It's been a little while since I've last updated this blog. I'm hoping to write more regularly in 2014, but I've found it strange how the pressure to create content on a more regular basis has, instead, made me freeze up. I'm not entirely sure what to talk about that will feel honest enough, and yet not overly vulnerable.

It's a weird balance to strike- I feel too fragile for vulnerability, yet I also know that being in that space means the best content. I veer wildly between being extroverted and introverted these days, wanting to go out and see friends and then feeling so seized by anxiety I struggle to leave the house just to go grocery shopping. I don't know really where this sudden desire to burrow into myself comes from, or why it changed so quickly, but I do know that to be true to myself I need to make space for both aspects of my personality.

I wonder if part of it comes from the realization that I'm turning 30 this year. It feels like such an adult age, so distant, and yet here I am, still colouring in books and watching My Little Pony. It's been a tough year, full of heartbreak and financial worries. I've had excellent jobs and lost them to budgeting, watching as my work gets squandered by people who don't know he value of what I've brought to them. It's been demoralizing. It's been depressing. Honestly, it's been one of the hardest years of my adult life.

I typically do a review of my last year, but this time I want to let it go quickly. 2013 was a year of hardship. My partner lost his job. I lost my job. I moved to a cheaper flat... an hour away from my social life, and became withdrawn. My car broke down irreparably. The government cut off unemployment benefits over the holidays. This year was filled with death, and injury, and stress, and tears.

But it wasn't all bad, not really. I did follow through with my resolutions- I traveled, I put my career first, I fully embraced my inner manic pixie,  I asked for and accepted help when needed instead of struggling until I broke. I adopted a cat, Foucault, who is the fuzzy ginger light of my life. I had a beautiful Christmas with my partner. I started a Patreon account so I could be paid for my writing. I survived. I made it through. Sometimes, that's enough- sometimes, that's everything.

I think the one thing I want to work harder on for 2014 is letting myself have space for hedonism. I don't tend to relax enough, and this was the year my libido died. I want to open myself up for more dating, more casual sex, more foodie adventures, more experiences for the sake of experience. Freelance work can often mean little time off, so I want to be better about that. It's about time I stopped being on the survivor track and allowed myself to just live a little, right?

I'm grateful for the assistance I've gotten through IndieGoGo, the presents I received for the holidays (we have many plans for the crock pot and toaster oven!) and I can't be thankful enough to the friends who made space to talk me down when I felt like I was going over the edge. I think it's taught me a lot about community- what it means, what it can mean. That's a post that's forthcoming, when I have my head around it.

But vulnerability. That's what 2013 was, just endless confrontations with my own vulnerability. I expect I'll write more on that, but I'm relieved, at least, that even when it's terrifying to be so raw and exposed... it's endlessly better than pretending.  Thank you for being here with me for the journey, and let's hope 2014 brings better things for everyone.

 

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This weekend I, and many other people I consider chosen family, said goodbye to an era and a venue where I came of age, forged the person I am today, and found, for the first time, a home. Tears were shed, hearts felt broken, we held each other to tell stories about the beautiful moments we had enjoyed. It felt a little bare already, a bit naked, as the curtained and draped decor had already been stripped away. But the soul was still there, in the warmth of the pink room, the shine of the stripper pole, the silliness of the Judgmental Tiger.

When I first came to Mission Control and Kinky Salon, it was Halloween, I was underage and terrified I'd be found out. I don't remember what I wore, but I remember feeling so guilty that I ended up volunteering to scrub the floors after the event. I began volunteering after that, and ten years later, I can't help filling water jugs or cleaning spills. It feels like a home to me.

I saw my first stripper performance at Mission Control, and solidified my admiration for the athleticism and sensuality involved. I watched burlesque and for the first time thought "I could do that one day"- and did. I excitedly helped to plan a festival in Maui that brought multiple cultures together. I had my very first orgasm without the use of a vibrator. I made costumes I never realized I'd have the confidence to wear, and felt beautiful in them. I went to my first swinger party as a queer woman and felt accepted and comfortable. I sat in those walls and learned how to throw my own Kinky Salon event in the UK, hoping to share even a bit of that sparkle I had grown to love.

It hasn't always been easy. There have been moments where my idealism was challenged. I have felt out of place, like my body was undesirable, like my politics were unwelcome. But I have fought through those feelings and made it a place where I feel safe and happy, where my voice could be heard. The people who came to Mission Control for any of the events invested, and tried to always make it better. I appreciate that dedication as a respite in a society where people often opt for ignorant bliss.

I want to acknowledge how Kinky Salon changed my life, my path, my San Francisco. It gave me the strength to say both no and yes to the pleasure I wanted. It gave me a place where I could learn how to give difficult feedback to those close to me, and feel heard and respected.  It taught me how to be held accountable without being defensive. I learned to trust in my own abilities and in my gut feelings. I found within its walls both lovers and friends.

Mission Control, yes, is far more than a space. I know that. But that space had been a container for so much magic and love over the years that it's difficult not to feel a deep sense of loss. I hope to help carry that beauty into the next space, and may I continue to cherish it for another ten years.

Just in case I was feeling overly confident about where I stand in the BDSM "community", I found myself on the receiving end of event expulsion thanks to an ex of mine. It's a pretty common story- you break up and your spaces are divided amongst each other, except we never had a conversation about it and didn't agree to terms. I spent some time ensuring that I was avoiding our mutual spaces, and even tried reaching out to her on multiple occasions only to get the cold shoulder. A year and a half later, and I guess I thought we could be civil. As I was informed I was no longer welcome because some people (certainly informed by her, as none of them spoke to me about it) now felt "uncomfortable", I guess I have my answer- that rather than be adults, it's easier to see who has enforceable power and more social currency.

All that's shitty, for sure, but what really irritated me was the attempts to avoid informing me of this until the last minute and then silence my anger at this decision. I was of course rather frustrated as I had been attempting to find out what I needed to know in order to be a good performer for almost a year, and a week before the event I'm told I'm not longer needed after *I* contacted *them* for information? It seems pretty shady to me. When I expressed my annoyance that my ex could throw her weight around in this fashion, I was told that my anger proved people right that I was difficult to work with. That if I wanted to be involved in the future and not hurt the event I should keep my mouth shut.

This is indicative of the same issues I lecture about all over the US and UK, though, and therefore is not something I'll stay quiet about. The way community members (and worse, their leaders) tend to prefer issues be brushed under the carpet and hushed up rather than dealing with them with transparency, honesty and accountability is incredibly concerning. Even more concerning is the attempt to wave acceptability as a carrot- "if you don't make a fuss, maybe you can be involved next time" rather than "we will instigate and mediate a discussion about this".

I'm not altogether surprised, mind. The construct of "community" is one I question a lot being placed on BDSM groupings, because I don't believe we are one simply because we like the same toys. To me, community indicates some agreements to a standard of behaviour, and accountability/responsibility to each other for following that code of conduct. If those things are not in place, actively and, again, transparently, I question how much of a community it is.

Granted, I not only question the use of the word "community", I also question our leadership- who becomes a leader and why. I find over and over again that it's the (often self appointed) "community leaders" who I get the most reports about when it comes to overstepping boundaries. It's the "popular kids" who seemingly feel entitled to be abusive, and are often saved from consequences by the merit of their popularity.

Mollena Williams discusses this really well in her blog post "On Blind Trust & Gut Instinct":

People rise to prominence. Via effort. Via time, via rude persistence. Via duplicity, lies, deceit, bullshit, fuckery and the laziness and sycophancy of those around them. Via honesty and transparency and love for their “community.” And those around them take the passive word of those who have gone before as testament to their honesty, their viability, their worthiness.

And that’s a problem.

I have seen, over the years, people take “reputation” and “community standing” as carte blanche to entrust themselves into the hands of those who are not worthy of trust.

I have questioned friends who work with those who have questionable histories, who have shadowy pasts, who have seen others stand up to say “That person violated me and my trust.” and had those friends shrug and say “Well, it isn’t my job to police the community.”

I have seen people endorse, by word and deed, people they KNOW to have problematic histories and shrug it off with “Well, I have never had a problem with them, so it isn’t my problem.”

I have seen people who are “leaders” in the community duped, swindled, ripped-off by people who, after the shallowest of digging, were revealed to be liars and thieves.

I have been sexually harassed and treated dismissively by men entrusted with instructing people about BDSM.

I’ve watched people who are bullies and liars intimidate and swindle their way into positions of (relative) power and trust, and surround themselves with the weak-minded who thoughtlessly protect and bleat the chant they’ve been taught in order to support those unworthy of their trust.

I have had handshake promises breached by people who will then turn around and evoke “Leather Values” and “community pride.”

I have been lied to by people who smile in my face and in the same breath trash talk and belittle me to others.

I have had people to whom I appealed for help in taking a public stand against injustices instead opt to remain silent against racism, against rape, against consent violations.

And ALL of these examples involve The People You…We…embrace as “Leaders.”

I mean, that's it exactly. That's a huge part of the problem. And because we lack any policing body (I don't even know if I'd recommend we have one, mind, I'm just saying we don't) there's no one to go to for registering a grievance or to make people aware of a bad situation. All we have are whispers and rumours, which just add to the victim blaming, silencing, and general ineffectiveness when it comes to dealing with abusive behaviour and the repercussions of such. And whispers don't really add to a culture of transparency.

Unfortunately, this experience feels in many ways like the final straw for me with the SF BDSM "community". Ironic as I'm about to go for an entire kinky weekend with them for Dark Odyssey: Surrender! It's just been made very clear that the more someone says they hate "drama", the more they like stirring shit up so they can dismiss other people's feelings with that term. I don't need a community like that... after all, I've moved on from high school.

When going on a trip, I like short stories. I can pick them up and put them down as I go, drop into a nap and wake up and read a bit more without worrying about losing the plot. Additionally, I like having something sexy I can read to a lover while I'm far away- nothing like hot bedtime stories so we can enjoy a bit of heavy breathing before sleeping apart!

"The Big Book of Orgasms" edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel works really well for both of these purposes, because there's 351 pages and 69 stories. Each one contains on average about ten to fifteen minutes of toe-curling loveliness and lust if you're reading them aloud.  There's stories expressing queer desires and straight ones, a bit of kinky play and passion between vanilla people, long term relationships and quick and dirty flings. Orgasms range the gamut. Really, I could see using this book to mark off "here's some things that sound hot, read them, and then let's try them" when with a new partner, because there's enough variety to make it useful.

The authors, too, range from well-known (Cecilia Tan, Virgie Tovar, Sinclair Sexsmith) to people who have never submitted to an anthology before. Because of this there are some new treats to discover, new frameworks to indulge in. I think this is one of Bussel's best!

There's a few upcoming live workshops and readings- tonight, November 6th at 6:30pm, there's a live reading at Good Vibrations on Polk, and November 12th there's an Erotica 101 class in Alberquerque at Self Serve.

Even better, and there's a virtual blog tour for those who can't make it to the in-person events (I'm writing today when the blog tour features Sinclair and Sugar Butch Chronicles).

Check it out and let me know what you think!

I've always loved supernatural creatures- mainly faeries, and mermaids, and naiads, and other humanoid fantasy creatures that looked beautiful and would murder you.

But selkies... selkies were particularly magical. Their stories were stories of loving and letting go, of not trying to tame something wild if you really care about it.  Selkies could fall in love with humans and shed their sealskins, but often in the tales their lovers would hide their skin and trap them on land. The selkies would be miserable, and would eventually find their skins and escape, never to look back.

I wanted to write a story that celebrated the nature of a selkie, and hinted at their powers without being too explicit or fantastical. Here's my attempt- warning, it's NSFW.

Enjoy!

Sealskin

I only ever see him when I’m walking along the beach at dusk, the sun fading into the horizon, the pebbles warm from the day. And he never stays the night. I never ask him why, I just let him go. It’s just his way.

But his skin tastes of the ocean spray; his lips, like joyously drowning.

I’m not in love, exactly, or just in lust. He’s beautiful, of course- he has a swimmer’s body, tanned and fit, and his eyes are dark and warm. But that’s not what attracted me to him in the first place, or why we met.

I had been sitting alone, overlooking the tide coming in, taking some much needed time away from my most recent book. My cottage wasn’t too far from a pebbled beach, a shack abandoned for the winter months. Too bleak for holiday-goers but ideal for me. I’m not much for socializing. The cold wind swept through the closest village, scattering all but the most hardy souls in the autumn, the people migrating to somewhere warmer like birds. That’s when I moved in for a few months of solitude and focus. It was getting closer to spring, but the air still bit to the bone.

It’s not very fancy, the rental, or very big, but it was enough for my laptop, my kettle, and myself, and I could hear the water whispering inspiration to me like a lover. I’ve always had an attraction to waterways and transience.

But sometimes the cottage felt like a cage, and I had to escape its walls for the vastness of the sea. I’d go out, wrapped in my jacket, as dusk settled and the bitter wind stroked my cheeks. The night I met him the chill had gripped my heart, and I felt seized by a sudden isolation and melancholy, my cheeks suddenly wet with tears that fell into the foam at my feet.

It was in that moment of stillness I saw a man, his clothes damp and clinging. He was shivering. I figured maybe he was a fisherman who had some trouble with his boat.

“Hey there!” I called out, drying my cheeks on my sleeve and shooing my self-pity away. “Are you all right?”

He came over to me, his hands rubbing together as he blew on them. Lips slightly blue came back to provide a slightly sharp, toothy grin. “I’m fine, thanks. Didn’t realize anyone stayed in this ghost town over the winter.”

“I’m a writer,” I said, half explanation, half apology. I felt suddenly like I had invaded his privacy. His eyes were almost black, but filled with a sparkle like the moon on the waves.

“I see,” he said, and then, with a mischievous wink, “Are you in the market, perhaps, for a muse?”

I laughed, my mood lifting. “Not exactly, but you look like you could use a cup of tea and drier clothes! I have a cottage nearby, if you want to warm up some? Or do you live near here?”

The man thought for a moment, looking out along the beach, then back to me. “You could say that,” he answered, thoughtfully. “But a cup of tea sounds fantastic. Or possibly something stronger.”

I grinned. “I wouldn’t mind the company.”

So I led the way back my place, chatting with him along the way. His name was Dylan, I learned, and he had taken his raft out to go swimming earlier, only to dock later and discover his clothes had been too close to the incoming tide. He had managed to rescue them just in time to keep them from being swept away “but not,” he said with an exaggerated sigh, “before they had been blessed by the sea”. I chuckled as I turned my key in the door and invited him inside.

As I unearthed the bottle of whiskey and grabbed a dry robe, I stole glances at my new friend. It was startling how much he looked like me, now that I could see him properly- we had a similar build and hair colour, though mine was trimmed to the barest fuzz and his cascaded down his shoulders. Looking at him was almost like looking at my reflection in a river. I smiled inwardly, scolding myself that my attraction to him probably stemmed from vanity. Infrequent as my flirtations were, I did tend to go to men much like me.

I poured us each a double shot into some empty mason jars. I don’t entertain much. Dylan didn’t seem to notice, taking his drink with a grateful nod.

“Here’s a robe,” I offered, a bit shyly. “I can put your clothes in the dryer if you don’t mind the wait”.

“Would you mind if I had a hot shower?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said, feeling sheepish for not offering. “It’s right through that door.”

He took a long sip from his whiskey, picking up the robe and heading to the bathroom. I admired how his trousers clung to his narrow hips and muscular thighs, then shook my head and had another drink. Dylan was just a guy in need of some help. There had been no indication where his interest lay, and I was too awkward to ask.

The water started running, and I heard a startled sound. I rushed to the door, worried he might’ve been injured. “You ok in there?”

“Actually, I could use some help,” came the muffled reply, and I came into the bathroom.

I was confronted by his body, sleek, firm, and totally, totally naked. He seemed unashamed, perhaps even a little cheeky, while I struggled to look at his face and not his body. “I couldn’t get the water temperature right,” Dylan said, his voice lightly amused as he caught my stare.

“Oh,” I said, feeling a little flustered and very conscious of the bulge beginning to pulse in my jeans. I bent over and fiddled with the dials, only to feel his hands cup my ass.

“And I wouldn’t mind the company,” he added, his voice low.

I straightened up, my breath catching in my throat as he let his hands wander to my zipper. “If that’s ok, of course,” he winked, his hands brushing against my hard cock. I nodded, maybe a little too enthusiastically as he laughed at me- not mean-spirited, but the laugh of an accomplished flirt who’s succeeded at his seduction. Dylan’s fingers worked my jeans and boxer briefs off my body as his teeth (which were as sharp as they looked) bit my neck, making me moan and stiffen further. I pulled my shirt over my head clumsily and his lips met mine, hard and fierce, then tenderly. They tasted of salt and whiskey. Steam filled the room slowly, making me gasp for breath between our kisses. I didn’t mind. Dylan was like a siren song, and there was nothing to do but surrender.

He stepped into the shower, and I followed him. It was a tight fit, obviously not made for two, but I found the intimacy particularly exciting. Hot water rushed between and around us as we pressed ourselves together, hands slipping and sliding over skin, his cock stroking mine. He wet his fingers and slid them along my ass, a finger tentatively spiraling around the opening before gently sliding in. First one, then, as we kissed and I relaxed, two fingers thrust in and out of me, making me feel weak. I nuzzled my cheek against his throat as his fingers moved inside me, enjoying the sensation of stubble and the still-clinging scent of musk.

I hadn’t been with another man in a while. I felt a wild eagerness and tried to stifle it, remain cool. My hand tentatively moved over Dylan’s cock- his eyes closed with a sigh, his fingers pulling out to join mine on his shaft. Then those eyes opened and looked at me, through me, dark and endless. He seemed almost inhuman, and I was drawn to his spell, a ship tossed at sea- my wordless prayers were all to him.

“Bed,” he growled, his arms wrapping around me so his lips brushed my ear. “Please?”

“Yes,” I whispered, “yes yes yes” and we stumbled out of the shower to my bed, not even pausing to dry off, wet and wanting and wild. He threw me onto the bed and licked the water off my chest. Dylan was a feral animal, nuzzling and nipping my neck, his cock stiff and pressing against my thigh. I reached into my backpack to grab a condom, kneeling to slip it over his cockhead with my lips, sliding the latex along his shaft as I looked upwards into his dark eyes. He shuddered, drawing me up to him for another wave of kisses and bites before pushing me back. I let him watch as I grabbed the lube next to the bed- our eyes locked as I prepared my asshole and his cock. Dylan rubbed the head against my ass until I was begging and he was smiling wickedly. He relented at last, holding my hands down as he fucked me until I was dizzy, my stomach wet with my orgasm.

We fell back into the bed, nuzzling and kissing lazily now, the urgency replaced by affection. I removed the sheath of latex, replacing it with my tongue as I licked him clean. When eventually exhaustion overcame us, I slept more soundly than I had in weeks.

He was gone when I woke up, his clothes taken. There was no sign he had even been there. I made myself a cup of tea, feeling somewhat wistful but willing to let the evening be what it was and nothing more. I hoped it hadn’t just been a crazy fantasy. Over the next few days, I wondered less and less what had happened to him, and yet felt closer to him than ever. I understood his sudden and silent departure- Dylan, too, needed his solitude it seemed. We were alike in that way.

But I saw him days later, another dusk, and then another, always dressed the same. I see him sometimes even now. His clothes are damp every time, like he never learns his lesson about where to put them for his swim. And there’s always more surprises, in bed and out of it- but he’s always gone by dawn, and I never press. He knows a lot about the habits of seals, it turns out, so I guess that he might’ve been a marine biologist at some point. But we don’t often talk about work, preferring philosophy and mythology to everyday topics. Sometimes we’ll tell each other stories- I’ll read my most recent work, he’ll recite ballads. “The Great Silkie of Sule Skerry” is his favourite, and I enjoy hearing his low voice as he brings life to the romantic tragedy. Often we don’t talk at all, just appreciating companionable silence.

Is it a relationship? Not really. Yes? I don't know. Of a sort. I get the impression he would feel caught, trapped inside walls and commitments. And so I let him in and let him go, again and again, like the tides.

I don’t feel lonely, now, even if I spend much of my time alone.

After all, it’s just his way, and mine.

"Man Will Pay Good Money for Thin, White Girlfriend" headlines stated when they were being kind(ish), while other news outlets dubbed him "the worst person in the world" and "a horrible man".

His name? Larramie Busby, aka Romeo Rose, a self-identified "CEO & a Rockstar all at the same time, both of those perfectly existing in one person, Me". In reality, where the rest of us live, he's a 39 year old wedding photographer with a really frightening website in which he declares he's open-minded about who he falls in love with...as long as she's not fat, Black, or too slutty. His ad was offensive enough that FOX 7 had a matchmaker on with Busby to explain to him that his ad was detrimental to his chances. And we're talking about FOX. He got ripped to shreds on Reddit. Even Huffington Post Live shut down an interview with him after he complained about how people thought he was racist for having sexual preferences, and then proceeded to compare having sex with a Black person to having sex with a monkey.

Seriously, I am not making this up.

So many people went to visit his website it was crashing for multiple days with the traffic. As far as I can tell, they didn't go there to take this offer seriously, but rather in order to quote him all over the internet with the awkward laughter that accompanies blatant bigotry. I can't really blame them, because there's some real zingers in there:

"Being overweight is a total dealbreaker with me."

"I will not date a Black girl. I don’t care if she looks like Halle Berry, I will not ever date a Black girl."

"I will not date any girl if she is still friends with any men that she has been intimate with in the past."

"To me, tattoos just represent white trash or somone that’s been in prison."

"I also do not support homosexuality. I think it’s disgusting, and morally wrong. I think it’s the trait of a defective human being."

"I do not believe a woman should have the choice or freedom to kill her baby just because she was a slutty whore."

"Because when a woman has been with a black man, in my book that is ALMOST the same thing as beastiality, because black people look like apes, monkeys and gorillas."

This goes on, for multiple pages. He's a winner, folks, really. Who wouldn't want a piece of that action (no offense dude)?

He did end up stating that he wrote much of the text at 2am, and that perhaps it wasn't well-worded, but considering how vehmenantly he has defended his original statements, I'm not entirely sure it'd matter when he edits this "first draft".

Apparently many some people responded offering to connect Busby with a sex worker, which of course highly offended him. Did they not read his demands that the woman of his dreams couldn't have many sexual partners, or have ever had a threesome? And he very specifically says he won't even talk to a woman who has been a stripper or a "ho". Regardless, frankly, I don't believe I know a sex worker who would be willing to meet with a guy filled with demands or who would be so openly racist.

Why did Busby create this website you might ask? Because he was lonely, and he had tried various dating sites (despite having many judgments about the women who are on such sites, who he feels must be all mentally ill, drug users, or hideously unattractive). Creating a website and an incentive program was, in his head, a way to encourage people to introduce him to women, quite probably to relatives or acquaintences they didn't care very much about. Granted, I think it had the opposite effect, as not only is he the bigot heard 'round the world, but his wedding photography business now has pretty unsavory reviews now on Yelp. Sometimes being your own personal brand kicks you in the butt. Hard, like a mule.

The thing that really sticks out to me, perhaps because I am a sex worker and a hustler, is the lack of professionalism. His date-seeking website is awful, with pink text on a black background that's painful to look at. There's an incredibly vague description of what exactly will constitute enough of a "long term relationship" in order for someone to get paid. I'm curious if there is a contract involved, or if the girl gets any of the rewards of being bartered off. His LinkedIn with its zero connections and self-employed status (his weekday job, which I've only found described as "legal work for General Motors", isn't mentioned anywhere except the Daily Mail) doesn't necessarily suggest to me a well-established professional who can afford $1500 at any given time. If he could, couldn't he afford a web developer to build him a website that would present his racism with more panache?

The matchmaker they called in at FOX 7, Julia McCurley, said some excellent points. "Why didn't you tell people what you had to offer?" she asked rather pointedly. She also called him out for being closed-minded in his requests, stating (probably honestly) that while there may well be people out there who feel similarly, they're not going to actually come out and SAY all of these things. I think ultimately that's what shocked people. I know plenty of people who will say how they're "just not attracted" to one ethnicity or another, but to come out and say some of the racist comments Busby has lays clear that these preferences are often rooted in racist ideas of beauty, class, and success. Our racism is more easily ignored when it's subtle.

His first go-around with creating a website for dating (this time yellow text on a black background) doesn't reflect this long list of requirements, or any hints of racism. And honestly, when I was reading this site, I originally felt for him. "Alone in Austin" is less about bragging and more about someone who is really lonely. If you look into his past, there are numerous accounts of abuse and death within his family. With all this trauma and death, I can begin to understand why he has set up all of these superficial walls to try to protect himself; it makes me curious where the racism comes from, but that's musing best left to him and a therapist.

Until I go even deeper and discover that actually, his supposedly dead ex-girlfriend put a restraining order on him for domestic violence. Apparently he bragged about harming three of her pets. Busby also posted an email from her on Google Groups, where she's telling him off for dreaming too much and not having any money to back it up. And while he's happy to slutshame women for being naked around men they're not dating, he's also happy to pose with a naked woman... that he's not dating. He's also had his experiences paying for sex and drugs, even while he'll shun women for it. Amazing how all my sympathy just melted away. Google will do that.

I really, really hate people who use trauma as a way to cover up or justify their abusive behaviour.

I have a way of leaving lasting impressions on people the first time they meet me, they never forget me, and the more a person gets to know about me the more they realize that they have never, ever met another human being in this world like me!

So, fellas...basically, don't be like Laramie Busby. Some "lasting impressions" are best left alone. After all, Google, like an elephant, never forgets. As his ex-"soulmate" said, "No self respecting woman would even consider dating you... PAYBACK IS A BITCH, AIN'T IT!!!"

 

So.

So I've been quiet for 10 months about naming my abusive ex (Michael Darling/@asifandwhen) on the internet. I had Reasons, I told myself, and told other people. I wanted to give him space to learn, to grow, to go to therapy (as I had begged him to during our entire relationship), to take accountability.

Instead it turns out I was giving him space, as a almost exclusively straight man, to move fully into the queer spaces I introduced him to as my partner,  making sure they weren't safe for *me*. I was giving him space to attempt to buddy up to my friends and invade my comfort in that way, after I had explicitly made my boundaries clear. I was taking the full burden of responsibility and keeping quiet for both of us, still, months after the breakup, and I wasn't healing fully because of it.

Just like I did when we dated.

Why not just ignore him, I was asked, when I finally blew up on Twitter? Well, multiple reasons. One, if it was anyone else, I absolutely wouldn't "just ignore it". I would call this shit out, so why was I so reluctant to do it for myself? Oh right, I was afraid to lose friends, to start drama. Well, fuck that. Ignoring it, and him, would continue to make me anxious and give me panic attacks every time I come back to London.

Two, because it hurts me. Because it feels like another way he can continue to inflict pain on me. It hurts because the lack of justice or accountability in our situation is mirrored over and over in the work I do on a larger scale. He's mirrored in Maymay (who stalked an ex-lover and is an online bully yet speaks on social justice activism and runs an abuse report system), or Hugo Schwyzer (who attempted to murder his girlfriend and bragged about having sex with his students, yet has a platform as a male feminist ally). There's a fundamental problem with these male activists, their refusal to critique their own behaviour, and the failure of the community at large to hold them accountable to the ideals they spout. It hurts because it's so cliché & it shouldn't be. I want a better world, but I live in one where people ask why I'm still upset my ex hit me and got away with it.

I'm fundamentally not ok with a community that blows these things off through inaction. I expect better. And let it be on my head that I expect better- I'll take the blame/credit. But silence *is* complacency, from me or the community. I expect space for my anger. Acknowledging that silence is on some level complacency and safety means some very uncomfortable conversations. It means losing friends (though god, do I even *want* those friends who prefer my discomfort and his unchallenged comfort over this stark honesty?).

It also means actually creating a safe space. Not just about assault, but rape, sexism, cissexism, racism, ableism, etc. As someone who *has* privilege to speak up it feels very much like a responsibility to do so in order to pave the way for others to take their own stands and not feel alone. 

Doing consent culture taught me as hellish as it was to call out the kink community it desperately needed saying. Still needs saying. And it meant I got a TON of shit, and was pretty unpopular. But now the community is having those discussions. I helped that happen. That's important. More important than being popular or liked. And realizing that makes me feel like I have some strength to stand up and say "enough".

Like, seriously, I'm having an argument on Twitter right now about how I should care about how the term "teh menz" is derogatory and judgey. NOPE. I DON'T CARE. You know why? Cause I live in a damn cissexist bullshit patriarchy. And I'm angry about that. I SHOULD BE ANGRY ABOUT THAT. If you have a problem with that term, I recommend using your frustration to fight the underlying cause- the culture that fucks over everyone not a white, straight, cis, middle class dude.

Meanwhile, I am not going to hold the responsibility and the burden of an abuser's failure to take ownership.

I will not step back, be quiet, and just leave my safe spaces because that's easier for everyone else to deal with. And that's why being angry will always matter. Because these boundaries are not optional, and I will fucking fight for them.

They, and I, will not be ignored.

I had expected that going to London was going to be somewhat difficult. It had been years since I last visited, after all, and when I last left I was engaged in a rather tumultuous relationship that had been breaking apart and coming back together... well, almost since it began, if I'm truly honest with myself. But I took my meds, and I steeled my nerves, and told myself that I would be fine. I did the workaholic thing of making sure that I would have little free time to panic in, and scheduled 4 more workshops on top of the one I was flying out to do.

Making sure you have no self care time is, in its own way, a type of laziness. I've learned that my body will insist on self care whether I like it or not, and not making that a priority means I have to deal with the procrastination later.

About a week before the flight I began to get teary and cling to the apartment, to the cat, to my partner. "I don't want to go!" I'd wail. "I don't want to be an adult and do adult things and deal with these feelings! I'm not ready! It still hurts!" I put off packing til the last minute, stressed about little things.

But this time, there was one thing I wasn't stressed about.

My partner.

For those who've known me for any length of time, I have a very difficult time typically with separation. This is because the last couple of relationships I've been in, when I've flown to another country, things have gone Terribly Wrong. Boundaries have been smashed to pieces. Cheating has occurred. All relationship drama has gone up exponentially as soon as I get on the plane, leading me to have a Pavlov's dog type reaction to seeing a airline host/ess showing me the emergency exits. Now, of course, I have medication for that, which helps somewhat to stem the tide of dread that comes from past trauma.

But actually, even though I had things in place anticipating those fears... I found myself not needing them. I was ok, for once. And I've realized it's because I trust my partner. We have our struggles, absolutely, and we argue, but fights are unexpected now, a surprise, rather than something for days ending in Y. I'm not jumpy like I used to be, worrying I'm going to tread wrong and set off relationship landmines. I didn't feel afraid, still don't feel afraid, that he won't be there when I get home, because I know he will be. And that's very, very new, and its own sort of scary.

I'm a feral cat, really, when it comes to coupledom.  I've had some bad times and now spend a fair amount of time hissing under cars. While I've now grown to a point where I feel comfortable, even safe, being petted, staying indoors, being taken care of, I still have this sharply honed desire to run away at any sign of trouble. My partner knows my history and is remarkably patient with me, allowing me to run back under the bed and hiss at him, even lash out; he takes a step back, gives me space, lets me tentatively sniff his hand and decide when I feel safe to come out and be with him again. Learning to trust is an arduous process, and my experiences in London have taught me to appreciate how compassionate he is with me while I evolve.

Meanwhile, I landed in London, and after an hour and a half very polite discussion with border control (apparently now that I have a legit job and a flat and am only here for two weeks, they didn't know if I should be let in... but when I had no money and was an illegal prostitute  and was staying for 6 months at a time, that was fine), I managed to meet up with a friend and get fed. Oh, that first Pimm's, that first sandwich! Heaven. I remembered things I missed about London. I talked to this friend's father, an immigrant to London, for hours, fascinated by our discussions of power and politics and privilege. Eventually I made it to my host's flat, a journalist I admire quite a bit, who had tea and made delicious black pudding sandwiches, and crashed out.

***

I woke up to an email from my ex-fiance. The one I had spent hours figuring out plans around the city and places to avoid so I could dodge his movements while I was here, because I didn't feel ready to see him.  When we split, I told him I didn't want to hear from him again until he was ready to take ownership for his behaviour, as I had been painfully doing with my own, on here, in therapy and with my community. Now here I was confronted with a request for a truce- he wished me a pleasant stay, said he expected the chances we'd not run into each other were small, said he'd appreciate mutual civility if we bumped into each other.

And he sent this to my host.

I genuinely don't think he meant for this to come across the way it did. I really think he thought he was expending an olive branch and letting me know he didn't want me to feel unsafe- but instead, I felt like he had done what he had done during much of our relationship... ignored my boundary to satisfy his need for validation, and he had contacted my host to gain some control over the situation (and seem like a "nice guy"). It creeped me out, instead, made me worry that I hadn't done enough research (I knew we'd be at one concert together, but what else? I had checked so thoroughly!) , made me wonder who had told him where I would be staying. It made me think about him, which I didn't want to do. And it angered me, because if he wanted a truce, why was I doing all the work?

I told him I expected accountability if he really wanted a truce, but otherwise, not to contact me again, because he didn't get to ask me any favours. And there was no response. I didn't expect one, really, but I was still disappointed. The truce, apparently, was only valid if I took all the risks... and I am no longer willing to do that.

I lost a lot of friends in that breakup. I lost a lot of social spaces that don't feel safe anymore, and I gave them to him. I imagine in part his male privilege shielded him, because I doubt it even occurred to him to be fearful we'd run into each other- I doubt he took steps to ensure that didn't happen. Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing in how I handled it all- I wonder if I made too much of a fuss, or too little. I know many people made decisions on whether to stay friends with him or me based on very little information, and I chose not to give them details because I wanted to give him space to evolve. I still hope he does, I suppose. But I'm a feral cat, and I don't imagine I'll ever get close enough to find out again.

***

I've been teaching workshops, meanwhile, which have given me bursts of confidence even while I've had to shake my head clear of all the fog that comes from walking streets cloudy with memories. There are things I love about London, and teaching is one of them- I dearly miss connecting with people and opening them up to new ideas, or being a part of conversations that start new projects. Seeing the birth of Consent Culture in London excited me immensely, especially difficult discussions about how it relates to institutionalized consent, and making these discussions safe, non-tokenized spaces for people of colour, both discussions I think are incredibly important and valid. Seeing it break into possible working groups around sexual education and outreach, alternative communities, and institutionalized consent (or lack thereof) makes me feel like maybe we can actually *do* something.  I know I get accused of doing this so I can be a rock star, or famous (and really, any supposed fame isn't worth the threats, the invasions of privacy, the panic attacks or the nightmares you get doing work where fighting rape culture features prominently, believe me) but I genuinely want to see shifts in the culture we live in, and I know I need a lot of amazing people to help do that. Knowing they exist, and having them around a table discussing how to make that happen, was truly delightful.

But it was also just as powerful teaching sex tips to women who wanted to spice up their relationship, as it turned out. These women were eager to learn new things- in fact, the one complaint I got was that I was too tame, which delights me, because now I know that next time I can skip the blow jobs and hand jobs and go straight to anal play on men, or sex in public, or sharing porn, things I wanted to cover and didn't have time for! The class went on for longer than advertised (a full hour, in fact!) and the women were riveted. That's a type of activism too, and one I think I sometimes forget when I'm too focused on my activist communities. Bringing my activism to my sexual education is just as important, if not more so- teaching people about how to graciously accept no, and discussing the pressure on women to say yes when they don't mean it in order to pacify and why that's a social issue, while also making them laugh? That's huge as well, and if I can weave that into some blow job tips, even better, right?

I went to a concert, and my ex was there, and it didn't matter. It didn't matter in part because I was with amazing friends, and we had VIP tickets up in the balcony, and so bumping into him was incredibly unlikely (and didn't happen)- but it also didn't matter because *I was with amazing friends*. I had support. I was able to talk about how I felt, and was able to relax, because I didn't have to hide anything. It was a relief.

I saw my girlfriend, and realized during our date I had inadvertently taken us to a somewhat triggering place (a first date spot). But again, it didn't matter, because we created new memories- memories of chatting with my sweetie, seeing her for the first time in years, us smiling at each other and drinking a cocktail that neither of us was sure we could finish. Something painful can be replaced with love. Memories may be there, but like cities, they can be built on top of, and they can evolve.

I forget, sometimes, that I have confidence. That I have power. That my vulnerability, too, is part of that power. London has been hard for me- I'm not entirely sure I was ready to come back. But I am incredibly grateful for the people here, who have hugged me, who have listened, who have given me strength and given me space to cry. I wasn't sure if I'd get to London and feel completely alone... but in some ways, there are little pieces of my hearthome, all over this city, in the people I love, will always love, who love me back, no matter how long I've been away or what I've done. They've watched me evolve and held me through it all, and I am honoured to know them.

London, as hard as it's been, has taught me how blessed I am, that growth can be painful but it's growing my roots, grounding me, and my branches, into the clouds.

So due to being a bit ill with a norovirus, I turned to my partner to do a review of his very own of the Aneros Eupho Syn, the newest member of the Aneros family! These are great toys to introduce men to anal play with, and anal play with prostate stimulation (their specialty) is thought be be good for maintaining a healthy prostate- probably why they're sponsoring  the tour of "The Ultimate Guide to Prostate Pleasure" by Charlie Glickman and Aislinn Emirzian (which we'll also be reviewing here on this blog)!

Anyway, onto the review:

Today I'm reviewing the Aneros Eupho Syn. I already own the Aneros Helix Syn, so I'm accustomed to this family of products, but this was the first time I'd ever used this particular model. First, I'll describe the actual toy itself.

The Eupho Syn appears physically very similar to the Helix Syn I'm already familiar with. The product is quite small and discreet and is made out  of a shiny, red plastic which is mostly covered by a velvety black rubber. The "business" end has a sort of "head" on one end, narrowing directly beneath it before widening again, and then tapering gently down to the handle. The handle end has two arms, one meant to go up to your perenium - the area between your genitals and your butt, which has a little knob for additional stimulation, with the other arm having a little curly-que handle that nestles down between your cheeks.

The velvety rubber is a really nice feature of this product. It not only lends a very nice, high-quality feel to the product, but really seems to just sort of hold the lube in such a way that the product is able to just slip right in, with minimal lube or effort.

Much like the Helix, my complaint about this product is that it doesn't seem quite big enough to have the desired effect. For me at least, doesn't seem quite long enough to hit my 'P' spot, nor wide enough to give me any sort of pleasant stretching feeling. The device does come with a set of instructions, which I followed to the letter, but it just didn't seem to do much for me. I'll admit however, that I've never had much luck with hands-free devices. From my experience with the Helix, I find that using the handy little curly handle for some gentle manual stimulation with the device is far more effective.

It certainly does still feel pleasant on its own however, and can be quite erotic, especially if paired with a nice vibrator (I used the infamous Hitachi Magic Wand for this review). I am no stranger to anal play, and so the problems I have with it could just be that it's a better device for a novice. That being said, I still use the Helix Syn on a fairly regular basis out  of the convenience of it's size and ease-of-use, but when I compare the Eupho Syn, I think I'm unlikely to turn to it as often as it just doesn't have quite the girth as the Helix. I do absolutely think it is a fantastic introductory product for someone who is less experienced and perhaps intimidated by anal play.

If you're a woman interested in similar toys constructed for G-spot pleasure, I highly recommend the Evi.

So there's a club in San Francisco I have always had a soft spot for. It was dark, and a bit grungy, and the floor always felt stickier than it should beneath my heels. There were themed rooms, but they were themed with all the budget and class of a roadside attraction from yesteryear- kind of falling apart, a little off, definitely kitsch. One room had something vaguely representing an Egyptian tomb- another, a medieval feasting hall, complete with a plastic roast turkey on the table.  Jail cells were tucked away in one area, and another housed a stage with stripper poles. There was also a tiny sex toy/lingerie shop, though I never bothered with it- even when I was in my early twenties I was a bit of a snob about vibrators and dildos.

But what I loved about this place was that it was within walking distance from one of my favourite bars, which served spicy bloody marys and was patronized by people who'd kick you out for wearing patchouli.  New to SF, and certainly newly discovering my interest in sex parties and casual play, this was the perfect combination of a place to preview an online sex date before walking them over to the club, paying the cheaper "couple's price", and then figuring out what we were going to do there. Chatting to a stranger about their interests and fantasies felt easier and safer in a relatively well-lit bar, surrounded by people with ripped patches on their jackets and steel toed boots on their feet- plus a cocktail tended to ease the discussion along.

And so I would take drags on my cigarette and flirt with whomever was my evening's playdate, figure out what our safer sex rules were, whether we wanted to fuck or tie each other up or slap each other around. Usually I would pick up men for these casual encounters, and wouldn't share details about where I lived, my last name, even my phone number. I fancied something more like the gay male cruising I had read about, but was savvy enough to be concerned about STIs and expectations. Not wanting to pay for a hotel room, this seedy sex club was the perfect balance of inexpensive and convenient- plenty of kinky equipment available for use, as long as you wiped it down first.

There was one particular area I played a lot. It didn't have a bed, but the beds in there creeped me out more than the sticky floors or the weird decor. I'd bring my own waterproof sheet and use the slings or spanking benches for whatever we decided on- getting eaten out while I slapped one man's face repeatedly, or pegging guys and pulling their hair so they could see how many blank eyed shadows were watching, silently tugging at their cocks while we played. I liked being watched, so as long as they stayed on their side of the chainlink fences constructed to separate the play spaces, I felt comfortable with the "wanking zombies" as I called them. My casual sex partners were always warned that we would likely draw a crowd, at least!

One of the unique things about this space was that single men paid more- significantly more if they wanted to remain in their clothes, because the venue believed that dressed, these guys would be more problematic.  So instead, single men could strip down to a towel, and they would shuffle around the venue, looking for entertainment or, hope beyond hope, a single woman. They didn't tend to get handsy with me, though, probably because I was loud about my boundaries and the people running the space could have you thrown out or even arrested for misbehaviour. Every once in a great while, not having found a play partner but wanting to do something (typically something like spanking/bondage), I would just go to the club on my own. I never lacked for pickup play, and it was fun to introduce people to kink, to see them go from zombie-eyed to engaged and smiling.

Anyway, it moved, and I moved, to London for a few years, then back. I was in a 3 year relationship where casual sex was not an option outside of sex work, and found myself interested in it less and less, more attracted to playing with friends. "One year stands", I'd call them- not quite casual, not quite serious, either- though even those were a hassle when my partner and I couldn't communicate boundaries, and my lack of trust in him led to me deciding to be monogamous outside of sex work for the peace of mind. I'm not monogamous, though, and as I slow down to a near stop with escorting and pro domme work and focus on porn and social media instead, I'm finding myself beginning to browse casual sex ads again. I miss one night stands, how easy they were, how passionate- all the excitement of the beginning of the relationship without any of the burdens that kill the lust. And I'm with a partner now who is more more supportive, and better at communicating. I wonder sometimes... could I? Do I want to? Have I grown out of it, or did I get scared off?

As I ponder all this, and browse personal ads looking for anyone not seeking "females" (it just feels... weird  and dehumanizing to call women that, at least before you've negotiated) and who are feminist/queer-inclined, I feel strangely shy at times, irritated at other times. This all seemed so easy when I was younger and more carefree, but now, with a bit of damage behind me, I'm not entirely sure how to flirt when I have a hair trigger reaction to entitlement, patriarchy and capitalism- the casual sex scene seems so often filled with men letching and looking to be indulged while ignoring my interests, while I have standards that demand acknowledgement. And yet I still desire that tumble between the sheets with no string attached- just without the strings of fucked up socialization, either.

It's... complicated.

Still, I believe that it's possible to enjoy casual sex and kinky play while holding true to myself. It might be harder to find the right people to enjoy it with, but it'll be worth it in the end. At least, I hope so- stay tuned, I guess, to find out!

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