Life Lessons I Learned From Kink

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.

Like This City Is On Fire Tonight

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.

The City That Care (Didn't) Forget

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. 

Blood and Fire

There's a text message. It's in the middle of brunch. I'm staring down a big mug of coffee, I've conquered it twice, but thankfully, sleep isn't in my near future. I feel the phone vibrate into my thigh.

I wonder if you didn't call me because you didn't have the balls. I wonder if you know that if you were here now, I'd take you down a notch, and it would be pretty fucking ugly. I wonder if you think you're justified. I wonder what the fuck you think I'm going to say, or why the fuck I should wait to say it. I wonder if you remember my looking at you, dead in the eyes, and saying that I always stand to lose in this situation, so at least warn me. It's all I asked. 

I wonder if, as usual, I'm overreacting. I might have been built of fire, and I tame it, stoke it into a work ethic and a drive to finish school and the strength I need to be a rock. But I've got a temper, too. I've got a nasty streak, and it may be hard to turn on, but it's cold and searing. I have to move past the initial explosion, think through my response. I have to decide whether to cry because I lost a friend or scream because I think you pulled an asshole move. It seems like every time I'm losing a good friend, it's because I make an easy target. Because it's easier to blame someone else when you're unhappy. 

I'm flashing back two years, next month, and I can't even tell if I'm pissed at you or still pissed at her. I don't know why I still carry that scar, why it still hurts, why I even still think about her. But I do. I wonder how she is. I wonder if she's happy. I wonder how things could have gone down differently. I wonder how someone could have burned me so badly -- she wasn't a lover, wasn't even someone who had been in my life for that long, relatively. 

I wonder what the underside of this bus is going to look like. I wonder if I'm angry because I feel like you've set me back six months emotionally, but the truth is, I won't give that to you. I won't give that to anyone. It's easy to say that I'm still hurting. It's easy to say that I'm still unsteady. It's easy to give all the answers that sound good on the tip of my tongue, and it's hard to explain how the complexity really plays out. 

I remember what Maggie said, wrapped up in the bed at Easton, when I was talking about you. She liked to talk about people who are "in integrity" or "out of integrity" in their relationship, in themselves, in their lives. It was a phrase I'd never heard before, yet it stuck with me. I remember riding on the train home, watching the autumn leaves whipping by, with her head in my lap. I thought about you. I thought about New York. I thought about the pain I had carried all the way to Albany, and I did what I had been doing all weekend -- I took a breath. A really deep one. I came back from Easton with a very different resolve, and though I went with many, many questions, I came back with the concrete answer to only one -- what to do with you. 

I've made a lot of mistakes when I was single and a lot more when I was in relationships. I stayed when I shouldn't have, I left when I shouldn't have, I gave up agency and acted like an asshole and picked a stupid fight and walked out. I shut off. I should have yelled back. So many moments. But the big decisions -- the breakups, moving cities, school, jobs, moving in together -- I can say I always made with a clear conscience. I always made them with my girlfriend and her needs in mind, but I made them knowing that only I would have to live with the choice. Only I had to be at peace. She wouldn't wonder "what if," and I wouldn't resent her for whatever I chose. Somehow, it's only the little, everyday things I fucked up. Yet they add up, I suppose, building into walls. Building into unnecessary bullshit. It shouldn't have taken me this long to learn, but I realize now, I have learned. I won't make this mistake again. 

I don't resent you. I think your choices were, at times, poor. In all honesty, so were mine. I should have kept my mouth shut. I think you can't have your cake and eat it, too. I get what it means to be confused. I get what it means to be lost. I get what it means to struggle. At the end of the day, it's your heart, and you've got to learn to listen to it. Fuck it. I'm done. I hope you find what you're looking for. And hopefully, I'll run into you in a few months, or a year. But right now, I just need to walk away.

Oh, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't think first. I'm sorry someone else had to get hurt. I'm sorry for my complicity. But I'm not sorry you don't know what you want -- because no one can give that to you. I don't know much else, but I definitely know that. 

That's all I have to say.