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.

Made a Wrong Turn Once or Twice

"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

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. 

Closer

“It’s been quite a while since I’ve been topped…”

Her voice comes soft, breathless, so close to my ear. I have my hips squarely between the inside of her thighs, legs spread open, pushing her up into my headboard, two fingers inside her cunt, so tight I can barely move them. I have long ago lost count of how many times she had come, if I was ever keeping track at all. We are almost still; I’m catching my breath, enjoying the heat between our bodies, barely stroking her g-spot.

I moan deep, almost guttural, the sound I make when puzzling through my thoughts. “I don’t quite see it that way.” I try the word on for size, hesitantly. “Topping...”

“Tell me more about that.”

My thoughts race. It’s a word that didn't enter my vocabulary until I moved to New Orleans, a foreign concept I had equated up until that point only with gay men. I hadn’t come of age in a lesbian culture – I didn’t grow up in the bars, didn’t grow up with elders, didn’t become initiated into an established community. This was new for me, to meet women who identified as tops and bottoms. I had always experienced queer sex as fluid, without roles. It didn’t help that my introduction to the terms, the idea, was not born out of sex-positivity or identity. Instead, these words came to me encased in the crude language of competition and pride, masculinity and femininity, where “to top” was a status of pride and strength, and “to bottom” was an act of submission, a put down, a source of embarrassment and shame. I rejected the terms, outright and immediately, because I didn’t like what that binary implied. Not until I met people who embraced those identities and actions as a source of equal strength, as a yin and yang, did I begin to accept where those words, those identities, could fit.

I try hard to pull myself out of my head, back to the moment, before I get lost and leave her underneath me, waiting.

“I don’t know. I…” I stumble for words, for a way to express what the hell I was trying to say. I find myself burying my head in her neck. “It’s not about putting you down, or asking you to submit. It’s not about…power? Hm. Don’t get me wrong, the power is great. It’s a trip to be in this position, and I enjoy the hell out of it. But… it’s about my wanting to please you. It’s about letting go. It’s born out of a place of deep respect, because I know how hard it is to just let go. But I don’t see it as dominating you, I see it as playing with you, fucking with you.”

It’s a nightmare to navigate those emotional barriers, at times. It’s difficult, if not impossible, to leave control, to leave fear, to leave my own socialization and understanding of gender roles, of strength and weakness, at the bedroom door. I like to dominate, and I like to submit, but, for me, the latter takes significantly more emotional work. To lay out my body, my strength, and let her take me for everything I am worth requires a lot of trust.  To dominate comes almost as a default. Control is heady, easy, disconnected. But I want to approach her differently. I wanted to connect in, to work through this process with her as I work through it myself. I want to give, I want to enjoy receiving, and I want respect and consent and pleasure to guide us instead of letting our own fears and preconceptions hold us back.

I still struggle with my words. I don’t feel like I conveyed what I wanted to say, only touched the tip of the iceberg. Of course, power and submission and domination is a part of this. But those words, outside the context of kink circles, tend to imply strength and weakness, oppression and victimization. I come from a sociology background, so for me, these are buzzwords into analyzing social stratification, hierarchies, and social capital. But I’m in bed, and here, these words imply something different – consent, agency, respect. Asking for what I want, and getting it from someone who earnestly wants to give it... who might even give it to me by denying it, by not allowing me to ask.

“I trust you,” she whispers.

I skip a beat, mentally, emotionally, physically. I lay my head down on her chest, for just a moment, listening to the pacing of her heartbeat, taking in every inch of her body. And then I begin to rock her, slowly, pulling her hips deeper into mine. I love to listen, to pay attention to the very subtle ways her body responds. To feel each contraction of her cunt, to hear each breath, to feel the heat spread slowly across her skin. She reaches up, curling her body tighter around me. With my left hand, I push her back down, deep into the bed, kneeding my other hand deeper and harder into her. She moans, half in mock protest and half in genuine pleasure. I have her pinned to the bed now, arms spread across the pillows.

“Relax, and just let me fuck you.” She takes a long breath, arches her back one last time, and sinks deeper and deeper into me, into the bed, until I can feel her focusing on nothing but herself. 

A Whirlwind.

So far I have tried my best to explain the erotic energy retreat to three people, and though I feel as if I am doing my experience no justice, all the responses have been really positive. I must be doing something right?

Easton is such a jewel in the mountains. It reminded me strongly of summer camp, but the cold breeze whipping through the mountains at all times provided a stark contrast. It was unreal how quiet it was there -- my first day, after setting down my bags, I wandered down to one of the ponds. Two Canadian geese flew over my head, and I could hear the sound of the wind rushing over their wings, simply because there was no other noise. It was surreal.

The workshop, CBE, pushed a lot of my boundaries -- emotional, physical, sexual -- in a place that was both safe and consent-focused. As I explained to a friend, the workshop begins with some basic consent skills and emotional trust exercises, then builds to help participants explore their comfort and knowledge of their physical bodies, leading ultimately to really intense connection with the sexual self. The workshop was structured very specifically to help participants learn their boundaries and connect with themselves and each other, though living in residence with the same group of people really helped me to get to know them in unique ways. I can see how it would be great to not be in residence -- just to go home, chill, and turn off each night. But one of my favorite parts of the weekend was the impromptu -- conversations about gender, sexuality, and identity over dinner, telling stories in the sauna, and late night discussions with the girls I stayed with.

I really enjoyed the chance to get to meet so many amazing women of different ages and backgrounds, each of whom had felt driven to Easton Mountain. How do you explain to friends, family, and others why you would choose to take a weekend and fly, train, or drive to a remote location to an erotic energy retreat? How do you explain that choice to yourself? And on the flip side, how do you go back into the world, having occupied an intensely spiritual, sexual, and emotional safe space, secluded in the mountains, and explain what you experienced? I don't have the answers for this. I know that, as the director of the workshop explained, the experience can leave you feeling expanded, though the world (and us) are constantly expanding and contracting. Pieces of the workshop, for me, will always exist at Easton. Other pieces have threaded so intricately into my life, into my thoughts and actions, my memory and future, that I see this work as a stepping stone at the beginning of a journey, not a door at the end.

CBE was a healing place for me. It was also a reminder that, as hard as it might be, we have the power to heal ourselves. I tend to turn to my friends for healing, which is important in its own right. But sometimes I must learn to turn inward, to listen and not run, to pay attention. CBE was at times, a scary place. Some of the exercises pushed me into emotional and physical places, outside of my boundaries. CBE also brought out a lot of things about myself, and my body, that I had forgotten -- how much dance has disciplined my movements, my own reservations about intimacy and receiving, the pleasure and pain of stretching my body and my mind, and the rawness of sex when it is unexpected and unpredictable.

I'm grateful for the experience. I'm grateful for the women who came to Easton, grateful to those who opened their lives and allowed me to explore in very personal ways. I'm grateful for the friendships and connections I made, and for the chance to walk away from my life for a bit and come back with a complimentary but new perspective. I'm grateful for the tools I learned, and I'm grateful that these places, these spaces, exist. Whether I get the chance again to go back to another workshop or not, I think this is important work. As Sinclair said, there is a connection between workshops like these and other types of sex-positivity, because they share the values and vision of creating a world where sex and sexuality are embraced as a positive force in our lives, a part of life and body to be explored and enjoyed, not a realm of shame, fear, denial, and pain.

The whole weekend, I was reminded of this quote, which is one of my most favorite:

“I am not arguing here for free sex or for more sexual expression, quantitatively speaking. I am arguing for living dangerously, for choosing to take responsibility for working through the possible consequences of sexual feelings rather than repressing sexual feeling and thus feeling more generally. I am arguing that our capacity to transform…the world is rooted in our capacity to be alive to the pain and anger that is caused by relationships of domination, and to the joy that awaits us on the other side [in a relationship of mutuality and equality]. I am arguing that to be alive is to be sexually alive, and that in suppressing one sort of vitality, we suppress the other.” -- Judith Plaskow

Saying "No"

There are a lot of different stories bubbling lately, both erotic and not, both intensely personal and not. Unfortunately, I am not a one-track person; I digress easily, ramble often, and multi-task always. None of these traits are strengths in writing. If there are too many ideas, I struggle to write, because I must focus on one topic and ignore the rest of the clamornings. But this week I feel pushed, shoved really, to focus on a problem I can't seem to conquer... how to say "no."

"No" is a word of power. It's about consent and ability; it concerns agency in a way "yes" doesn't always.

I worked through college at a fine(r) dining establishment, run semi-corporately, and we had a rule -- to always say "yes" to any customer's request. Customers had power, or at least, corporate and management for the restaurant gave them power. Management told us that saying "no" meant punishment, or even possibly getting fired. So we bowed to the every demand of every customer, and of course, management. I said "yes" to unreasonable requests, to personal questions, and at times, to sexual harassment. I didn't have the power to say "no" without losing my job. I could not say "no" to racist jokes or angry, demeaning rants. I couldn't say "no" to anything.

I grew up in Mississippi until I was fourteen, the daughter of two parents born and raised in the deep South. I was socialized in a culture of debutantes, Junior League, and very gendered notions of what a woman's role should be in society. My mother didn't know how to say "no" to my father, even as he became increasingly aggressive and violent toward others, even as he gambled and lost a small fortune in the stock market, remained unemployed, and drained her bank account and my college savings dry. Saying "no" meant divorce, and my mother, her family, and many of her friends carry antiquated ideas about women with young children who leave their husbands. Even now, after her divorce, my mother doesn't know how to say "no." She works herself into the ground, as a secretary/bookkeeper to her brothers' firm and a caretaker to her family. She is constantly in a state of frustration and stress, and I cannot say how many times I have asked her -- why do you not refuse? Why do you not refuse to manage the personal accounts of your brothers, to run at your mother's every whim, to work for much less than what you should be paid? But she feels she must fulfill her obligation, as a sister, a daughter, a mother. She must put family first. She must pay back the unspoken and uncounted debt she owes her family for taking her in as a divorced woman. She doesn't feel like she can say "no."

I grew up learning that a girl, a woman, says "yes." A mother, a wife, especially has no room to say "no." She must say "yes" to her family's needs and desires, putting her husband and children first, because "no" is not what a "good" wife or mother says. It's about agency, a very gendered notion of who should and who should not have agency.

The only time a girl can say "no" is when facing a boy who wants to sleep with her -- simply because males have libidos which take their agency, leaving girls with the power (nee the requirement) to say "no." But sex and agency and consent are tricky. A girl can say "no" and still get harassed or even raped; she can say "yes" and still be slut-shamed. So there's really no "no" there.

Against this backdrop, which has influenced me in ways I can't imagine, I have a "yes" personality. I like to help. I like to get involved, and God knows I have too many interests, making it difficult (if not impossible) to invest in all of them. I do well in the service industry (and in non-profit) because I like to say "yes." I like to make people happy. I like to provide comfort and support. I don't like to argue, don't like to confront. These are all traits our society associates with femininity, with women's roles.

I have been an older sister figure to many passing through my life, often when they were in a state of crisis or change -- coming out, growing up, leaving relationships, dealing with stress. I have provided an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on, sometimes out of love, and other times out of my own feelings of obligation. I have trouble saying "no" to someone in need.

I have trouble saying "no," period.

I didn't know how to say "no" to my boss at a non-profit agency when he made sexist, racist, ableist, transphobic, and generally hateful comments to me and to others in front of me every day. When I said "no," he increased the attacks -- and I didn't feel like my refused was even heard. So I left a job I loved.

I don't know how to say "no" to my mother when she makes hurtful comments -- when she rejects my friends, when she puts me down for being queer, when she acts like an asshole to other family members in front of me. I avoid her. I ignore her. I internalize the stress, run away, and try not to explode.

And now, at the end of a four year relationship with someone who has become increasingly dependent and lecherous, I'm learning again that I must find the ability to say "no." When I did say "no," all she would have to do is keep pushing -- and I would eventually say "yes." But now, as I have let her, enabled her, to wear me down, to leave me constantly stressed and angry, I am learning that I have to re-learn consent.

All relationships have a component of consent. I understand that abuse is, intrinsically, nonconsensual-- even the strongest person can feel trapped. I get that addiction is, unfortunately, much the same way. There's an element of self-policing, a panopticon-level of fear. I am afraid, because "no" in my relationship with her often leads to fights, to confrontations, to pain, to guilt. Saying "no" for me is inextricably intertwined with guilt, whether with her or with anyone else. I say "no" to a sick co-worker who wants me to work for her, and I am assuaged with guilt. I say "no" to my mother, and there are waves and waves of guilt.

I said "no" to her today, and as I write this, I am trying to stay angry enough, to stay rational enough, to know that I don't have to feel guilty -- it is my agency to protect myself from being used. I have every right to say "no."

She'll call today, tonight. She'll show up at some point, and I'll still be struggling. I can only run so far for so long; I cannot avoid her. I cannot avoid my own guilt.

Nor can I afford to keep avoiding the damage she is inflicting on my life. After watching her do to me the same thing my father did to  my mother, I am determined to learn to say "no."