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.

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