Rape Culture

In a dull grey flurry of words, smeared spoken newsprint text, I hear two words before I zoom back into focus:

"...rape culture." 

"what?"

I'm a bit spacey today. I think it's the meds. No, I think it's the company. Sometimes I don't know what to think. 
 
I've been staring at the bright oil cloth for a while, willfully distracted. 
He had just got done saying that he couldn't imagine ever finding himself attracted to ("to physically love") a larger ("fat") woman and, thoroughly disgusted, I was too exhausted to pick yet another fight on the subject. The topic comes up perennially with him, perhaps as a very thinly veiled threat. At least, that's how it seems to me as he says these things and then looks at me out of the corner of his eye. Preemptive, tentative, accusatory periphery. I hate that. How could I not hate that? 

"You should write about rape culture on your blog." 

"What about it?" 

"That we live in it." 

"What do you know about rape culture?" 

"I read an article about it."

He's Lassie, trying to tell me something, bark bark rape culture bark, but I don't want to hear it right now. I'm stuck on the other thing. 

I've known from the start that Igor is of the extremely vain sort, but really... Do all men feel that way, somewhere in them? 
If I'm thin, am I more lovable? 
(If I am physically desirable am I more lovable?)
((or... maybe, because I'm superficially valued, am I less lovable...?))

This is the pervasive mental dominance in our culture that has the potential to reach every girl and woman, an act of violence he commits without blinking while congratulating himself for somberly noting buzzword phrases such as "rape culture" -- as if, at this point, I could be impressed by him or what he has to say to me about women's issues. 

These are things, I think, that are failing to compute. 

Sick Chic

This is how I lost a lot of weight in a few weeks without trying:

Reactions to my new look remind me of a particularly awkward moment I was witness to in my friend's apartment in Brooklyn: a goddess-like female was visiting from Haiti, where she had been on a midwifing mission, determined to save the world, one proper birth at a time. Let's call her Hathor, after the Egyptian goddess of beauty and fertility. Hathor had had a rough time of late.

About a year and a half prior, she had a tough decision to make. She was in South Africa, the flagship country of her pilgrimage, and she got knocked up by a local man she thought she was madly in love with. As head midwife to the birthing program, she decided to set an example -- she kept the baby. The daddy then, predictably somehow only to Hathor's mother, turned out to be a dead beat. Single motherhood, in addition to being a power-housing saint, was really taking its toll and so she came home for a breather between godforsaken countries.

Hathor was once shining, bubbly, blonde, and as voluptuous as the clay sculptures of fertility totems with big hips and mesmerizing, pendulous breasts. Looking at her after, she had gotten skinny. The light had dimmed in her eyes, replaced by a dull luster and dark circles. Even her flaxen hair looked retired in its exhaustion. Every time you glanced at her, you somehow caught her in a moment of exhale.

That night at the apartment, our acquaintance joined us for dinner, arriving fashionably tardy. Upon seeing Hathor, the only aspect he noticed, unfortunately, was the weight loss.

A partial hug and a kiss on either cheek, the superficial city embrace.

"Wow, you look great!"

A brief silence in the room.

"... I contracted hepatitis." 

Aaaaaaaaaaaaand I'm calling it, time of death of a dinner party: 1 minute 32 seconds into the arrival of the relatively unobservant, situationally unfortunate guest. No other way to say it: that's awkward.

So! Looking to lose some? You should probably diet and exercise.

I absolutely do not recommend going to South Africa and drinking the water or somehow inducing life-threatening mental disorders to then medicate. You will be sick, and you will not give a damn what you look like. Compliments will seem hallow, and you will not know what to say to them because you will not feel grateful. Perhaps eventually, the compliments will stop coming from people you know. Worried glances will follow. Only strangers will still look at you and smile.

Porky's Dive

A small, grimy, dimly lit room containing a pool table, a juke box, an ATM, a small, staggering throng of men, Janx and I. With the addition of a few beer taps and a wall's worth of bottom shelf liquor, I guess you could call it a bar.

Janx is knee deep in it, hustling free drinks from a mid-life crisis situation. She's making all his dreams come true by listening to his smartphone app ideas. She's running circles around him, but he's too fucked up and stunned by her youth and attention to care.

While I'm genuinely impressed at her ability to talk to anyone, hustle, and have a good time, I don't have the patience for it tonight. I'm getting on a plane tomorrow morning for Switzerland and need to get most of my packing done. I'm going through the list in my head when I'm interrupted.

"You like beef jerky?"

A skinny man with close cropped hair and thick rimmed glasses throws the inquiry my way. I might have thought it had been tossed with the kind of detached casualness of two flies passing time at the same corpse except, despite what his unlikely svelte appearance might suggest, he's got the intensity of a butcher. Sweat glistens on his brow.

"Sure do."

I take a piece from his boney fingers and set my molars to work until savory juice trickles onto my tongue. Tastes like beef and bourbon.

"Mmm. 'S good."

He hands me another dark scrap, with pepper this time. A chewing moment of silence is paid in the destruction of the magnificent and delectable beast with four stomachs.

"You wanna go out back and make out?"

Still chewing, I look the guy over. This time tomorrow I'll be with Fangs, last thing I need is bar fly all over me.

"Thanks. No."

His face twitches in swift, mighty disappointment and he beelines for the door. I wonder how often the very direct approach works for him. I don't feel bad. Between the jerky and his game, I'm sure he does alright.

The leather upholstered stool is empty only for a moment before he is replaced like a shark's tooth. A bigger, younger man wearing a trucker hat approaches. He's less sure of himself than the last gentleman, but he's motivated by his friends over by the pool table and plenty of liquid courage.

"So you're going to Switzerland, huh? Wanna drink or a shot er somethin to celebrate?"

I really shouldn't.

"I'll take a Jameson and a Guinness; Here's hoping I make it to Ireland." 

His childlike grin that follows my toast betrays the fact that he did not think I would accept his offer -- he gives the bar an energetic pound with of the fist to show his rejuvenation.

"One of each, eh? Alrighty, 'tender, put 'em up!" 

Janx leans over, all smile and charm.

 "That's real nice of you, but this lady's gotta get home -- she's still gotta pack."

Bless 'er, she's trying to save me from myself. I divert my focus from the shark's teeth to listen in on her conversation. She's still hustling the drunk. It's a little hard to watch her shoot fish in a barrel. She does it with a shotgun. But believe me when I say she's not trying.

"I'll give you five dollars if you can guess what instrument I play."

The fading baby-boomer staggers back and forth. The task of guessing anything is too great. He just wants her to keep talking.

"I'll give you five dollars to tell me."

He hands her five sweaty, splayed out ones.
She looks at them, looks at him, looks at me, and looks at him again with a grin before putting the money in her pocket.

"I'm keeping this five dollars."

"I want you to."

"But you still have to guess."

"Ghuaghhhh...."

His moan sounds like a slow bleed from the side, like a deer having been hit by a car. He can only come up with cello and mandolin as instrument guesses before he gets bored and starts nervously talking about himself, claiming to have played with the Grateful Dead before and whatnot. He keeps snorting and sniffling, and the way he's talking, I think he's on drugs. Then he looks at me straight in the face and says:

"You are so beautiful. Were you beautiful as a child?"

I put in my notice at the bar. When I get back from Switzerland I'm going to try to find a real job, ideally one that calls upon my intellect, my degree, my talents other than my taste buds, looks, and social graces. I don't want to wake up realizing that I squandered my youth swatting at flies. It's not exactly an honest living, taking their money, playing Rumpelstiltskin, nor is it a service. Either way, I'd rather be in a shit hole like Porky's Dive by hilariously misguided choice on occasion than have the name of it's ilk on the top of my checks.


Janx doesn't know which way is up either. Perhaps that's why we are such good company for one another. We were sitting outside the bar, smoking cigarettes, and discussing our lives' paths when she said:

"I dunno. I've been trying to read the stars... but they're in fucking Spanish, man."

Just then, we were approached by a stranger, who asked Janx for a cigarette.

"Not so fast. This cigarette wasn't cheap. You can't get something for nothin' these days."

"What, you want a quarter?"

"I want something better than a quarter. I want a joke. You tell me a joke, you get a cigarette. Easy peezy."

"Ahhh... ok. [pause] Christ. Uhm... I... I don't know any jokes." 

"Everyone knows at least one joke." 

"I can't think of one."

"Not even a knock-knock joke?"

Poor guy was suffering.

"No. Can I please just have a cigarette?"

Janx is not one to bend in her stipulations.

"Gotta play by the rules, man."

"I just came from my grandma's house..." 

"What, G-ma doesn't tell jokes? Come on man, you've got to give me something to work with here. Help me help you."

"She's very sick. And Russian."

"So say something in Russian, then laugh, and I'll pretend it's a joke." 

"I think she's dying. I don't feel like laughing."  

"Well, if you feel like a cigarette, then..."

He looked at her, and she looked back at him. I saw in her eye a glint that makes me wonder if she is a psychological and sexual sadist. He sighed, and started his soliloquy, in Russian. After a while he stopped, but no, he could not laugh. Janx did her best overdrawn fake belly laugh, just to make the situation as uncomfortable as possible.

This is the point at which I stepped in.

"I have a joke for you: Why did the chicken cross the road?" 

Janx's eyes lit up, wide with anticipation: yes -- a player of the game!

"Because it wanted a fucking cigarette."

She took out her bright yellow pack and handed me a cigarette as she stared with dominance and demonstration into the eyes of the stranger. She over-annunciated:

"Hilarious. Now you get a cigarette."  

The guy looked like he was going to cry. I threw the cigarette at him.

"Get outta here." 

He quickly slunk away into the parking lot and became nothing more than a tiny puff cloud of smoke rising from between parked cars.

"Some people man, they got no sense of humor."

"Can't take a fucking joke." 

Bad apples hang out at bars. We're a couple of them.

Cheers

Waxing the lustre of morning's sunlight into the bar rail with a damp terry-cloth rag, I imperceptibly smirk in self-congratulations. I've made it through the early hours, and without incident at that. I stand back and sigh, admiring my work: I can see my own reflection in the wood and I don't find that despicable at all. It'll be another half hour before the lunch crowd comes to muck it up. This is the quiet time, the eye of the storm -- after the flurry of opening and restocking, before the rush of service.  I can afford to steal this moment and keep it to myself.

A sip of coffee. The warm brown liquid hugs me from the inside out with soothing. Okay, organize: One medium, round, orange. One-half, small, pink. One big, long, white. Two long, big, reds. I stare for a moment at this handsome handful, then say to no one, "Bottoms up." One fell swoop, they all disappear. I'm a magician.

Before I forget, I set a reminder for my next round. It will be several hours from now and consist of one medium, round, orange. One big, long, pink.
Ten. Nine. Eight. (I'm already starting to feel it. Must have forgotten breakfast.)

Seven. Six. Five.  (I love this. The swift creep.)

Four, Three, two, one... Blast off
                    and now i'm an astronaut        

 that's better.

____________________________________

I have a problem with the way that psychiatric medications are portrayed in media and perceived in society.
I am not a zombie.

People sometimes say I'm quiet. I have a lot of thoughts. I quess I'm breathing shallow. I'm thankful I finally stopped gasping.

___________________________________

CONVERSATION WITH P-DOC

- How are the meds treating you?
- Well, at first I was experiencing a certain side effect, but then it went away... I think it had been helping, actually, so I'm a little disturbed that it neutralized. I was calmer, more pleasant, better rested, I think.
- How would you describe the side effect?
- Feeling "high as fuck".
- ...
- I miss that.
- Ok.
- Can we bring that back?
- Are you drinking?
- A little.
- ...
- Some.
- ...
- Excessively.
- Alcohol is a depressant, and it will counteract the meds. If you drink, all you have left is bare, naked brain. That's why they haven't been working for you anymore.
- ...
- What you were feeling wasn't "high" -- that's close what a normalized brain might feel like. Your brain doesn't make serotonin or dopamine like it should, so you wouldn't know that.
- Huh... so you're saying it sucks to be me.
- *sigh* I'm saying that you're something like Van Gogh: a highly creative individual with manic depression and anxiety mood disorders. Back in his day, there were no psychiatric medications... What I'm saying is, if you continue to treat your imbalances with art and alcohol, you're going to cut your ear off, or worse.
- There's some true romance.
- There's nothing romantic about syphilis and insanity. 

______________________________

Everyone knows Sam "Mayday" Malone's story from Cheers: He was a Red Sox relief pitcher with a drinking problem that ruined his career. He bought a friendly establishment called Cheers and made a new life for himself as a sober barkeep, ensuring a Sisyphean fate eternally reminding him of his shortfalls, masked by the hi-jinks of the wacky regulars. However, it's Diane's story that I relate to and is often over looked.

In the first episode, she is swept inside the dive by her fiancé and boss, a university professor to whom she is assistant. By the end of the episode, she has been abandoned under Sam's watch at the bar with a half consumed bottle of champagne while her lover has fled to Barbados with another woman. Her entire world shattered, she sighs and rolls over into Sam's barely professional arms and he takes the prissy, verbose, overeducated Diane on as a cocktail waitress at Cheers. This topsy-turvy, odd couple dynamic drives the early portion of the series.

My own professional track also having been derailed in a mirroring fashion, I may have been watching the series as motivational material -- a little fantastical fiction to adopt and get into character for work.

I, like Diane, don't belong in the bar. But if I imagine the laugh-track and the moral-of-the-story to take home at the end of every shift, I can trick myself to think it quirky, fun, and therefore bearable. Every day I count the sticky, wrinkled bills in my pocket, which helps greatly. Identity differentiation, cosplay, theater, anything... A few more days, a few more dollars I didn't see before. Keep it to that. No investment, no attachment.

It's not an uncommon feeling that food and beverage service industry jobs are more demeaning than sex work. But while the pay would be greater at that, there are several external factors that keep my clothes on professionally. Fangs has stated that he would have too many fires to start, for one. Next, I would have to shift professional role models from Cheers' Diane to YouTube's Jenna Marbles. Perhaps the generational gap is too broad for a sensical comparison to be drawn, but let me assure you, the slope starts at sad and descends into a valley of much worse.

Sobering up hasn't been an issue since I adjusted my meds and discovered a surprising fondness for non-alcoholic beer. I like having a clear head now. Whiskey and I are ex-lovers, parted on good terms, with the very brief and occasional stolen fling... but we don't make more of it than it is. We aren't meant to be and I know that now.

Sure, occasionally I get the urge. But I have to look at the bottle and say to it: "You, Sir, will not make me feel better."

All the same, I am a bartender. I have a craft, a trade, a nightly one act. In tribute to Fangs, Cheers, and professional ennui, here is my take on a Boston Sour -- a scotch cocktail for everybody. The egg white whips up into a frothy cold meringue and gives the drink a pleasing viscosity on the tongue. It's gotten great reviews so far at the bar, and is heading towards menu permanency. I invite you to try it out for yourself and do your best-worst fake Boston accent while you enjoy it.

BOSTON SOUR
2 oz. Johnny Walker Black Label
3/4 oz. honey syrup (1/2 honey, 1/2 water)
2 oz. sweet and sour
1 egg white

Shake all ingredients vigorously with ice for about 20 seconds. Strain in chilled sour glass (or wine glass). Garnish with orange slice and skewered cherry. Cheers.

rail

by shibeari

shining bound.
left for dead

trains comin in.
fluff in my head

Scoundrel

by guest author Janx 

The writer of this blog and I are very good friends who love more than anything to sip fine beverages and share the filthiest stories we have under our belts. Time after time I am defeated in our pissing game of smut tales- so I am honored that she asked me to write a guest entry for her loyal readers- as if I might actually get a rise out of what I have to share. What I decided- since this is technically a traveling blog as well- to tell a small tale on how I earned my stripes as a certified scoundrel.     

When I left California to enter a four month artist residency in Prague, I had promised Ace that I would remain loyal to him and our love would be enough to satisfy all my sexual desires.

This concept was quickly swept under the rug the first night as I awoke next to my new favorite local bartender who slept with his half-smoked rolled cigarette wedged between his lower lip and unusually large mustache.

I could already tell it was going to be a great four months.

August is Guest Writer's Month

That's right, it's time to shake things up. Check back often this month for varied submissions from diverse authors from across the globe and blogosphere.

Don't forget to like us on facebook, follow us, and tell your friends where it's at.

Anti-Social Media

Hi there. Will you, uh... be my friend?

You see, I don't know how to do this unless you are hoping to fuck me one day. But. Sigh. It's in my best interests to nourish non-sexual relationships in addition to all these kinky, filthy fluids I'm exchanging on a regular basis, in irregular locations.

My shrink, who I respectfully refer to as Dr. Homeslice, hooked me up with some pharmaceutical magic -- magic thus far for the stability of my moods and for correcting what may have been becoming a drinking problem, but not of course without its costs. Among the side effects is not being able to "find the right word." Examples given of especially slippery ones have been "garage" or "refrigerator," but Fangs and I had a hearty belly laugh at one the other day:

Thanks for this morning, Baby.

No problem. I couldn't stand to see you in so much pain from that rock-hard erection, so it was my pleasure to, uh-- damn...

...what?

...What's the fucking word? Oh yeah: blow you.  

Dr. Homeslice doesn't bat an eye when I arrive looking like a purple and chewed piece of steak gristle anymore, bless 'im, so I haven't had to explain Fangs' fangs or defend my kinks or any of that time-wasting garbage. He did recommend that I occasionally make friends that I don't fervently bang, though, so here goes: see the sidebar to send me a tweet! Make my little day!

Delicious Evil

I'm not much into sweets. "Not much" as in: not at all. But my one of my organs is currently ripping out it's internal lining and ejecting it forcefully from my body. In response, for some curious reason, nature dictates that I crave something hot, dark, and evil to fill my belly to replace it. Something Satanic. Something... chocolate. 

Simple enough to whip up in compromised states, delicious enough to make your eyeballs roll back into your skull, and not-at-all too sweet, this fucker will do the trick. I got the recipe from my mother, and I share it with you here in hopes that another female or female-identified body will writhe in this dark pleasure's respite in a similar time of need. 

Who's your Daddy?

Uh, sorry, our credit runner's out of order. 

Damn it all to hell. I love my little, independent, locally-roasted coffee shop, but these are issues to be expected: constant technical disfunction and general inconsistency. I can relate on a personal level, but I don't carry any cash on me as a general rule because it winds up slipping away like sand between a drooling child's open fingers. And so, frustration.

I got this one, Babe.  

Igor to the rescue! I smile and twirl one of my pigtails -- he likes when I put on a show. I lean over and give him an exaggerated peck on the cheek, look up at him with baby-doll eyes and squeak in a "little" voice:

Thanks, Daddy...

His eyes roll and then land in a stare that clearly communicates that he's over the theatrics. He puts his wallet away and as he turns, he throws his next words over his left shoulder like spilt salt:

Don't call me "Daddy". 

Hurt and a little stunned, it takes me a moment before I realize that I'm standing at the counter alone. I absentmindedly pull the elastic out of one pigtail as I wander to the table where he's sitting in his usual Dominant stance. He's cooler than the iced coffee.

Why don't you call Bacon your "Daddy?" He's old enough to be. 

I hate to jump to conclusions, but it seems that someone's feeling a little insecure.

He's only 32. That would make him a very virile 7 year old. 

Whatever, Sweets. It's just not my bag.  

Fair enough, I guess. The other pigtail comes out.

__________________ 

I'm at the beginning of my cycle, and Fangs has been taking really sweet care of me. Belly rubs, back rubs, neck rubs, every kind of rub, basically. He took me to all my favorite places in the city and then he took me to dinner and a movie. He selflessly guided me to orgasm to relieve my cramps and he fed me chocolate. When I was moody, he held me and told me I was beautiful until I felt better.

As much as he treats me like a princess, Fangs really does look like a Nordic prince. His long, fine hair rests in soft curls on his broad, strong shoulders. He looks at me with his disarmingly golden eyes, smiles, and offers me a giant hand clad in every opportunity with silver metal to help me into the vehicle.

You take such good care of me... 

Well, you're my baby, you know that?

The following debate takes place in my head in following .5 seconds: I'm going to say it. I'm not going to say it. *Breathe* Don't say it -- Remember last time? Oh, for fuck's sake, just get over yourself and say it. If it doesn't go over well, just have a little grace and laugh it off...

Does that make you my Daddy? 

I'm afraid to make eye contact, but when I look up at him from the car, I see a wide grin and four fangs.

I guess it does...

He chuckles to himself as he goes around to the driver's side, and I bubble inside.

Wild Cats, Lady Beats

Everything in the world is hilarious. It's like a cosmic 'your mom' joke.

That's Janx for you. She spits this gem of acerbic wisdom with a slanted grin as we fly down a California highway at 90 mph, her bare foot on the dash as she fingers a gem she wrapped in copper wire the night before. We had a meeting, a caucus of lady hens in Santa Barbara where we gathered our supplies -- cheap red wine, crystals, gems, bright wire, cotton thread in every color of the rainbow, weed, tobacco, instruments, and stories -- we took a big sit with all these things and we rapped. No topic was off limits, no limit was off topic.

The thing about masturbation that really frustrates me is that I think: I am way too cute to be doing this for myself.

A pause in conversation as we all focus on our projects in a haze. Thin paper crinkles as a joint is passed, soft glugging as a glass is re-filled. Somewhere in the room, a bulldog farts and sighs.

I hate those fuckin' fox tails people are wearing these days.

Why? 

They have to kill the whole fucking animal just to parade around looking like an ass-pirate's bitch -- it's disgusting, murderous, and wasteful.

Hey, do you still have your old dreadlocks that you cut off?

Yeah? 

You should die them and make a tail out of that.  

What makes you think I want to look like an ass-pirate's bitch? 

The thing about these ladies is that we aren't your typical ladies, we're cowboys. We will fuck you up from the inside out and laugh while we do it. Rough, a little hard, and gone with the wind, we out west are more like tumble weeds and hardly "the fairer sex." We also represent the modern beats -- just like The Dharma Bums, we're only romantic enough to be pathetic, only revolutionary enough to be self-indulgent. We are vain, and not without sensitivity or desire -- what kind of poets would we be otherwise?

Each us of us are in constant conflict with ourselves; that is part and parcel of our self-indulgent vanity. We each contain a tarot card-like persona against whom we struggle, but it's these struggles that come to define us. Janx's impossibly long, thick dreadlocks in every color of the rainbow are a whimsical touch that attempt to disguise the fact that she is at heart the existential realist. Our mate and occasional ward, who is a brilliant crafter and dedicated boozer often prancing around as a middle eastern unicorn, is the drunken idealist. Sparky, who is here with us in spirit with her magenta hair and her wild eyes, is the emphatic. I, ever searching for sincerity in all the wrong places, am the romantic hedonist. We are each of us flesh hungry wild cats.

On this road trip plummeting back up California's coast, it's Janx's hilarity I'm exposed to at full volume. A realist she is, but humor is the spoonful of sugar with which she shoves medicinal observation deep past one's esophagus.

So I've been questioning my relationship with Man a lot recently, as you know, as I'm sure you are sick of hearing about, and so I've devised a new test, a relationship test. Here it is: if you have a baby and it turned out to be exactly like your partner, and I mean in every way, would you be proud of him or her? Think about it... would you?

Yeesh, I don't know. 

Yeah, well, think about it. That's what's going to happen. So thinking about this actually led me to come up with something else, which I like to call: The Dead Baby Method. I came up with this tactic because I don't use birth control or condoms. When my body starts to feel a little... different or when I sense my uterus go a-flutter, I simply meditate on dead babies. I say to it: Uterus, don't do it. If you make a baby, I'm going to kill it. These are all the ways in which I would kill it. Don't fucking do it. I figure, you know, you hear of those girls who convince themselves they are pregnant so much they start to blow up? Well, if they can convince themselves they are pregnant, I can convince myself I'm not. 

Brilliant.

I know... but sometimes I worry about my mental health.  

Yes, well. Her countering poignant depravity with questions of her sanity is why I can justify calling her a "realist" in my mind.

This bitch is resourceful. Give Janx some powerful hallucinogens and 15 minutes alone and she will return to you having solved all your problems. She will deliver you unto the sweet warbling voice of Jesus Christ and bring you handsome gentlemen cowboys who will play country music, provide you refreshing beverages, and keep you warm when the night turns cold. They will say things like "See that ther' coffee stan' over yonder? Built it. Take mah jakit, lil' lady. Kilt a buffalo in that thing. Hey, Woodrow! Come meet mah new girlfrien'!" and you will never stop giggling... Janx will get on stage and play a stranger's banjo, leading a crowd in a chorus of meowing until the sun rises, and she will purr like a hooker until she gets bored. She will lead you on powerful journeys and quests as an impromptu shaman, a spirit animal even, and she will blow your freakin' mind.

Full disclosure: I hated The Dharma Bums. Even so, in moments I find myself happy to be living it out less piously, and Janx is the Japhy to my Ray Smith.
Was that sappy? Well, you can go fuck yourself. 

Sick

I'm sick. Coughing, wheezing, sneezing, and dizzy with discomfort. I seek respite in the steam of a hot shower.

I've been missing Istanbul intensely. I miss my old roommate: a man who barely speaks but somehow just radiates. I miss my neighbor and best friend there: her company, her energy, her stories.

Almost as much as I miss these people, I miss the solitude. For three months at a time, two winters in a row, I enjoyed privacy of spirit. All the way across the world from most of my social habitat, I would hole up, sometimes for days. I would barely speak to anyone, happy to be mostly undisturbed in the dark, cavernous and warm room. When I occasionally did part the thick, green, velvet curtains, the light from the alley was sad and cold -- as it always seemed to be reflecting of the clean marble in Istanbul (only the sunlight over the Bosporus in the late afternoon was golden). Back then, I was able to be alone with the voices in my head, who muttered and hummed, made up stories to entertain us, and mused about things of little consequence.
These days, they won't stop screaming. It's too much, toomuch, toomuch... and yet.

I slip down in the tiny square shower to sit on the tiny square tiles. I close my eyes and let the warm water plunk on my face and knees. It sounds like falling rain. I curl myself into a ball and sink down to my side on the smooth floor. My long hair floats and waves a little. I let the sound and the warmth of the water take over and fall asleep.

I dream in memories. I dream that I am back in the rainforest of Chiapas, Mexico, where the rain was just as warm. I remember swinging in the impossibly thick vines, in competition with howler monkeys who, despite having the terrifying cry of a fierce jungle cat, are adorable, mischievous little things. I remember decorating the dreadlocks I used to have with hibiscus flowers. I remember the flavor of papaya water soothing my stomach. And I remember my lover at the time hugging a leaf that was bigger than he was. What different times! Nothing proves this to me more than thinking of him, the kind of person he was, and who I was in his reflection.

The rain slowly turns cold and I'm in Madrid. I'm delirious from jet lag and having slept all day, but now it's the middle of the night and I'm being dragged down the street by the hand of a different man entirely -- and what a different life we led together. We run through the chilly rain and seek refuge in a sherry bar. The amber liquid comes straight from the cask; we drink it from tiny flutes and it warms our shivering bones. I deliriously munch on oily, skinned almonds and he makes up little songs to amuse me and crack a smile on my paled visage.

Now the water is cold enough to drag me back into awareness. I laugh at myself a bit bitterly for being so sentimental, for missing so much, for being an avid adventurer who simultaneously: constantly craves, and yet is astounded by, change. It's the little things, the simple facts, the obvious conclusions that often seem so impossible to me.

I sit up, let the blood rush back to my head, and turn off the tap.

Blood Hungry

The wiry black hairs of his tarantula hands tickled my skin as his thick fingers crawled slowly across it. The sensation made me shiver and giggle. He grinned mischievously, revealing four perfectly pointed fangs that framed two rows of dull pearls. He drooled as a wet bit of lengua meat moistened his lips and his eyes rolled back into his skull. This possessed expression descended over him like a shroud and he sunk his fangs deep into my flesh. I writhed, moaned, arched, and grunted. He purred in a low growl as he decorated my neck, back, shoulders, and hips in blood blisters, encouraged by my guttural approval.
He stopped, and I fell limp.

Tired? 

No... it's just... it's relaxing.  

I could barely speak and so he continued the delicious torture, raking his sharpened teeth over the landscape of my body. His hand slowly creeped its way up my leg and its probing mandible cautiously fingered the torn hem of my shorts at the inside of my thigh.

May I?

I'm a sucker for a gentleman.

He entered me, and I thought I might die. If I had, I'm not sure if it would have deterred him.

________________

So, what? You're writing spider porn now? 

It's a metaphor.

Whatever. But I mean, is it a spider? Or a vampire? Or what?

Like I said, the tarantula thing was an image. But it's non-fiction. 

What are you talking about.

It happened. (pause) The guy has fangs.

You fucked someone who had their teeth sharpened? Jesus Christ, of course you did...

No, they were natural. He has real fangs. 

What the fuck are you talking about? Nobody has real fangs. 

I don't know what to tell you. This guy does.

Whatever. I bet you'll tell me he used magnums too.

Well, yeah.

Jesus Christ... 

For the record, fiction's not really my thing.

___________

Fangs could be a vampire, I suppose. From his long hair and massively broad stature to his sweetly romantic nature and comic Boston accent, there is something mythic about him. The way he smells drives me insane; it must be something in his blood. I could kiss him for hours, if only to keep my face in his and become intoxicated on his scent. It reminds me of what Dr. Christopher Ryan (co-author of Sex at Dawn) said about lovers' scent attraction and genetic compatibility. What a sexy thought... Evolution itself wants us to fuck.

I told my buddy about you.

Oh yeah? What'd he think?

Well, (blushes) he wasn't surprised to hear you're an artist... 

Ah, you have a history with creative types, huh?

I don't want you to feel reduced to a type, but yeah, it's who I tend to go for. The ying to my yang, you know... I hope that doesn't offend you.

Oh no, not at all. I've noticed a recent pattern myself, and you're just my type. 

Oh yeah? What's your type?

Tall goth metal heads with motorcycles and huge cocks. 

Wicked.  

Do you feel reduced?

Yeah... but I like it.  

If he is a vampire, he may just be the goofiest undead on this earth. I find myself incredibly endeared to him; his intimidating stature and harsh aesthetic are balanced by his undeniably human tenderness. I feel safe when I'm around him, protected, and sane.

Non-Verbal Communication for Alt-Sex

The presentation I led at Open SF Conference 2012, of Open, Poly, or Ethically Non-Monogamous in the Bay Area, had a mouthful of a name:

Honing Non-Judgmental Communication through Touch and Movement

It's the kind of name where one would have to chew on each and every word to really hear it as a whole. The kind of name where, when I said it, people would stare back blankly and nod: "Uh huh." I wasn't sure what turn out was going to be like.  I wasn't sure if I could reach the sexy and political people at this sexy and political conference with my content: movement exercises introducing the basics of contact improvisational dance in a non-sexual touch-therapy context. The alt-sex community tends to be defined by sex, and so naturally it crossed my mind that asking for non-sexual and highly tactile participation might result in mutiny. 

My mother asked me what some of the other workshops being presented were:

"Debunking the Myths of Anal Fisting, Negotiating Successful Threesomes, Pansexual Poly-Sluts in Leather, Writing Group Sex, and Fat Sluts, Hungry Virgins."

All of these real (and very cool!) workshops came to mind immediately.
While my mom is awesome, some things just don't need to be shared between us. What I actually said was:

"Uh, I think... there's a writing workshop... some guided meditation or something... a thing where we take pictures of each other and talk about how we are perceived... and like, I don't know, some other communication-y stuff." 

Yeah, I'm not so great with that thing they call "tact."

But what did a dance workshop have to do among all this?

This workshop is less a dance class and more an exercise in bravery and openness. Improvisation is essential practice in releasing oneself to say "yes" and to play. Intimacy, while it includes sex, is not confined or defined by sex. It is defined by communication, and communication is not restricted to spoken language. As you can see in the video, these two people are communicating perfectly in their own language, though one is a pre-verbal infant. Through loving touch they speak to each in a language of movement, one that can't be translated into post-Babel meaning. It is pure communication, a language that only exists in the moment it is shared and it is without technique, symbols, or the possibility of real documentation. 

Any relationship relies on communication skills, but the unconventional relationship structures enjoyed by the alt-sex, poly, and BDSM community require a particularly enormous amount of emotional bravery. While our specific lifestyle labels may often be defined by the sex we enjoy, the intimacy of our relationships and our identities are not. As much as sexual pro/recreation is natural and necessary, so too is the healing power of loving non-sexual touch, which is why we humans need and crave it. The goal is to gain awareness of how we interact physically with our loved ones, our community, and the world around us, to hone our connection to our non-sexual and non-violent physicality, and to learn to communicate with each other in new ways. 

In terms of communication skills, we sometimes get caught up in the didactic. I'd like to share with you a visceral way of learning in the realm of loving communication. The majority of this workshop will be movement exercises in groups, but at the end we will discuss what we experienced. The aim of the ending discussion is to begin to mentally "pack it up" so that we may hopefully take something of it away with us and into our lives.

Igor was skeptical that I would pull off my presentation. I hadn't told him anything of it, any of the above, didn't mention my plans. I may have led him to believe I would just "wing it." He looked increasingly nervous before the class, probably in part for me but also because he is *not* a mover. Still, he had committed to participate and there he was, dutifully and bravely in front, on my right hand side. But there was a moment during the exercises as I went around the room checking on the groups where I caught a glimpse of him having a moment. His partner was a much older woman with very long silver hair and they had been strangers up until just a moment ago. Yet, here they were in beautiful physical harmony. The look of pure ecstatic joy on both of their faces was so moving, I had to look away to stay focused.

After the workshop ended, Igor and others staggered out of the room with illuminated expressions and I knew I had, as Sparky would put it, "done a good."

Communion, of sorts

I can hear the impatient foot-tapping, the intermittent sigh, and the awkward 2-foot pacing shuffle outside the stall. There's only one in the women's room, but all the same I'm glad we didn't go for the men's. This woman's irritated discomfort is absolutely tickling me, so maybe it's schadenfreude or maybe it's the simple fact of the public location, but whatever it is, I'm into it. This enthusiasm lends a particular gusto to my work and Bacon has to be extra mindful to check his groans.

I love North Beach. I love the strip clubs, the neon signs, the grimy pizza joints, and the shit-hole dives that are cheap and yet rich with literary and cultural history. I love imagining that one of the beat poets might have been on his knees in this very stall 50 years ago. And I, now similarly on my knees, can't help imagining myself linked to them in more ways than one. At least I know as well as they did that in this neighborhood, sleaze is not a spectator sport.

As I exit the stall and face the patiently fuming ladies-room martyr, I playfully wipe the corner of my mouth with fingers whose nails are perfectly painted black. I lock eyes with the woman, challenging her to say something, if she's got something to say to me, but she doesn't. Good. I recognized her as half of the couple that had been sitting next to us in the bar, and chuckle as Bacon and I return to our seats. Not two minutes later, the woman stormed out of the bar and her date followed her in confusion. Maybe she was a tourist to North Beach, harkening from somewhere fancier, like the Marina -- but here? What did she expect?

"So, where were we?"

Bacon can't wipe the grin off his big hairy face. I smile back, having taken great pleasure in satisfying him for the fourth time that night already.

"I believe the flowchart of our conversation has been: whiskey, polyamory, marriage, death, motorcycles, suicide, and then fucking in the bathroom." 

"Ah yes. Well, we better get another round then."

Lost and Found

The exhilaration of screaming my head off at 120 mph with only two wheels and a vibrating death machine underneath me sweeps it all clean. I am assured with a definite clarity that I am alive, if only because at any second I might no longer be. I scream until hoarse, not out of fear -- well, yes, fear -- but also because I'm so fucking happy to exist in these moments that it can't be contained. Igor chuckles evilly at my puny screams as we careen down the highway on his hot red CBR and, feeling generous, pops a wheelie.

_____________ 

"PREPARE TO DIE."

My proclamations are more ironic than anything as Igor and I lose to each other in chess. He grins at me from across the pathetic looking checkered battlefield and considers his equally futile counter-move, eventually choosing the rook.

"Thank you for coming with me today."

I finger one of my conquered pawns, a brave lost warrior, as I scan my options silently.

"You really mean a lot to me, you know."

I opt for the horse thing, which I move around his horse in a little waltz. Clearly, chess is my game. I sigh and bring up my eyes to meet his searching gaze.

"I'm glad I finally got to meet your mother."

We had paid her a visit, armed with a dozen pink roses for Mother's Day. He was uncharacteristically quiet, but I didn't wonder why. The weather was beautiful, clear, hot, I could smell the grass. After a long pause, Igor took from the bouquet a single rose, which he presented to me. I wiped at my tears and smiled. He is so brave, even in the face of grief.

"She would be so proud of the man you've become."

We held each other for a long time before we hopped on the bike and left the graveyard.

_______________

An impromptu hike led us to pad through the redwoods in search of cool water in which to bathe our overheating bodies. Neither of us were appropriately attired, he in his usual steampunk regalia and I in gothic biker leather, but the trees didn't seem to mind. They were too ancient to care and besides, their sentience knows nothing of fashion. It seemed like a good place to talk things through.

"I mean, he couldn't possibly be more compatible for you than me, so it's not that I'm threatened." 

Part of me accepts his compatibility assessment as truth without question, but the majority of me disbelieves the perceived lack of threat in his mind. I kicked a pine cone with a steel-toed boot.

We've known each other for so long, since before we were individuals, it's almost impossible for me to conceive of our relationship in it's entirety. We were kids when we first kissed, and now we have evolved into what Igor calls, "black-belt relationship territory." Sometimes we still act like kids, but I think the key is to be patient with each other, and to know when to say, "I'm sorry."

"I love you."

"Love you back." 

 _________________

"Whatever happens tonight, don't fuck me with this."

I said this with a stern look on my face as I held up my wooden cocktail muddler. Old Fashioned's are my specialty and for this drink, a muddler is key. It did have a nice rounded dildo-esque shape to the handle, so I assumed it would have crossed his mind. Judging from the smirk that grew across his face as he stared at the tool, I began to realize that I shouldn't have said anything at all. I reasoned in vain.

"I don't want... splinters."

Hours later I found myself bound in industrial saran wrap and lain prone over a large ottoman. My mouth was gagged and I was blindfolded. I was bound so thoroughly in the plastic I could only futilely writhe like a pathetic fuck-larvae as I was being beaten by several hands and fucked by one of our guests. My blindfold was removed as Igor kissed my face. He had something to show me.

"See? No splinters."

He replaced my blindfold and proceeded to fuck my cunt with my cocktail muddler, which he had protected with a condom.  I giggled as much as I could in said state, and was awash with love for the insolence that can also drive me crazy.

More Igor!
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The Multi-Orgasmic Man

The environment was impressively well-curated with tasteful prints, a small, respectable library of vintage hardcover volumes by Foucault and Vonnegut among others, curious accoutrements such as brass knuckles, motorcycle mufflers, animal skulls, attractive yet masculine jewelry, and an antique Turkish throw woven from goat hair. However, I wasn't paying attention to any of this as his low growls drove me wild.

"Oh, I'm so... yeah... I'm reaching... orgasm..." 

My hand slick with spit was working hard as I writhed and purred from the reciprocation of his hands.

"Yes, cum..."

Following were a series of grunts that sounded something like:

"No, I'm not cumming, I'm orgasming..." 

A deep moan, a slight spasm, barely a second of rest, then he flipped me onto my back and kissed me deeply as he continued to pet my body. His hands and his lips were searching insatiably across me and he was somehow still hard.

"Are you... do you... practice tantra?" 

He couldn't possibly... The man reeked of cooked bacon.

"I've already orgasmed four times."

He was still ready for more. Love drunk, I stroked his beard as he grinned widely.

"You know, I think within the last fifteen minutes we've done six different positions..."

I smiled as I pushed him back and climbed on top.

"Variety is the spice of life." 

 ____________

I hadn't planned on staying over that night. It was only our third date and I had counted on leaving him wanting more, of being a "lady." Bacon was a gentleman indeed, treating me very sweetly and promenading me around the Mission district arm in arm.  As my friend put it when I recounted the tale to her:

"He gentleman'd his way right into your pants." 

Indeed.

I sat on his lap as we smooched, my tiny shorts revealing the entirety of my legs. He pet them softly and kissed me tenderly. After what seemed to be an eternity of sweetly innocent making out, I stood, wavering in my heels and I picked up my purse.

"I should get going."

The man stood tall at 6'4" but he looked me straight in the eyes as he slowly took the purse out of my hand and laid it on the ground. With the slow assurance of a man seven years my senior, he carefully picked me up and gently laid me on his large bed. I felt like a precious thing, a fragile bird: he had been so careful not to hurt me. Then he placed a hand around my neck with gentle but firm pressure. He ordered me softly:

"You're not going anywhere. Are you?"

Like it spicy? Then you'll love this post set in Istanbul: Snapshots.
Or check out what's new! 

Other Girlfriend

I would have never chosen to get in bed with this person whose hands and feet I'm trying awkwardly not to touch as they wrap around my lover, but here we are for the second time. The middle man appears to be experimenting with sleeping on his back for egalitarian reasons and I clamp my eyes shut in futile effort to quiet my brain. Once he drifts off and shifts, whose body will he pull close? This isn't the loneliest I've ever felt in a bed with two other people, but it's pretty damn close.

It's been about a year since Igor and I got together, and I feel it's generally the right time to assess how things are going. At the moment, I'm annoyed and frustrated. I feel pressured to play along, to put in the "work" to make this poly situation function, but I'm realizing that I just don't like what's happening. He can date whomever he wants, but I don't want to be in a relationship with her -- not the kind that involves the intimacy of brushing our teeth together, anyway. She's actually a lovely girl with whom I get along just fine, but I resent feeling consolidated into a single outing or a single bed. I resent that every decision we make together has to be run by her, but then again I am rarely consulted about my feelings. There are a lot of double standards happening, which are hard not to notice when we are both considered equal partners, and it drives me crazy.

It's hard to resist the thought that even while I was doting on him from abroad, he was replacing me. Since getting back, we haven't been as intimate as we once were and he's started doing things with her that used to be our activities. I hardly get to see him, and when I do, she requires periods of extra attention to "make up" for it. I feel like I'm living in her debt, this forced family member, and unfortunately because she affects every decision I make with Igor, she also affects the decision of whether I fight for him, fight to traverse the distance that has come between us in the time I was abroad, or let him slip away, breaking my own heart in the process. 

Conversation with him quickly fluctuated from one extreme to another. We talked about the possibility of cohabitation, which is something that we both admitted to wanting, but when he talked to Other Girlfriend about it, she expressed a familiar and irritating, if understandable, sentiment: "Hey, wait a minute! She maybe gets that? I want that too!" I let him know that if it's always going to be like this, an endless tug of war between two "primary" girlfriends, if we aren't going to move forward, get to spend time together or be sexually intimate, then it won't work for me in the long run. Companionship is a great thing, and we always have the best time together, but frankly I want more.

"But you have to appreciate that there's another person who is really important in my life whose feelings I have to consider!"

I appreciate it. I appreciate it so much that if the greatest I can hope for out of our relationship is a sexless triad living situation, I want to let him consider her feelings without having to consider mine. I love him so much, but it wouldn't be the worst thing to acknowledge that our poly styles are incompatible. The worst thing would be living in frustration because we won't admit that they are incompatible.

My mind wanders to Slater and his chillingly perverted smirk. Him and I talk on the phone frequently and one day we chatted about future plans: maybe we'd meet up in this country or that country, maybe he'd come to California, what kind of work could we find him and how would we live. I'm not sure what's real or what's a fairy tale but all the same, it's intoxicating to think about and I do miss him quite a lot. Maybe hearing it in my voice surprised him, but by the time I got off the phone with Slater, Igor was sulking.

"You left part of your heart in Istanbul..."

Maybe. A part. 

"...and I feel like you are punishing me because I don't believe in getting married and having kids."

Nope. Not punishing. But at this point I firmly acknowledge clear relationship goals including cohabitation, abundant recreation, and yes eventually down the line, procreation. Some people might think that having all that in an open relationship is too much to ask for, which is fine, but I don't want to date those people. I'm confident enough to lay it all out on the table, not to be difficult or punishing, but because I'd simply like my lovers and I to be on the same page. If he isn't interested in the kind of future that I'm after, he shouldn't be surprised when I choose to invest in a relationship with the potential I'm looking for, because all the polytard justification talk in the world couldn't make this corner of the bed less lonely.

But as I lie there, I try to tell myself to have faith. Give it more of a chance and don't make any rash decisions, rash decisions being my specialty. Play nice and stay positive. As the Shins sung, "you wanna fight for this love, but honey, you cannot wrestle a dove."

In a gesture of good will, I designed Other Girlfriend a cocktail. Mirroring the nature of our relationship, the drink is somewhat complicated and made with rare ingredients. It's a bit bitter and yet a bit sweet, musky, refined, and chock full of bourbon.

The OG
Rocks glass, fill with ice
2 oz. bourbon whiskey, stir to melt ice
Several dashes bitters - I use aromatic and orange bitters
1/2 oz. Firelit coffee liquer
1/4 oz. maple syrup, stir well
2 cherries, soaked in brandy

Flame an orange peel over your cocktail, rub around rim and drop into glass.
Add 1/2 oz. - 3 oz. of club soda, to taste.
Make a silent toast to your lover's lovers and suck it down, Cupcake.

Meet the charming fellows: Igor HERE and Slater HERE. 
Want more tough moments in polyamory? HERE YOU GO!
For something completely different, check out the post Bisexual Women and Cattle Fetish. 
And of course, the latest and greatest can be found on the main page. 

Flight

I stood there stupidly, just past Customs with my whole life in tow. It was only a carry-on sized load. All I could do was stare dumbly at the black screen of my phone.

"Miss, you have to move on."

Yeah, tell me about it.

"Connecting flights to the left, exit to the right."

I almost explained to the guard that I didn't know what I was doing, that I had a big decision to make and many factors to consider. But, too exhausted to find the words, I didn't bother. I went to the right and got in a cab.

I had knots in my stomach all the way into Manhattan. What was I doing? I had willfully missed my connecting flight out of New York and I didn't have any money to pay a cab. I was trusting the word of a man that I had never met in person who had told me not to worry about it. He was a good friend of a good friend, but still, was I insane?

When I left Slater in the Istanbul airport, we were both in tears. His were silent, masculine, and graceful, and mine were hot, messy, and snotty with terrible facial contortions and body convulsions as accompaniments. My expressions of grief only worsened as I passed the point of no return and headed toward the boarding gate, his smell still in my hair. It didn't seem possible that in the few weeks we were together that we could fill holes in each others hearts that neither of us knew we had, and yet... there we were. Ripping ourselves out again, cutting the cords, pulling ourselves away before the idea had fully formed, imaginations running wild with the thick spread of idealism and the glitter of day dreams. I took off with a barely brave face streaked with those tears.

Two glasses of white and a couple painkilling sleeping pills later, I woke up an hour away from New York, having processed nothing. And yet, in that time something emotionally significant had transpired.  I left Istanbul behind in an ancient dream universe and found myself literally plummeting forth into another adventure, another city, and another man.

Meet Slater in the previous post.
For more considerations of polyamory and the traveling lifestyle, check out Distance: Emotional Problems of Nomadism.

Doesn't Take Much, Does It?

Developing further intimate attachments wasn't part of the plan. But in the six weeks by which I extended my Istanbul trip, I lost people in my life back home who were frustrated by my extended absence and irresponsible decision making and I gained a community in Istanbul. Like that Burning Man saying: the playa giveth, the playa taketh away...

Like I said, attachment wasn't what I was in for, and here he was talking about love. Every other sentence used that loaded word and I heard them being popped off like BB's from a newly acquired air gun. Finally, I felt I had to confront it, though I felt silly for doing so.

"When a man loves a woman like this--"

"Are you trying to tell me you love me?"

"No...

I guessed I was paranoid and indeed, very silly. 

"...well, fuck it, yes. Yes, I'm crazy about you. I love you. Which is dumb because I know it's fast, and all it can do is serve to hurt you, but I love you. And I want to tell you all the time."

Not so silly after all. This was the last thing I was expecting to result from our beginnings, which for all purposes should have remained a one night stand. Now it seemed that some investments had been made. I'm not sure that either of us had bargained for that, especially just after my rocky road with Sweetie and my imminent return to the States. That we both knew I was leaving soon put an interesting immediacy on everything we experienced together, but I found him to be surprisingly emotionally forthcoming for an American-raised man:

"I feel like I have to show you every thing at once... I mean I want to. But I'm scared, darlin'. And I'm hurtin'."

At first it was innocuous enough. Who seduced who we still quibble about. As he would describe things, I gave him a look that spoke loudly and clearly. He set his sights on me and I tested his persistence with off-handedness. We played a sweet game of cat and mouse and eventually we ended up at my place to chow down on some midnight mantı (Turkish ravioli in a spicy butter and yogurt sauce).

Next thing I knew, my arms were pinned to the bed. Though I hadn't begun the night "on the prowl", I was happy to play with him. He was handsome and charming enough -- he instinctively knew how to make me laugh. And though he had many physically admirable qualities, being tall, blonde, fit, and Danish, as he pressed into me I found myself distracted in admiration of his teeth. They had character. He was full of character -- he grew up in a traveling circus and continued the charade all the way through the Ivy League. His life had always been fascinating in summary, if lonely in practice, and as an adult he seemed to seek out his fascinations in... adult realms.

"Nothing says 'I love you' like semen on your chest."

I was relatively impressed by the perversion leaning towards violence with which he was forthcoming on our first time, and yet I was a bit put off: he was cocky and yet a little cautious in bed. "Can you take this?" he whispered. I rolled my eyes... if he only knew. Granted he didn't, in fact we barely new each other, it was perfectly reasonable that he was checking in and making sure I was OK. But I was hungry for abandon. I purred:

"It's OK, you don't have to hold me down."

He tentatively released my wrists. I smiled at him, he smiled at me, and then I slapped him hard across the face. He was stunned.

"If I have to piss you off to get you to fuck me like a man, l'll do it."

I caught a glimmer in his eyes as a hungry smile spread across his face.

"Well alright then darlin'. I guess I don't need any more permission than that, do I?"

His voice sounds just like Christian Slater circa True Romance. Our rhythm quickened and ferocity increased. Sedated with the pleasure of being taken voraciously by a Hollywood B-list daydream, I didn't hit him again.

____________

A couple weeks later, our story had evolved into that of star-crossed Istanbulus: a charming Cihangir guy fate had paired with a somewhat feral Tarlabaşhi girl. The irony of the situation didn't escape Slater: 

"Sometimes I think to myself: I want to show you off. But then I think: you're going to scare people. So then I consider: who can take it, and who do I hate?"

Some of his expat friends weren't so bad, I admit, but furthermore, Slater was not immune to my criticisms. He lived in Turkey for a year and didn't know the word for "apple" in Turkish, but I liked him anyway. Like I said, I didn't mean to get attached, but these things tend to happen, don't they?

However the stress from the time compression of our relationship began to express itself in tense ways. When the flame of my sex drive was more engulfing than his, he would make an offhanded "slut" joke or comment that, depending on my mood, would hurt my feelings. Once he asked me why I was wearing clothes and so in obedient response, I started to take them off -- to which he said:

"Doesn't take much does it?"

I guess it's easiest to hurt those who care. But why did I care so much? 
Igor has a theory which he calls my "super power", an effect against which mortal man is helpless. According to his observation, a person will fall madly in love with me and the "spell" will last two months. For that period of time, they will become enraptured and hopelessly enamored. After, they will wake up as if from a fever dream and back away with a self-protecting ferocity, as if to suggest I were akin to the deadly but alluring sirens sung about by bards such as Homer.

"By my estimation, Slater has about two more weeks. Then he's gone."

But of course this effect isn't one-sided. I guess Igor is sick of witnessing me get hurt. It seems like a bleak prediction, but Igor tends to be more accurately observant than I give him credit for. I'm willing to keep it in mind as I see how the long distance aspect of my relationship with Slater pans out, also keeping in mind that perhaps he is thinking wishfully. Whenever I mention Slater to Igor, his commentary is usually:

 "I want to punch that guy in the throat."

Despite the cattiness my male lovers exhibit towards each other, I'm fairly confident that if they met, they would get along splendidly. But regardless of that, the thing that gives me greatest hope for my distance-cleaved relationship with Slater is what he said to me when I couldn't find the words to return his professions of adoration:

"You don't have to tell me you love me for me to know that it's true. They're just words, after all."

 That is the kind of confidence that makes me in turn confident.

Who the hell is Igor? Meet him HERE (and get intimate HERE).
For more nihilistic relationship adventures in Turkey, read this post: Gypsy Love Curse. 
The latest from Seduce and Confuse can be found HERE, I promise. 

Hunting Bambi

“So, you come to these things often?”

What a line. Sparky clearly has a way with women. Bored and annoyed, I wrote my review of her off-handed seduction techniques in the form of bar snacks (çerez) thrown at her head.

“Ow. Ow! So... you’re a pianist?”

She ignored me and the flying pistachios admirably and kept on luring the wide-eyed little thing into her experienced bisexual lech. With that knowing smirk, she may as well have been asking, “Would you like to have your first lesbian experience, little girl?” To me at the time, it was disgusting. What could possibly be interesting to Sparky about this Girl Scout cookie? She was the kind of person who’s name I would forget before she even finished introducing herself, and the way she was dressed, it was as if she was trying to force me to underestimate her. She had her mousy blond hair back in a ponytail and was sporting a light pink sweatshirt paired with baby blue sneakers. She looked like a twenty-year-old infant. There were many things wrong with the scenario, but I got stuck on the sneakers.

“Sneakers? SNEAKERS?”
“Yeah, whatever, lots of people wear sneakers."
“Yeah, athletes and children. She didn’t look like an athlete, so that makes YOU a fuckin’ perv.”

I was being needlessly critical, I admit. Sparky sighed into a reminiscent smile.

“Didn’t you just fall into those big, doe-like eyes?”
“I wanted to hit her with a car.”

That’s how we came to name her, and others of her kind, Bambi.

________

Expat parties are an excellent hunting ground for Bambi’s -- those cute, fresh off the boat girls who just graduated college and came abroad to do the first interesting thing in their lives, which after getting their hearts broken once or twice by the charming locals, usually devolves into teaching English and hanging out exclusively with other expats. Lets get one thing straight: I am a traveler, not an expat.

What is an expatriate? And expatriate is a person who temporarily or permanently leaves their country and culture of upbringing to terrorize a foriegn one. As a function of their emigration, expats define themselves by their dissatisfaction. Most of them make a living teaching English and they seem to hang out mostly with each other, inventing incestuous little fuck circles in whatever country they infest. For further entertainment, they come up with other annoying amusements such as theater groups reeking of mediocrity and pub quiz trivia nights in all too expensive bars. They congratulate themselves on their internationality while never bothering to learn much of the local language or culture. Their adopted country is an organism off which they simply feed, all the while doing their best to recreate their homeland and inherently representing it, usually in an unflattering light with their bad cocktail of entitlement and cultural insensitivity. These embarrassing ambassadors come from all over the world, but when I find myself stuck at a loud and obnoxious pub quiz with drunk people spilling beer and arguing about George Lucas factoids while blank faced Turks look on with that same bored and slightly insulted lack of expression that I recognize from also having to serve people I despise, I can't help but sigh and think: "This is why the world hates Americans."

When in a sea of expats, hunting Bambi’s provides an excellent distraction from my fiery disdain. Besides, it’s good for me to maintain a certain level of sociability, even in “enemy” territory. Sparky has since illustrated to me that the pleasure in corrupting the innocent is like pissing on a freshly fallen and undisturbed bed of snow.

________

Several nights later, I stumbled into a bar to meet Sparky. I was two hours late and dragging in a girl by her tits.

“Whattya think of this Bambi I brought ya? I bet she’d fuck us both, the little slut.”

I slurred, not trying to flatter myself in the least.

“I dunno man. She’s not wearing sneakers. Sneakers kind of do it for me, Bambi-wise, remember?”

Wavering in my seat, I looked over my prey. I had already soul-slaughtered her and moved on to the victory parade wherein I offered her up to the scavengers as leftover kill. She was a hot mess with eyeliner was streaming down her face. I followed these black trails up puffy cheeks to two big wild eyes that expressed mixed emotions of humiliation and gratitude for the attention.

Most of the time, I work hard to be considerate of others, thoughtful, aware, and well spoken. But sometimes despite my efforts, I prove myself to be the most fucked-up asshole I know. On these occasions, I abandon my better, more articulate self and get in bed with a stranger to my standards who acts with wild selfishness. I don’t always get away with the crap I pull, but when I do, I wonder how. Amazingly, friends like Sparky have a high tolerance for my bullshit and chauvinism, even a certain revelry in it.

“You wan ‘er in sneakers? I’ll put ‘er in some fuckin’ sneakers. Let’s go, sugar tits. Daddy’s gonna get you some new shoes.”

For hot girl-on-girl action, check out the post Bisexual Women and Cattle Fetish.
The latest from Seduce and Confuse, here.

Disorder and the Cure

Even at rest, my heart is pounding uncomfortably. My mouth is dry, and my stomach is churning itself into knots. I realize in surprise that for once I don't feel like doing the following things: eating dark chocolate, watching porn, or talking to literally anyone. I don't feel much like existing but like all things, I know this will pass. I have to remain calm. I have to acknowledge my diagnosed psychopathological condition as being a medical reality and not a slight against my existence or validity as a human being, and I absolutely have to take my medication.

I'd been off of it for a couple months now, or at least I think so. At some point I lost track. Memory problems are a symptom of major depression, I'm not surprised when I have large black outs in my timeline. Most times I can't even remember what I did two days before, and not in a cute kitten-brained kind of way, in a way that sometimes terrifies me. I focus until it hurts, but I just can't access the information. I've forgotten more than I've ever learned, and that is why I like to write things down, make lists. I've written journals since kindergarten, proof that it's always been this way. I am sometimes congratulated for living in the moment, but for me I'm afraid that's all there is, there is no big picture. Each journal is a pained volume in a large narcissistic collection of tainted, disparate, and flawed points of view.

I can feel it exploding in my heart and brain: the medicine that doesn't keep me from drinking but keeps me from getting drunk, doesn't keep me from fucking but keeps me from reaching orgasm, doesn't keep me out of trouble but keeps me in check. Maybe I should have started back into it with a half dose, but I was too scared to think of it. Yesterday I scared myself, because yesterday I experienced rage. Not just intense anger: real, consuming, violent, irrational rage.

Why did I ever stop taking the meds? Perhaps I was convinced that the Turkish generic was somehow making me sick -- I'm no stranger to hypochondriac mind-cycles, so this wouldn't surprise me. I remember sobbing in an ER, reporting a "terrible skin condition" that neither the doctor nor Angel could see, both of them staring at me slack-jawed, wondering with what kind of gloves to handle a seemingly cracking mind.

I think I got greedy. I wanted to feel something more than detached anxiety, I wanted to cum, I wanted to overcome the nervousness, and I wanted to enjoy eating again. But all of those desires, human as they might be, were instantly overcome when like a zombie chimp I lashed out at a loved one in rage. My partner laughed at how riled up I was getting because it was ridiculous. But then I saw red and was unable to control myself as I screamed bloody murder and thrust forth at my demons with my clenched fists until he stopped laughing. Unfortunately I can't attack the phantoms of my mind with claws and fists because, unlike my partner, they aren't made of flesh and blood.

Immediately after the intense bout of temporarily enhanced insanity passed, I rested my forehead in my hand, pressing my temples with my thumb and forefinger. I thanked the universe for the restraint my passenger seatbelt had provided and I became painfully aware of the embarrassment of the situation, of having spiraled so far out of control. "Not again..." I remembered the last time this happened and then promised myself to get a prescription refill. "Never again."

I hate the way the medicine makes me feel at first: jittery, with hot flashes in my face, and unreasonably amplified bouts of paranoia, which would seem contrary to its intended effect. I can feel my heart beating all the way down in my stomach and looking at food makes me feel sick. I don't want to talk to anyone or make a single facial expression, I feel trapped and restless. I have a mild headache and an intense thirst which cannot be quenched. But all of these combined complaints don't compare to the weight of the guilt for lashing out physically or the fear of what I could have done if I were stronger, unrestrained, or if the fit had lasted longer. Notes on dating: assault is usually "deal breaker" material.

It's important that I don't feel sorry for myself or beat myself up. When I first started taking meds years ago (what was that first one, Lithium?) every time I saw the pill in my hand, I saw defeat and confession. I couldn't hold it together and at least one person with a lot more schooling than me felt fairly confident that I was "crazy." But I can't think like that. It's just a serotonin deficiency. A person with a heart condition needs to take medicine in order to continue to live a healthy life, and this mental condition is different only in that empirical test-based diagnoses don't yet exist and as a result often go dismissed or invalidated. I get told by friends and family that I don't really need therapy or psychiatric medication, but I've learned that it's important not to let others minimize the severity with which I should care for my mental health simply because they can't relate to my experience. Many people can't, but often refer to the vocabulary describing these experiences flippantly. Depression isn't common situational sadness, it's a medical disorder, one that has been affecting my life and my relationships for too long.

There is no cure. There is only management, which at best is a tedious match of pharmaceutical Russian roulette. I was afraid to be medicated again because of how it might affect my visual/performance art or my written work, but now I'm too afraid of being without it. I have to look past these side effects, think of my friends and family, and tell myself lovingly, "Time to be brave, sweetums," as I put the gun to my temple and hope for the best.

Sexuality in the World [Aggregate]

Things are going well for me these days. Though I fly home in less than a week, I'm reminding myself that the adventure never ends. I'm gearing up for excitement that the summer brings, such as presenting at San Francisco's polyamory conference Open SF, as well as wrapping up here in Istanbul and reflecting on my experiences over the last three months. My mind is buzzing.

In the meantime as I collect my thoughts, there are a number of fascinating reads I've come across that I find to be worth sharing: some of them illustrate more objectively what I've already written about quite experientially, and others bring to light phenomena of sexuality in a world view that shouldn't go unconsidered. Context is everything!

Articles are arranged loosely by these categories:
Gay Rights in Military, Perverse World History, Women in North America, and International Gender-fuck.