Hello Seattle

Play this:


Read this:

I was buzzing with anticipation the entire flight. Did this flight used to be two and half hours long? I swear it used to be shorter. It shouldn’t take me this long to get to you. Not after so much time. I guess, if you really think about it, it took me months – no, years – to get to you. So you can’t hold it against me that I’m so excited I can’t sit still. The poor woman next to me? Yeah, she might be holding it against me.

But I can’t manage to make myself think of anyone, or anything, but you. And I’m a terrible mess of excitement and nerves and desire and fear. And that fear kicks in more when our meeting doesn’t happen exactly like I thought it would. It was silly of me, of course, to want something so cinematic, but that’s what happens when I’m left with only my memories for four months. I get a little crazy.

The fear damn near takes over when you mention that the couch is available. My heart drops to the ground floor of your swanky apartment building. But before I can gather my thoughts, you point out that your bed is available, too.

And the way you say it, I remember that you’re just trying to be careful with me, not presumptuous. Of course, when it comes right down to it, you probably aren’t presumptuous enough if you compare it to the thoughts running through my head. So we pass some more pleasantries, and finally find ourselves in your bed. And that’s when it starts.

The next four days are a blur – a medley of your hands and your lips and your legs and your smile and the intensity you exude. I catch myself in disbelief every time you take my arm as we steel ourselves against the damp cold. And that cold isn’t anywhere near as pervasive as I remember it being. In fact, this city, which I was so ready to escape from, looks completely different when I’m looking at it standing next to you. Maybe it’s because you bring out the best in me and don’t allow me to fall into my pessimistic cycles… As if I could around you.

I can hardly recall the details of how we spent our time. But I know that I learned so much more about you. And I learned that you’re human. Which sounds silly, I’m sure, but it was important for me to be reminded of that. The funny thing is that realization, that fall of the idol, for lack of a better term, didn’t make me want you any less. In fact, it reinforced everything I thought about you.

And the balance we achieve when we’re together is incredible. I’m less neurotic, and you seem less hesitant. I love seeing your life, and pretending, even for those few days, that I’m a regular part of it. I love watching you play while I sit curled up on your giant chair with a glass of wine. You’re majestic, you know.

Somewhere between your arms around me as we fall asleep – and I love the tiny noises you make in your sleep – and the look on your face when I finally convince you to open your eyes, and you stretch your gorgeous body just to wrap it around mine again, I know. Somewhere between your kisses in the elevator, and picking out cheap wine at Trader Joe’s, I know. Or maybe it was somewhere between the waterfront and looking for your name on the tiles of the marketplace, I know. I may never be able to put my finger on the exact moment, but by the time I’m forced to get on a plane and leave you – with tears running down my face as I listen to the music you added to my playlist – I know.

I know that this – that you – are something incredible. I know that this will be different. I know that you are what I want – what I need – in my life. And I know, strangely enough, that neither of us are going anywhere.

The return of the HNT

I haven't forgotten about Half Nekkid Thursdays... I promise! I just haven't been feeling particularly sexy lately, so I haven't been overly prone to getting half nekkid.

But that changed last night. I had a particularly awesome night with Friend - It was more date-y than our time together usually is. We went to the theatre, had several real conversations, then came home and were very silly. And then, as sometimes happens between he and I, the sillyness turned into sexyness. It's one of my favorite things about our relationship.

And he seemed more excited to see me than usual. Of course, it might have been the dress...

Coming back

I've been away for a long time. From this blog, but also from myself. I've been trying to balance the person I'm becoming with the person I was, with the person I want to be. And that's been hard.

But this morning, I feel like my old self again.

I remembered what it was like to wake up in the morning next to someone, memories of the night before still fresh in your mind. I remembered what it felt like to feel insatiable - that writhing, grasping, gasping mixture of pain and pleasure and desire and sweat all mixing to produce such a potent and poignant high that you can't focus on anything but the hands and mouth and skin roaming freely over your body.

And the fingers intertwined in dark hair, pulling my head back to bring exposed teeth to bite down on my neck, harder, harder, dear god please harder. And the growling, scratching, pulling as my hips move of their own accord toward what they clearly want and need fuck me please fuck I need you.

And the blue eyes staring into mine staring back - hungry, starving, for the escape of release. Or the open hand, brought to my neck and up towards my chin, just enough pressure to leave me gasping and dripping. And then back to a mouth on mine, biting, pulling at my lip, then slowly moving down past my collarbone, following my breath to my breasts, as a hand moves down to my hips, still pulsing methodically. So then the tongue follows and I have nothing left to fight with as the world closes in around me and we are all that exists. Until I finally can't take it anymore and you look up at me, smirking and content, and my head is spinning and my breath has left my body and all I can feel is you.

Or the sounds made as my hips move, circular, forward and back, up and down, my breathing in time, your sighs and moans and hands and body underneath me getting me higher and harder. The fingers pinching, scratching, taking a handful of my breast as another set finds its way to my pelvis, and my motions become more urgent. And then the hand on my face, pulling me down to your face as you whisper "bite me. scratch me. harder!" and then my hips move faster as our breathing gets harder and your hands on my hips gripping tighter until we finally collapse, exhausted and glistening and panting and very, very happy.

"Holy shit. We've gotten much better at that," I say.

the thing about rape culture...

This morning, my real life and bloggy friend Champagne and Benzedrine posted this article about rape culture - something he'd previously argued was, essentially, not as existent as many people claimed it was. His post essentially reversed his previous argument, conceding that perhaps he just hadn't been aware - or even able to be aware - of just how prevalent rape-culture is. But this is the graf that really got me:

Now, I'm too unevolved to start burning my bra or joining in any marches - but considering that I take certain jokes personally (like cracks about having ginger hair) it made me realise that it must be pretty rough to be a woman who's been the victim of sexual violence when it seems like the entire world (including plenty of other women) are making light of your experiences.

I was going to leave a comment, but then I realized it would probably turn into a post-sized rant, and, well I haven't written here lately, so I thought I'd take the inspiration and motivation and run with it.

I wanted to start off by thanking C&B for being willing to look at the issue through a different lens. And being able to recognize the types of unique sensitivities we all share. For example, I can't especially relate to being discriminated against or made fun of because of my hair color or complexion... My hair has always been blonde-ish brown, my eyes are hazel-ish, and those features are particularly unremarkable. So the best I can do to relate to C&B's offense at the "ginger" crack is to sympathize. But, of course, that doesn't mean I can't relate to other instances of being made uncomfortable by something "The Majority" finds hilarious.

Like rape.

Amanda Hess over at The Sexist (which, by the way, if you don't read, you SHOULD) posted a great deconstruction of rape culture and how it gets perpetuated and avoided by "bros" who don't consider what their buddy did rape. She phrases it especially in context of college life, and I think that's an apt placement. (Not, of course, that rape and rape culture doesn't exist outside college, but I do think the macho-fraternal camaraderie that many college atmospheres evoke does make such things more prevalent... or at least more evident.)

I just graduated from a relatively prestigious, four-year university. A big school of about 20,000 students, on the East Coast. As a journalism major with a minor in LGBT studies, I wasn't exactly the most involved with "stereotypical" college organizations. I ran the campus alternative magazine, spoke on my LGBT studies program, and never once attended a Greek function.

But all of my friends were dudes. And I do mean ALL of them. They kind of came in groups - there were my fellow journalists, my fellow LGBT people, the musicians, and then, oddly enough, a group of frat boys. Only a few of them were actually fraternity members, but they all lived together in this house that could have passed for an Animal House soundstage.

So, what I generally considered boyish "bathroom" humor often prevailed. C&B mentioned in his post that perhaps he just wasn't really able to be aware of the so-called rape culture because he isn't a woman, and hasn't been a victim of sexual assault.

Well, here's the thing: I'm both.

While none of my friends in school ever assaulted me, (most never even drunkenly hit on me,) the prevalence with which I heard jokes about rape was shocking. Literally, there would be jokes where the punchline essentially equated to "then she got raped!" hahahahah! Of course, the instances weren't always so obvious, but there was an insane amount of victim-blaming, apologism, and minimizing or dismissing of the experience.

This Boy's Club mentality - along with the "boys will be boys" excuse - absolutely aids in the creation of a rape culture. I won't say it's entirely responsible, nor will I even say that every person who makes or laughs at a rape joke is a rapist. Also, for the sake of argument, I know here I'm speaking in pretty strictly men-are-the-rapists, women-are-the-victims dichotomy. I am all too aware that is NOT the only scenario in which rape happens. But that is my personal experience, so it's what I can write on.

But there's another side of the rape culture that doesn't get discussed as much - the effect it has on the survivors of sexual assault.

I was raped a long time ago. The experience doesn't hang over me anymore, and while it will always color my sexual experiences, I haven't had a flashback in a long time, and I'm not afraid to walk downtown anymore in the areas I know he used to hang out in. But every time I hear a rape joke, it does bring me back to my own experience. Not in a crippling sense, but it's a reminder, and not a pleasant one.

Now, compound that with the fact that I DO NOT laugh at rape jokes. I think there are some things that are never funny, and rape is one of them. But when you're sitting in a room with 10 of your guy buddies, and someone cracks a joke and rape is the punchline, and they start howling, what do you do? My inability to laugh when everyone else was busting a gut just drew more attention to my discomfort. A few times, someone actually called me on it. Asked why I wasn't laughing. And what the hell do I say there? I'm certainly not about to tell a room full of people that, oh yeah, I was raped, so I don't think that's funny. (Although I just told the entire interwebz, but I suppose that's the benefit of blogging anonymously...) My usual response was to get defensive and get up on my soapbox, talking about how rape is never funny, and maybe even mention rape culture... Until I'd get cut down by the Boy's Club collectively deciding I was too sensitive or a bitch or a whackjob or at the very least killing their buzz.

So the conversation would move on, and I would feel terrible, all over again. Because it was like my experience - regardless of the fact that my friends didn't know about it, and certainly weren't trying to hurt me - had just been minimized, trivialized and dismissed. Again.

Often, when we talk about rape culture, we talk about the fact that it perpetuates rape. That it creates more victims by blurring the lines between what is and is not rape, when really, that line is pretty fucking clear. (For the record: No consent? Then it's rape.) But it also minimzes the experience of those who have been assaulted, while simultaneously reminding them of that trauma. Which, if you ask me, just perpetuates the damages, and makes those wounds even harder to caulderize.

80s music cures all ills

OK, so ignore the images on this video - it was just the only embed-able video I could find of the right song. I don't know the people in the video, and I'm not implying anything by including the video here.



I adore this song. I can't say I totally understand what it's about, but I get a strangely inspirational vibe. In that screw-everything-and-follow-your-dreams sense. Which is something I could use right now. It's getting grey out here, and I'd love to blame the sadness that I can't seem to shake on Seasonal Affective Disorder, but I think it's more than just the lack of sun that's got me down.

I just wish I could place a finger on what it is, exactly. Last weekend, I was really not myself, and needed to leave suddenly on a night I was hanging out with The Scientist and Nonboyfriend. They hadn't done anything wrong, and the night had been quite low-key, but I suddenly was just so upset that I couldn't stay in the room, or the house, or that part of town with them. I just got up and left. I haven't done that in a long time.

Things are starting to feel out of control again. Work is picking up, and as the holiday season approaches, it means I have an exponential increase in events I'm covering, videos I'm editing, promotions I'm organizing, and, oh yes, when I have a spare moment, articles I'm writing.

I can't control how often I see my friends - none of my closest friends are in the same town. Certainly, it's nowhere near as inconvenient as when I was at school across the country, but it's almost more infuriating to be an hour or two's drive from people who I so desperately want to see.

At the same time, I'm feeling so incredibly drained. I'm back to being tired all the time. There is a part of me that's just going through the motions. I'm feeling like I don't have anything left to give. Which in turn makes me feel worse, because I don't want to not be able to be there for the people I care about. That's what I mean by a loss of control.

Maybe I am a control freak. Actually, I know that I am. I'm a backseat driver, a bit of a neat-freak, and it drives me crazy when people don't use the shortcuts on computers or take a longer route to get somewhere. I get so upset when plans fall through largely because it was something out of my control.

So I need to try focusing on the positive things. The areas of my life where I am in control. And there are a few. I have some concrete plans coming up in the next few weeks about which I'm really excited. Even though they're concrete, I'm still a little scared to say them out loud - or put them in print, as it were - for fear that something will change them. So you'll hear about those events after they happen. Who knows, maybe it'll even bring about a revival of my HNTs. I know they've been absent. But part of the lack of control is accompanied by a lack of feeling sexy. Which, of course, doesn't help my mood.

It's all rather cyclical, isn't it?

"I never took the smile away from anybody's face

And that's a desperate way to look for someone who is

still a child

In a big country

Dreams stay with you

Like a lover's voice

Cross the mountainside:

Stay alive

I thought that pain and truth were things that really mattered

But you can't stay here with

Every single hope you had shattered

I'm not expecting to grow flowers in the desert

But I love and breathe and

see the sun in wintertime.."

Toybox: Fusion Duality

OK. So Babeland sent me the Fusion Duality to review. The site's description (and the toy's packaging) boasts that the Fusion has "16 different vibrating combinations!" Woo!

Per usual, my nondescript brown package arrived about a week after I ordered the toy. (My roommate has told me she's always curious about what new toy I've acquired whenever I get one of those boxes... hehehe.) The Fusion's presentation was nice - in its own little tin, packed with black foam padding. Certainly seemed promising. And really, who could complain with 16 vibrating combinations! And a curved head to hit your G-spot! And a rounded, bulbous end that's also insertable! Wowee!

Well, apparently I'm that person who could find something to complain about. Maybe complain isn't quite the right word, but I think this toy fell victim to the trying-to-be-too-much syndrome. In my experience, the toys that I enjoy the most do one thing, and they do it well. When toys start to make an effort to be too many different things, everything ends up falling short of the mark.

The hard, phthalate-free material was pleasantly silky to the touch - which is a quality I like in my toys. It's purple, which is fine by me... I tend to be drawn to purple in a lot of aspects of my life. Anyway. The Fusion requires four AAA batteries, which aren't included. I know they're small, but, really? Four? Bleh.

And that much-touted 16 combinations? Well, what they mean is that each side has three settings. Which, with all that fancy math-stuff that's beyond my pretty little head's comprehension, means there are technically 16 combinations. Which is fine. But, of course, if you have one side of the toy inside you, different vibrations on the other side of the toy are going to be pretty difficult to discern. Of course, it's entirely possible that others have more sensitive cunts than I do, but I couldn't feel much of a difference anywhere except in the hand that was holding the toy inside me. Too many things.

I was also excited about the interesting curved shape of the Fusion Duality. The curved end is almost flattened, like a spoon, with a little nub along the shaft of the toy that is, near as I can tell, designed to hit both the g-spot and the clit simultaneously. Which would be awesome. If it worked.

I'm finding this with several different toys, so maybe I just have a weirdly shaped cunt, but this toy wasn't even close to hitting my g-spot. Or my clit. Which was, to say the least, a bummer. If I moved the toy deep enough to hit my g-spot, then it wasn't on my clit, and vice-versa. Again, too many things.

The bulbous end was nice enough, but notably shorter than the curved end. And the buttons are on the bulbous side, which means the insertable length is even shorter if you want to change to a different one of those 16 vibration settings. Shocker: Too many things.

Overall? I'd give the Fusion Duality just one star. It might work for some people, and the site suggests trying it as a double-ended toy with a partner (although I'm not sure it's long enough to do that well), but at least for me, it just wasn't the right fit.

But this is the first real strike-out of anything I've reviewed from Babeland. So it should definitely NOT discourage you from going and checking out all of the awesome stuff this women- and sex-positive store has online. Or, if you think it might work for you, go check out the Fusion Duality!

my feminism trigger

I'm not a feminism apologist. I don't feel the need to assert that "oh, no, I'm not a femi-nazi" before I say anything regarding equal rights for women. Still, I've never really considered myself a feminist. Because, frankly, that's never where my real passion for equality has lay. I've always been passionate about lgbt rights (perhaps as a reflection of which of my own personal identities I take to be more prevalent or important... I don't know.) (Although in a chat a few nights ago, Nonboyfriend's girlfriend pointed out to me that she's always considered me a feminist precisely because I was so adamant about queer rights. She considers them inherently connected, and I think there's something to be said for that... Aside from the sometimes stereotypical feminist disavowal of automatically equating feminist with "man-hating dyke." But that's a whole other post.) So for something to trigger my feminist rage, it generally has to be pretty agregious. Or at least really, obviously, patently sexist.

Which I encountered this evening.

I was pulling into the parking lot at my neighborhood Target. The parking lot was somewhat busy, but my mom's boyfriend (the only other person in the car with me) noticed a spot in the aisle over, so I went to homestead until the SUV parked in the spot finished backing up. Because of the location of the spot and the terrible turning radius of the car I was driving, my first effort at pulling in placed the car diagonally across the spot. (I am admittedly terrible at parking in normal spaces, though I'm an EXCELLENT parallel parker... which is weird, I know.) But I knew I was going to have to back out and 3-point the turn, essentially. So I put the car in reverse but kept my foot on the brake, and looked behind me, and checked both mirrors. On my left, there was a cop SUV, patrolling the lot, but waiting for me to finish adjusting the car before he passed me. On my right, there were two pedestrians who had stopped, a car away from me, to let me continue readjusting. So I pulled the car halfway out and back into the spot significantly straighter. (But still not in the center of the spot. Because, literally, I'm incapable of it.)

And as I got out of the car, I noticed the cop was still idling directly behind my car. With his window down. I made passing eye contact, but didn't really pay any attention. Until he called out at me from his car.

"Hey there, you be careful with those pedestrians, OK sweetheart? We wouldn't want you to hurt anybody."

SWEETHEART?... Sweetheart?! I just stared at him, flabergasted. "Yeah, uh, can do," I managed, without any intonation.

"OK, well just be careful, honey."

I didn't look back as I speed-walked to the door, but my mom's boyfriend pointed out that the slimeball stared at me all the way to the door. As soon as the door shut behind me, I started muttering "Sweetheart? I'm not your fucking sweetheart. Don't fucking call me sweetheart."

Now, I realize this doesn't carry over as well in text, because I can't get the proper inflection. And his words, if they were said differently, could have been a simple caution. (That I didn't need. As I'd checked for pedestrians before I had pulled back out, and even made eye contact with the ones who were clearly waiting for me to finish parking before they walked behind my car.) But this wasn't polite advice. It was the condescending, you-clearly-don't-have-the-mental-capacity-to-comprehend-parking-a-vehicle-because-you-have-breasts kind of tone.

I'm not sure I should need to mention it, but just to prevent trolls, I was wearing sneakers, jeans, a knee-length white peacoat and a mid-cut v-neck sweater. Definitely NOT overtly sexy or inherently bimbo-esque. (As if clothes were a determination of intelligence, anyway.)

But I was steaming about the "sweetheart" comment for a good few hours. I've cooled down a little, and there's a possibility I was being too sensitive... But I was genuinely offended. I haven't had anyone speak down to me like that in a LONG time. And I've been going car shopping lately... which, for my female readers who've done that, I can imagine you know what a point of reference that is. It was just so blatantly condescending. And yes, it DID feel like it was related to my gender. Admittedly, had he not said "sweetheart," I likely wouldn't be so put off. I still probably would have thought it was probably unnecessary to roll down his window IN THE SNOW to caution me against something I wasn't at risk of doing, and might have grumbled a bit, but you likely never would have heard about it here.

So, THAT'S what it takes to pull my feminist trigger.

/rant.