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.

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."

Igor, Conquerer of my Heart

My birthday is coming up next month, as is my glorious return Stateside.

"I had an idea for your party, but I'm not sure you'll be into it."
"Lay it on me."
"Well, you know, it would just be a good party. Good music, some delish food, good company, obviously... but while all this is going on, I was thinking you would actually be bound in another room for the pleasure of the guests to use. Gang-rape style."

The following are 5 points on why I love my boyfriend.

Labeling Humans

Some time ago, I found myself snuggling in bed with a very peculiar man. In addition to the three first names he rotates through rather capriciously, this man calls himself many things, including a polyamourist, a kinkster, a vegetarian, and a burner. The man likes to know what and who he is, and he likes to talk about it. Of course, his peculiarity made him all the more attractive.

During a blissful moment of post-coital calm, that glorious haze of endorphins was unfortunately disturbed by his compulsion for naming things: it was time for "the talk". Perhaps sexist stereotyping gave me the illusion that I would be spared embarrassing prematurity when discussing the perimeters of a relationship as long as I, the lady, held my horses, but in this case the inquiry was the whim of the gentleman. Understanding his emotional vulnerability, and wanting to be delicate, I still couldn't help but be annoyed when I was asked:
"So... do you think of yourself as my girlfriend?"

We had been on a few dates, and I liked him. I imagined that we would keep on having dates, and that I would keep on liking him. But try as I might to tell him how I felt with sincere, honest words, my efforts weren't as satisfying as what he was looking for: the word "boyfriend". That was the one word to assure him that my interest in him was real, despite the fact that I was telling him straight in the face the realities of my interest. Without the word, it just didn't do the trick...

I embrace all kinds of culture/counterculture, but labels don't turn me on. Polyamorous, bisexual, hetero-flexible, genderqueer, submissive, vegan, lacto-ovo-vegetarian, democrat, libertarian, girlfriend, boyfriend, secondary lover... these types of words make me instinctually uncomfortable because I find that en lieu of using these words to accurately portray what might organically exist in a person's life, a person might intentionally create their lifestyle to be within the parameters of the label's constructs. And as a person full of essential contradictions (I was born this way), I believe that because of this, conscription to labels is disingenuous. Furthermore, for people without an intimate awareness of the label or what it might specifically indicate, the lingo can be alienating rather then helpfully descriptive:
"Poly-what?"
"Polyamorous"
"What the fuck is that?"
"A polyamourist is a slut who likes to talk about it a lot."

So, if I agreed, was I then his girlfriend? What exactly does that mean to a polyamorous person, what are the expectations involved? What does the word "polyamorous" mean to the conventional and unsuspecting family of that person? How do they feel when he and his two girlfriends go out to lunch together? And what does it mean that each of those relationships are called the same thing, but are nothing alike?

I've spent the last six months discovering these questions and seeking drafts of the answers, and reasonably enough it's been a roller coaster. A happy one for the most part, each discovering and exercising our freedom as well as celebrating our attachment. I would still rather call him my gentleman caller, or my secret agent lover man, or something of equal panache and accuracy, but I'm not so caught up in my opinions to rob him of the wide grin that spreads across his face when I call him my boyfriend. I love that smile. 

And he can call me his girlfriend, but we both know that I'm not "taken".

For more of the boyfriend, check out Igor: Conqueror of my Heart and Distance: Emotional Problems of Nomadism.
The latest from Seduce and Confuse can be found HERE, for your reading pleasure.