Distance makes the heart grow fonder or...

Dug this up from my archive and can finally share it, distanced as I am now from feeling this way. The sentiment, however, still rings true:

They tell me to give him space. To let him miss me. To focus on myself and to ignore... which will only make him want me more. Because distance makes the heart grow fonder....

Only the thing is, distance actually creates more distance. The more you push someone away, the farther they go. Unfortunately, it doesn't work in reverse -- the more you cling, the less they love you. Some of these tactics might work for attraction, but I'm not entirely sure there's a game plan for love.

Sometimes we just have to accept that love is fleeting. By the luck of fate, it just happens to flee when I am at the height of being in love, when I want the most, when I can finally begin to see a future together.

The Lands of Human Sexuality

I've been writing a lot, but most of it has been going into my drafts folder. Now that I'm delving deeper into my own sexuality, it's getting harder to share -- though if I've come this far, what's another step? There's always a fear in my mind that the next secret I share, the next twisted fantasy I admit to, will be the turn off point for my lover -- or make myself cringe. No matter how liberated we are of the social norms stigmatizing kinky sex, there are still the areas that remain difficult to access, and for a good reason. There was some play I engaged in recently that made me break down and I am not even ready to discuss it, let alone try again -- though it still appears, sometimes, as a detail of my masturbating fantasies. Which made me wonder -- are there any other kinks that I entertain, but that I don't want to try outside my fantasies? Are there any that will never cross that line from fantasy to reality? And if so, why?

And then, on theblackleatherbelt.com blog, I came across Franklin Veaux's "Map of the Lands of Human Sexuality" and, since I was procrastinating as usual from doing the work I was supposed to be doing, I created one for myself:

Map of My Sexuality

I like the malleability of this silly map -- while it is still, obviously, limited by language and closed to the discovery of new lands, it allows for the fluidity of one's sexuality: if your feelings about a kink change, you just change the color of the pins. It was interesting to see how many of these lands I have visited, mostly over the course of the last year, as well as to note my shifting limits. There is more I am open to try now than I have ever been before, and there, of course, are red pins of bad experiences -- things I found out were not for me. But what got my attention the most were the black pins -- for "in fantasy only". There weren't many on my map, but I wondered about them -- what is keeping me from crossing that last line from fantasy to reality? 

In some cases, the issue was my apprehension at coming too close to some deep-seated fears: I simply don't think I have the capacity to deal with the emotional and psychological backlash of unearthing something that deeply repressed. It's one thing to be aware that such fantasies exist, and completely another to try to figure out why -- or deal with how they make me feel. But in other cases, it was the issue of trust and logistics. When other people have to be involved to make my fantasy come true, I don't know how much I can trust them not to take advantage of me in a vulnerable state, or overpower me with their versions of my fantasy. And even with issues of trust aside, while I am getting better at negotiating the scenes, there are still outcomes that I can't predict and thus can't negotiate around. I am scared of what can happen that I will be incapable of stopping, either because of being in a subspace or being too cowardly or too proud.... 

The bottom line is, I know how difficult it is to make some fantasies come true, especially when other people are involved. And while I am venturing into the realm of threesomes, foursomes and orgies, the experience has more often been unsuccessful. With BDSM involved, there are bigger stakes than jealousy or hurt feelings -- and while it often makes this lifestyle so rewarding, there are cases when the prize is not worth the cost. At least just yet.... 

Self-Rescuing Princess

It occurs to me that I may have been wrong all along…. You see, I thought the reason I enjoyed BDSM was because I wanted to give up control – I live a life filled with responsibility and have a job that forces me to be an authority figure, and so I often end up feeling that without me, the world would stop…. I have come to believe that in order to enjoy myself fully, in order to relax, I needed a D/s relationship, a Dom or a daddy, who would force me to give up control.

This sounds like a plausible story alright, except -- I don’t really have control in my life. In fact, in order to pursue my kinky lifestyle, in order to stop my self-repression and liberate the deep dark desires that run through my subconscious, I have given up all control – including self-control. In Civilization and its Discontents, Freud writes about the necessity for repression in order to become a functioning member of society. All civilization, according to him, is based upon repression, which starts at the suppression of our first sexual desires (for our mother). I disagree with Freud on many counts, but this is something I find quite logical – and so it follows that lifting that repression and allowing for such in-depth self-discovery of my sexuality makes it more difficult for me – or anyone – to be a part of society.

However, what I find particularly hard to deal with is not the lack of social acceptance, but my own inability to function -- to work and to take care of myself, my family, my home --  that my quest for sexual liberation has caused. Getting rid of repression  puts more focus on emotions, and assigns a much greater value to feelings than to rational thought and decision making. While on one hand, that leads to self-awareness and self-knowledge which, potentially, may allow me to make more informed decisions regarding myself and the people I am attracted to or form relationships with, the downside is the overwhelming power of my emotions that submerge me and then keep coming, wave after wave. And since I have given up the tools to repress them, and have indulged in my hyper-awareness, they have more strength than I can deal with.

So what I have been looking for in my exploration of D/s lifestyle is not loss of control, which I, it seems, have already accomplished, but quite the opposite -- for someone else to take control that I have given up. I have been looking to entrust myself to another human being who'd have my interests and my well being in mind, and who could control, through pain or domination, the scattered, contradictory and overwhelming emotions that have been rushing through me -- and contain them for me, so that I could return to functioning within the parameters of my life. I have been wanting to feel safe from the darkness inside me, from self-induced guilt and my own destructive impulses. To know that someone else can take on this darkness, battle my dragons and eventually keep them at bay, enabling me to return to society without the necessary chores and obligations of repressing, to at least some extent, my powerful desires. I have been looking for a cheat.

On one hand, of course, we are responsible for taking care of each other and helping each other in times of sub -- or Dom -- drops. D/s raises a lot of emotions and responses that can be unexpected and hard to deal with. Feelings of pain, loss, violence or overwhelming tenderness, emptiness, to name just a few, rush coursing through your body, as your mind struggles to reconcile them with social norms and everything you thought you knew about yourself. We cannot contain this. We cannot be expected to, and the worst thing a partner can do is abandon us during those times. However, there is an extent to which another person can help, and in the end, if you are not willing to do the work for yourself, go through and sort and analyse and find ways of dealing with your feelings and thoughts, no one can do it for you. It is an essential step to self-awareness, not just to see, but to understand what is happening inside you, and no partner, no matter how good or experienced, can take you through that.

In the end, after giving up control and diving deep into the chasm of your subconscious, you have to come back for air and regain control -- and so I have to tell myself, "enough," and remember that I am a functioning, responsible adult with a ton of obligations to deal with and a whole lot of responsibility for others than myself. No matter how much I enjoy the fantasy of a knight on a white stallion sweeping me off my feet and saving me from myself (and then spanking my bottom til it's fiery red to take care of any fears or guilt I may still carry), I have to, in the end, be a self-rescuing princess, and learn to slay -- or domesticate -- my own dragons. 

Banging the Attention Whore Inside Me

I spent the day doing a photo-shoot around NYC. It was a hard day’s work, and I came home exhausted, thinking – why am I doing this? No, it’s not my job, no, I don’t get paid for this, nor is this something I have to do to further my career – I am just helping out a friend, who’s putting together a portfolio. Posing in public turns me shy, and then there is the hassle of dealing with security guards, who for some reason don’t want to allow photo shoots in their buildings without a ton of paperwork and proper negotiations. More than that, watching the preliminary results of the shoot – scrolling through the hundreds of photos and seeing all the unflattering poses and silly faces I make when I think I’m looking sexy – can be absolutely demoralizing. And then, there is the nagging question of whether what I am doing is somehow shameful, since my upbringing (that I can’t completely override, no matter how long and hard I try) has taught me that exhibitionism is shallow and inappropriate, and good girls don’t present their bodies to a  gawking public. Feminism and dreams of objectification do not usually get along.

But I am an exhibitionist slut and this is what I NEED to feed my lust. (I wonder, has anyone noticed that slut is an anagram for lust?) In any case, tiresome and disconcerting as it may be, today was pure pleasure for my starving attention whore.

The photographer was totally self-assured and easy-going, and while I was shy at first to really let loose and shed my inhibitions in public, his matter-of-fact attitude and smooth way of charming security guards and nosy passerby finally got me in the right mindset. There’s something about watching a confident man get into trouble and just as easily get out of it, handle uncomfortable moments and not sweat, that makes me feel safe and less embarrassed of what I am doing. And once we both relaxed and got a fun banter going, the rest was easy, and I was able to really start enjoying the experience. He made me feel like a super star, encouraging me to flirt, look sexy, pose in provocative ways and show off my body.

I also realized that having an audience makes a difference. I am used to having the attention of large groups of people – I have enough experience in public speaking, and I know that the bigger the audience, the better I usually do. But it’s one thing to receive that attention in my professional capacity, with years of experience and a degree of confidence in what I am doing, and totally another to have my body stared at – my body, with all its flaws and imperfections, and all the little things that drive me crazy. I am not a professional model by any stretch of an imagination, and while I’d like to think that a few beautiful photos will come out of this photoshoot, I realize that the majority of time posing there in front of a camera I probably looked clumsy, silly, and pretentious. So I couldn’t even imagine what an ego boost it would give me, to have so many people believe I was a model, and to be able to overcome my inherent shyness, forget my doubts, and just… pose away. As for my feminist side -- as long as I am confident in myself as a human being, as long as I believe in the capabilities of my mind and know that I have plenty to be respected for as an individual, as long as I have agency to make my own choices, I know I am not at object -- so why should I care if anyone sees me as one? 

I came home tired… but also smiling and filled with confidence. This mood may not last long, but I had a chance to live what I teach – there’s nothing wrong in wanting to be objectified. There’s nothing shameful or anti-feminist about being an exhibitionist. 

Don't Forget to Breathe....

I hold my breath when I orgasm.

I also hold my breath when I am in pain.

It is an involuntary physical reaction, but I think it may as well be my way of holding the moment, inhabiting it, letting it wash over me while I stay completely still and slowly take in every physical and mental sensation it has to offer.

Often, I need to be reminded to breathe, and as a result, after a long and painful scene or after a series of orgasms (yes, thank god I have those nowadays), my heart starts hurting (I am guessing from oxygen deprivation or something along those lines), and I have to fight to catch my breath.

It dawned on me, as I've been dealing with my recent struggles, that I may be holding my breath in life, as well. When panic strikes me, or I can't see the end to the stress I am in, when every inch of my body can feel the 14.7 pounds of the sky pressing down upon it, I respond by holding my breath.

This, then, is what I have been listening to lately, and it's getting me through, somehow:

P(ublic) D(isplay) of A(ffection)

What is the point of etiquette? Or grammar? I often wonder if it wouldn't make more sense if we replaced the first with kindness, thoughtfulness and (genuine) respect, and the latter with clarity and the feel for the beauty of language.... I mean, seriously, why should anyone care if I eat with my elbows on the table or like kissing in public? And yet, some people get disturbed (especially by the latter)....

These people's logic usually works as follows: I don't want kids to see it! or... It's non-consensual display! or... It's disgusting to be forced to look at anyone's tonsils! (like you can actually see those when two people are making out). Like other bodily functions, public displays of affection need to be kept confined to the bedroom or some other dark place where no one has to see it. And yet, these same people watch porn, masturbate, and dress super-scantily to kink events (well, SOME of these people do, anyway -- or so I'd like to think).

This lack of logic especially baffles me in the kink community. I mean, REALLY? Are we so tired of being marginalized, of being raised believing we should be ashamed of ourselves and our sexuality,that now we're willing to take on the role of the censors ourselves? What makes us want to be the voices of intolerance, policing others and ensuring they're just as miserable as we once were, before we dared to become aware of our kinks?

I would much rather children saw the affection and love, often present in these public displays of affection, than the violence of TV shows or the cruelty of practical jokes, so popular in our culture. What is it about someone getting a pie in the face that makes us laugh, what is it about another's humiliation that gives us pleasure to watch, and how are these things any more suitable for those "innocent child observers" who'd at the same time be ruined by PDA? I'd rather teach these kids early on what passion (stemming from love or lust or who cares what) looks like, so it does not become the hidden and forbidden fruit, the drive of their young lives. 

As for non-consensual display... I often see things in a public dungeon or at kink events that disturb me to the point where I can't watch. So? I walk away. If I can't walk, I look away. There's nothing wrong with anyone else's way of finding pleasure -- there is nothing that grants me the right to judge or censor them. Now, I can see how some displays can be distracting.... I too would rather watch two sex-loving people pleasure each other, than sit in a meeting, but -- here the above-mentioned thoughtfulness comes into play. Don't start fingering your partner's nipples at a work meeting -- wait until the break. Don't make out in class -- at least pretend to listen to your teacher who's working hard to teach you something. But out in the corridor? In the streets? As long as you're not blocking my way, make out away!

I understand (or think I understand) that watching PDA can be disturbing, to some, perhaps to all of us, because it stirs our libidos, it makes us uncomfortable, and usually when we are turned on by something we can't have, we can get annoyed, or even angry. I don't have a penis, but I imagine it can be unpleasant to walk around all day with a hard-on, especially if you have no one but yourself to relieve it. But isn't that, at the end of the day, your personal problem? And aren't there better ways of dealing with it than stopping crazy happy couples (or triples, or foursomes, oh my mind is starting to wander...) from showing their affection whenever and wherever they want to?

I suppose it's been too long since my last kink event and so I'm feeling particularly nostalgic, but what I miss most about those cons, more than the sexual high and constant horniness, is the freedom and encouragement I get to simply be myself. To walk around naked, if I wish to, to have sex in the middle of the meadow, to watch a gangbang (or walk by) -- the freedom that is supported and perpetuated by others doing the same. I see how genuinely happy people are, on average, when they don't have to hide or feel shame, how much more peaceful, and I wonder -- why would anyone want to deny that freedom? Why can't we have it, why don't we want to have it in our day-to-day lives? Why, why, why do we prefer to stare judgmentally at those scantily-clad teenagers or that couple making out against the bus-stop glass? 

*********************************

On a somewhat related note, my daddy likes to lead me by the back of my neck when we are out in public. The stares we get are priceless -- in every range of emotions, from anger and disgust to barely-hid envy and desire -- and the best part is, technically, we are not doing anything even remotely inappropriate or openly sexual, and no one can do or say a thing about it..... 

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.”