HHNT

Yes, folks, I'm jumping on the Half-nekkid Thursday bandwagon. Of course, after spending much of the weekend, well, half-nekkid, it seems only appropriate to post a few photos as proof. We'll start out with the dress I wore from the second night of Thunder. The one I got about a million compliments on. Which, yknow, never hurts a girl's self-esteem. Happyface.

Also, note the brand-new cuffs. leather with metal buckles, velcro on the inside to keep them on as they're being fastened. I didn't want to take them off all weekend. In fact, I didn't, much. HHNT everyone!

A virgin does Thunder, part II

Read part I here.


So I was finally feeling better on Saturday night, but given my unexpected freakout the first night, I didn't really plan on playing. I figured I'd just watch and enjoy the scenery around the dungeon. Nevertheless, that didn't stop me from rocking my vinyl ballgown (and can we talk about how stoked I am that my junior prom dress still fits???), but this time with flip-flops. Hey man, it's Colorado, and I'd spent the entire previous day in heels. I was DONE. D-U-N. There are limits to my masochism. Hehehe.

I went to the dungeon with Em, as usual, and after helping her set up her space and getting her situated in the women's space for a solo scene, I made sure it was OK if I wandered, and did so. The dungeon was more populated than the night before, and there seemed to be fewer couples - more people seemed to be on hunt for new partners. (The older man who liked Em and I later told me he saw me "trolling." I think that word has an awful connotation, so I refuse to acknowledge that's what I was doing. Especially since I wasn't even approaching anyone. But I did get more compliments than I ever have, I think, in such a short time. I took to curtsying when someone told me how hot I looked. Never a bad thing. Anyways... back on track.) There were several interesting scenes going on, and I enjoyed watching them.

After some amount of time, I went back to the women's space to get Em. (Who was on crutches, so I was her official bag-bitch. Which took on a whole new meaning given the theme of the conference.) Her ankle was really starting to bother her, so as we walked out into the general playspace, we found a place for her to set up camp with a few chairs and her ice pack. She spotted a hot transguy she'd been eyeing all night setting up a scene with his partner (who I thought was totally hot, might I add), so we set her up over there. I think I made one more round and then came back to jump in on the conversation she'd struck up with another couple watching the transguy and his partner. Em introduced me to the couple - the woman, A, a lovely switch with fabulous curves and a brilliant smile, and T, her partner, who's smile was more wry and cunning, a slender man in a japanese-looking dress and high-heeled boots that I was totally envious of. (It wasn't really drag, just a gender-bending outfit.) Both T and A are in sexuality education of sorts, and are activists, so the four of us were at no loss for subjects to talk about. I appreciated their intelligence and openness, and actually participated in the conversation more than I had been with others we'd met. Eventually, A and Em began discussing their respective kinks, and Em mentioned that she'd had trouble finding someone to beat her up. A volunteered. After a little more conversation, T not so subtly reminded A, "hey, weren't you going to beat her up?" All of us smiled, and A and Em had a brief discussion about what was and was not OK to use on her. (Some stingy was OK, but thuddy was much preferred.) A had Em straddle the chair she was sitting in, arms wrapped around the back of the chair, back exposed. T and A helped Em remove her corset, and A started flogging Em with a rabbit-fur flogger. I'm sure Em will detail this in better detail than I could, so I'll be sure to link to her post as soon as she writes it. *EDIT* Check out Em's account of the evening here*

A few minutes into Em's beating, T looked at me and asked, "Were you wanting to play tonight, as well?" I smiled nervously and said, "Yeah, I think I could go for that." He put me in a chair in the same fashion of Em, so we were facing each other. As he was helping me get situated (you try straddling a chair in floor-length vinyl!), we had a brief conversation about what I did and didn't like. I told him that I really DIDN'T like stinging sensations, and had an even lower tolerance for them than Em did. He said he understood, and promised to check in with me periodically. A asked T if she should move the box of toys she was pulling floggers from to a spot between the two of them, and T calmly replied "No, I'll just use what I've got here."

Which fucking terrified me. My back was to him, so I couldn't see what he had there with him. I knew the things I didn't mind being hit with were in the box A had next to her and Em. Still, I knew I could stop it at any point, and was intrigued to see what he would do to me. He asked me if I was ready and asked me to take a deep breath. As I did, he placed his hands on my shoulders, and started rubbing. The pressure was akin to a professional massage where they realize you're tense and want to work out some of the pressure. I was tense, and it felt lovely.

Gradually, that pressure got harder, his fingers pressing into the muscles in my back and neck and shoulders. It was starting to hurt a little, but, again, in the same way a massage hurts. Then, seamlessly - I couldn't tell you when it started, exactly - he started hitting my back. With the sides of his hands, and then with his fists. I felt him repeatedly punch that tender muscle right below the shoulderblade, and I focused on breathing in and out as the rest of the world faded away. He'd change his rhythm, and start hitting me harder - hard enough that my chair inched towards Em and my entire body shook with each blow. I kept breathing, still not making a sound, and still only peripherally aware of the people around us. I could hear the sound of his fists hitting my skin, hear him exhaling hard as he put his weight into his punches, and I could hear my breath escaping my body in nearly-controlled patterns. As he worked his way down my back - although it was nowhere near so linear - he got to my ass, which after a few punches, he began using his knees. That was where the first white flash of serious pain shot across my squeezed-shut eyes. Every time his fist or his knee met my ass, when he'd grab my shoulders to pull me into the blows, I would feel my entire body tense, and I swear my heart stopped just momentarily. I was getting deep into what I discovered later is called the sub-space or headspace. Where it's more than just gritting your teeth and bearing it, but moving into an almost trance-like state.

After he'd been beating me for maybe 10 minutes (which is an absolute guess... time had ceased to exist), he ran his hands softly down my body and knelt down beside me, and asked me how I was doing. I opened my eyes and turned my face to meet his. "Fucking fantastic," I managed. He asked me what I liked, and I muttered something about my back especially. "More?" he asked, simply. "YES," I sighed. He smirked and said "Yes, what?" I was confused. He repeated the question. "Yes... sir?" I guessed. He chuckled and said "I was looking for please - you don't have to call me sir. I think that's an earned title. But that'll work." For the first time I felt a little silly and was very aware of the difference in our experience levels. Not because he berated me about it, but because I'm self-conscious about it.

He kissed my cheek and went back to hitting me. I kept my eyes closed tight, my arms and legs wrapped around the chair. After just long enough to get me back to a trance, he whispered in my ear "OK. Turn around." Again I was terrified. Hitting my back was one thing, but hitting my chest? That's very different. Of course, I was in no position to process these thoughts, so as he placed both hands on my shoulders to pick me up, I let him. My eyes were open, but I couldn't for the life of you tell me what was in that room at the time. As I sat back down on the chair, he put my arms at my sides, and I instinctively grabbed the bottom of the seat. I closed my eyes again, brought my head down a little. I felt his hands along my jaw and he brought my head up, asked me to open my eyes. As I did, I found him close enough to kiss, although we didn't. Without saying a word, he told me to keep my eyes on his. I did as I was told. He didn't flinch as his first punch landed directly between my right breast and my collarbone. I didn't flinch, either. Though the force knocked me back. I don't even know if I blinked, because I don't remember him blinking and I was absolutely bonded to him. I could literally not see anything outside his face. It was the only thing that existed and he punched harder and harder.

I broke the stare with one particularly hard punch, where I involuntarily yelled out "oh, fuck!" He smiled. I went back to looking at his blue eyes and focusing on how my body felt. I was someone else. I was not self-conscious about being topless in a room with hundreds of people; I wasn't scared of this person I'd barely met repeatedly punching me. Each hit brought me closer. Closer to him, closer to me, and closer to something... intangible that existed between us. Feeling his hands on me, the energy moving from his body to mine, was easily one of the most intimate experiences I can remember having. Our breathing matched up as I learned to predict the punches. He saw me predicting, and swung like he was going to hit my chest, then took a fist with an outstretched knuckle and hit my thigh. I flinched. And busted out laughing. It hurt terribly, but I couldn't help but laugh. He started laughing with me as he hit my other leg. (I have bruises on both.) We kept laughing right up until he suddenly went back and punched me hard enough in the chest to knock the wind out of me. "Holy shit!" I gasped. He smiled again. He would periodically take breaks from my chest and my legs to hit my arms, almost to the point that I couldn't feel them. I took a few deep breaths to re-center myself and focused again on the blue of his eyes.

With a few more punches on my chest, he moved his right hand (which hurt worse, although he hit well with both) to my sternum, which was exposed as I was sitting topless. He set his fist in the space between my breasts, and pulled back his hand. "One." He brought his hand forward quickly, but stopped it right before he hit me, gently resting his fist on my chest. "Two." He pulled back again, wound up, then stopped just short of my chest. "Three." My body tensed. I didn't move my eyes from his. He pulled his hand back again, and held up five fingers. I nodded. I'm sure my eyes were green, like they are when I'm excited or scared or upset - because I was. He pulled back again, brought his hand to my sternum. "Four." I took a deep breath, looked into his eyes again, and braced myself for what I knew would hurt. He pulled his hand back. Wound up again, even took a step back. "Five." As he swung, he brought his body forward. Dropped his hand, and kissed my forehead. "Thank you," he said, as he wrapped his arms around my shoulders.

I smiled, and took a deep breath. He kept his arms wrapped around me, and I could feel his heart beating as fast as mine. He kissed my cheek again, and asked me how I was doing. I smiled and muttered something about being fabulous. And how wonderful he was. And how much I enjoyed it. He kept his arms around me, and his body heat felt spectacular. Again, there was more energy transfer. A had finished with Em and had water for both of us, which he grabbed without losing contact with me. He helped me turn around so I could see Em and A, and he continued rubbing my back and my arms. My legs were shaking and so were my hands, like my entire body was electrified. I could feel the blood coursing through my veins and slowly I became aware of the rest of the room.

He stayed in contact with me, constantly checking if I was OK. I was ecstatic. With the endorphins running through my body, I couldn't help but smile. And I couldn't stop smiling. (For something like, oh, 24 hours.) He told me I was huggable, made me feel like he liked using his arms for things other than just hitting me (which is always good to know.) He and I and Em and A were talking about biting, as well, and A mentioned that Em was very biteable. He looked at me and said "She looks biteable, too." I smiled and said, "I am biteable." He asked where I like to be bitten and I pointed to that sweet spot right where my neck meets my shoulder. He asked if he could bite me, I told him he could, and he warned me that his teeth were relatively sharp, and that if he were hurting me, to just tap him. I said OK and he went to town. He started slowly, kissing and just grazing his teeth along my neck. Then pressed his teeth into my skin, not closing his mouth to pinch, but pressing to leave marks. He pressed harder and closed his mouth a little tighter, running his tongue over the space between his teeth. I couldn't help but sigh as goosebumps covered my body. He stayed there for what felt like forever (in the best way possible), and then slowly released his grip, and kissed the spot he'd just been biting. I shivered again with pleasure. And said something stupid like "well, damn." (I still can't put anything on that spot.)

Shortly thereafter, T and A headed back to their hotel room (it was almost 2 am), and Em and I got ready to pack up our things and make our way back to our hotel. I went home still smiling, and still feeling the marks from his hands and knees and teeth. When we saw T again the next morning on our way to a class, he smiled warmly and gave both Em and I hugs and kisses on the cheek. He asked me again how I was doing, and while I wanted to say still sore and every time something hurts it reminds me of you and how much fun I had, I simply said "Oh, I'm doing wonderful. And you?" It was cool and calm. Or something. We said we'd all see each other later and even though we knew we probably wouldn't, it was a nice gesture.

I still can't raise my hands above my head because my chest and arms are too sore, and there are bruises all down my back - broken blood vessels, but not the wide, sprawling purple bruises you usually see. Even a seatbelt brushing my breasts makes them hurt, and sends a dull and persistent pain through my entire torso. And every time I feel that I smile and have a moment to flashback and remember how wonderful the entire experience was.

A virgin does Thunder.

So, this weekend was Thunder in the Mountains, a kink conference in my dear-old hometown. Essin Em had told me about it a few months ago, mentioning that she was going, and asking if I wanted to go as well, since she knew I'm into the BDSM thing. (Or, at least, I'm getting in to it.) After some negotiation - a key term for the weekend - I managed to get registered, and Em offered to let me stay with her in the hotel room her company was paying for. The convention hotel was about 45 minutes from either of our houses, so it was definitely great to have the room for a night.

The conference is composed of a few essential elements: There are classes by nationally-known presenters on various aspects of kink - I took classes on trust in SM relationships, playing with strangers, how to top when you're a bottom, brutal affection, and beginner's rope bondage. Nothing too terribly intense, but overall each class was enjoyable and highly informative. I had the pleasure of taking classes from the stunning and hilarious Midori, the hottest-woman-I've-seen-in-basically-forever Rita Seagrave, and a series of other fabulous presenters who were funny, compassionate, and knowledgeable.

There was also a vendor fair, chock-full of your kinkier-than-normal sex toys. While I wasn't interested in everything they had to offer, I was unable to resist a few purchases. Perhaps photos of those will go up soon as HNT photos. We'll see. :)

And then there were the play parties. Slash dungeon space. Which sounds way more intimidating than it really was. At least in my head (and this being my first public BDSM experience), a dungeon is this dark, dank place with elaborate torture devices (which may not be a bad thing!) and poor lighting. In actuality, it was a relatively well-lit - almost too well-lit in my opinion - conference room full of scaffolding, tables, benches, and, yes, some crosses to chain people to. There was music playing, which Em and I both agreed didn't quite fit the mood. Although it did serve as decent background music, but to be fair, I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention to the music.

At the parties (there were two - one on Friday night, another on Saturday), I got to see some things I'd never seen in person. There was fire-play, which was fascinating to watch, blood-play, which I don't think I could ever do but was still morbidly fascinating, pony-play, which I don't get but totally validate those who enjoy it, and of course, the more standard beatings and tyings-up that accompany BDSM culture. Being so new to the scene, and certainly to the convention - I'm the youngest age they allow in the conference for legal reasons - I looked at the whole thing a little wide-eyed. I was infinitely glad to have Em there, who has been to kink parties before and at least knew what to expect. Not to mention, she's so much more outgoing than I am... I was happy to fall a few steps behind her and let her do most of the talking. I also knew I could ask her any question and she wouldn't look at me like I was stupid for not knowing it.

On a side-note here: Because we spent the weekend basically attached at the hip, people generally assumed we were a couple. While we aren't romantically involved, it was so utterly fabulous not to be automatically considered straight. And while there was one older gentleman who didn't quite understand that we weren't interested in him, everyone else was generally respectful of our assumed identity. Which was just generally a really pleasant experience. Now, back to the play parties.

So, the first day, Em bought a fabulous new flogger, which, of course, she needed to break in. I was happy to volunteer. So, we found an available cross (is that right, Em? Is that what they're called?... it's not like the religious cross, but like a 6-foot-tall wooden X) and tied my hands to the top. I kept on my super-hot 4" patent heels, and not much else. I think my lace underwear stayed on for a few minutes, but soon they, too, were in a pile on the floor. Amazing how my clothes have a tendency to do that. Anyways... After some adjustments to my cuffs since they were cutting off circulation, the beating resumed. The flogger felt lovely - just enough sting as it graced my back and ass. The leather was soft enough not to make me scream, but the force hard enough to make me squirm a little. And then she broke out the broom.

Not an actual broom, mind you, but the EVIL plastic kind. With something like five tiny...bristles?... anyways, that hurt like a fucking BITCH when swung across your ass. I might have gotten in trouble for almost buckling my legs with that one. And it definitely elicited more than a few yelps from me. So, lesson number one in my fabulous weekend of kink: I don't like the sting! I'm all about the thud. Also, apparently at this point, we had an audience, although I was unaware. I was unaware of pretty much everything except what was happening to my body. I should also point out here that Em was a very attentive dom, and repeatedly made sure I was OK, that I knew my safewords, and would run her hands and kisses down my skin after she'd beaten me. (Still doesn't mean I don't have a few marks, hehehe). After the flogging scene, we moved into the women's-only space, where we continued to play with various toys, both the painful and the pleasurable. I'm not exceptionally comfortable going into details here, but I will tell you why.

Our scene ended not when I safeworded (I didn't), but when I was close to coming, and started sobbing. Uncontrollably. Big, wet tears. That I couldn't stop for several minutes. Em wasn't hurting me any more than I wanted her to - in fact, what she was doing felt really good. At the same time, the feeling was really intense, and something more than I've felt, physically, in a while. I was imposing a lot of pressure on myself, and there was a good deal of physical pressure on my body. I think more than anything, it WAS a form of release. And it's entirely possible that I needed a good cry more than I needed an orgasm. Actually, I think that is probably what was going on. So, Em, please don't think you did anything wrong. You didn't. You were wonderful, and I just wasn't in the right headspace. (And, you may be right that maybe I shouldn't play in this context with women.) I think I have a harder time taking a beating from a woman, because I never have. I've taken beatings from men, so it's easier to accept. How fucked up is that?

OK, I know this post is getting really crazy long... so we'll make the second night a new post. Huzzah.

I love this city.

It always seems to go this way, where the last few weeks I live somewhere are the most fun. I guess that's not a coincidence - maybe it's a lack of inibitions, knowing time is limited. Whatever it is, I've had basically the best weekend I've had in a year. And it's only Friday afternoon.

Wednesday, I spent the evening with my beloved Essin Em, who, unfortunately, fractured/sprained her ankle while on a date on Tuesday. Of course, it's her right ankle, so she can't drive, so I went over there to help her out, and bring movies/dinner/run errands and what not. We talked about how much women can suck and what defines a relationship and had the same kind of fabulous deep, funny, authentic conversation I've come to expect and so enjoy when with her. We watched Sex and Breakfast, which was thoroughly disappointing, and I headed out around 11:15.
While en route, a friend who lived in the neighborhood called and insisted I come over to his house. So I did. And I'm not so much at liberty to go in to details, but I had an excellent time, and heard some things I really needed to hear. I'm feeling much better about life.

On Thursday, my friend gave me a ride to the store I used to work at, where they'd asked me to pitch in. I'm beyond broke, so I agreed, and worked the regular 8 hour shift. It's by no means a hard job, and the money is decent (it better be after I've worked for them for five years), so depite a little stress and having to wear my friend's clothes to work (I didn't have a change), everything went smoothly. And P met me for lunch, and graciously paid, since I hadn't gotten the paycheck.
I love how our friendship has evolved. I've known P since we were 14, and while we've always flirted with one another (and at times it's gone far beyond flirting), I'm so incredibly comfortable in his presence. I can't even verbalize how lucky I am to have not one but TWO people in my romantic(ish) life who make me feel so fabulous. (Granted, I'm not currently sleeping with P, but I will always consider him and I semi-romantically involved. It's complicated in the best way possible.)

I got home from work about 6:30 and passed out hard until almost 9. I hadn't slept much the night before and I desperately needed the powernap. My gayboyfriend and I had made tentative plans to go out to the gay bars that night, and so I recruited my favorite roommate, and P's hetero-lifemate (who is also an old and close friend of mine and has a thing for my roommate), G. My gayboyfriend, P and G all got to my house around the same time, and after a debate about who was driving/drinking/paying for those drinks, we headed out in P's car. (P doesn't drink much, ever, but the real challenge was getting him to drive which meant he'd be closing out the bars with us. We suceeded.)
We went first to the somewhat catch-all gay bar, where drinks are reasonably priced and there's a mixed crowd. Thursday nights are usually the biggest night there, but it was actually a little slow. Roomie and her coworkers were at a gay dance club a few blocks, so after a few drinks at the bar, the boys and I walked over there to meet up with her.
Now, this specific club is interesting. It's a huge space, with two (and a half, arguably) dance floors, separated so they're basically in different rooms, and a fabulous patio. It looks run-down from the outside, but the drinks are ridiculously cheap (and it was 2-for-1 night) and they play both house/pop and country. (On separate dancefloors, obviously.) It was more crowded than I've seen it before, and with one more drink and a shot, the boys and I all got on the dancefloor. It was somewhere near midnight.

And we didn't stop dancing until the bouncer literally hussled us out of the bar. I don't usually dance at clubs because I'm self-conscious, but I saw how the boys were letting loose, and decided I could do the same. And anyways, you should SEE me move my hips. I've gotten more than a few compliments on that. (Hell yes, belly dance.) I danced with Roomie and her friends, with P, with G, and with Gayboyfriend. I stepped away to get another drink (or something) and when I came back, P was dancing, which was fabulous enough because he was being shy, but he was dancing WITH A BOY. Who had his hands all over him. And P was loving it.

Now, usually this wouldn't be a big deal, but, well, those of you who know P... it kind of was. You could tell he loved the attention, and I loved seeing him love it. I was dancing with G/no one in particular, and all of a sudden, I was sandwiched between G and a random gay boy. It was funny because even though I knew they weren't interested in me (G is straight but there's nothing there), I felt so wanted and fabulous. Because even if they didn't WANT me, they wanted to dance with me. Which was more than enough.

The rest of the night went largely like that. After a while, P's dance partner came over and started dancing with me, which was also fun. By 1:30, I was drenched in sweat and jealous of all the boys who could take thier shirts off. So I took mine off. Which totally got me attention from a few gay men around me. It was the definition of fabulous. I have never had so much fun at a club.

And here's the real clincher (although the late-night diner food was fabulous, as well)... I was dancing so hard that I didn't want to carry my purse with me. So I set it underneath Roomie's on a stool around the table we sort of had. When they turned the houselights on to try to hurry us all out, I went over to pick it up. And there was no purse. Anywhere. Roomie had hers, but mine was gone. I started freaking out. Random boys who we'd been dancing with noticed my distress and offered to help me look for it. We couldn't find it. I went to talk to the bartender in the room we'd been dancing in, praying that someone turned it in. He hadn't seen it, but told me to check security/at the front. (The club has something like 4 or 5 bars.) I asked the cowboy-hat clad bartender, and he said he hadn't seen it, but told me to wait til people cleared out and we could look for it again. I sat at the bar, trying not to freak out too much. My friends had already been hussled out, and I saw them looking at me through the door, genuine concern on thier faces. A tall, lean man with gentle facial hair and a cowboy hat walked up to me, hands resting behind his back. I thought he might ask to take my number in case they found it. I had pretty much resolved myself that my purse was gone. Credit cards, brand-new I'm-21-now ID, checkbook, phone... everything.
"Is your name Sasha?" I nodded.
"What's your pin say?" The tall cowboy asked me.
I thought he'd asked me for my pin number.
"I'm sorry, what?" I responded.
"What. Do. Your. Pins. Say?"
Suddenly I understood. I call them buttons, and I'd recently put them on the strap of my purse.
"OH! Oh my god!" I literally jumped up. "One says 'Musgrave,' and the other is black and says 'Let's get one thing straight - I'm not.'"
The cowboy pulled my purse out from behind his back. I squealed and hugged him. "Thank you, thank you, thank you! You're AMAZING!"

The bear standing next to him asked to see my Musgrave pin and was relieved to see it was an anti-Musgrave button. (She's a Senator who's sponsored the Federal Amendment to ban gay marriage.) He made a joke about thinking I was in the wrong place. I laughed and hugged him too. My cowboy and the bear escorted me out, and the Roomie, as soon as I came out, pruse in hand, thanked them agian and handed them a $20.

I was just utterly amazed, because nowhere else would that have happened. In most clubs, in any city here in the states or I imagine in the world, my purse would have been history. Instead, someone picked it up, turned it in, and then held it safely and made sure I was who I said I was before they gave it back. That's just incredible to me. And one more reason why I love this community. We're here for each other. It's primarily a men's club, but I not only had the best time I've ever had, they took fabulous care of me. Where else could I find something like that?

I LOVE this city. And it's things like this that make me think this is really where I belong.

Sometimes...

Sometimes, I am a collossal idiot.
Other times, I'm an asshole.
Sometimes I find myself in terrible situations.
Sometimes I know better.
Sometimes I drink too much.
Sometimes I'm a masochist.
Sometimes I make truly stupid decisions.

And sometimes, despite all that, I find myself with people who will listen to me anyway. And hold my hand and brush the hair out of my eyes and tell me they'll never believe the terrible things they hear about me.

So sometimes, I'm really happy.
Sometimes, I'm one of the luckiest people in the world to have people who love me unconditionally.

Sometimes is now.

trying and failing. Or is it flailing?

"when you're too in love to let it go,
but if you never try, then you'll never know
just what you're worth..."

(Am I worth more than this?)

I sometimes think I'm settling. That all of this yeah-sure-I'm-fine-with-it attitude, where I try to be understanding is really just a load of bullshit. Because right now I'm sitting here alone, wishing I wasn't, and knowing that I can't really be upset because I said I wouldn't be. And I keep my promises. At least I do my damndest to. But it's starting to feel like I've been working at trying to be a better person - really making a conscious effort - and I'm not seeing the results. And I know I'm just saying that right now because I feel hopeless. But this is what happens when plans fall through. I'm not sure why things like this affect me so much. Well, I know why this specific time it's so bad, but in general, plans falling through has always really bothered me and been able to throw me into a funk.

But this time, it's because of the specific circumstances. The fact that I'm leaving in 19 days. And that I haven't seen P since March. And that P is often the only person who fully understands me and doesn't judge me. And of course, all I want at this moment is a hug, to curl up in the basement and watch stupid movies while he runs his hands through my hair, because I can't have that.

I'm becoming very aware of the fact that it's so much worse to miss someone when they're a mile away from you than when they're half a world away. It's worse to not be able to touch them when they're in reach than to accept that it's a physical impossibility to be with them. That, I can accept, because it means there's hope that maybe sometime in the future, being together might be an option. But when we're in the same place and still can't be together - just physically, literally in one another's presence is all I want - I can't help feeling like there's something wrong with me. So I'll settle for putting on P's shirt and pretending it still smells the way I remember P smelling. Disregarding the fact that I've washed it a dozen times since I got it on New Year's.

Which then exacerbates my guilt for realizing how much I need other people. I can't be alone. I need friends, lovers, sex. I sometimes wonder if I am actually a product of these other people... If there's anything original about me. I feel like there might not be.

And I don't think that's a particularly good thing.

Is sex ever safe?

I've been meaning to write this post for about a week... and it's likely that it will take a very different tone than what I would have guessed it would have a week ago. Anyways...

I'm a major proponent of safer sex. But I think, to a certain degree, there's only so much condoms, dental dams, rubber gloves, and spermicide can protect you. Because no matter how sex-positive I am and how much I can own my reputation (or identity, as it seems now) as a slut, there IS an emotional aspect to sex. And I don't necessarily mean the i'm-staring-into-your-eyes-and-we-connect kind of way, although there's something to be said for that. (And, believe it or not, I should know.) But I mean the emotional... fallout... for lack of a better term... of sex. Not so much the attachment, because I think it's entirely possible to have sex unattached, but I'm not sure it's possible to entirely separate emotion from sex. And maybe we shouldn't separate the two. But sometimes it can come around to kick you in the ass, when you think you can be unattached, and then something swings around and makes you feel... guilty. For the first time in godknows how long.

I wanted this to be more... pointed. To really mean something. But I guess that's the whole point. Is that it didn't mean anything. So I guess I'll go off on a separate tangent. About loyalty.

Maybe I'm unique in that I really, honestly, DO want people to tell me the truth. Can't hang out with me? Call me and tell me. I won't be upset. Disappointed, maybe, but not upset. And certainly not at you. I don't want anyone to tell me what they think I want to hear. I have absolutely no interest in being talked down to like that. I want people to confront me. And for godsakes, if someone has a problem with me, I'd so much rather have them bitch me out than go behind my back. Of course, I don't really get a say in that. I guess I can't really go in to detail here. But know that, as a matter of fact, I'm hurting pretty damn badly. From someone I didn't think could ever hurt me like that. But maybe that means they always had the most power to, in that they were unsuspected. I should stop. I know everything will be better in the morning.

Generational differences

I apologize for the relative lack of posts lately, but I've been running around the country with the whole family. Literally. And I think there's something so hilarious about the delightful ignorance of (some of) the elderly.

A little background: All four of my grandparents are still living, albeit the youngest is 85 years old and senile. Two are Danish natives, which means their speech is peppered with Danish phrases that I still don't fully understand. I can speak the important things, though: Thank you, toast! and sing a song about a little kitty cat. Useful, I know. Anyways, surprisingly enough, they're actually the somewhat more liberal set of grandparents. They don't balk as much at my tattoos or piercings, and while I haven't come out to them, they don't seem to be conspiracy theorists about "the evils of homosexuality." The other grandparents, on the other hand...

I actually get along with them much better. My sister and I are the only grandchildren, so of course we're spoiled rotten when we visit, and it is entirely thanks to this set of grandparents that I've had the opportunity to receive the outstanding education I'm about to complete. So, we spent a few days with them, I being the chauffeur as we drove around the city exploring little overpriced boutiques and restaurants my grandparents swore were the best in the city. Then, on our last day with them, while sitting around the breakfast table in the kitchen, my grandmother asked me if I cooked often. I told her that I know how to cook, and even have a few select dishes I'm well-known for and that are often requested at holidays and parties. But I also added that in general, the people I've dated have been better cooks and enjoyed cooking, so I let them. Again, as I'm not out to my grandparents, I only mentioned past boyfriends, and made a joke about how my boyfriend would be in the kitchen cooking while I would be outside tinkering with my car. (Which has, in fact, happened.) And then my grandmother made some offhand comment about how "Oh, you're so independent... Just don't be too independent or no boy is ever going to want to marry you!"

OK. Now I know she's from a very different generation, and mindset, and blahdeblahdeblah. But I literally had to hold my breath to keep from laughing out loud. But that wasn't even the best part. Later that day, as we were heading out to dinner, my grandmother beings up the "independent women" issue. "You know," she says, with a tinge of sadness in her voice, "I think that's why there are so many gay men today. They've just given up, because women don't need them anymore. So they turn gay."

I just looked at her and said "I don't think that has anything to do with it, Grandma." And she, in all sincerity, responds "Oh, no? You don't think so? Well, I don't know what it is then."

And I was trying not to laugh, while at the same time trying not to oh, you know, punch her in the face. I really just don't handle ignorance well. And I know that she's so old that it's not worth getting riled up about, but it was a little bit of a slap in the face to realize that she would never be OK with my sexuality. I actually am not even sure she could comprehend it. It's a little sad. But I suppose that's the reality.

Dela

"The blind bird sings
Inside the cage that is my heart
The image of your face comes to me
When I'm alone in the dark
If I could give a shape
To this ache that I have for you
If I could find the voice
That says the words that capture you
I think I know
I think I know
I think I know why the dog howls at the moon...

I've been waiting for you all my life
Hoping for a miracle
I've been waiting day and night
Day and night
I've been waiting for you all my life
Waiting for redemption
I've been waiting day and night
I burn for you..."
(Savuka and Johnny Clegg)


I should preface this by saying that I've been drinking tonight. Not that that wasn't my plan. I just wasn't planning on doing it so terribly... alone. I've been listening to this song all night. It's incredible. And works strikingly well with the dress I'm wearing, that flares ohsoperfectly as I spin around in circles. It makes me happy. But that isn't so much what this post is about.

More so, it's about expectations. And this won't have exactly to do with sexuality, but know that does in a roundabout way about which I have to be necessarily vague. Anyways... Today is the 4th of July, Independence Day, here in the states. Oddly enough, this is actually my favorite holiday of the year. Yes, it beats out Christmas, Valentine's day and (while it's not a holiday) my birthday. I love the summer, the clothes you can wear, the way the sun stays up til 9 p.m. , and the way it makes the days feel longer and more fun and like they have that much more potential. And then, about the 4th specifically, it's this gorgeous time of year, when the weather is great, there's usually a good deal of alcohol involved, and you spend the night with friends watching the sky and the beautiful colors igniting it. In my eyes, it doesn't get too much more romantic than that.

Which, I know, in a lot of ways, is silly. But at least I don't think Valentine's Day is the most romantic day of the year. As a matter of fact, I'd much rather spend V-day indoors doing nothing in exchange for being able to spend the 4th of July with someone who I cared about. And yes, this includes friends. But of course, I've always had this fantasy of sitting on the grass, or maybe a rooftop balcony, with someone who I enjoy and who enjoys me, and as we're staring at the sky and the stunning colors its turning, that person grabs my hand and looks at me and smiles like there's nowhere else they'd rather be.

Of course, that's clearly too much to ask. And by recognizing that that's what I want, I've essentially screwed myself from ever getting it. But then there's an interesting dynamic...

Have you ever come up with an idea that you wished someone would do for you... But, of course, you can't ask them to do it, because that would destroy the romanticism inherent in them wanting to do this thing for you. I know that's a disgustingly femme way to put it, but that's what has been dominating my thoughts tonight. So I'm going to go ahead and put it in words here. In reality, no one who reads this has much of the capacity to make it come true, so there isn't really any risk in posting it.

As I've just stated, and anyone who knows me knows, the 4th of July is my favorite holiday. Somehow, though, it always falls short of my expectations. That's likely because I so want it to be such a fabulous holiday that it has nowhere to go but down. But anyways, I was sitting there, alone tonight, thinking about what could make up for tonight. And I thought about someone I cared about taking me to a park, or, even better, to the mountains or a rooftop patio, and orchestrating a fireworks show. Even if it were the kind you buy in Wyoming, and not the professional-grade kind, I think I'd be so touched, that I wouldn't know what to do. Essentially, they'd try to re-create the 4th of July for me. Because they'd know how much it means to me.

But it's one of those weird things, because it's so relevant for me, but it wouldn't work for me to do for someone else, unless they cared about the 4th as much as I did. And I think that's the thing.... I'd love to do this all for someone, but the only person I know who would really appreciate it would be me. And, of course, if I do it for myself, that takes all the fun out of it. And of course, I've probably ruined it by writing about it here. Then again, there are very few people who read this who know me in person, so maybe I'm just putting the thought out into the universe. And someday it will come back to me in some form that I can recognize.

Or I'll just let other people know how important the little things are to some of us. I know it seems silly, but know that it does matter to us. It matters to me. And these are moves I wouldn't pull on someone I call my friend.

But that's just me. I like not being a flake. To each their own.

the size question.

So, as someone who has had a good deal of sex, and someone who considers herself generally pretty honest when it comes to sex, I was having a discussion with a friend the other day about size. She was saying that she has started mentally creating a list of the perfect man (she's straight) - certain emotional and intellectual characteristics, and, of course, her favorite sexual characteristics of different men she's been with. She was listing off certain skills, and said that she wanted her perfect man to be hung like ___, who she's told me before was "hung like a horse."

Of course, she's allowed to want this. It's a little stereotypical in my opinion, but if it's how she feels, then more power to her. Then that got me thinking about the men I've slept with, and how, if I were going to rank them (and who are we kidding, I've got some idea of what order they'd go in), how size would figure into that ranking. And as I was thinking about it, I came up with the top two - my favorite men to have sex with. And actually, in the scheme of things size-wise, they're both average. I've been with men who were much larger, and much smaller. And actually, pretty much across the board, I preferred the not-as-large cocks.

I think there was something about the men who knew they were well-endowed (like the stereotype about really attractive men who never had to be good in bed), generally wanted me to be so impressed with their size and the consequent ability to pound the living hell out of me that I would basically just explode with ecstacy thinking about it. Hmm...no. Sorry, but I'm a big believer in sex being a mutual experience - which doesn't always mean equal or tit-for-tat, but everyone should end up fulfilled and happy. Something about just being pounded doesn't really do it for me. I like some pain when it comes to sex, but not generally in the actual physical act of intercourse. (Note: There's something to be said, I've recently learned, for people who are gentle with you. Sometimes you can learn entirely new things that you had no idea you were capable of enjoying.)

I do realize that it's entirely possible that these well-endowed men I've slept with are just assholes, or that I wasn't vocal enough in telling them what I wanted (and, admittedly, I didn't sleep with many of them more than once), or or or or. But the point is that, at least in my experience, I'm a firm believer in that it's not the size that counts, but what you do with it. Because when I think of my favorite lovers, and replay the hottest nights (which, y'know, being single, happens on a relatively regular basis), size doesn't enter the equation. What comes to mind is the way I felt, the way they looked at me...

I'm realizing I'm a very intuitive person. I was reading back over some recent entires, and I realized more than anything, I write about how I feel. The connections that come from having sex, from my relationships, from my education, those are clearly what are most important to me. Which is interesting to realize about yourself. Although I'm not surprised.