Karenina's Curse, Part 2.

Day two, and I can’t stop thinking about Anna Karenina, especially the way it juxtaposes Stiva (Oblonsky's) infidelities and Anna's affair. In his explanation to Levin, Stiva compares his affair to going after fresh bread rolls after getting tired of the same stale bread, something that should be understood by society and forgiven by his wife. In fact, the whole affair is portrayed as comical, down to Dolly’s silly face, strewn with tears, when she discovers his letter to the governess and his stereotypical male response - to sneak out of the confrontation before she sees him. Anna' affair on the other hand is scandalous and tragic – in many instances in the film she becomes the involuntary center of attention, partially because she takes it so seriously, but also very much because she is a woman, and thus obligated to forgive and accept, but not challenge the patriarchal status quo. 

It was interesting for me to see the way Anna’s sexuality is portrayed throughout the movie as something demonic and dangerous to the society around her. Before she even engages in her affair with Vronsky, she hurts Kitty, whose dreams of marrying Vronsky are shattered as she watches Anna’s passionate dance. With Vronsky, Anna is shown to lose all self-restraint, and instead of trying to prevent a pregnancy (as women throughout time had means of doing), she welcomes it with joy. On the other hand, if I understood the scene correctly, Karenin practices safe sex with his wife: the two times they are shown in their bedroom, before heading to bed for another night of obligatory marital sex, he takes out a small box containing a pouch from his dresser (an old-fashioned condom?), to which (the second time) Anna responds that she can’t, she’s Vronsky’s wife now – and that she’s pregnant with his child. For Anna, it seems, it’s not the cultural norms, such as a wedding, that make her married, but this unrestrained sexuality and the child it produces. 

This same child becomes "the demon" inside her: in the scene where Vronsky comes to visit her at her house and she is visibly pregnant, she loses her temper, and quickly corrects herself, apologetically saying that it wasn’t her, it was the demon inside her. She is referring to her irritability, of course, but the implications of such statement run deeper – it is her sexuality that is tearing her apart, making her choose between her lover and the passion she feels for him, and her husband and place in society. It is the child, then, the product of this sexuality, who has brought her situation to a climax and is now forcing her to decide – otherwise, one can assume, she could’ve continued to live as she did, having her affair with Vronsky on the side. 

This description of Anna's sexuality as demonic is typical of the way women's sexuality is portrayed in a male-dominated culture. It is dangerous to a society that is based on the male's desire to ensure that his life's accomplishments will get passed on to his children, improving the chances for the survival of his genetic make-up, because it is the most sure way to subvert this certainty. And so, while the demon of sexuality lives within all of us, only in women is it associated with witchcraft and unnatural, dark power. This reminds me of my favorite poem by Anne Sexton, "Her Kind," that begins with:

                                        I have gone out, a possessed witch,

                                        haunting the black air, braver at night;

                                       dreaming evil, I have done my hitch

                                       over the plain houses, light by light:

                                       lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.

                                       A woman like that is not a woman, quite.

                                       I have been her kind.

Here, Sexton suggests that to be a woman is to be a witch, "possessed" by desire and often driven by it to loneliness and insanity -- and, ultimately, death. We are all, she claims, of the same "kind." 

The ending of the film is particularly disturbing to me regarding what it says about a woman's role in society. Little Anya (Karenina' daughter from Vronsky) is running around the field under the watchful eyes of her brother and her "dad" - Karenin, who can now raise her to be a proper society lady in lieu of the other Anna, with whom he has failed to do that. The shot pans out, and we realize  that we are still in the theater, the place of social milieu that ostracized and eventually killed Anna, and the field of greens is spreading from the stage into the audience, implicating all of us, perhaps, in the perpetuation of the patriarchal structure that we just witnessed. 

What I can’t quite figure out is whether this film is making a claim that such structure is natural and good, or merely unavoidable. On the one hand, there is the field that spreads into the theater, quite naturally overgrowing it. As Steve Sailer writes in his review of Karenina, 

Today it’s universally assumed that an unfaithful wife should get custody of the children. Yet Wright and Stoppard don’t seem terribly interested in pointing fingers at 19th-century Russians for their lack of enlightenment about family law.

When Anna laments that she can’t possess both her lover and her son because “The laws are made by husbands and fathers,” it’s hard not to respond, “As well they should be.” ((Steve Sailer's review)

At the end of the film, we are left just with that – between self-destructive Anna, who has turned bitter and hysterical and killed herself, and the calm and infinitely forgiving Karenin, whom would we choose to raise the next generation, to mold the future of our society? And yet….

In her final conversation with Anna, when asked if she judges her, Dolly responds by telling her, not at all. She too may have wanted to do what Anna did, but no one had asked her.  And we can tell through the hint of regret in her otherwise smiling, innocent eyes that she is only half joking. The other women in the film don’t fare any better – Kitty only marries after she has given up on love (as she says bitterly, she’s through with the entire thing) and chooses to become a “sister of mercy” to her husband’s estranged and sick brother – in other words, strips herself of her sexuality.  Vronsky’s mother, whom we first meet wistfully reminiscing about her scandalous youth, is also left with only her memories, as she urges her son to stay within the confines of social acceptability, have his affairs, but not take them too seriously. Dolly, poor Dolly, is left with a serially unfaithful husband, whom she still loves, but who will never stop lusting for other women and hurting her with his affairs.  In other words, we are shown that women cannot be happy and have a place in this male-dominated society, unless they forget their desires, restrain their sexuality, and go to work actively perpetuating the social norms that restrict them. I don’t understand how any woman watching the film can leave the theater agreeing that’s how ‘it should be.”

Karenina's Curse

Finally saw the new Anna Karenina with Keira Knightley. Been waiting to see it since I first saw the trailers half a year ago -- it's Keira Knightley! And the script is by Tom Stoppard, my favorite living playwright... And it was coming out for my birthday! Too many reasons to love it, though I have hated Tolstoy and this novel with a passion, ever since I've realized how much they have fucked me over, as a child, indoctrinating me into the world where love always leads to pain and loss, while a happy marriage -- the only means to a happy life -- can only be the product of a god-blessed, desexualized friendship.

I'm still not sure how I feel about the film. It was beautiful. It was witty (thank you, Stoppard!), compassionate (thanks again!), and very stylish. It stayed true to its own rules the entire time. But this same beautiful and highly-stylized picture often kept me from feeling anything for the characters, because, for one, I didn't quite believe they were feeling anything themselves. They were characters in their own play, and the theatrical setting of the film lent itself to this distancing -- which I didn't necessarily enjoy. The whole film, I kept vacillating between being fascinated by the style and repelled by it, especially when it felt like a caricature of Russian culture....

But what did it have to do with love, sex, and BDSM? Everything... This is what happens when no one is in control -- Anna loses herself when she falls in love, breaking the rules of society (which, according to Kitty, is even more unforgivable than breaking the law) and once Karenin gives up his control over her, there is no one left in charge. Vronsky is too young, too inexperienced to know how to handle Anna -- he can't even handle his horse, which leads to his accident at the races earlier in the film. And Anna, unfortunately, suffers from the curse of the 19th century aristocratic woman -- she has nothing to call her own, no route to actualize herself, no other interest but love to keep her going. Once she leaves Karenin and loses her son, she is left completely dependent on the affection of her lover, and when she feels it slip, all her stability, all her sense of self goes with it. She needs constant reassurance, becomes needy, addicted to morphine, insane.... she starts hating herself and her own weakness, but doesn't have the strength to control it. Even her suicide (both in the novel and the film) is shown to be not a result of conscious decision-making, but an impulse, a sudden step into the abyss.

Needless to say, the movie struck a chord. Watching Anna Karenina after the week I had made me see more clearly than ever that her curse didn't stay in the 19th century, but followed us on. Without something to drive a woman forward, an interest in life that is not connected to the unsteady emotions of another person, we cannot have control, even over our own lives. And without that sense of security -- not the material kind, but the self-reliance that comes from belief in oneself, one's ability to survive and pursue happiness no matter what -- we cannot truly be dommes, subs, or even babygirls. Because how can we engage in power dynamics if we don't really have any power? How can we give up control, if we never truly posses it? And on the contrary, once we do have it, we keep it for life, no matter how often we give it up or try to throw it away.....

Cause you can never lose a thing if it belongs to you.....

Bang

I have a new fantasy. Next time, when you're fucking me into the mattress, my body pinned down by the weight of your body and your hands on my throat -- do me a favor, wrap those long fingers of yours around my neck and squeeze, hard, with all your strength. And then, keep pounding me harder and deeper as I gasp and struggle, as I fight against you. Don't let go til I pass out, and even then, keep squeezing til you cum inside my dead body.

I want to leave this life, which I have lived too quietly, not with a whimper, but with a bang.

Pain

I once had a toothache so bad, I ended up at the ER. I remember that when the doctor finally came to see me, I was writhing on the floor, howling, and hitting my head on every hard surface I could find. It felt like hours after I was put on the morphine drip that the pain finally started to dissipate, and hours more until it was gone. Most likely these hours lasted only a few moments of "real" time, but for me, that's how I'll always remember them. I understand now how people become addicted to painkillers -- once the blinding pain finally passed, I was willing to do anything to ensure I never felt it again.

In my sex life, I play with pain because it excites me. Those temporary and completely controlled moments of pain that I subject myself to -- always ready and always with someone I trust -- give me the illusion that I can deal with the greater, chaotic pain of everyday life. After all, if I learn to control my reaction to the pain of a whipping, if I learn to submit to it, let go, and just ride it out, I can use this same set of skills to deal with any other pain I encounter -- physical or emotional. Right?

I've been staring at the same spot in the corner of my bedroom for hours. There, on my eye-level, the paint, light blue with white sponged-on patterns is beginning to chip. The crack of two parallel lines runs floor to ceiling, barely visible in some places -- darker and more pronounced in others. I can describe that crack in minute details. I can explain how it got there, and why it's the only corner where the paint is slowly coming off. I can do that, endlessly, finding a myriad of words in my vocabulary, but I can't deal with the pain that is, very physically, bursting out of my heart. The pain I can't go to the ER with, that I can't use morphine to alleviate. I have used all my BDSM experience, all the skills I have learned along the way -- I have altered my breathing rate, I have assumed more comfortable positions, I have tried to clear my mind with meditation, and nothing seems to help. I have taken pills, lots of them -- just enough to dull the senses, to knock me out for brief moments of rest -- but not enough, not enough to get rid of this terrible, unending pain.....

I can locate it -- ironically, it's in my chest, exactly where I imagine my heart to be. It's extremely physical, piercing, throbbing, spreading to my lungs, making it impossible to breathe, and then, what's even worse, collecting itself in a pinpoint, sharp, cruel, torturous, tearing into my flesh, past the rib cage, right into that muscle that won't stop beating no matter how much I'm trying to will it. And I don't know what to do with it. And I don't know how to stop it. And I don't know how to ride it out.

You call me a masochist for letting this pain overwhelm me. You tell me to go read a book. Distract myself and move on. But don't you see? I have learned to deal with pain by submitting to it, and when I submit to this one, it fills me up and takes over, until there is no me left. And this time, there's no one controlling it -- not you, whom I trust implicitly and completely, not me, who usually has so much trouble giving up control. And so, it just runs through me, so great and strong, so mind-numbingly simple, submerging me with each new wave, without time to process or adjust.

I told you I feel broken, but that's not true. I feel drowned, no, drowning, drowning, gasping for air and getting lungs full of water instead. I don't have the strength to swim back to the surface. And you made me promise not to sink to the ocean floor.

The Dance of the Rope

I have two deep dark bruises on my arms, and a long cut on the side of my neck. My back hurts, despite all the stretches, as if I’d been tortured on an old-fashioned rack. I’m dealing with the expected sub drop by cuddling under the blanket, drinking port and watching some silly TV. But it’s all worth it. Last night, I got to dance with her and her teasing, playful, dominating and sometimes cruel, slithering over my body and leaving me in gasps and shivers, rope….

Rope, by the way, is yet another example of N(ot) M(y) K(ink) that has with time and exposure become a burning desire. I had my first experience of being bound and suspended at Fetfest, by the amazing Murphy Blue (I had no clue who he was at the time, either). I loved the feeling of his rope against my skin, when he slid it over my naked body and tied me into shapes I didn’t know my body could make. The first time, seeing I had no prior experience, he was particularly gentle and careful, pausing to ask if I was doing ok, and making sure the rope didn’t bite too much into my flesh, that the position didn’t strain my joints. It was very technical, and yet, I saw the subtle dance of his hands as the rope glided and almost tied itself into knots on my body, and lifted me off the ground, limb by limb. I went into the scene awaiting a result, but it was the process, the rhythm, the beauty of his movements, the tactile sensation of the rope that got me hooked…

And so, last night, in a class on kinesthetic rope with Midori, I thought I knew what to expect. I knew already that for me being bound is an act of domination that forces me into a different psychological state than spanking or sex. Being tied and, especially, being suspended transforms me into an aesthetic object, and the state of becoming art, while still a state of submission, is more akin to being elevated than being broken and forced to submit. The limitation of my movements is also different with rope than being held down or cuffed to the bed – while I can’t move on my own, I become a marionette, a puppet whose body can be set into motion by a pull of the string. In a way, the rope becomes my dominant, the rope moves me. When I was suspended by Murphy Blue, he pushed me, gently and let me feel how the motion continued by itself, as I spun around slowly, almost deliberately, until he stopped me with just one finger. And then, of course, there was the feel of the rope: the fibers scratching or soothing, gently restraining or biting. The second time he suspended me, he let me feel some of the rope’s cruelty, as he tightened it around my body with sharp pulls, letting it cut into my breasts and my waist, eliciting sharp sighs of pain and pleasure.

 But last night…. Last night managed to surprise me. I was wearing a sweater, and couldn’t feel the texture of the rope as it circled me. And yet, its movement, slow and lingering, fast and sharp, the rhythm of its dance as it slid over my arms and between my legs, so sensual, so erotic… In a matter of moments, Midori managed with a few barely visible movements to get me out of my head, throw me off-balance, de-center and draw me into a dance. I started as a shy and somewhat stiff participant, unsure how to react and what was expected of me, and before I knew it I became part of a conversation, struggling against the pull of the rope, tugging playfully at its tail, then gasping as I was suddenly yanked back and down, my body forced to the floor, flattened out, immobilized without ever even being touched. In less than ten minutes Midori brought me into sub-space, something that’s fairly rare to me, and as I previously thought, impossible without an intimate connection and deep knowledge of your partner. And then, still only using the rope, she made me crawl to my daddy, who took over the reins and took care of me.

I felt like I’ve been made love to in the most physical, kinky and sensual way. And there was not a single knot tied the entire class. 

This is NOT a (sub)drop...(?)

I had a wonderful week, filled with hard work and many emotional (and physical) rewards. I had a very stressful and overwhelming, but ultimately gratifying Wednesday, because I managed to accomplish everything I set out to do. And then, I had an unforgettable evening/night/morning with my daddy, who took care of my tired body and let me vent, for hours, about everything on my mind. And then there was the sex…. I was so happy Thursday morning. But by the time Thursday night came around, I was falling apart – I was sick (physically), emotionally exhausted, incredibly down and doubting my abilities, my strength, and my desire to keep fighting for the things I want. I was on the verge of crying, and nothing, not even my daddy’s kind and loving words could calm me down. I didn’t know how to deal with the sadness that was overpowering me, and worst of all, I felt I was being extremely ungrateful for all the good things in my life, and I kept trying to bring myself back up, unsuccessfully, of course, and to my incredible frustration.

By now, I am used to having a sub-drop after events or playdates; I am not sure if they will ever get any better, but at least I know enough to recognize them and deal with them appropriately. With enough experience, we all learn: this is to be expected, and we can even prepare – take a day off in advance, stock up on chocolate, make sure we have a good book to read and the time and privacy to read it. After an event, we can spend some time online, connecting with the new friends we made; after a playdate, we can do write-ups, give each other feedback, or simply revel in the memories of the night – or the anticipation of the next meeting. We know a sub-drop is a chemical drop, as well as a result of so much energy spent, and so much new experience for our minds to digest, and so we don’t waste time in empty wallowing or self-pity, but usually go directly to the cure – whatever it is for us. This is something everyone learns, I believe – either through experience or research, with the support of the community (Thank you, fetlife!) or, eventually and gradually on our own.

So how is it that our entire lives don’t prepare us for the drop that follows every achievement, any exceptionally good day, a surprisingly happy experience or passionate love-making? These highs are no different from those experienced in the BDSM lifestyle, and the lows that follow should be just as expected for they have similar causes – chemical, emotional, and psychological. They should be similar to deal with, as well, since the practical tools we pick up in our BDSM experiences can be just as useful in our everyday lives: a good book, some extra chocolate for that chemical drop, a bath to relax those tense nerves, all preceded by the same level of self-awareness that tells us to expect a low after a high, and deal with it instead of trying to prevent the inevitable.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I should’ve known better and prepped myself for the drop, instead of fighting it until 2 in the morning.  

N(ot) M(y) K(ink)

Having my hair pulled has never been my kink. Ever. In fact, it was always on the list of my hard limits: along with being yelled at and humiliated. And then, at a recent kink event, I saw a very attractive, playful, and confident girl, a little exhibitionist slut (just like me) being pulled by the hair, by her boyfriend, in a very loving and sexy manner – and suddenly, I was turned on, my juices flowing, my cheeks flushing…. Before I knew it, I was asking my Daddy to try the same – and when he did, it led to one of the steamiest sex scenes (on the bench, middle of the meadow – remember darling?) that I have ever had.

So I have been wondering since, how do other people’s kinks become my own? And not just the ones I have never been exposed to and suddenly see and recognize as manifestations of my vague fantasies, but the ones I was aware of but never excited by?  How is it that seeing people I find attractive or socially adept doing things that never used to turn me on – or were even beyond my hard limits – in the right setting, can make me change my mind? If sexual desire were so easy to turn on and off, how many problems could we as society have avoided! And, personally, why would anyone ever choose to be on the margins of sexual normativity, if they could choose to be aroused by more mainstream things?

Now, I know that female sexuality is notoriously more easily susceptible to social pressures than male sexuality, at least in the way it’s expressed.  According to one study mentioned in Sex at Dawn, while women may get physically excited by certain stimuli, they often don’t recognize their excitement if the sexual stimuli they are responding to are not socially acceptable. This makes me question: these kinks that I so easily take on, could it be that they were already my own, but I didn’t recognize them as such until I saw them approved by my community?  Or, do I take on these kinks precisely because I am conforming to the community that okeys them, and to the social pressure that tells me that “all the cool kids are doing it,” while these kinks are not inherently my own? And does it matter?

The difference, as I see it, should be between how my body responds to something and how my mind views it, and it can be an important one – I either receive pleasure, or I endure the kink for the sake of pleasing my partner and satisfying communal expectations, not losing my cool, not showing my fear. And if it’s not for my pleasure, do I diminish myself somehow by taking it on? Or is it ok to play along every once in a while in order to please others? Where is the line?

In my slippery slope frame of mind, I keep thinking of a rather silly film I once saw, with Richard Gere and Julia Roberts (No, not Pretty Woman): The Runaway Bride. One of the recurrent conversations in that movie turns around how Julia Robert’s character likes her eggs for breakfast – and it turns out that with each fiancé she eats them differently. At the end of the film, when she returns to Gere after leaving him at the altar, she tells him: I finally know how I like my eggs. It scares me to think that with kinks it too can be a subtle slide from “I can do this to please my partner, while I don’t particularly want it” to “when I do this, my partner is happy, and so it doesn’t really matter what I want,” to, finally, “I don’t have a clue what I want.”  By taking on other people’s kinks, could we be losing ourselves and silencing our self-awareness?

 In Sex at Dawn, I liked the explanation of bonobo sexuality – that sex is used not just for procreation, or to secure pair-bonds, but to relieve stress, to encourage sharing, to resolve conflicts. So why is it not ok, then, to use human sexuality not just for personal pleasure, but all of the above – for the good of others, for community building, as methods of compromise? In our feminist society, we look down on a woman who wants to please others – it is seen somehow as a weakness, as buying into and perpetuating the hated patriarchy – but if it’s not taken to an extreme, is it really that wrong? If it’s consensual – and informed – isn’t it just an intelligent way of life? And yes, the gender inequality is there – guys don’t compromise (as much), they pursue their desires (more openly, or, at least, despite the social obstacles). But can’t this be a feminine strength, then, on an otherwise unleveled playing field -- our ability to use our sexuality in so many different ways, to form or solidify bonds, create a sense of well-being, unify a community, and yes, receive pleasure and get our way?

And all along, I still wonder – if it is not truly my kink, why does even just thinking about it make me so excited and wet?