Life is a Mystery

We were playing truth or dare at the St. Patrick's Day Parade the other day, as we are often wont to do, and a friend leveled an impossible question at me: "What's my best sexual experience?" She might as well have asked me what my favorite meal was. Would it be the $125 seven course gourmet meal at Stella in NOLA during one of the best weekends of my life? Would it be the orange-glazed duck with Okinawa sweet potatoes from Central Park in Hot Springs, AR, which cost pennies in comparison but which I've somehow never forgotten? Would it be the chicken and dumplings made by a good friend and passed down from her grandmother, on a cold winter night in my kitchen, when I celebrated Christmas with three people who became pivotal in my life? Would it be one of the hundreds of meals I have cooked for friends? Would it be the 3am pizza from a dirty shop underground on my first trip to New York City? I don't know. How do you compare experiences that have so little in common?

I have been blessed to have so many fantastic sexual experiences. Was it good because of how many times I got off? Was it better because I gave more, received less? Was it the toys that counted or the location? Was sex with a partner I loved better than someone whose company I simply enjoyed? Was it better because multiple people were involved? I don't know. I don't know how to compare these things. And to be honest, these aren't the details that stick with me in my memory. I remember the way she laughed in the dark. I remember the way it felt to look at her in the moonlight, sitting in my lap in the back of the car, naked from the waist up. I remember how it felt to really see her for the first time. I remember how scared he felt underneath me; I remember now that he wasn't ready. I remember the way she kissed me in the front yard. I remember the way he told me I was the 8th person he kissed, and I remember how that scared me.

I take with me the curves of her hips, the tattoo at the base of her neck, the fears she told me in the dark, the questions she asked between kisses. It's not a scale or a competition. I always go into sex looking for something; often I'm not even sure what I'm looking for. It changes. Sometimes I come away with it, and sometimes I come away with something else -- or more questions than answers. If I'm content, it's good. If I feel connected, it's fantastic. If I come away wishing I had done things differently, haunted by the experience, then I find myself trying to understand why.

I don't know what my best sexual experience has been, and even more so, I hope I haven't had it yet. I hope my exploration and experiences continue to expand and deepen, as they have over the past few years. I still have so much to learn.

Ask me a question  it doesn't take a damn blog post to answer. My truth? Nothing is cut-and-dried, nothing is simple.

Holigays

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

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.

Oh, I Was Starstruck

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.

Carre Me Home

I don't often make it to the Vieux Carre on Saturday afternoons. I should make it a point to do so -- even with the masses of tourists, it's my favorite day to go downtown. I met with a friend today at Cafe Envie, an open-air coffee shop on a corner, and I'm so very thankful we chose to meet downtown. There was a small festival across the street at the old U.S. Mint, and the salsa and merengue music was infectious. I wanted to dance in the streets! It was a gorgeous, cool, breezy day, and after our meeting we wandered through a few thrift stores and down to Jackson Square to visit a friend who was selling his art. All the artists, street performers, and psychics were spread around the Square walkways, and I was grateful that I only had $3 in my wallet or else I would have purchased several pieces. I wish I could put the Quarter into words. It's old worlde and new, artistic and messy, all structured by the simplicity of a grid. It's a charming place. I love that I can't go two blocks there without experiencing live music, the smells of fresh seafood, and puppy kisses.

Once upon a time, I fell in love with this city. I fell in love with a girl, simultaneously, and for a long time I think I confused the two. I thought of this city as hers -- or ours -- in a lot of ways. When we broke up, I grieved that attachment. But part of the challenge (and the delight) of the last few months has been my own process of rediscovery. I'm finding that fried plantains are just as good without her. The streets shine just as much in the wake of an afternoon rainstorm. The Pontchartrain still calls to me when I'm feeling lost and lonely. I love a beer at three in the morning -- maybe even more so than I did before -- on the porch surrounded by friends.

I have a nasty tendency to nest and hole up at home when I'm in relationships. Partially, that's because I keep so busy -- always going with work and school and volunteer projects and queer events and... -- that when I get a free moment, I want to spend it with whomever I'm dating. When I'm single, my priorities change, and I redirect that energy toward a social life. I look outward, instead of inward. I've met so many amazing people in NOLA because I'm taking chances, spending time building relationships, and connecting into the people that have become a transient, local family to me. I've had several people ask if I'm "dating" -- but the truth is, I don't want to. I don't want a partner. I don't want to pour energy into looking for one. I want to wander, dance in the streets, and enjoy what it means to wake up alone. I want to touch on each museum, each festival. I want to try all the foods (!) and I want to paint in the park. I want to dance on the bar and drink in alleyways. As a friend (or her mother) says, "being alone doesn't mean being lonely." It just means... being.

just because.

So. I can say this because you won't see this, at least not any time soon.

I think you're pretty damn cute.

Call me when you get out of a relationship.




(I'm not telling you this because after three years of being single, if you're happy with whomever you are dating, I'm not going to be the one to fuck with it....especially since I'm not interested in dating anyone right now. But I'd sure fuck you in a heartbeat.)