constantly, and find that I'm struggling to talk about my feelings even more than usual, which means I don't. At all. I'm spending way, way too much time in my head lately, and not in a good way.

I find I spiral out often, letting conversations that made me upset or hurt or angry come back up, having the same debates in my head, even though I know I need to let it go. I find myself asking philosophical questions that put me nowhere but in a hole with a shovel, looking for answers I can't find. I held a focus group last week, that along with a culmination of other factors, left me in such an upset and angry state that I couldn't talk about it for two days. I find I still have some of that anger balled up. I realize some of it is very justified -- the anger isn't just me, it's a response to a lot of bullshit from my old job, frustration with the situation we're working with and my own concerns about the people involved -- but any time my anger becomes this powerful, I have to walk away. I have to step away and shut down and realize that my response is not productive, and at the end of the day, it's not hurting anyone but me. I find myself doing this a lot lately. Mentally checking out of conversations, putting up a wall around myself, censoring a lot of what I want to say. It must be a form of hell to be around. I hate how short-sighted and insular I can become. It's not a fun experience for anyone.

I'm taking a lot of this as a sign that I need to walk away from some of the LGBT work I've been doing in the past two years in NOLA. I do this. I wander away, let go and disappear underground for awhile, then when I feel called back, I return. Lately it's become overwhelming to realize I'm dating and playing and working in the same circles. Everyone's got an opinion on what queer activism and society and social responses should look like, because we're all personally invested. I get it. I find myself getting wedged often between my beliefs and convictions, the convictions of my closest friends, powerful institutions and organizations, and the often biting opinions of people I work with -- all at the expense of either a) myself and my mental health or b) the very people we're all working to help, who are often the most disenfranchised in the community. Eh. It's exhausting. I get tired of having to constantly justify who I work for, what I believe, what I'm doing to make things better, how I'm walking a thin line between opposing viewpoints... and realizing that, when I come home and go out with friends and just want to turn off, I can't. Because those issues are still very present for them, and it comes up often. I find I can't leave my frustrations and anger at work, because my work is my life. I find that I'm having to constantly justify my personal queer identity to strangers as a way of making my work legitimate to people who take one look at me and assume I'm not queer. It's a lot of fighting, at the end of the day, and it comes home with me. I need a break from it.

I'll come back. Queer advocacy and sexual health is my heart and soul, always will be, and I'm like a moth to the flame.

I don't know if it's right to blame my frustration and my sadness all on the birth control. Some of it is probably burn out from my last job. My new job is going fantastic, by the way, and I really believe it was the leap of faith I needed. It's unreal to step off a sinking ship, and turn around, only to find out it was sinking a lot faster than I realized. I didn't understand how much stress I felt from that job until I changed jobs and found that -- wow -- it's such a drastic difference. I actually enjoy going to work, the people I work with, and what I'm doing. I've been busier than ever, working 40 hour weeks and finishing this research contract and going to school and trying to fit a social life in there, too. It's not bad, but I'm guessing the stress of thirteen hour days -- I had four in a row last week, not counting going out on Tuesday and thursday night until 1am -- isn't really aiding anything. Eh. Self-care never was my specialty. It's no wonder I have high blood pressure.

I can blame it on the weather or on my birth control. I can blame it on stress or missing friends. I can blame it on a lack of sleep or living alone or the back pain that makes everything a little more difficult lately. I can say it's the pendulum effect of being so up and on from the last few months or maybe I have inherited bipolarity, though that one I'm doubtful of. But the truth is, I don't really know what it is. I just know I feel haunted, in a way I can't seem to wake up from, and I'm ready for it to end. I'd compare it to going through life under a veil, but that's just a little too close to the bell jar metaphor for me to really feel comfortable about saying that. It's probably the truth. But I'm scared to admit it. I keep telling myself that this will pass, that maybe after a month things will flatten out. I kind of hope so, because this kind of emotional intensity is absolutely exhausting. I imagine sensory integration sensitivity feels like this. My emotions are a little too raw, a little too exposed and easily overstimulated, always on. All the time.

I'll get back to writing about sex soon, I hope. I want to. I've got stories in my head that I need to let out, but unfortunately, they keep getting pushed to the back of the burner lately. I don't want this blog to feel like work, when so much of everything else in my life does. So I'll come back to it. I always do.

Oh, When the Saints

2011-06-03T00:24:00.001-05:00

In August 2009, after ~~months~~ years of planning to move, I left north Louisiana. I quit a job I loved (even if my boss was fucking insane, I really loved my job), I packed up our huge apartment, I kissed my last salary check goodbye, and I got in a car and moved everything I owned to New Orleans.

I wasn't really sure I wanted to live here; I wanted to move to San Francisco, and New Orleans was a second-best, much more affordable, option. I had deep-seated regrets about leaving my job; I knew I'd miss my clients. The possibility of evacuating scared me shitless. I feared what leaving a great job only seven months in would do; would I find another job I actually liked again, much less one that paid me well? I had never lived anywhere else as an adult. Hell, I'd been in the same town in north Louisiana for eight years. I wasn't sure if I knew how to adjust to a new culture, make new friends, and create new life. I thought I'd lost all my marbles, but damn it, I was dead set on moving.

It took me two months to find a job. I went back into the restaurant industry, which I always knew was a possibility, but without knowing anyone here, I couldn't find work in a higher-end restaurant. (It truly is all about making connections in this town.) I took a massive pay cut -- around 50% -- and my rent and utilities almost doubled over night. I made enough to pay rent and utilities and to buy food and gas, but only barely. I ate through a lot of what I had saved at my last job, just trying to survive. Tensions ran very high in my house, and the severe lack of income was a huge part of it.

I went back to asking my mother for help, which did much more than dent my pride -- it put me in a personal debt to her which made me feel disparagingly guilty. My family, myself included, has plenty of issues about control and money. It's enough to send me over the edge on any good day. I jumped around jobs, grabbing at anything on the side that would make me some extra money to travel, to go out, to have a life beyond my house. I applied for everything under the sun, hoping someday I would pull the right straw. I took contract work that paid well, but left me back at the same questions every few months -- what now? where will my next pay check come from?

And the whole time, the same nagging possibility sat at the back of my brain -- here I am creating a life in NOLA, a life I'm really enjoying, new friends and new connections and a history and a future here, but what if I'm forced to choose between finding a job I actually enjoy and that can sustain me and staying in New Orleans? Do I love this city enough to put aside the work I've done in school, my interests, and work in the restaurant industry for the rest of my life? Do I love this city enough to give up other jobs, better possibilities in other cities, to stay here?

I kept coming back to a resounding, "no." Why? Well, life is about compromises, yes. But I'm super, insanely, driven. So much so. And I've put aside a lot of dreams, a lot of possibilities, for relationships, for women, for family, for fear. I've been reserved. I haven't chased what I really wanted -- the only huge risk I've taken was to move here. So I didn't want to follow that path again. I knew I would come back. Hell, I knew I never wanted to leave in the first place. But if it came down to it, I would do it.

Anyway. That was all crazy back story.

You know that job I left in north Louisiana, the one I loved? Yeah, that one. Well, out of the blue, the same position opened up in New Orleans about two weeks ago. And at the urging of a close friend, I applied. I really, really feared what it would feel like not to get it -- to face that rejection again. But I applied anyway.

And wow. I got it.

While money isn't everything, it's necessary for my peace of mind -- it's necessary for my sustainability, to stay here, to thrive here.

While loving a job isn't necessary, and neither is school, it's why I went to school -- to be able to qualify for a job I actually enjoyed.

And while having benefits isn't a requirement of life, I must say, not having to face the prospect and fear of ending up in the hospital on a fluke ever again without health insurance... yeah, that sounds fantastic.

All of these are blessings. I wish everyone had them, and God knows, if I had the ability, I'd provide that for everyone. (I believe in a society that does support and assist in providing those opportunities for everyone.) I am insanely blessed to live in a city I love, to have stumbled (fallen?) into this job, to not have to worry if my salary will sustain me.

Point is, I can stay in NOLA.

I can create a career here, and I truly hope that I end up in this job for at least the next 5-6 years, if not more.

I don't have to fear leaving anymore.

I don't have to half-ass my existence here out of that fear.

I feel like a huge weight has lifted off my shoulders.

So, New Orleans, if you'll have me, I'd really like to stay. Please. I'd like to create some roots, because this feels like home.

Sex Toy Review: Black Magic Bullet from Doc Johnson

2011-06-01T23:29:00.002-05:00

This is my first review for Edenfantasys sex toys, so go easy on me ya'll -- It might be a bit before I get the hang of this. :)

If there was a luxury line for bullets, it would include the Black Magic Bullet from Doc Johnson. It's sleek and gorgeous, solid black with silver trim, and it's made of a texture I've never seen in a vibrator -- a velvet type of plastic that borders on luscious. If you haven't played with a bullet lately (they're not something I usually include in my sex play, either), most of them are made of tacky silver plastic or the clear, colored plastic that reminds me of an Easter egg. I appreciate the Easter bunny, but I'd rather not stick an Easter egg on my clit, thank-you-very-much.

Sexier than an Easter egg.

The Black Magic Bullet is also phthalate-free, latex-free, and hypo-allergenic, which means it's much safer than jelly vibrators and some of the other vibrators that you can find on the market. It cleans easily with antibacterial soap and warm water. It claims to be "waterproof," but I didn't drop it in my bathtub to see if that claim held up. I had better plans for it, of course.

I wanted to try out this bullet for only one reason. I have a few favorite positions, but getting fucked from behind is damn near the top of that list. I'm a total sucker for it. But I also need clit stimulation as hard as the day is long, and that's a difficult request for that position. It's the wrong angle for a Rabbit vibe or a Hitachi, or anything larger than a few inches. The little bullets which take watch batteries get lost too easily -- I'd spend more time looking for them in my toy box and buying expensive tiny batteries than actually using the bullet.

I know you must be wondering if the Black Magic Bullet passed the "does it work if I'm bottoming?" test, and the answer is: yes. I came quickly. Almost too quickly. But that's my own damn fault.

The Black Magic Bullet has four settings, and the most I can handle is the third. It's incredibly powerful for a very small, battery-powered vibrator. There is a disadvantage to this -- it's so powerful that holding it in my hand (or against my clit) can be difficult. Of course, this makes it all the more interesting for kinky play -- that's why controls are on wires, right? It's fantastically fun to watch someone else writhe as you turn up the volume and force them to take it.

I wouldn't want the vibrations to be any weaker -- it wouldn't serve it's purpose. Though the bullet did like to vibrate right out of my hand. I still don't have an answers for this dilemma.

A bullet will never be my go-to vibrator. I need something big and powerful that isn't going to need new batteries constantly, like the Hitachi. (I also like the idea of using my vibrator to club possible intruders, since I live in the Crime Capital of the U.S.) But the Black Magic Bullet is slim and discreet, making it great for traveling. I would definitely recommend it as a first-time vibrator or for those "situations" when you really need something small or a controller on a two-foot-long cord.

Check out EdenFantasys for more information and to pick up one of your own!

I Feel Like There Might Be Something That I Missed

2011-05-27T15:02:00.001-05:00

My mother is a good woman. She taught me a lot of things, like how to sew and how to drive a car, how to apologize, and how to sautee mushrooms really well. But she also taught me a lot of lessons that I'm still unlearning, like how pretty girls get the best in life, how self-recognition isn't important, how to want to be skinny, and how to self-sacrifice.

My mother is a strong woman. She's been through a lot. She's given up a lot for her children and for others around her, and I respect her for that. She tried her best to provide what she felt we should have. She set an example of self-sacrifice that I have ingrained into my life too deeply to root out. She taught me that my actions are always in the sight of others and always for others, two realities I am painfully aware of and often incapable of balancing.

But she didn't teach me self-love or self-respect, because she didn't have it in herself. It's hard to model what you don't believe. She didn't teach me how to ask for a salary I deserve, because she didn't know how -- she knew how to sacrifice, but not how to demand and negotiate. She didn't teach me to take care of my health and my body in positive ways, because she didn't know how to do it for herself. She didn't teach me how to live within a budget, to financially sustain myself, because she didn't know how.

These aren't the lessons that all mothers teach, but these aren't unique experiences, either. So many women teach these same lessons and learn these same lessons. I know that many of my actions are motivated by my wish to support, sustain, and take care of those around me -- that's how I spend my money, my time, my career, my relationships and friendships, and often whatever else I have. It's hard for me to justify doing something for myself, whether it's buying clothes or going to the doctor or having a hobby. I know I give much of my time in unpaid labor, and a part of that is because a) I haven't learned to value what my time is worth and b) volunteering satisfies my need to give in a very specific way. I know I hesitate to ask for things I need -- whether it's from a supervisor or from a friend -- because I don't truly believe my needs are important enough. It has and will hold me back in a workplace, where I have forgone recognition or a salary request or place at the table because I felt like someone else, something else, was more important. It holds me back in relationships, because I hesitate to ask for what I need, and I doubt that my feelings and my needs are important. It shows up as passive-aggressiveness, and I hate that. It holds me back in my ability to take care of myself -- the way I eat and sleep and how I abuse my body and take on stress because I don't view those things as important enough to change my behavior.

I want to unlearn these things, at least, enough not to pass them on.

I do think strength and sacrifice are important -- in moderation, not in excess. I don't want my friends, my children, to believe that they only way they should take care of themselves is for someone else. My mother never bought new underwear because she spent her money on the best toys and clothes and gifts for us. She ate once a day, because she believed it kept her skinny. She never went to the doctor, and when she did, she did so out of fear that if something happened to her, we'd have no one to rely on. It is about self-worth. It is about self-love. We learn the things our parents model. And don't get me wrong, my mother was not the only source of education I received. I learned these lessons from TV, from friends, from family members. I learned them from teachers and school, from the pervasive ideas our society has about gender and bodies and sexuality, from the people I looked up to most.

I want a healthy attitude on this. I want to know that I can sacrifice when I need to, but that my needs are important enough for me to express them and ask for them to be met. I want to take my medication every day not because everyone around me needs me to function for them, but because my health and my life matter to me. I want to exercise and eat well not because I'm afraid of what other people think about how I look, but because having energy, feeling healthy, and taking actions to improve my health improves my life. I want to teach that love isn't always sacrifice. It's also about empowerment. It's a gift of offering someone the model to do for themselves, to take responsibility, to act out of self-love. That is a form of strength -- not the quiet, suffering kind, but the pro-active kind.

I don't want to pass on these feelings of guilt and a lack of worthiness and a fear of not giving enough, not being enough. Those feelings suck. They're not motivating; they're restrictive and negative and harmful.

Enough already.

As someone very wise once told me, "Self-care is sexy."

It's so fucking true.

Queer Questions

2011-05-05T21:27:00.005-05:00

The school semester has ended, and in honor of this, I want to do something mind-numbingly easy. So I cut some questions from some silly survey, and here are my answers:

1) Your sexual orientation or gender identity.

(Why one or the other? Everyone has both.) Honestly, I identify both as queer. For me, being queer is about my politics and inclusion, which is the "radical" notion that all people should be treated with respect and equality. Queer is how I explain my sexual attraction, which is not limited by someone else's gender. Queer is about disrupting norms and refusing classifications, which I firmly believe in and practice. Queer is about sex and gender as shifting, fluid, and often ambiguous. I am a cisgender female, though I don't have a tight grip on that identity. It's something I'm still figuring out. I'm not genderqueer, by most people's definition of that word. But I also don't subscribe to a lot of tenets about gender, so I do queer it in some ways. Call it what you will -- I usually don't call it anything.

2) How old were you when you knew?

Knew what? I was 3 when I knew I hated mustard. I was 21 when I knew I wanted to live in New Orleans. I was 15 when I knew I was sexually attracted to someone of the same sex.

3) The first person you came out to and that story.

I did a couple shots of whiskey and realized I wanted to kiss my best friend. And I didn't want to stop there. A few days later, I called my most recent ex-boyfriend. We'd only been broken up for about two weeks. The break up was completely mutual; we stayed close friends until his next girlfriend got jealous of our friendship. (I miss him. Haven't seen him in years. Can't seem to find him, though) I told him about that night, and that I thought I was attracted to my best friend -- me, not the alcohol. He was completely supportive. No jealousy, no creepy "I want to watch" crap, just support. I remember him telling me to talk to her, to go for it. Even now, I'm still floored thinking back on that moment.

4) Thoughts regarding inner turmoil about your sexuality; did you have any? Did it escalate to self-injury or suicidal thoughts?

I really didn't. Back then I followed my heart before my head. (Not till years later did that get me into trouble) I remember trying the word "lesbian" on for size, and not really finding comfort or understanding in it. Looking back at my journals from high school, I never used it. I didn't need a label. I had love.

I was suicidal and prone to self-injury in high school, but that was not connected to my sexuality. I was severely depressed, angry, and in the middle of some fucked up family stuff. Anything I could claim as my own, including my sexuality, became a source of power -- not a detriment. I didn't give a shit. I jumped head-on into dating a girl. I had few fears. It wasn't until it started raining hell -- my parents, hers, people we knew, bullies, etc. -- that I realized I was in well over my head. But I had the honeymoon period of a relationship with a girl I adored to gloss all the rest into the background. I was very, very lucky. I can't imagine going through that hell alone.

5) Did you face any problems regarding religion?

Personally, no. I had walked away from the church by that point. I was already on a politically and socially radical path. Like I said, I followed my heart then. '

My mother wasn't a big fan. But she had trouble with the God argument. She and God were never that close.

6) How did your parents take it?

Not well. My mother asked if we were together before we were, and I told her the truth -- that we weren't. So months later, when I decided to change that story, I knew it would be rough. I chickened out and wrote her an email; it had some other stuff in it, too. We didn't get along well. Ok, that's an understatement. We fought probably 2-3 times a week. That night, she came home, and she was dead calm, which was very unusual. She wouldn't come near me. She cried and said she would "fix this." She drove me to a psychiatrist the next day. I talked with him for a bit, and he told her he "didn't see what the problem was." I wish he had straight up told her she was the problem.

I've had a tumultuous history with my mother. She's in a ten year divorce; they haven't handled property settlement yet. She has let it eat away at her and my family, and I wish she end it. We don't agree on much. She has never admitted I was queer out loud, not in front of me anyway. She has trouble acknowledging anyone I'm dating. We don't talk about a lot of things. It's still very contentious. I've been out to her for six years. I realized long ago that my biological family will never provide unconditional love or support. I don't even speak to half of them. I have an incredible queer family, though, who has taught me the power of giving and receiving strength and support. I love them all.

7) Your favorite LGBTQ movie.

Oh, so many. Angels in America. D.E.B.S. 20 Centimetros. Soldier's Girl. Loving Annabelle. But I'm a Cheerleader. Bent. Queer as Folk. Hedwig and the Angry Inch. That's all I can think of off the top of my head, but there are definitely more.

8) Your favorite gay joke.

What do you call a lesbian dinosaur? A lick-a-lot-o-puss.

I know, it's ridiculous. :)

Relationships, Queered

2011-05-05T11:16:00.006-05:00

So. I like this girl.

(which sort of sounds like something I would have said when I was 15.)

Honestly, it's a lot more than "like." I'm well past that. I mean, we've been sleeping together for almost four months. Sometimes she sleeps over, and we don't even have sex -- because we're too exhausted -- and I don't even care. I just want to be able to wrap my arm around her and fall asleep. Clearly, this is not a friends-with-benefits kind of thing. She's cute and funny and sweet and smart and all those good things, plus a whole lot more. She's got a huge heart. And enough music on her iPod to last for a roadtrip. She's a mess of contradictions and passions (which always gets me). And she lights up when I walk in a room.

(Did I mention we have fantastic sex?)

But best of all, when she falls asleep in my arms or kisses me on a streetcorner, my heart melts into a big puddle.

Then there's me, who is sort of gunshy and twitchy about commitment (even the low-key forms). I go from fiercely independent to cuddly and sweet at the blink of an eye, and it's a bit unpredictable. I struggle to voice my feelings -- and sometimes to even just identify them. (Feelings are HARD.) I stay busy constantly. I stress often. I either have very strong feelings about something, or no feelings at all. Oh, and I'm a Leo... which translates to "pain-in-the-ass."

Amid all this what-is-a-relationship mess that has been going on in my head, I found this chart on Autostraddle, which definitely made me laugh.

So for all of us who have been in a situation without labels and without definitions, I give you this :)

Winner of the $25 EdenFantasys Gift Card

2011-05-04T21:02:00.000-05:00

The contest for the $25 gift card to EdenFantasys ended on Sunday. Thanks for all the great entries, everyone! The winner is Sylvia McKinley for this gem of a story ending...

"Beat me?" I whispered it; she smirked at the fear and embarrassment in my voice. "Is that a question? You know how I feel about your answering a question with a question." She straddled my back, slid her fingers through my hair and grabbed a handful, firmly lifting my flushed face from the sheets. "Try again, and say it like you actually want to please me." "Please, beat me. Bind me with the spreader bar and spank me." I closed my eyes as I confessed my desires; it was as if someone else had said it. "I want you to hurt me." She released my hair, slid off of my back and set about her work, pulling her Spread'em bar and cuff set from under the bed and cuffing my ankles to it. She slid onto my back again and leaned to me ear, growling her final order before she began. "I'm putting this dildo inside of you. I'm going to start with my crop; if this dildo slips out, I'm getting the belt."

Hm... Makes me wish I was getting laid tonight instead of writing a paper for finals :/

Sex-Positive, Part I: HIV Testing, Counseling, and Referral

2011-04-28T23:27:00.002-05:00

I'm working on getting HIV Counseling, Testing, and Referral (CTR) certified by Louisiana so that I can conduct HIV testing. I've completed the training, and now I have to observe several individuals conduct HIV CTR before I can conduct the testing and receive my certification approval from the Regional Coordinator.

Tonight was my first observation. I watched three counselors provide the test for walk-in clients. In all honesty, I was a bit shocked by what I saw. Not because the counselors didn't follow the correct procedures and protocols -- they did. Not because of the results. Not because of the individuals who were tested or anything they said.

Let me back up.

It used to be, when you went in for an HIV test, the staff member would explain confidentiality and informed consent, take your blood or swab your mouth, and send you back to the waiting room (or, before the quick tests, on your way). After the test came back, a staff member would notify you with the results. Then, if you were lucky enough to test at an HIV service organization and not a doctor's office, the staff member would refer you for services if your results were positive.

Then someone intelligent dreamed up the concept of CTR. In CTR, you are tested. But while you're waiting the 20 minutes for the results to come back, the staff member ("counselor") has a one-shot chance at counseling and educating you on HIV. In other words, while you're nervous and captive and scared, the counselor asks you about why you came in, what your risk factors are, explains HIV transmission, helps you create a risk-reduction plan, explains how to use a condom and other barriers, and gives other information on prevention, where to get STD tested, and referrals for any other social services you may need. Considering the very minimal education most people in Louisiana receive on HIV and STDs, this method is kind of smart.

As a counselor, you're given a small window to talk with someone you've never met about their most intimate sexual habits, their drug use, their sex work, etc. You get a few minutes to get someone to trust you, listen to you, and most importantly, talk to you. You're often confronting all kinds of barriers -- social stigma about sex, homophobia, identity issues, gender, class gaps, race gaps, fear, misinformation, etc.

The most important lesson in CTR is that counseling is client-driven. It's not about the counselor. It's about empowering the client, helping him or her to identify their risks and identify ways to reduce those risks. It's about listening. It's about working in a partnership with the client, and making sure to meet the client on his or her level -- not above, not below. It's about leaving assumptions, values, and beliefs at the door as much as possible.

CTR takes some serious finesse.

So what shocked me the most about this process?

How incredibly negative the counselors were. Ugh.

One counselor would say, "You're negative, so that's good." The flip side of this, of course, is that people with HIV are "bad."

Another was telling me over and over again how he couldn't understand why some clients will come in every month for testing. He was complaining that they obviously need to recognize and change their behavior instead of not using condoms and getting tested. Except... testing is a form of action toward prevention and knowledge. So while behavioral change is more pro-active, testing should not be condemned.

Another was clearly berating a client for not using a condom once. I could tell the client felt shamed.

One counselor doesn't ask the person's gender identity because he "can tell" if someone is trans. I'm sure I have several friends who could pass, and he would never know.

One counselor stated that "knowing the person you're having sex with" is a method of prevention. Not asking status, not asking about if they've been tested. But "knowing" them, which made really no sense to me.

Not one counselor talked about sex toys, BDSM, rimming, or any form of sex except oral and vaginal (for heterosexuals) and oral and anal (for gay men). Obviously, these sexual behaviors are common. They need to be discussed.

Two of the counselors did a half decent job talking about oral, but both treated the men as always receiving, never giving.

There was no mention or discussion of anal sex with a straight male client.

There was no mention of any barrier methods but condoms.

One counselor went on a tangent about how going out often is "bad." -- as if this somehow prevents HIV? Or helps a client feel anything but chastised...?

None of the counselors asked their clients to explain what they knew about HIV -- all of them assumed their clients knew basically nothing, and gave them only a cheap shot version.

All the language was gender-based around the partners the clients identified in the last 12 months -- which isn't always indicative of an individual's sexual actions.

All of the counselors quoted some form of inaccurate facts -- two counselors told clients that "New Orleans is #1 in new HIV cases in the country" and one counselor said "New Orleans is #1 in new HIV, gonorrhea, and chlamydia cases in the state." Nope.

(In 2009, Baton Rouge was #1 nationally in AIDS cases per 100,000 people. New Orleans was #3. 39% of people with HIV in Louisiana live in New Orleans. An estimated 4,500 people in Louisiana have HIV and are unaware of their status.)

Not one counselor used open-ended questions or allowed the clients to identify their own ideas on how to protect themselves.

There was a ton of value-based language -- that's "good" or that's "really bad." There is a place for this kind of language -- but "risky" is what should be used, not "bad." There's enough stigma around sex. Why put more?

I left the organization thinking a lot about what "sex-positive" means to me, and how clearly, the counselors whom I observed were not sex-positive. I felt like all of the clients left feeling like they'd just been given a verbal whipping on how bad they were at protecting themselves. It was definitely not about empowerment, nor was it about creating a space where clients could speak openly about any form of sexual behavior.

***************

It's incredibly difficult to get a stranger to open up about their sexuality and sexual practices. Stigma and fear can be insurmountable barriers, and that doesn't begin to crack the list of reasons why someone might not talk.

How can anyone counsel and educate about HIV without being completely, honestly open and nonjudgmental about sexuality and sexual practices?

Every time a counselor quoted a false statistic, I questioned the validity of every other statement he or she said.

Assumptions about gender and sexual practices create barriers and limitations.

Omitting questions about sexual practices that aren't vanilla and omitting questions because of assumptions linking sexual orientation and sexual practice means that conversation is never started -- and no information is shared or learned.

Making value judgments about individuals' actions shuts a client down faster than anything.

I watched these failures in language use, in education, in judgment, and in assumption create walls which prevented the counselors from successfully helping the clients assess and reduce their risk for HIV. I came to a conclusion.

I strongly believe that in HIV Counseling, Testing and Referral -- and in any sex education environment -- sex-positivity is vital.

In the Collar of Grace

2011-04-27T13:34:00.000-05:00

e[lust] #25

2011-04-26T16:27:00.001-05:00



 Photo courtesy of Sadie
Welcome to e[lust] - Your source for sexual intelligence and inspirations of lust from the smartest & sexiest bloggers! Whether you’re looking for hot steamy smut, thought-provoking opinions or expert information, you’re going to find it here. And in this edition you can read all about the best sexuality conference of the year (ever?), Momentum, in a one-time-only Editor's Choice anomaly: I couldn't choose just one, so I chose them all! Want to be included in e[lust] #26? Start with the rules and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!


~ This Week’s Top Three Posts ~


Where We Are - It was only supposed to be about the fucking. I don't know how I convinced myself that it could be. I fretted before we began, about how I could ever possibly separate sex from emotion.
The Edible Slut - His hand made an audible crack as it connected with her ass, loud in the dim bedroom. Did he really sink his hand into her hair, turn her head to face him, and shout, “Stop being such a brat!”
Beyond Bisexual - I don’t identify as bisexual, because I am interested in so many more people than just two of the variety of sexes or genders out there. Except, that is a word that a lot of people understand.

~ Featured: Momentum Conference Posts (Lilly’s Picks) ~

An Extraordinary Gathering (and a Gathering of the Extraordinary)

 Finally! A Real Momentum Post

 Inspired by MomentumCon

 #mcon Rehash

 Momentum

 Momentumcon, Part One

~ e[lust] Editress ~

To Be or Not To Be....Anonymous, That Is - If you’re out or decide to be out….you’re not just outing yourself. You’re outing them all. And did they give their consent? Probably not, I’d guess. And even if they did give their consent could they even have a clue what consequences there will be?
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Thank you, and enjoy!

Thoughts And Advice on Sex And Relationships

A Bump In The Road - A Swinger Party Goes Bad

 Bridging the Gap (Between Swinging and BDSM)

 con-sent

 Eating Pussy

 Jane Says: What Does Sex Feel Like For A Man?

 Let's talk about food

 Safe Word

 S&M And Abuse

 The Rules, Revisited

 The Wet Patch

 Who Cares About Your Open Relationship

 Where There's Smoke...


Kink And Fetish


BDSM Advice: Nipple Clamps

bloodfucking

Communicating by touch

Consent [Violated]

Debasement

getting ready...

He mixed pleasure and pain, and my body responded to it all

Invitation

Stolen

Safety Scissors

Topping From the Bottom: An Ode

Wantonly Restrained

You Can Make It Feel So Real

Erotic Writing

3. Wrath

 Cunt Licking

 Definition of Inspiration

 Linger

 Miss Me?

 My Sex Life: The Journey Continues, Part 2

 Silk Memories

 Sexy Dance-Ing

 teacher sweaters and the cock that haunts me

 The Casino

 The miseducation of Ms. Mullins

 Wow. Confession #558

 When I come

 WWWednesday

 You Want This

Pretty Is as Pretty Does

2011-04-25T13:05:00.004-05:00

A few weeks ago, I was talking with a friend, Jamie, at a birthday party. (I have to set the stage a bit for this story to make sense.) The party was a mix of people -- around 10 queer women and the birthday girl's family, including her sister, cousins, parents, nieces and nephews, and others. Jamie and I were sitting on a swing in the back yard, overseeing a game of beer pong and shooting the shit over some beers. Jamie is thin, about 5'4, and more androgynous than me. I don't know if she identifies as butch, but she'd definitely be masculine-of-center. That day she had on jeans and a t-shirt, nothing fancy. I was dressed up for the St. Patrick's parade that morning, wearing a low-cut pastel green cotton dress and green eyeshadow, and I had beads from the parade around my neck and a green silk flower in my hair.

We were talking about having children and our own families when a young girl, around six-years-old or so, walked up to us. She had a t-shirt and shorts on, and her long hair pulled into a side pony tail. She sat down between us, looked at Jamie, then looked at me. She turned back to Jamie and asked, "Are you a boy or a girl?"

Jamie didn't hesitate. She replied quickly, "I'm a girl."

"But you look like a boy," the child insisted.

I don't remember Jamie's response, but I don't think she had one. The child got up, ran off, and found someone else more interesting to play with. Jamie turned back to me and began to talk about how much she hated when children asked her that question. "Can't they see that I have breasts?" she asked me, and then she got up to find another beer.

A minute or two later, the child returned. I invited her to sit down next to me on the swing, which she did. I gifted her some of the beads I wore from the parade, and she reached out to touch the flower in my hair.

"You're really pretty," she said.

I found myself choking. I wanted to say a thousand things. I wanted to rewind her gender education. I wanted to offer her an answer that didn't replicate the binary she had so succinctly recognized between her interactions with Jamie and I. I wanted to show her that I appreciated the compliment, but at the same time, offer her a space that didn't equate beauty with femininity. I wanted her to know that "pretty" isn't what she should aspire to, and that worshiping femininity as an ideal for beauty is dangerous and masochistic. I wanted her to know that my gender expression isn't the only valid one.

By then, she had run off. I wondered... who am I to decide what this child should believe about gender? Should I try to influence the way she looks at gender, when she's not my child? I tossed this question around for a few days in my head until I found an answer I was satisfied with.

Yes, we are influenced and educated by our parents. But we're also socialized by friends and family, by strangers, by teachers, by social structures and pervasive beliefs held by the dominant majority. We're educated by TV and the internet, books, movies, music. My thoughts would probably be but a drop in the bucket compared to how much media influences her ideas on beauty and gender. This child could one day be my neighbor, my child's friend, my co-worker... who knows. She'll be a voting citizen who decides if those who don't conform to the gender binary deserve rights and respect. She'll possibly be a parent, a teacher, an influence on another child. She's not yet old enough to truly decide if my opinion -- or anyone's -- is valid. But she's making these decisions every day, accepting and rejecting and buying in to beliefs and opinions. She's affected by those beliefs every day. Any and all influence matters. Her beliefs affect mine, my recognition in this society. So yes, it's a careful and thin road to walk, but I do think I should talk with her.

*******

I remember, as a child, feeling fat. I was five, maybe six, years old, and I would sit on the toilet or in the bathtub, staring at my stomach, and hating it.

I remember my neighbor, Miss Susan, telling my mother that if her daughter, Jessica, didn't fit in a size four dress for homecoming, then she would make her lose weight or she couldn't go to the dance.

I remember the girls at summer camp making fun of me for not plucking my eyebrows when I was in 6th grade.

I remember my high school teacher, Mrs. W, catching me in the hallway and telling me that ladies don't wear clothes that show their shoulders. Instead, she said, I should learn to dress like a lady.

I remember dance class, as a child, when the leotards didn't fit me right and I couldn't move my feet and arms gracefully like the other girls. I was distinctly aware of how everything I did was ungraceful. I remember taking another dance class, at 15, at it was like those years of controlled movement suddenly sunk in all at once -- my body could do things it couldn't, years before. But in my mind, I still didn't have the talent, and sometimes, I still hear my teacher telling me that I'll never be any good at ballet, tap, or jazz.

I didn't do femininity right.

There are a thousand moments in my life that are and have been a lesson in gender. For me, for many women, most of those are negative. Girls shouldn't go barefoot or yell too loudly or wear pants with holes. Girls shouldn't have sex, because that's what sluts do. Girls shouldn't wear low-cut clothing or date boys with piercings or smoke cigarettes. Women shouldn't be single. Women shouldn't be childless. Women shouldn't hold the door for men. Women shouldn't walk alone at night.

That's not to say that men don't get lessons in gender -- of course they do! -- or that lessons for men aren't negative -- some definitely are.

The ideals for girls are extremes of femininity. Models. Princesses. Beauty queens. It's how companies sell make up and clothing, cars, beer, and just about every product on earth -- put a "sexy" woman on an ad, and you'll sell it. Women want to be her, men want to be with her. But what does she want? Does anyone care?

I'm reminded, every day, that I carry a certain privilege due to my gender expression. No matter how carefully I walk that line, no matter what my words and actions and beliefs are, my body is marked by gender cues and clothing, and those cues are read and responded to by people who believe strongly in a gender binary. I'm reminded that I face different risks, but more often than not, my gender identity is unquestioned and therefore, less marked and less risky. I'm reminded that the terms we use as compliments -- pretty, beautiful, charming, handsome, gorgeous, cute -- are gendered in a ways that make me profoundly uncomfortable. (I'm still learning how to create my own language out of what is available and to reject using these terms). I'm reminded constantly of my gender expression in queer bars that question my sexuality, and in heterocentric spaces where I pass but still get sexually harassed or feel extremely tokenized and isolated.

At the base of all of this, my experiences and those of many others I've talked to, I find that there's a very harmful ideal of who/what is feminine and who/what is masculine. No one -- trans or cis, male or female, queer or straight, genderqueer or androgynous -- can live up to a binary system of ideals. No woman will ever be "pretty" enough. Yet so many will do anything to achieve that. No queer community which defines its members as only gender normative (like some of Los Angeles bars) or gender non-normative (like places here where I get static) will provide a safe space for all those who are queer. Yet we define and identify those in our community by using gender cues.

If I have a child, I couldn't shield hir from media and strangers, from family members, from all the influences that teach us what gender is and isn't, what's acceptable for hir gender, and how to "properly" express gender. But I know that there are studies showing that adults respond differently to infants depending on their perceived gender. Our ideas of gender start at -- if not before -- birth, and those influences are so very persuasive and strong on young children who can't evaluate and reject opinions and ideas the same way adults can. If I have a child, I would want hir to understand and respect gender expressions of all types. I would want hir to embrace any -- or reject any -- aspect of gender ze wished. I would try my best to make sure ze doesn't feel crushed by a beauty norm ze can't live up to. I would want to offer more than two options, but instead, endless possibilities.

I would want my child to keep having conversations, keep questioning those ideas that we are told to assume.

What I know about gender, my own expression and gender as a social norm, comes from years of experiences and much unlearning. It is an ongoing process. I hope my understand of gender continues to evolve and change as I age, and yet, I hope having these kinds of interactions someday becomes less taxing.

I can imagine a world that doesn't operate within a gender binary. I can. I want to live to see it.

Knockout

2011-04-21T12:01:00.001-05:00

"Come over at 9:30pm. Let yourself in. Have your cock ready when you walk in my door."

That's all the text message said.

I can hear her footsteps echoing in the wooden stairwell next to my bedroom. My door swings open. She's got a nervous look in her eyes, but she plays it off well. "Hey baby. How're you?"

"Hi." I climb out of bed, in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and some cotton panties, and pull her into me roughly. I kiss her deeply and slide my hands down to her jeans, unbuttoning them and pulling her cock out. It's fast and smooth, all in one movement, and she pulls away a bit to assess what I'm doing.

"Sit down." I point to the chair in the corner of my room, a relic from a lifetime past, and I push her hips gently in that direction.

Now she looks really nervous. "What are you...?"

"You'll see." I pull out a coil of soft rope from underneath my bed, as she sits down.

"Put your palms together, and hold them out for me."

She's so obliging. I wrap the rope around and between her wrists, fastening them together. She's watching me with rapt attention, not sure what to expect. Holding the other thirteen feet of rope, I begin to wind it around her upper body and the chair back, restraining her neatly into the chair. She can breathe deeply and squirm a bit, but that's all the rope will allow her. I step back to admire my handiwork. Can't help it. There's something a bit sadistically beautiful about the way the light purple rope contrasts against her skin, across her dark blue t-shirt, and the way it pulls against the curves of her body.

Her fly is still unzipped; her dick is poking out, ready, waiting. I lean in to kiss her then get down to my knees, pushing her thighs apart. I start at her balls and run my tongue along her shaft, stopping at the head to slip her whole dick in my mouth.

That's all it takes. She melts into a mess. She's pulling against the ropes, moaning at the way I take her, almost sweetly, into the back of my throat. There's nothing that turns her on more than sticking whatever is available into my mouth.

I play with her a bit, licking the head of her cock, running my lips down her shaft, sucking her deep until I can't take it anymore. She'd come in my mouth in a heartbeat, if she could. But I'm not done with her yet.

I stand up, pulling the big t-shirt over my head. I reach down, pull my panties to the side, and remove the glass dildo from inside me. It's soaking wet; I've been clenching it so hard for the last fifteen minutes that the release is almost orgasmic.

"Oh you... how did you hide that from me?" She's been watching me in amazement.

I laugh and set the dildo on the shelf. "I still like to surprise you every once in awhile." I retrieve a condom from the dresser, tear it open, slide it on her. I climb over the chair, resting my thighs on the arms, and grip her cock, sliding it into the lips of my cunt. There's so much space between us that I can barely feet it against me, but the glass piece has left me so wound up that just the thought of her inside me is enough to make me drip.

Her nose touches mine, but she can't lean forward to kiss me. She wants to know what's coming next. What to expect. Where to go. As if she could go anywhere.

I kiss her, again and again until I'm too wet to play this game, and I stop to lean my lips into her ear.

"I'm going to untie you." She nods.

"You're going to take your jeans off. I'm going to get my bullet. I'm going to climb on the bed. Do you understand so far?"

"Yes, ma'm." Oh, so compliant.

"You're going to push me down on all fours. You're going to lube up your cock. And then you're going to slide inside of me and fuck me senseless. I want you to fuck me hard. Don't stop until I use my safeword. Can you do that?"

I lean back to look into her eyes. The edge of fear has been replaced by a desire, deep, rolling, an anticipation. She's so good at giving me exactly what I want. I pull the end of the rope, releasing the knot, and begin to unwind it and release her. With her wrists finally free, she slides her hands across my hips, pushing me deeper into her, and pulls my upper body forward to kiss her. I'm relinquishing physical control, and it feels amazing. She bites my neck, my earlobe, forcing the moans out of my lips.

"Yes, ma'm. I'll give you anything you want."

People Who Tweet Are More Likely to Masturbate...

2011-04-20T21:05:00.003-05:00

...at least if those people have a profile on OKcupid. :)

Everyone is probably not as data-obsessive as I am. Even though it's almost antithetical to most of my personality -- I'm a hippie with a high tolerance for ambiguity and an artistic streak -- years of school and conducting research has somehow trained me to become super excited about data. There's nothing like an unexpected correlation to spark my intellectual curiosity.

Anyway, the folks who run OKCupid apparently love data, too. There are 7 million people signed up to OKCupid who freely submit information about themselves. It is a huge, gigantic, enormous data set ripe for mining. So these folks run correlations for fun and come up with some really interesting data. Granted, this isn't a random sampling of any population, so you can't generalize it and there's some methological weaknesses here. (I'm happy to explain all of this, if you're curious but haven't taken a behavioral/social sciences stats/methods course recently).

They ran some crazy correlations on sex, like crossing religion and masturbation responses, women's body type by sex drive by self-confidence, and per capital national GDPs by people looking for random hook ups. Ha. I wish I was on this team, sitting around and thinking up this shit. I mean, what a fun job.

Check it out - 10 Charts About Sex at OKTrends.

On a related side note, do you know why there's an increase in the murder rate in Chicago when there's an increase in ice cream sales?

(you're welcome to guess in the comments)

Reaching a Fever Pitch

2011-04-18T16:18:00.001-05:00

The flame casts a truly beautiful glow across her face, her chest, her bare shoulders. She's concentrating, intently, on the candle she is holding in her hand. The flame is rising; it's almost two inches. I feel like I'm stealing a glance into a private moment, seeing something I shouldn't be privy to.

I turn back, in the pillow, before she can catch me watching.

I can barely see the flickering shadows on the walls out of the corner of my eye. I wish for a moment that we were doing this at night, instead of in the light of morning, but I seriously doubt this will be the last time. She has a hand on my back, holding me down gently, so that my whole body, nose to toes, is pressing into the black sheets.

"It's taking a bit to melt. Are you ready?"

How do I prepare for a pain I haven't experienced before?

"Yes."

I take a deep breath, trying to stop myself from tensing in anticipation.

The pain is exquisite. I begin to whimper, immediately, muffling the sound in the pillow.

It's not the sharp intensity of a needle, though it's focused into an equally small surface area. It's not the wide, warm, tingling friction of a paddle or a hand, yet, there's a similarity to the heat that fades quickly as the wax cools and solidifies on my skin. The sensation disappears so quickly that I find I miss it; I don't have the time to love it or hate it, but only to remember it.

She pours it in drops, beginning at my shoulder blades, across my upper back. The splatter feels wonderful, the pain skipping across nerves to land unexpectedly. I so enjoy the way the sensation spreads across my skin, in an increasingly wider surface area, when the heavy droplets splatter.

My whimpering increases with the pain, until it's almost a moan. It's quick and fluid; I don't have time to tense up between drops or even mentally retract from the pain. She stops to admire her handiwork. "There's a gorgeous X across your back."

How cruel. She knows I want to see it.

"Can you take more?"

There's no hesitation in my response. I don't even look up.

She drips it down, across the tattoo on my back, on to my ass. I'm scared for a moment that it will splatter in places I don't want to be cleaning wax out of, but she controls it deftly.

I begin to squirm from the pain and my thoughts end, as I can't seem to redirect my mind from focusing on the sensation. The heat spreads faster, becoming more intense, and I'm whimpering though the sound doesn't feel like it's coming from me. My skin feels like it is on fire at a very low heat, but the fire moves as each drop cools and dries and another droplet burns in succession.

She stops as I begin to struggle with the pain, squirming because I can't hold still. She blows out the candle, and sets it back on the mantle. My breath quiets again. The hardened wax drops feel like a casing on my back, the skin tight and untouched underneath. She traces the drops with her fingers, from my shoulders to my ass and back again, spreading across the small of my back.

"Can I see?"

She takes a picture with my phone, and the image is riveting. The droplets are tiny, most smaller than my pinky, but there are a mess of hundreds criss-crossing my back, almost hiding the black ink of my tattoo. It would be gorgeous intertwined with rope.

I turn to my side, and she leans down to kiss me, gently, in an almost surreal juxtaposition to the pain. I pull her in, roughly, and lean up to whisper in her ear.

"Fuck me."

"Yes, ma'm."

Sex Toy Reviews and Contests!

2011-04-12T22:15:00.004-05:00

7613 by cavazzola

Welcome to Pleasurists, a round-up of the adult product and sex toy reviews that came out in the last seven days. If you like what you see and want more of it be sure to follow our RSS Feed and Twitter.

Did you miss Pleasurists #124? Read it all here. Do you have a review for Pleasurists #126? Be sure to read the submission guidelines and then use the submission form to submit before Sunday April 17th @ 11:59pm Pacific.

Want a shiny new toy? All you’ve got to do is enter.

EdenFantasys Moved and So Did I! Contest Deadline: April 15th.
Happy Blogoversary to Me (and a giveaway) Deadline: April 15th.
Spring Fling Giveaway Deadline: April 15th.
Giveaway: Icicles! Deadline: April 17th.
HapPenis Hats Giveaway Deadline: April 22nd.
Amante Giveaway! Deadline: April 22nd.
Who Says Adults Can’t Have Easter Presents, Too? Deadline: April 25th @ 11am Central.
Win some Fun Factory Flexi Felix anal beads! Deadline: April 25th @ 12am Eastern.
$25 EdenFantasys Gift Card Giveaway Deadline: April 30th.
Sex Toy Reviewers Shopping Spree Contest Deadline: April 30th @ 11:59pm Pacific.
April is Green Sex Toy Month! 30 Toys for 30 Days Deadline: April 30th.

Editor
Scarlet Lotus

On to the reviews…

Vibrators

Dildos

Tantus Hank by Mistress Kay
Tantus Mark O2 by Toys in Love
Jackhammer Jesus by Kitty Stryker
Lucid Heart by Pixel Kitten
Crystal Delights Crystal Pop by Mistress Kay
Icicles No. 10 by Lucid Obsession
Fun Factory Share by Janus
Laid D. 1 by Elodie
Octopussy by Beanfiddler

Anal Toys

Toys for Cocks

Duet by Naughty Snow White
Omega Steel by VenusToyTrap

Lube, Massage Oil, Bath Stuff, & etc.

BDSM/Fetish

Kinklab Leather Padded Blindfold by Dusk

Adult Books/Games

Adult DVDs & Porn

Sex Furniture

Liberator Axis Hitachi by Lady ToyBox

Miscellaneous

I Put On For My City

2011-04-11T23:07:00.003-05:00

There's a section of I-10, the interstate that runs through New Orleans, that's raised up on the east side of the city. I usually drive it on my way home from night class, because there's nothing like seeing the Crescent City Connection bridge, the skyscrapers, and the glint of light off the river reflecting in the moonlight. Tonight, after watching "When the Levees Broke" for class, I hit the accelerator in my car, ramped up the interstate, and saw the city spread out before me -- the treetops over the shotguns of Treme, the tip of St. Louis Cathedral in the Quarter, the blocks of houses in MidCity, the skyscrapers rising out of the business district, the interstate split leading to Metairie, the West Bank, and Uptown. I almost cried passing the Superdome, thinking of the thousands of people trapped there during Katrina, the thousands more who flooded those doors for the Saints' games leading up to the Superbowl win, and the deep pockets and crooked politics of the Benson family who own the Dome. Oh, New Orleans. You've got a history like nowhere else. You shelter some of the deepest, darkest secrets -- a prison rate higher than anywhere else in the world, a culture of poverty, a host of class and race divides that cut to the core, harming all of us.

And yet.

I was born in Kansas City, Kansas. We moved when I was two. I was never given a distinct reason, but years later the truth slipped out -- my father lost yet another job, and unable (unwilling?) to support my family, he goaded my mother into moving to small town Mississippi, where he grew up. I spent the next ten years of my life there. It's a shithole of a town. There's more people living below the poverty line than above it. I grew up wandering cotton fields and eating fried catfish and never fitting in. Even as a kid, I couldn't handle the inequality around me. I couldn't understand why some people had everything and most people had nothing. In Mississippi, I was a child of my father's family, never an individual. Labeled by those who loved or hated him, as he always left a strong impression. I dreamt of nothing but when I would get out. When I was little and my mom was angry at the town, upset for being treated like an outsider because she wasn't born there, she used to call me Dorothy. She'd tell me to click my heels and take us back to Kansas. It became a distant dream for me, a Mecca. I thought maybe I would belong there. I have some good memories, some ties in Mississippi. I return to see family, to prove to myself that the city is still there. But mostly, it's a place I passed through.

When Mississippi (and my father) finally chewed us up and spit us out, my mom ran home to northern Louisiana. We moved into an neighborhood of mostly older couples, and I started public school (finally!). But the other kids saw me as a Mississippi kid with a twangy accent and horrible taste in country music. I was all wrong. North Louisiana never was home. It was a pit stop. I outgrew it quickly -- I became too radical, too queer, too artistic. I have ties, there, too, and oh, so many memories. I have exes and friends and ex-friends. I have family, too, but my mother and her relatives will probably never accept that my queerness and my outspoken activism are vital ingredients in my life. I couldn't get out of their shadow, and I couldn't find what I wanted in a town so restrictive. So eight years later, on the same day I arrived in north Louisiana, I left.

By providence and love and economics, I ended up in NOLA.

For a long time, I wasn't so sure I wanted to be here. Or rather, I wasn't so sure I was ready to stay. But I adore this city, from the way the pavement in the Quarter glints after a rainstorm to the stars rising over the Ponchartrain. I adore that people let me put my shit in their baskets at the Wal-Mart. I love the festivals, the music, the way people say hello on the streets. I love that art is a priority here; creation is a way of life. I love the people who put their lives and their time on the line to fight against the structures that make them crazy. I love that community building is part activism, part sharing a meal, part conflict, part politics, and all passion. I love when the stage lights up on Tuesday nights at the Pub, and I love the explosion of naked gay men at Bourbon and St. Anne at Decadence. I love beers on porches and red beans and rice on Monday nights. I love that people put roots here; they set down like the Oak trees in City Park. I love the transience of the hippies, the strength of families who have lived on the same block for generations. I love that this city is deeply Southern in a way that makes me feel like I'm enveloped by the familiar. I love that it's small enough I still run into people I know at the grocery store, and yet, large enough that I can still retain my anonymity on most days.

I will always wander. I will always need space to explore. I want to see too much, do too much. But, oh, New Orleans, you're the first and only place I can truly call home. I can't claim to be "from here" when someone in town asks -- it's a sin to claim heritage here if you weren't born here. But when I'm in Chicago or New York, when I'm on a plane headed to God knows where, and someone asks that inevitable question, my heart always skips a beat when I say, "I'm from New Orleans." And then I find myself launching into an often one-sided conversation about Katrina, about Mardi Gras and and neighborhood arts markets and trout almondine. I find myself repeating the stories of friends and queer family, and even telling tales of my own. I came here the first time when I was too young to remember. I came here in 2001 for Thanksgiving, right after my father left, because my mother didn't want to face her family. I came in 2005, two months before Katrina, and again in February 2006, Sept 2006, May 2007, August 2007, January 2008, March 2008, February 2009, May, June, and July 2009, and finally, permanently, August 2009. I felt drawn here, and it became hard to stay away for more than three or four months at a time. I still feel drawn here, connected, when I'm hundreds of miles away.

I'd marry this city, if I could. I hear that's not legal yet, thank God, since commitment never was one of my virtues. I still worry about finding a way to support myself after school here. I worry about floods and hurricanes. I worry about staying in Louisiana. But when I'm driving that stretch of I-10, and I round the curve where the city lays itself out before me... I can't help but know that I don't want to be anywhere else.

Chris Rose said it best, when he spoke of being a New Orleanian... "We dance when there is no music. We drink at funerals. We talk too much, and we live too large and, frankly, we're suspicious of those who don't."

(view of downtown and the Crescent City Connection from the West Bank)

(view of downtown from the west side of the city, coming in from Metairie)

"Queerer than Thou"

2011-04-08T23:37:00.001-05:00

This made my night.

I know all of these people. I don't think they usually all end up in the same room. But damn. This is exactly how it would go down if they did!

$25 EdenFantasys Gift Card Giveaway

2011-04-08T23:06:00.006-05:00

So.

Most wonderful of news.

One of you is going to win a $25 gift card to purchase some Adult Toys at EdenFantasys.com.

I know, isn't that fantastic?

I have even better news.

I don't want you to sign up for anything or join a newsletter or follow me on Twitter or trade me your soul or give me your firstborn.

Nope. None of that.

Instead, this what you have to do to enter the contest:

I'm going to write the beginning of a story. Right below this. First, you're going to read it. Then, you're going to answer the question by going to EdenFantasys.com, picking out a sex toy (or a few), and leaving a comment saying which sex toy you would use and what position you would use it in. You must leave an email with the comment, or else there's no way I can contact you if you win. I'll pick out the most creative answer :)

The contest closes April 30th.

***********

I pulled open the door and stopped short, unable to speak. She was standing in the living room, a few feet from the door, holding a coil of rope. I could barely make out the white of the rope in the dim light of the room.

"Hi..." I couldn't seem to get out another word.

"Hey." She moved closer to me, eyes on fire. Clearly she had been planning this, and I had no idea what was coming next.

"Follow me." I wandered through the house, past the kitchen, into her bedroom. The bed was already turned down, and the room was lit by a single lamp. She stopped next to the bed, turned around, and took a step toward me. I felt overwhelmed by her presence, a bit close for comfort, but I also felt drawn to her. She dropped the rope on the bed and reached forward, unzipping my jacket.

"Take this off."

"Yes, ma'm." I pulled it off, dropped it to the ground.

She growled over me. "Take off the rest."

"All of my clothes?" The words slipped out before I could stop myself.

"You know better than to speak unless I'm asking you a question."

I nodded.

"Don't do it again. Do you understand?"

I wasn't sure if I was allowed to answer. Was this a question? My thoughts spun. Yes.

"Yes."

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, ma'm."

I slowly slipped off my dress, unhooked my bra, slid my panties down around my ankles. I stood naked, stripped down, in front of her. She looked down on me from only a few inches above me, but in my exposure, it felt like she towered over me.

She put her hands on my shoulders and spun me around. She pushed me forward until I had my nose to the white wall, and she roughly pulled my hands behind me, locking my forearms into a box. I felt the ropes winding around my wrists, and within seconds, she had me bound, unable to break free. She wound the ropes across my chest, over my shoulders, building a chest harness. The ropes wound tighter and tighter, until I could barely wiggle the upper half of my body. She finished, hooked her fingers in the rope, and yanked back. I felt my body fall backward, and I jumped to catch up, unable to balance completely without her control. She laughed low and hard as I struggled. She backed me to the edge of the bed and threw me down, face first, into the dark sheets.

She climbed over me, holding me down with the weight of her chest and torso. I turned my head to the side, gasping for breath, and she leaned her lips right next to my ear.

"You've been such a good girl, letting me tie you up without a word of protest. So I'm going to do something a bit unusual tonight. I'm going to let you choose what you want next. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'm." The words came out breathlessly.

"Ok. What would you like?"

**********

....Go to EdenFantasys.com. Choose a toy. Leave a comment (or send me an email at fleurderenaissance@gmail.com) describing what you chose, and how you (the submissive) would like her (the dominant) to use it on you. Creativity matters! Good luck. Don't forget -- get your comments in by April 30th!

Oh, I Was Starstruck

2011-03-27T18:59:00.000-05:00

She pulls me across the bed, toward her, and kisses me on the back of my neck. I'm curled into the fetal position. My whole body is reverberating. I can feel my muscles contracting and releasing as I take shuttering breaths, trying to let go of the intensity of my orgasm and fall into that afterglow warmth. Without warning, she pulls me on top of her. I'm lying vaguely on my side, with her underneath me. It's such a sudden movement, I don't have time to protest. I'm trying to balance my weight, shifting some of it off of her, but she pulls me in tighter. She arranges my arms and legs until no part of my body is touching the bed. I ask her again and again if I'm crushing her. It makes me so nervous; I might be short, but I'm not small. She wraps her arms around me, takes a deep breath, and talks me through it, reassuring me, kissing me, petting me. I feel small and intensely vulnerable. This isn't a threat or an order; there's no purposeful power dynamic. But there's still a part of me that is vaguely intimidated by anyone who is bigger than me -- which is most people, since I'm all of 5'2.

She falls asleep under me, and I'm amazed. How I have not managed to crush her blows my mind. But I like this comfort between us. After four years punctuated by fights and rollercoaster emotions, I'm rather enjoying the calmness that she brings to my life.

I keep it a secret, but I crave this sweetness sometimes. I want praise and adoration; I want her to tell me I'm a 'good girl' when I ejaculate on her fingers. I want to be held so very tightly after I've orgasmed and oxytocin is flooding my body in waves, leaving me feeling so very raw. I want to be kissed in the morning. I want someone who slow dances with me. I don't want it all the time, nor do I need it all the time. But in those few moments where my independence, my dominance, doesn't win out, I crave that intimacy.

*****************

It's a lovely Sunday spring afternoon in NOLA. I spent most of the day at the park with my roommate, lying in the sun and reading for class. But it's also been an emotionally intense day. I'm reading a book on Katrina for class that documents many of the horrifying discrimination and bullshit that happened post-storm; it's enough to shake up anyone with half a conscience. I'm saying goodbye to a close friend, and struggling with that process for many reasons. And I'm thinking a lot about the last queer women's bar in the area, which is probably going to shut down after a new city ordinance. What does it mean to not have a space? What does it mean to not have power and money in a capitalist city that functions primarily off both? What comes next?

And, somewhere amid all of this, I want to go back to 2pm yesterday afternoon, because there's nothing like a whole day spent in bed with someone, simply enjoying their company and shutting out the rest of the world. It feels like a pendulum sometimes -- the intensity of organizing and school, the constant heightened stimulation of being on politically and personally and culturally, to the quietness of a bedroom where it feels like nothing outside can touch us. I find I need both of these in my life. I need to be held, I need to fall asleep in someone's arms, as much as I need moments where I can dominate someone or be dominated. Maybe this balance is what keeps the world turning.

You Can Make It Feel So Real

2011-03-23T23:05:00.003-05:00

"May I come?"

I pull back, disconnecting my lips from her labia, but leave both fingers inside her cunt.

"Excuse me?" My voice comes out low, hard.

"May I come?" She's moaning between questions. I'm enjoying making her wait.

"Aren't you missing something?"

"Please, ma'm? May I..."

I cut her off. "No. Wait."

She moans, almost whining. She swings her wrists down, but I catch the movement out of the corner of my eye, just as I'm about to dip my face back into her cunt.

"What are you doing? Put your hands back over your head."

She gulps.

"Yes, ma'm." She shifts her handcuffed wrists back above her head.

"If you behave, I'll let you come. Do you understand?"

She nods. "Yes, ma'm"

I slide back down, curling both fingers into her g-spot before I lick her slowly, from the base of my fingers, across her labia, and over her clit. She shudders and cries out, again; it's obvious how hard she is holding it in. I twirl my tongue around her clit once more, clockwise.

"Now. You can come."

She gasps for a huge breath, moans, and I lick her, tongue flat across her clit, until she's writhing and dripping down my tongue, my lips, my chin. She quiets for a minute, breathing deeply. We're far from done. I begin to twirl my fingers inside of her, very, very slowly. She's so tight; I know she can feel every touch, every movement, to the tips of her fingers and toes. I adore how the energy coils in her body after she comes; there's another orgasm hiding, but it must be coaxed out. Usually this is a slow process, a dance, as I loosen her up until she's crying out on the verge again.

I lick her, gently, pulling her g-spot with the tips of my fingers in rhythm with my tongue. She thrashes a bit, and comes across my lips again.

She didn't ask first. She knows better. But I don't stop. I want to see how far this will go. I keep licking, fucking, pushing against her cunt in a slow rhythm.

She moans. "May I come, please?"

But she doesn't wait for my answer. She's trying to pretend like she isn't coming, but the way she tightens around my fingers gives her away. I let her finish, then lift my head up.

"I... I... I came without your permission."

Dead silence.

"Did you?"

"Yes." It comes out as a whisper.

"Excuse me?" My voice becomes harsher, sharper.

"Yes, ma'm. Twice."

I pull my fingers out so quickly she jumps. I climb up the bed, over her, straddle her waist. She looks up at me, hands above her head, where they should be.

"Are you going to punish me?" Her voice is so soft, I can barely hear it.

"Do you deserve to be punished?"

Pause.

"Yes."

"Yes, what?" Cut the bullshit.

"Yes, ma'm."

"Did I tell you I would punish you if you didn't ask before you came?"

Pause.

"Yes, ma'm."

I reach above her, pull the cuffs off, one by one. I'm contemplating her punishment, and I need a second. I consider a spanking, but I haven't hit her or spanked her yet. I'm not sure she's ready. I'd prefer something she doesn't know yet to fear, something that will cut psychologically, not physically.

She lies waiting quietly in anticipation. I say nothing, let her fear build. I get out of bed and move around the room, replacing the handcuffs in the drawer, giving us both a few moments.

Hm. This is going to be good.

I pull my Hitachi wand out of the drawer. I can feel her eyes following me in the faint light. I plug it in next to my bed.

"Get on your side of the bed." She shifts over, away from me, still on her back. Her eyes are huge. I can tell that she's extremely nervous.

I look directly into her eyes. "You disobeyed me."

Pause.

"Why did you disobey me?"

"I... I guess...I wanted to know what the consequences would be."

"You wanted to know if I would really punish you?" I'm astounded at this blatant disobedience.

"Yes.... ma'm." She knows she's in deep trouble now.

"So, you're telling me that not only did you disobey me, but you did it purposefully." I don't wait for her answer. "You're testing me. I don't appreciate it. You deserve to be punished. I don't threaten what I am not willing to carry out. Do you understand me?"

The fear is getting the better of her. "Yes, ma'm."

"Do you understand why you are being punished?"

She doesn't hesitate. "Yes, ma'm."

"Good." I lie down next to her, but several inches away. No part of my body is touching hers. I pull the Hitachi into my lap.

"I'm going to get off, and you're going to watch. Under no circumstances can you touch me. Do you understand?"

She whines, but it comes out almost as a moan. Holding me, touching me, as I masturbate is one of her favorite ways to have sex. It's probably her biggest fetish. And I'm about to turn it against her.

"Yes...."

I turn the Hitachi on, rub it against my clit, and begin to moan. It's almost theatre, putting this show on for her. I'm not sure if I'm more audience or performer. I can't see her, next to me in the dark, but I can feel her writhing, struggling physically and mentally with her punishment.

"Please? Please, can I touch you?"

"No." Punishments are not to be taken lightly.

I turn my head and moan near her ear. She whimpers a bit, quiets down. I'm so very much enjoying this. I come, my moans reaching a crescendo, cut the power of the Hitachi, and lie in the bed, letting my body reverberate from the powerful vibrations. I can feel her still writhing, getting upset with me.

"May I... may I touch you now?"

"Did you forget something, again?"

"Please?"

"No. You may not touch me."

I drop the Hitachi on the floor, and turn toward her, propping up on my side to look down on her.

"How does it feel to be punished?"

She gasps, still wanting to touch me. My body is so very close to hers, and I can feel the magnetism between us. I want to touch her, too. I want to cradle her, hold her, nuzzle her, kiss her. But I hold back. I want her to know that I'm serious, that a threat results in action. I want her to understand she isn't going to get away with disobeying me.

"It... it was... torture." She shivers. "To hear you, to see you next to me, and not to touch you. That was really mean."

"How did it make you feel?"

She thinks for a second. "Angry. I'm kind of mad at you."

I digest this for a minute. "Did you disobey me?"

"Yes."

"Did you know that if you did not ask before you came, I would punish you? Was I clear in explaining the consequences?"

"Yes."

"Did you decide to test me by purposefully disobeying?"

She's becoming petulant with my pushing. "Yes."

"Then you do understand that you brought this on yourself?"

"......yes."

"You don't have any right to be angry with me. You made a choice. You chose to disobey, knowing full and well that there would be consequences. You had the agency here. I responded to your actions. I think you need to reconsider who your anger should be aimed at."

She seethes a bit in the dark, but I can tell the wheels are turning.

"But that punishment was really mean."

"Yes. But you wanted to test me, and you chose to disobey me." I take a breath. "I think we should end this scene. Is that ok?"

"Yes, please."

I kiss her, softly, on the lips. I put my arm around her, pull her head into my chest, and cradle her body into mine. She shutters, breathes deeply, and curls into me.

I Don't Give A Damn

2011-03-23T16:59:00.000-05:00

I'm going to get STD and HIV tested tomorrow -- as I do annually -- so I felt like this was so very fitting. :)

Georgia On My Mind

2011-03-22T00:13:00.001-05:00

Been a bit absent around here lately. Post-Mardi Gras I've been trying to catch up with school and work, which has kept me ridiculously busy. My mom, brother, and uncle came in this weekend to visit for a friend's wedding, but unfortunately, I had a bizarre unexpected medical nightmare and ended up in the ER/hospital for the weekend. Eh. There's been a whole lot of miserableness and negativity born from this weekend. I need a break from it. I left the hospital yesterday, after getting in a glorious fight with my mother (ugh), a very long night of my screaming in pain in the ER on Friday, and more tests than I can imagine. I took home very high blood pressure, a lot of fear, plans for follow up visits (mostly to rule out the possibilities of a long-term issue), antibiotics, and the reality that now I have to catch back up with my life and prep for what will probably be a nasty fight with my insurance company.

I'm having trouble staying completely lucid lately. The headaches from the blood pressure leave me in a fog, and as I told someone today, I'm only firing on half my cylinders. Unfortunately, until my blood pressure meters out some, I don't know how much writing I'll be doing. But they're saying it should be back to normal in 2-3 weeks.

Anyway. All that aside. I need to focus on some of the positives coming out of all of this, so that the stress doesn't consume me.

So here's a list of all the awesome things about being in the hospital and being really sick:

1) Permission and encouragement to consume as much ginger ale as I wish. (Though this will end, soon, because apparently ginger ale is both high in carbs and high in sodium. Yikes.)

2) An excuse to be more healthy. Any motivation to drink less, smoke less, exercise more, and eat healthier is a push in the right direction. Plus, sex is exercise. Ergo, this is an excuse to have more sex. (Anyone else follow my logic here?)

3) A reason for falling asleep in someone else's arms.

4) Super awesome friends who took me to the hospital, checked on me, hung out with me, listened to me bitch and whine, took my blood pressure, called for second opinions, and generally did super awesome things.

5) A perfectly acceptable time and place to cry. It's so very hard for me to cry, unless I'm extremely emotionally and physically weak. But sometimes, it's a great release.

6) Hours of listening to Josh Radin and Micheal Buble and Disney songs, all of which soothe my headaches.

7) A lot of rest time.

8) Gorgeous purple flowers.

9) A reason to read through everything my insurance covers and my school clinic provides... and the realization that the school clinic offers free STD testing, gyno services, and discounted birth control. So, while I would prefer Planned Parenthood, any free health services are a blessing right now.

10) Recognition of what high blood pressure feels like. I worried I wouldn't recognize it, because often there are no symptoms. Knowing about the problem means I can respond accordingly, and not worry that I'm putting stress on my heart and kidneys when I'm unaware.

11) Gratefulness to be off a liquid diet. Still not sure what that unlabeled red stuff in a styrofoam cup was?

12) The blessing of feeling so much better, and the reminder that I am not invincible. Both are incredibly important.

Ok. Enough of this personal stuffs. I'm ready to be well and get back to writing about what this blog was designed for. :)

Like This City Is On Fire Tonight

2011-03-10T11:31:00.001-06:00

My thoughts are echoing through all 1700 square feet of my house, and the wind is beating on the windows, rustling the curtains through the cracks. It's hard to believe that over the last few days, there has been a rotation of thirteen people (at least) in and out of this house, with the majority crashing on couches and beds, smoking on porches and steps, cooking soul food for the masses, and drinking, drinking, drinking. Oh, Mardi Gras. This week has been a fantastic excess for me -- from sex and sleeping in to copious amounts of drinking and parades and revelry. So much chaos! By Monday night, I always start to run out of steam, and by Tuesday... I'm ready for a long nap, a hot shower, and a long reprieve.

It feels good to come back to the real world. Sometimes, I nary say I do prefer a pumpkin over a carriage.

Yesterday morning, I headed to my favorite church for my ashes. Unfortunately, due to mass traffic gridlock, I missed the service by a few minutes. Instead, I turned and headed back to a Catholic church I had passed on the way, where people were overflowing out the door. I missed most of the service, but as there were easily over 400 people waiting for their ashes, I made it just in time to head toward the end of the line. I even caught a song or two by the gospel choir; I've never heard the staid Catholic hymns sung by an all-black choir in a call-and-response fashion -- so incredible. It was a gorgeous, traditional church, striding the border between the Treme and French Quarter, but clearly touched by the unique history and love and power of the community. I felt guided there, almost by serendipity.

The older white priest touched my forehead, making the sign of the cross in black, and spoke over me -- "Remember, you are from dust and to dust you shall return."

And so began Lent.

As a child raised Episcopalian, I remember debating each year what to give up. Cokes? Chocolate? There didn't seem like many options. I usually chose something I liked, vaguely, always something superficial. I don't remember Lent much until my sophomore year in high school. By then I had more or less walked away from Christianity, but for some reason that year, I wanted to practice Lent. I tried to give up swear words, and in my childish way, I would mark on my arms with a pen each time I used one. That lasted roughly a day or two, as I came home marked up on both arms, which my mother was not so pleased with.

The next year, at the urging of my girlfriend (who was raised Catholic, but was even further removed from any belief or practice than myself), I gave up soft drinks. Cokes, for those of us raised in the Deep South. All of them. That act went over much better -- in all honestly, I still don't drink them, except as the occasional mixer.

But as an adult, I find the ritual of cleansing, sacrifice, and self-reflection to be very important. Call it Lent or call it Ramadan -- I don't think the time of year, the nature of the religious affiliation (or lack of one!), or the motivation is so pertinent. I think what's important is making sure to schedule time to reflect, to focus, to prioritize, to heal. For me, I choose Lent -- even though I don't identify as Christian or practice most Christian beliefs and rituals. But I do find power in rituals, and Lent is one I have chosen to take with me into my adult life.

Especially after the mad excess of Mardi Gras in New Orleans, there's something appealing about a bit of austerity. It's so easy to get caught up in the chaos, as I was this year -- constantly going, drinking, seeing all my old friends who had come to visit, meeting new people, making sure that everyone is having a great time. My self care needs, my thoughts, get lost. There is no time to reflect and process.

This description could so easily be a metaphor for life. We get caught up in day-to-day work schedules, in school, in paying bills, in dating and partners and children, in family obligations, in dreams, in text messages, in friends and crises. It is easy to get swept away, to move from one thing to the next constantly, never giving myself a moment to think, a moment to reflect, a place and time to do so. I don't believe Lent is simply about denying myself chocolate or caffeine, but instead, it's about cutting down on some of the distractions and refocusing myself. It's a chance to make improvements. Life moves so quickly; it's difficult to slow down long enough to make positive changes. I've heard that it takes a minimum of 21 days to change or form a habit, so I feel like I've got twice as good of a chance to make that happen during Lent.

Last year, for Lent, I took on two major changes. First, I was approaching the end of a relationship, and I needed time to think and decide what I wanted -- to continue dating or to end things. But in the midst of all the frustration, anger, and pain I was feeling, I had lost sight of everything else I wanted -- I was drowning in school and work, having left those responsibilities behind. So I planned to refocus my thoughts and prioritize my needs and obligations better.

Second, I gave up something. I come from a Southern culture where gossiping is considered impolite but expected; I grew up in Mississippi surrounded by family and friends who didn't make conversation any other way. But I find it hurtful and often, downright mean -- yet, I felt like I did it much more than I should, almost as a guilty pleasure. So I gave up talking badly about people. I made an effort to refocus that energy -- to try to find something good to say about everyone, to learn to think in the positive. I find this is a long-term change, one I still have to work on some days. But it has become tremendously easier as the days go by.

This year, my Lenten goals are equally complex. I've had an incredibly busy semester, in grad school full-time and in two jobs, and I'm finding that I've taken on so much that I'm giving half-effort to everything. It's disappointing and frustrating. I want to re-prioritize. I want to make sure I still have time for myself and for my friends, and I want to make sure I'm cutting out whatever obligations aren't necessary.

I'm giving up one of the biggest hindrances in my life: guilt. I have a horrible guilt complex, and I find that I can't work past it, even when I feel guilty about issues and problems I can't control. I find that many of my decisions and actions are powered by guilt in ways that aren't healthy. I want to make sure everyone around me is happy, and I feel guilty if I'm not working to do so. I feel guilty about saying "no" to anyone's requests for help, even when it's in my best interest to not take on more obligations. I feel guilty when I don't perform 110%, when I don't accomplish what is probably superhuman. I feel guilty when I fear someone else is disappointed in me, even when I feel completely justified and sure of my actions.

Guilt has a place, yes. It drives me to apologize when I need to. It reminds me that there are some actions I shouldn't take because there are long-term consequences, even if they seem pleasurable in the short-term. I'm not writing it off completely. But guilt can also be disabling, especially when that guilt surrounds things out of my control. It's a powerful motivator, yes, but also a negating one. I would prefer to find my drive through love and strength, through my interests and passions, not through the fear of not accomplishing something, not through the fear of not satisfying everyone, and definitely not through the guilt that stems from that fear.

So for Lent, I'm going to refocus. I'm going to prioritize. And I'm going to find strength, not guilt, in doing so. I'm going to empower myself to rise above my fear and guilt, to give up indulging in those very powerful emotions. And hopefully, at the end of 40 days, I won't be carrying so much baggage around -- but instead, I'll find that indeed, positive change and austerity can become a lifestyle -- not simply 40 days without potato chips and chocolate bars.

Made a Wrong Turn Once or Twice

2011-03-03T00:36:00.001-06:00

"Someone once wrote, 'If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing badly.' Yes – & I’d add that if something is worth doing, it is also worth doing halfway & then quitting. It’s also worth brooding over, and making lots of plans, & then going off & doing something else. Having many little interests, amateur enthusiasms, & failed ambitions creates a rich stew out of which you can boil fresh ideas." -- James Kennedy

I’m feeling mired right now, and I know it’s because I need to face this decision in the face.

For years, I’ve felt that if I went back and did things differently, I would have gone to nursing school. Last semester, facing mountains of uncertainty, I began to seriously consider the idea. My school was (is) losing funding at a mind-numbing rate. I’ve been there a year, and I think we’ve lost at least 6 million from the annual budget – and this is a school still in recovery, still facing serious repercussions from Katrina damage. Even when programs, professors, and staff aren’t being cut, the professors are often smart enough to leave before they’re left with no job and no notice. My undergrad faces the same issue – even though it’s a private college – and the thought of putting in so much time and effort into two degrees from institutions that probably won’t exist in five to ten years was a bit overwhelming. Hell, for awhile (and even now, though I try not to think about it), I wasn’t sure I would make it out of the University of New Orleans in time to graduate before my department ceased to exist. Unhappy with my job prospects in the last year and feeling already emotionally overwhelmed, school became a nightmare I couldn’t face. So I checked out for most of last semester, committing only minimal time and energy, and started considering my options.

Transferring is a last resort, at this point. I’d be able to take 12 credits; I have 21 plus 6 more from this semester. I don’t have the energy or drive to start over again from that point, and I would be forced to move. The only other program in state is Baton Rouge, and hell no, I would rather cut off a limb than move there. Commuting is out; the program isn’t even nationally accredited and my tuition would double, plus I couldn’t work and commute. Fuck that.

So I chose to stay put. I also didn’t want to leave New Orleans. I’d been here a year, was on shaky emotional ground, and wasn’t ready to give up on this city or the possibilities here.

Instead, I considered investing in a different career. Nursing would be something I’m interested in. I’d never have to worry about not finding a job – there’s a worldwide shortage of nurses. I’d have an income I could depend on, instead of working in social services, which is infinitely unpredictable (see: federal/state budget shortfalls, dependency on donations, and political chaos), underpaid, and emotionally taxing. So I looked at my options, and talked to several people. I still had two biology and microbiology courses I would have to take as pre-reqs to apply, so I figured these would be a test – to see if I wanted this, if I had the drive to do this. If I was crazy enough to get another fucking degree.

Fast forward.

So. I’m doing ok in biology class – I have a 86 in lab and a 89 in class, which I could bring up to an A. But the experience is really showing me that maybe this isn’t the right path. A part of me feels guilty for jumping into this, for looking for other ways to bail ship because I’m scared of all the chaos. Both my bio classes are sucking the life out of me. I’m still taking a full masters’ course load, and working two part-time jobs – and yet, because my bio classes require so much work, they’re getting put first. But I enjoy them the least. I really don’t have the interest or passion in science that I do for sociology and public health. It’s brutally clear to me what a difference I experience when I go to a bio class and when I go to soc class. There’s a part of me that wants to prove to myself that I can do this, if I want it badly enough. But I fear that’s the part driven by guilt, driven by the fear that – what if I’m not good at this? – and I want to bite back and say – I don’t have to be good at everything.

And good God, the thought of three more years of school sounds so brutally intense that I can’t imagine. I got my undergrad in 3.5 years, and I had a 3.9 GPA. I’m going to graduate with a Master’s by the time I’m 24, and right now I have a 4.0. I’m not sure what I’m trying to prove, or who I want to prove it to.

But there’s a limit to how hard I can push myself, and I’m staring into that mirror right now.

I realized last week that everything I was doing was really half-assed: work, homework, studying, friendships, sex, all of it. I hated it. I constantly feel like I’m doing damage control lately, paying attention only to what is immediate and necessary, what is going to explode first.

I want to write grants to fund a more permanent place for me in the work I'm doing now. I want to fund my own research. I want to plan more events for the trans community. I want to have a few nights where I can just get a fucking beer without feeling like I need to be studying for eight hours a day. I want to be able to go on a date, without having to go home after dinner and study. I want what I love, what I’m good at, to be good enough – and if it isn’t, I don’t want to spend now worrying that the only way I’ll be able to support myself is to keep working service industry for the rest of my life. If I keep sinking so much time into pursuing so many different plans, everything I do will always be half-assed.

(I can hear my advisor giving me two pieces of advice, yet again: a) slow down and b) focus – don’t think so broad)

A lot of this is tied up with guilt about failing. A lot of it is tied up with guilt and anxiety and fear about money.

So I’m writing this to let that guilt go.

So far, every decision I have made this semester I’ve been immensely pleased with. Truly, there aren’t a lot of decisions in my life I regret – and being a sociology major, conducting research, and working in the non-profit sector, have been some of the most fulfilling and amazing opportunities that I have had. So I’m looking for peace in this decision – I’m looking for peace in letting go, recognizing that I gave myself the chance to pursue this dream, but it turns out that it’s just not right.

My dream is to work in a sex-positive context for the rest of my life – to work with sex education and HIV/AIDS prevention, to empower people to connect with and embrace their sexuality, to address sexual health issues, to work against the social constraints which limit gender and sexuality expression in our society. If I went into nursing, I knew that I’d either work with mothers or with HIV/AIDS prevention. There are a lot of paths to get to where I want, but I’ve just got to accept that I can’t take them all.

Instead, I’ve got to start prioritizing and discriminating. I’ve got to let go of my guilt. And, as I keep hearing over and over and over in the last few months, I’ve got to be physically, emotionally, and psychologically present. I want to be here, now, not tied up in anxiety about where I want to go next, what I haven’t finished yet, or who and what I’m putting off.

So, starting Wednesday -- Lent, for those of you who aren't paying attention -- I'm giving up feeling guilty. And hopefully, before then, I'm going to drop both classes, and I'm going to start investing my time in what I already have on my plate -- and not try to find a quick-fix for all the questions I haven't even been asked yet.

The City That Care (Didn't) Forget

2011-02-26T03:15:00.005-06:00

So, I should be studying for this massive test I have Monday. Ugh. I have been, truthfully, and I won’t dull you with the details of school. But it should be said that most of my thoughts bubbles under the surface until a big bout of procrastination forces me to find something else to focus on – like cleaning my kitchen. Or writing blogs. :)

***********

Mardi Gras is rapidly approaching. Technically, it’s been Mardi Gras since Epiphany – January 6^th. But the crest, the climax, of the season is next weekend. The parades began last weekend, and there are quite a number this weekend, though I’m sitting them out for now to focus on school and work. Next weekend is the big weekend – from Thursday night through Tuesday evening, the city will be a mad mess of drinking in the streets, beads, and thousands of locals and tourists indulging in their every desire before Lent. I’ve seen it as a child, as a college student, as a rider on a float (in north Louisiana, anyway), and now, as an adult. It’s much more than simply drunk college students who try to flash for beads, but if you haven’t been here, then I’ll suffice to say you won’t understand without experiencing it.

Anyway.

Mardi Gras last year was pretty fucking miserable for me.

I’m just going to put that out there.

The parades were fun, yes. I had a great time at Muses and the handful of others that I attended. Actually, the best part of the weekend for me was the walk to and from my house, crossing St. Charles, seeing families and groups of friends, children running in circles, fences draped with beads.

Last year, at this time, my life felt like a crash course. I was working two jobs, and I had no money to show for it, because I was paying for my girlfriend’s share of utilities and rent and groceries. I would lie awake at night, trying to figure out how to stop my money from flying out of my hands before I could make it. It felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest, all the time. I was working one job at a restaurant, and though my bosses and the restaurant itself were really cool, I felt like I was going into a coma for hours just to make it through the day. Mardi Gras weekend I worked every day, eight to ten hours a day, in a state of constant chaos – hundreds of people, two hour waits, drunks, kids, stumbling over other staff members. It was great money, but the whole weekend was an exhausting blur. My other job I enjoyed, but the board member who controlled my employment was constantly trying to get me to do immoral and ridiculously stupid things, like lying on grants. I felt like I was constantly fighting him at that job, and it was wearing thin what little sanity I had left.

I was in school that semester three nights a week, which meant my days lasted eleven to twelve hours – wake up at 9am, go to work, go to school, pick up my girlfriend from work downtown, get home by 11pm or midnight, sleep, rinse, repeat. My classes weren’t going very well. I felt like the program wasn’t anywhere as high as my expectations, and I felt cheated because the reality wasn’t what I had been told.

But really, I could have handled all of that. I can survive being broke and the stress of school, and Lord knows I’ve worked some jobs that made me want to pull my hair out. The tipping point was my girlfriend. Three and a half years in, and it was really, ridiculously clear that things were unraveling. We weren’t getting along, and I was feeling really trapped. I loved her, I cared about her. I honestly thought (at that point) things could work, or I was just too scared to admit to myself that I knew better. I’m not sure. But everything cracked to hell at Mardi Gras. We went to Muses and had a great time – it’s my favorite parade. Afterward, I agreed to go to a party at her coworker’s house, where we both proceeded to get trashed, well beyond my comfort zone, and in front of all her friends and coworkers, she flirted the whole night with the girl she was cheating on me with. Maybe ‘cheating’ is the wrong word, but it’s the best I’ve got right now. Fucking with my knowledge but without my consent or approval.

Hm. That’s about right.

I couldn’t handle it. I left, got in my car when I was well beyond the capacity to drive (thankfully, I hit nothing), went home, and passed out on the couch. She fucked the girl, came home the next morning, and told me. And then asked me to pay her rent the next week. I remember so clearly, driving my car as we left Zotz, when she told me she didn’t have the money for rent. I wanted more than anything to drive my car through a wall, but I wasn’t stupid enough to wreck my car and put myself in an even shittier place.

I ran into the girl she was sleeping with at least once a week back then, and I vacillated from wanting to tell her off to just feeling really sorry for her. It was obvious she cared, obvious she was getting invested. She was young and sweet and naïve, and I wanted to warn her that she was going to get hurt. She would be collateral damage. But I wanted no responsibility for that, so I kept my distance. I told my girlfriend to think through this, to realize what she was doing. But as it became increasingly clear over the next few months, either she didn’t realize or didn’t care, and everything and anything became collateral damage.

Most of that weekend is a blur. I remember driving on Claiborne, stuck in traffic, and we were both crying. I wanted to be around her – I wanted the person I used to know, not the one that was there – and yet I wished she would just disappear. I hid at home or ran from the house, depending on the moment. I cried three, four, five times a day, at the drop of a pin. I had so much pent up sexual tension (on top of the stress), that I was a fucking emotional wreck. If I wasn’t crying, I was pissy and annoying.

I’d only been living in NOLA for a few months, and I knew almost no one. The few people I knew well were in the same boat as me – so busy they didn’t see the light of day often. It was isolating and miserable, and I felt extremely lonely. I realize now, looking back, that I had so much anxiety and sadness and anger at the time that I didn’t want to be around anyone. Social situations were overwhelming. Most everyone I had met knew me as a part of a couple, and they adored my girlfriend – she was charming and sweet and funny, she’s easy to love the first time you meet her. I shy away from many of the people who met me during those months. It wasn’t me. I was ashamed of how miserable I was, ashamed that I didn’t know how to tell my girlfriend “no” as much as I wanted to when she asked for money. I was ashamed that many of my friends felt like I had a great relationship, when they simply didn’t know the truth. I didn’t want my friends to hate her, to “take sides.” I didn’t know how to tell people how fucking bad things had gotten – especially when I couldn’t even admit it to myself yet. I didn’t want to be a burden.

*************

A year later, looking back, it’s like I stepped out of a haze.

I feel like I have put so much of this behind me, and it’s an amazing feeling to have some distance. So much has changed, and all of it has been for the better. I can’t even fathom it.

I have a job I love. Adore. I mean, like anyone, I have days where I’m frustrated, where I make mistakes, where I feel incompetent or unheard. But the truth is, I’m doing something that plays to my strengths, my interests. My boss is fantastic. I count him as a friend as much as a coworker, and I respect him immensely.

I’m making money doing something I love. Fuck. That blows my mind. I know that might not happen again for the rest of my life, so I’m definitely enjoying it while I can.

I have an awesome roommate. No, she can’t change the toilet paper roll, and she’s not big on taking out the trash. But we have so much fun hanging out that I don’t really care. We get along great. She contributes for her share, and I never have to worry she’ll be unreliable or late on rent. Even when we’re stressed, we don’t take it out on each other. My house feels like a home, a place I can be comfortable, again. It’s the best roommate relationship I’ve possibly ever had.

I have a woman in my life whose company I genuinely enjoy, who doesn’t expect anything I can’t or won’t give, and who is incredibly fun to experiment with sexually. I don’t feel like I have much to give after four years in a relationship. I’m gunshy and anxious at times, and I’m grateful to walk instead of jumping into something I can’t handle.

I love this city. Adore it. There’s so much here that I can’t do it all, can’t see it all. I’m finding friends again – old and new –who I enjoy spending time with. I can laugh again, and it’s honest and raw. It feels good.

I’m healthy. I’m financially stable. I don’t stay up at night anymore freaking out about money, wake up crying. My anxiety has dropped dramatically. I actually look forward to meeting new people. I don’t run the other way at the thought of new social situations. I’m learning to talk about things again when I have a problem, instead of internalizing everything.

It’s really... good.

***********

I’ve spoken to so many of my friends from high school and college in the last year, and I’ve often heard the same story. They’re not happy. They hate their job, or they’re in a dead-end relationship, or they’re struggling with school. They hate that they’re still living at home. They’re broke or in debt or overwhelmed by stress. I began saying – believing – that many of us were idealizing what our lives should be, harping on the one or two things that we didn’t have instead of the many things we do have.

It comes down to this: the majority of the people I know have one of these: a great job, a city they love, great friends/family who live close by, or great partner. To have two is awesome. To have three or four – a fucking miracle.

In some ways, I rationalized that I was doing ok because I had a city I wanted to live in. I had at least one job I sort of liked, even if it was stressful and frustrating. And the rest – well, I was doing ok.

Looking back, I wasn’t ok. It's true I can't all go through life focusing on all the things I don't have -- there will always be more things I want than things I have. But I do think it is ok to say "no." It's ok to ask for more. It's ok to want more, to strive for more, to demand more. You'll never get what you didn't ask for. It's about striking a balance between desire and acceptance.

Now – I’m a lot more than ok. I’m ridiculously blessed. I can’t really believe this is my life. I have more than I know what to do with. I can't believe that there's really nothing major I would change in my life right now. I mean, I could always use better health insurance, a better paying job, more time in the week. But that's all pretty minor considering how much is going right. :)

I’m so very much looking forward to this Mardi Gras – getting dressed up, hosting a house full of people, celebrating my roommate’s birthday, taking some time off work and school, possibly getting laid. Parades and beads and beer and friends. Fuck yes.

Laissez le bon temps roulez.

a Kinkster is Born

2011-02-23T12:43:00.002-06:00

The overhead fan is beating through the heavy summer heat, but it doesn’t make much of a difference. My room is stifling. The afternoon sun glaring on my windows isn’t helping – but neither are we. I’ve got her down on my bed, my hips holding her captive. She slides her hands under the oversized men’s cotton polo shirt I’m wearing; her fingers feel cool against the heat of my skin.

I stop kissing her, pull away. “Will you take your jeans off?”

I’m making her nervous. I can tell. I’m always a bit surprised when this happens, especially when I know for a fact that I’m younger, less experienced. But I suppose everyone isn’t quite so brash, completely sober and determined to get laid in the middle of the afternoon.

“I don’t know…”

“Please?” I keep pushing, foolishly, because I’m young and aggressive.

But she clearly isn’t going to oblige. I flip around, climbing off her, and fall into the bed next to her. She pulls up on her side, leaning over me, pulling me under her.

“Yes?” I’m not trying to be rude, but my response comes off as a cocky question.

“I want to fuck you.”

I look directly into her eyes, unfazed. “You already have. I want to fuck you.”

“Not today, not now.” She’s insistent.

“That’s not fair. I don’t want you to keep fucking me and not let me touch you.” In my head, I rationalize not wanting to start this – whatever this is – as anything but reciprocal.

“Just for today.”

I’m clearly not getting anywhere, and there's a time to stop pushing. I relax and pull her into me. She leans in to kiss me. She wants to get me off. We fucked the day before, and I didn’t come. I had gotten close – so close, then my body shut off at the last moment. It’s not abnormal. Bodies are fickle, unpredictable, changing. An orgasm, or lack of one, doesn’t mean or prove anything, at least, not in my eyes.

We’re still kissing, but I’m pondering the next move. My choices are to let her fuck me or get out of bed. This isn’t a difficult decision. She begins to unbutton my shirt from the bottom, and I follow her lead, unbuttoning it from the top. She slides off the only other article of clothing I’m wearing – a pair of cotton panties – and runs her hands across my body.

She swings her body across mine, holding herself up over me, and pulls the down comforter up and over our bodies. She’s stripped down from three shirts to one by this point, and I’ve got her bra off, even if she’s still holding on to her t-shirt and jeans. She sits up, hips holding me down, and catches both my wrists with her hands, pulling them above my head. I don't expect this, at all, and my body tenses reflexively. But I don't have any time to react. The weight of her body is pushing me deeper into the bed; I can't move. She leans in, lips grazing my ear.

"I'm going to let go of your wrists. But you're not going to move. Do you understand?"

I'm gulping for air. Between breaths, I nod.

"Don't say anything. I don't want to hear a peep from you. I don't want you to move a muscle. Understood?"

I'm nodding.

"Say 'yes' so I know you understand."

"Yes," I whisper.

"If you move, I'll won't touch you." Every muscle in my body is frozen.

She releases my wrists and moves down my body, slowly, kissing across my breasts, my stomach, my hip bones, the inside of my thighs. It's taking every ounce of my concentration to focus on not moving, not twitching. She spreads my legs wide; they feel like jello -- I have no control. Her tongue finds my swollen clit, and a moan falls out of my lips. I tense, hoping she didn't hear me.

She stops. Fuck. "Did I just hear you moan?"

I shake my head back and forth.

"Answer me."

"No. Yes. I'm sorry."

"Don't do it again."

She puts her mouth back to my clit, wraps both arms under and around my thighs until she's gripping me so tight I'm tensing against her.

I don't have time to think, to process this totally new sensation in my body. I come so fucking fast that it scares me. I couldn't hold back if I wanted to.

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