This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine...

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

Sage Advice from a Loon

"The unhappy person resents it when you try to cheer him up, because
that means he has to stop dwelling on himself and start paying attention
to the universe. Unhappiness is the ultimate form of self-indulgence.
When you're unhappy, you get to pay a lot of attention to yourself. You
get to take yourself oh so very seriously."
- Tom Robbins, *Jitterbug Perfume*

Monday, July 28, 2008

To Be Something Somewhere

Is my spirit something I can just wink at when it suits me?

I feel as much adrift as I did before, lost at sea not even knowing if I want to find North. More likely I've dropped anchor without a shoreline in sight and decided to hang out until starvation, scurvy, or a strong wind batter me toward a direction. He has managed to cultivate himself into a compelling person, perhaps too strong in head, but so driven to be something somewhere that he gets what he asks for. I ask for nothing, not knowing even what I want, but my dreams.

I ask no companions, no beloved snugglers, no specifics. My dreams have not had words put to them, I am filled with imagery and emotion, laughter and dance and when that runs out, pity for not asking for something more stable. What discipline, to ask for what I want, can I cultivate when my belief is so feeble? There is a world in my heart and wisdom inside me speaking to the worship I have for life, but I give it little direction toward the greatness that I imagine.
I wonder: does he ask for lovers, manifest affection? Why does he get to have all that he does? Why does he get to flirt, be turned on and excited, be hugged and held? Is it because of asking? Forward eyelash batting? Faking it til he makes it?

My cheeks flush to think of playing with someone sexy. A feeling of determination overcomes me. I want to stop mourning the loss of what I was before. I want to feel sexy again. I want to feel carefree and scintillating, but I don't want it just because I am determined any more. I want a fairy tale dropped into my lap.

My little lost ship of a self is floating around, trying to avoid sun stroke and enjoying the job of quietly tying knots and drifting as best I can while my legs long for land again.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Tricksy Clockses

I'm working what my employer refers to as "Summer Hours" this week, in which I work 8:30 - 6:30 (or 8 - 6) M-Th and get Friday off. Having Friday off gives me a three day weekend, which is pretty sweet, but there is a sour to this candy as well.

The vicious cycle starts on Sunday night, when I stay up too late because my body is still running on its own, primal time. I get through Monday alright, but don't get home from work until close to 8 pm. I've been at work all day and I want some time that is my own, so I stay up too late. I could be sleeping, but instead I'm reading a trashy summer novel, knitting, playing with cats, tidying, cooking, whatever I while my hours away with. On Tuesday I'm a little more tired, and by the end of the work day the corner of my left eye is twitching. At home again, though, I can't (won't) ignore the impulses to create and do. There's a cat toy I want to finish sewing, a new version of chickpea salad I want to invent, a letter I want to write. I finally get into bed at midnight, knowing it's too late, and read a couple pages anyway because sleep just doesn't sound as fun as having time to myself.

Now Wednesday morning, my left eye is still twitching and having decent posture (i.e. not sitting with my gut slumped onto my lap at the desk) is torturous.

My goal in all of this is to control my caffeine consumption and not get addicted again and to stay positive so that I don't turn into a sad & cranky sack of despair. Also, I'm learning a lesson. I'm mentally writing my secret manifesto for my future world order. It includes lots and lots and lots of primal time telling.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Summer Book Review! Nickel & Dimed

Barbara Ehrenreich is not poor. She has been nominated for a National Book Critics Circle Award and has written a New York Times Best Seller. Barbara Ehrenreich is not disadvantaged. She is highly educated, middle class, white, disfigurement and debilitation free, and heterosexual. Ok, maybe she's a little too tough to go unnoticed as "lady-like", but that plays into her investigative journalist life anyway.

These reasons were the foundation for my skepticism regarding Nickel and Dimed, a book in which the author leaves the trappings of her middle class Key West lifestyle for a year to work in different cities around America in low wage jobs. She slices through her doubts and mine two-thirds of the way into the introduction by saying "my aim...was straightforward and objective--just to see whether I could match income to expenses, as the truly poor attempt to do everyday." She's writing about a very divisive reality and subject matter and her success comes only because of this scientific objective clarification and her own outrage. She makes off color jokes about social classes in ways that most liberal writers avoid, even in the "post p.c." age of the late 90's, in which she writes.

She spends a year doing the research. She uproots from her home and job for months at a time, bringing provisional clothes, money and her only connection to her "former life as a journalist", her laptop. In each of the cities she writes about, her goal is to make enough money to pay rent, eat, and buy enough gas to get to work. She acknowledges that she has the advantage of being childless and a native English speaker, but disadvantages come in the form of being single (no other incomes to help) and being a native English speaker. Managers ignore jobs like cleaning hotel rooms or working food counters to instead assign her to waitressing, even if she'd rather clean rooms.

The best parts of Nickel and Dimed are the footnotes. They are rife with informational citations ranging from government sponsored studies to local newspaper reports. She cites figures on income to housing ratios, Wal-Mart's denial of overtime to employees, and what the terms for migrant workers are in various cities. The second best parts of the book are when Ehrenreich's sense of humor take over to keep her from flying into bitter rages. She describes Portland, ME as having "demographical albinoism", wonders about a "secret division" among the female gender into "breeders and drones", and rails against the big-box corporatization of the Western world for a good while.

Nickel and Dimed doesn't present any exotic information, but Ehrenreich does give deeper meaning to the figures of unemployment, housing rates, and welfare collapse that get tossed around in the left-wing news so frivolously. She re-ups the information that the poor in America live in a constant, or near-constant, "state of emergency", but she does so for all the middle class white people that will read her book. I don't know what good this book did for anyone, except for Ehrenreich. Maybe there's the off chance that some kid will read this book and become catalyzed into welfare reform or union organizing action, but it's hard to guess really.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Strawberry Sex Stories #1: the John

It's May. May is verdant seedlings, buds readying to pop, copulation crazed spring fever. I'm a jitterbug in a musky breeze.
I haven't seen my boyfriend in 5 months and my local fuck-friends have all dried up leaving only remnants and debris: unused phone numbers, mix tapes, lube stained bed sheets. My spring fever turns into cock hunger. I got an itch even my best vibrator can't cure.

This is the tale of a big ache that finds remedy with an Ok Cupid cruiser.

I had been noticing that in the BDSM world, kink and play took time. Also, it often did not include the kind of cock to cunt action I was craving; no matter how much waiting, baiting and finally, begging I did.
The john baited me with a two line e-mail; some play on words hinting at rough sex. His next e-mail bluntly drew out our mutual kinks. He was looking for a woman to tie up, so I proposed a trade. The stipulations from me were simple: hard and ideally to orgasm. "I usually can only come from anal" he said. I told him to meet me at 8 and that I wasn't promising anything.
I arrived at the bar in his neighborhood early. The chill wasn't quite gone from the air as I waited outside the unassuming hipster bar. Despite living alone, I'd been having problems with the Egyptian neighbor downstairs making creepy remarks about hearing me "making love", and thought an escape route would be more easy to execute than an eviction process should something go wrong.
Waiting wasn't as difficult as I imagined it "ought" have been. I cooly postulated about societal rules, radical self actualization, and what my Grandmother would think. Another average looking guy approached, but this one was searching for a set of eyes to contact. I smiled, he held the door to the bar open.
Despite our shared mission we made small talk for half a beer, perhaps to show how civilized we "normally" were. The second half of the beer was consumed quickly as deviance danced in my eyes. He said, "You wanna do this?"
So suave. So succinct. So..."dude".
I chuckled, "yes," I did, and continued to observe the scene. His house was close, and I have no idea what we talked about because I was thinking about his cock. What would it look like? How long would it be? How girthy? Cut or not? Curved? Would he really fuck me hard enough? The word echoed in my head: hard, hard, hard. I fixated on the image you see in all heterosexual male porn: In Out In Out Red Wet In Slit Out Cream In Out In Out...

In his room, a bottle of Charles Shaw Chardonnay, the Shins, a hookah. He has sleek metropolitan taste, an architect degree, a hippified past turned consumer future, framed prints above his bed, candles, a weight bench on top of which sits a duffel bag. We make more conversation, though it comes easily and soon the first bottle is gone. I think about sobriety and kink. He again says, "You ready?" but this time, there's a difference. He's switching gears, going to a head space that intones: I am in control. I let a sparkle twink in my eyes: "Sure Am," and lick my lips.
My clit, growing rotund and hard, begins to pulse.
He pulls out lengths of rope and begins unraveling them. He tells me how usually the sub would do all the untying and tying of the ropes before and after play. I sit, and wait, and wonder what I need to do to get what I want. I cannot know at this time, but I will not find my power back in this interaction. I will give it up willingly, concede it to a person I have no emotion for, and let his desire dictate the realization of my own.
The night does not go ideally, but it goes. The john hogties me. I'm on my belly with my arms bound behind me at their wrists. My wrists are bound to my hips, rope runs the length of my girl-seam to my tail-bone and is then bound to my ankles. He makes a gag also out of the rope and the Shins continue wincing the night away. I am not in the blissfully high space that BDSM practitioners can get to, but am distant. I'm acting, for his sake, and observing from my internal vantage point with keen interest. I am disappointingly analytical.
His tying takes 20-30 minutes, he is clothed and I naked. I'm drooling all over the gag and am immobilized, the rope in my cunt is rubbing and it feels good. My muscles begin to strain, the pain is different, I am not controlling it. The pain brings me back to a human state, I am soft, immobilized, and contorted; finally I am getting turned on.
The john reaches back into his big bag of tricks. He flogs me lightly, then builds up steam. He moves from synthetic flogger to bamboo rods to paddle. My ass is unseasoned as of late and my lowered pain tolerance surprises me. When I am not committed to the one mastering me, I do not push my endurance. I yelp and squirm through my gag, and like any unfamiliar Top should, he backs off. My impatience is growing, I want what I have come here for.
He relents. It is 1 am. He leaves my reddened ass cheeks and I hear the unzipping of trousers. I crane my head around to see a nice looking cock in the brief glimpse I manage. He is arrow straight, practically parallel to the ground, nicely round and thick, about 6.5 inches hard. I'm pleasantly surprised and practically bucking like an excited kid at the rodeo. He snaps a rubber on and barks at me to get the gag back in my mouth.

The grand entrance, my favorite of any phallic entrance, is sublime. The eager nerves lining my tunnel ricochet with glee. The second and third thrusts are as good as the first and he begins to ramp up his speed, I give a squeal of delight, but the gold is not to be mine on this voyage. The john leaves me dangling, tangled in ropes and unfulfilled too soon. He does not come, simple stops after less than ten minutes and gets cleaned up. He unties me and goes to the kitchen for another bottle of two buck chuck. I am disappointed.
I am not mortified or bitter though, and stay longer. His conversation is as stimulating as it need be at 2 am on a work night and the Whigs are now lulling me and my worked muscles to dreariness. He says I can stay if I like. I am skeptical but very tempted. I have nothing to lose, so bluntness is working in both our favor. I ask if he will cuddle and he promises. He finished off the second bottle while I wonder about his drinking habits and ask him personal questions. He cuddles me well and all night.
At 5:30 his alarm begins going and I do my best to ignore it. He does the same until I feel him roll over and spoon me close. I know what's up, I love morning wood. He presses his warm body and thickening cock against my sleep droopy ass and sighs. I pretend to be asleep. He snuggles closer still and I give an "mm" in response. This goes on and I'm smiling with my eyes closed, having fun playing and being warmly tired.
When his alarm goes off again, he kills the buzzer and rolls half way onto me. His hands begin to rub and probe and I moan responsively. His voice comes rough and fatigued in my ear. His breath is hot, he knows my body is willing. He says, "You didn't think you could come to a stranger's house for sex and not get fucked in the ass did you? You didn't think you were going to get away that easy, did you, whore?" I fill up swollen and wet and respond humbly, small, "No. No, of course not."

Live! From the Gurnee

I was deleting pictures of the ex from my phone the other day when I came across a video I'd made of myself, restrained as can be, in the ER about an hour after crashing my bike.

You wanna see a distraught face? Check it out.

This age of technology. Ain't is something?

It's been really nice, in some ways, not having a long distance relationship to tend to. I lose my phone for hours at a time now, I like it better that way. I sometimes wonder if text messaging is ruining our ability to discern between meaningful and drivel.
But texting did create this,
which is ever adorable.

Thursday, July 3, 2008

Blame Canada

I'm so bitter at my ex right now that any time I hear mention of Toronto, I get a little mad. The most irritating part of this is that I really like Toronto. It's a great city - the people are friendly, chatty and more relaxed, the culture is more vibrant, Dufflet's. Etc.

So when cruising around a softer world I read that one of the co-creators Emily, is moving to Toronto this fall, that irritation shot up in my throat like bile again. Rrrg!! Her section of the site is called i blame the sea. I got to wondering where she's moving from, then saw Victoria. I google mapped it, and holy shit, what a location!!

Good old pacific northwest. Always pacifying my bile.

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Ripe Berry Red

One of my traits is a sense of urgency. Patience and I are mere acquaintances, but I'm learning. This sense of urgency is over-developed, but it can yield good things. When I'm down I am determined to work my way out of it as soon as possible.

When, three weeks ago, I learned that my ex has herpes, it took a minute for the implications to sink in. As a result of his dishonesty (10 months in the sack with me before the big H was even mentioned) I too have this common std. Yeah, it took a minute for the lying, the disease, the ever-changed-life-aspect to begin to sink in. Not only was I infected but for the first time in my love/relationship history I'd been really lied to. A big ass lie too.

The first week I read about the physical manifestations, the prodromal period, foods and moods that can trigger it, how people cope with medicines. The second week I didn't want to think about it, I wanted to feel good and forget about the mess. I am forcing myself again to learn so I don't do the idiotic thing he did, which, as I see it was a combination of fear, ignorance, denial and dishonesty. Now I go to the myriad websites and feel I've stumbled into a whole new subsection of the population; 20% of the Americans have this. Maybe I can have herpes potlucks: I'll bring the argnine free vanilla bean sorbet Gina, you bring the Valtrex and dental dams! I click on the life-style information sections. How do I cope? How do I tell people I'm dating or going to date? What have others done before me? What ways other than meds and denial can I deal?

Something that's bringing me down is the aspect that my once cherry red hot sex life is now going to have to go through some procedure changes. It was actually the first thing that helped me get to the tip of the iceberg of my feelings towards the ex and his action. I thought to myself, after half a dozen years of being 98% sexually realized and liberated, screwing who, how, where and when I want to; after doing sometimes stupid things with people I don't know and coming out pussy unscathed; after all that; after I make a commitment to this sometimes challenging relationship NOW I get fucking herpes from the fuck I just committed to?!?!

I've said it before and I'll say it again, I'm living in the age of Irony.

Well, to help me deal with these lifestyle changes I'm committing to three things for myself:
discipline (to get my body strong, healthy & happy),
honesty (so I don't commit the kind of ass-hattery that others have), and
optimism (strawberry moon inspired story telling of sexcapades that have rosied my cheeks, cherry, and bottom in the past).

Today I'll put glints in my eye thinking of where to start.
Sweet? Like when Shuggie Otis and foreplay changed my life at 21?
Sour? Like the orgasms that brought me to hot tears in the back of my car parked in the restaurant lot?
Scintillating? Like clothes ripped and tangled around waists and ankles while fucking on the kitchen table?

Co-workers, read at your own risk.
Friends, Voyeurs, Strangers enjoy the Strawberry Sex Stories to come.

Writer's Block

i am utterly stuck with words and grieving the loss of some personal freedom. i'm feeding on a strange new fuel, biting anger. hatred.

me: i need my mojo back, need to crow again. need more cock in my doodle-doo...not literally though.
xx: snorting laughter
me: literally there will be no real cock, synthetic cocks only. my doodle-doo is just fine with that, thank you.

marquette woods, sands, waters, stars, air in 15 days.