Thursday, November 13, 2008

Defining Sexual Violence

Last night, I opted out of an important event. I had been grappling with the idea all week, but I ultimately chose silence over support. I have mixed feelings about group speak outs. On one hand, sharing stories about sexual violence in a designated "safe space" can provide closure. On the other hand, it's downright depressing to share stories and then walk away, with no clear plan for prevention or personal empowerment.

I am not sure how this particular event was structured, but my absence boiled down to a single factor: I *still* don't know how to define sexual violence. I can parse it down and provide a Merriam-Webster-style definition, but I have difficulty defining the phrase within the context of my own life.

During my early high school years, I remember sitting silently at a table with a group of friends. I wasn't speaking much at the time, because I knew (subconsciously, perhaps) that my words would come back to bite me. If I said something to provoke or embarrass him, I always heard about it later. If I challenged him directly, I was chided for ruining the only time of day a teenager could sit back and enjoy - lunchtime. My closest friend eventually blew up at me for making everyone in our social circle so damned uncomfortable.

"I don't care what your problem is, but this has to stop."
"I don't like him," I said. "I'm sorry, but it's hard to sit with him."
"Then work it out on your own," she said. "Don't drag the rest of us down."

I took her advice, and I did begin to work it out on my own. On the surface, I retreated deeper into silence, which seemed to make everyone happier. In my mind, I began to make a tally. I counted every time I had come home with scrapes or bruises, every time he had pushed me down, every time I was verbally or physically humiliated (alone, or in front of friends). I was scared back then, but I wasn't entirely mute. I knew that it wasn't right. I had even tried to tell my friends.

"He's kind of rough with me," I said.
"It's because he's jealous," my forward-thinking girlfriends responded. "He knows he can't have you, so he treats you like one of the guys."

They were onto something, but I took their words as a misguided sign of assurance: It was okay. I was just overreacting. If anything, I should be flattered! If I had had the power of words back then - if I had possessed the power or naming - I could have better verbalized why this wasn't okay. I could have cited examples from a solid feminist discourse, using terms like "possession," "subjugation," and "patriarchal sexuality." But I didn't know the lingo; I just knew that I was reactive...and I knew that sometimes, when he wasn't hurting me, he made me feel worthwhile and pretty (*cough* textbookcase *cough*).

Because I did so little to confront the violence when it was most relevant, I've been left with a warped sense of sexuality and a convoluted sense of justice/judgment. When I hear terms like "sexual violence," I don't include myself in the category of "survivor." For two years, I was forced down to the ground, molested, and emotionally manipulated, but I was never raped. In our culture, rape has become somewhat of a red herring when discussing sexual violence. Because I wasn't raped, I still hesitate to speak about my experience. I still get angry with myself for being a reactive bitch. Because I can't define what happened using one morally reprehensible term, I don't define it at all.

I'm going to stop here for now. I'm sure that I can and will continue on this topic, but I'm feeling kind of spent...

In more optimistic news, I just learned that a small town in Oregon has elected the first openly trans mayor. The video at the end of the article is pretty superb. Also, I stumbled upon a wonderful blog about gay Armenia. Check it.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Still here, kind of...

But in a nether-state where blogging is concerned. Obama is the President-elect, Prop K was defeated, Spitzer is in the clear, and Craiglist is making life harder for internet cretins like myself.

And so it goes...

Maybe I'll get back into the swing of things. Sooner or later, I promise.

Friday, October 17, 2008

Reflecting on days gone by (part 1)

Or, "The First Time I Considered Sex Work."

“So, how do you like grad school?” he asks shortly after we first meet.
“Oh,” I laugh. “I’m not in grad school. I’m still undergrad.”
“Undergrad? Isn’t twenty-four a bit old for undergrad?”

I realize that there’s been some sort of miscommunication. Do I tell him that I’m just nineteen? Do I start fabricating now, or will it come back to bite me later? I quickly add up numbers in my head. I had pictured a man in his early thirties, though we hadn’t bothered to exchange small details (like age) over the internet. Standing in front of him now, I cross my fingers and cap my guess at thirty-five. I confess my age, all the while holding my breath.

“Nineteen,” he whistles. “Nineteen. I suppose that makes me one lucky guy.” He takes my bag and we walk the few blocks from the subway to his apartment. “Well, if you can handle a forty-year-old man with the stamina of a college student, you won’t be disappointed.”

We order Chinese food and share a bit of awkward small talk. I’m nervous. I can’t recall what I’m doing in this stranger’s studio apartment. Could I be delirious? I had come down with mononucleosis a few weeks prior, and I was still feeling the physical effects. I wondered if the illness hadn’t affected my cognition as well.

The food arrives and I spoon a small scoop of vegetable lo mein onto my plate. I stare down at my tattered Chuck Taylors.

“So, why are you actually here?” he asks sometime between the egg rolls and the fortune cookies.
“I’m here to learn 'the ropes,’” I laugh, hoping he’s understood the pun.
“Oh, I’ll show you the ropes,” he says. “But I need to know the boundaries.”
“Like what?” I ask.
“Like, are you here to learn or are you here to fuck?”

It wasn’t that I hadn’t anticipated the possibility of a sexual encounter, but I assumed my physical state had rendered me utterly (and visibly) undesirable.

“But, the mono...” I trail off.
“Come on,” he squeezes my shoulder. “Isn’t mono like chicken pox? You’re immune by the time you reach my age."

Thursday, October 9, 2008

Lying for the Greater Good

They say that desperate times call for desperate measures, but who determines what's a desperate time and what's just a time to sweat a little?

This summer, I didn't wait for desperate times to put up an ad on the internet. I was stressed, yes, even scared....but not desperate. I kept my guitar, my computer, and my digital camera. I didn't sell my car, and I remained enrolled at an expensive private college.

When I put up my first ad, I sat in my comfy desk chair and pressed the submit button from my personal computer. In advertising myself, I used my intellectual and socioeconomic privilege to up-sell whatever goods I had to offer.
Want sex but feel too guilty to pay for it? What about an "intimate encounter" with a witty non-pro? I scratch your back you scratch mine, right? I've got student loans; you've got more money than you're interested in spending on your frazzled wife of twenty years. Really, it's a match made in heaven.
My mother called again today to gripe about the economy. "The money just isn't there...it just isn't there," she said over and over again.

When I walk away with my diploma in eight months, I know that the money still won't be there. My dictatorial father is about to jump ship, and when he does, he will leave behind a stay-at-home mother in denial about her empty nest and two daughters with bachelor's degrees and a hundred thousand dollars worth of debt. When this happens, my mother will awaken to the reality of her financial destitution. She'll stop fooling herself into thinking that she can still support me, and long story short, I want to be prepared for the moment when the whole shithouse comes crumbling to the ground.

So what's my next move? I can put up another ad and jump back in before I reach a point of desperation, or I can hold off until I feel like it's my only choice. Yes, I know that my "supposed" desperation is directly proportional to my privilege, but here's the skinny: I want to graduate in the spring, and I want to graduate with a body of work that I feel proud of. I can sell my computer, I can juggle a full time job, but I can't do these things AND put all of my free time and creative energy into my academic work.

If I've made the decision I think I've made, I know that this decision involves lying to someone who loves me and lying to those who have lent me unconditional support over the years. I don't know if it's possible to lie for the greater good, but while I sit here and theorize, my tuition bills aren't getting any smaller.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Karma Police

Today, I went to the Salvation Army and bought a hot pink sweater with penguins on it. It's become kind of a seasonal trend. Every fall, when the leaves begin to change, I go to a thrift store and spend two to five dollars on a stupid, dated sweater.

I was in the process of checking out, when a woman exiting the store dropped one of her bags. A glass soap dish fell from the bag and shattered on the floor. I was standing close by, and saw no one else move to help her, so I stooped to pick up the pieces. The woman stood over me and watched. She then turned on her heels and exited the store.

I handed the broken glass to the cashier and apologized (for what, I don't know). I was peeved at the lack of thanks, but assumed the woman was stressed/having a bad day/in a hurry. When I left the store, the woman was standing outside screaming at the top of her lungs. She was addressing an elderly woman who appeared to be her mother.
"Fucking idiot," she fumed. "Fucking idiot can't even wrap a fucking soap dish."
"Why don't you ask for a refund?" asked the elderly woman.
"I'm not going to ask for a fucking refund. Nobody can do a god damn thing right in this fucking town. Isn't this just a dandy fucking day?"
I passed by silently and slipped into my car. For a minute, I considered stopping this woman in the parking lot. I wanted to grab her shoulders, shake her, and tell her to get a grip. I wanted to scream back - "Look around you! Look at all of these people! You only have to glance over your shoulder to see imbalance and struggle. Pull yourself together, get back in your car, and contribute something worthwhile to this godforsaken world!"

Fortunately (or unfortunately), I vetoed the confrontation. If I'm going to get arrested, it won't be for a brawl in a thrift store parking lot. On the drive home, I turned on Radiohead and put Karma Police on repeat. When I arrived home, I went straight to my computer and put Karma Police on repeat. As I type, I'm still listening to Karma Police. I'm not in the mood for Karma Chameleon, and it was the only other karma song I could think of.

Monday, October 6, 2008

Attack of the socially awkward virgin

Story time.

I'm helping a friend out with some production work for his independent film. On the first day of filming this weekend, I did my best to socialize with the cast and crew. I struck up a conversation (small talk) with one of the actors. I'd seen him around campus, but we'd never spoken before. I asked him about his thesis project, and as the law of small talk dictates, he asked about mine.

"I'm compiling a nonfiction anthology, I said. "Stories written by college sex workers."
"College sex workers?" he asked. "What, like prostitutes?"
"Well, yes, but not exclusively."

He pondered this for a moment.

"Are there many in this area?" he asked.
"More than you'd think."
"And these are people you have connections with?"
"I guess so. Why do you ask?"
"Well, I'm a virgin," he said. "I know the first time is going to be awkward. I'd rather just pay for it and get it over with. And the idea of doing it with someone in my age range..."

I balked at this. I've gotten better at separating my academic work from my personal experience, but this was unexpected. Part of me admired his candor, but I also felt vulnerable and defensive. I advocate decriminalization and better understanding, but I don't *advocate* this line of work. As biased as it may be, I am only interested in sex work from the perspective of the worker, not the John. I am not a referral service, and while I don't want people to assume that my academic interests stem from personal experience, I do expect people to approach the topic with a sort of tip-toeing sensitivity.

Maybe his response was bold but appropriate. I may just be in a place where I can't put enough emotional distance between theory and practice.

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Be patriotic, go shopping

Rather than rant about the current political climate, I'll let a clip from one of my favorite stupid movies do the talking:



My mother called yesterday to chat about what she believes is the second Great Depression.
"I'm honestly terrified," she said. "Are you worried? You must be worried! What are you doing right now?"
"Shopping for shoes," I said, frowning at the price tag on a pair of super fab ankle boots.
"Well, I suppose we should boost the economy while we still can," she sighed.

I left the mall empty-handed (well, almost), but it's for the best. I don't shop often, but I can't be spending money that I'm not making right now. I even went as far as hiding my credit card today. If I do take up some form of sex work again, I'm going to be compelled to spend a fortune on clothing/makeup/body care. Someone will pay me, whether or not I'm teetering around in designer stilettos. I have to remember that I don't need to spend money to make money.

Sunday, September 28, 2008

I do not fear childbirth


I am not afraid of childbirth...I just don't plan on ever having children. I am not afraid of my belly swelling with an 8 pound, fatheaded alien. I am not afraid of not being a good enough role model or a competent provider. Whatever my mother found so endearing about her "biological destiny" to bear offspring, I have satisfied with a need to proliferate (nonhuman) creativity.

Will my name ever be known by millions? Probably not. I don't need to be Steinbeck to feel like I've made a difference.

What I do fear is abortion. I recently stopped taking oral birth control, and it's done nothing to alleviate my anxiety. I've always been slim, but I was tired of wondering whether every 5 pound loss or gain was a result of artificially-induced hormone fluctuations. I was tired of my inflated breasts and my periods that got longer on the pill. So I stopped taking it, started relying on condoms again, and went back to flipping out about acne and pregnancy.

Unfortunately, this becomes a lose-lose situation. When I'm on the pill, I feel like a doped up walrus. When I'm not taking the pill, every good fuck is tainted by thoughts of barely-there fetuses. Add to this the fact that I've developed a wonderful latex sensitivity, and as much as I love them, Avanti's sometimes...just...slip.

"I'm not worried about pregnancy," I always remind SK. "I'm just worried about abortion."

I can be rather flippant about these things, but I cannot be swayed on this issue. Do I think I would make a phenomenal mother? Yes. Do I want to give it a try? Absolutely not.

*I will not link the image because I stole it from a "Right to Life" website. Suckers.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Housekeeping

New web address, new title, same everything else. It looks like I lost my blogroll in the process, but that seems to be the only major casualty.

I'm assuming most links will update automatically. If they don't, please take a minute to plug in the new info.

Thanks for reading!

B.

Monday, September 22, 2008

I could just masturbate, right?

No sex...just the same amount of physical maintenance for less money? The makeup, the lingerie, and adding the aesthetician to speed dial. No risk of disease transmission...just the same nervous laughter that happens every time I slip out of my clothes.

"It's great to see such a happy girl. It's great to see you laugh."

It's the same line a male friend fed to me at fourteen, as he sat on top of me and pinned my wrists to the ground.

"I know you love this. If you didn't, you wouldn't be laughing."

Maybe I do want this? Maybe I was meant for this? Honestly, I don't know how to proceed...

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Borderline broke, and how to proceed?

I'm borderline broke. As much as I love my on-campus job, it's about as part time as part time gets. It's an allowance, but it won't pay the rent.

Day by day, I've been working things out with the sidekick. By "working things out," I mean that we haven't talked about the fact that he doesn't want me doing sex work since he last said, "I don't want you doing sex work." I guess we're working it out silently, which could also mean that we're just uncommunicative, but I'd like to think there's some sort of resolution coagulating beneath the surface.

With that said, I'm still borderline broke. I can barely afford the bikini wax I'd need to get before jilling off for strangers. I had almost convinced myself to apply for a grocery store graveyard shift (classes all day, playing tetris with orange crates all night), when a dear friend of mine decided to unknowingly fluff her feathers at my expense.

Tina is going to school for computer animation. Every summer, she flits off to some major city to take an unpaid internship with an animation company. It's been a point of contention for some time now, as my financial situation does not provide me the luxury of shipping off to Manhattan, Santa Monica, Boston, etc. While she pads her resume, I pad the fragile egos of over-the-hill cubicle monkeys. We have only spoken of sex work in terms of activism, not real-life application. When she asks about my summer, I say I futzed around and scraped by doing odd jobs. She's generally excited to talk about her own work, so this answer is as good as any.

While I've become quite adept at acknowledging and moving past jealousy in romantic relationships, my friendships are another story. When I see a friend succeeding where I am failing (more recognition, more privilege, more opportunities), a feeling of bitter resentment washes over me. An example from this evening: Through one of her internships, Tina was offered a job making online banner advertisements. The ads take between five and thirty minutes to complete, and she receives $200 per ad.
"Gillian called to ask if I could make FOUR ads this weekend," Tina gushed on our way home from the grocery store. I had just finished panicking about how much money we'd spent on food for a neighborhood barbecue, and it was the worst time she could have chosen to bask in personal triumph. It was one of those moments where, try as you might, you just can't share in someone else's excitement.

"Oh," I said. "Lucky you."
The clincher? Her mother still covers her rent, bills, food, clothing, and extraneous school or non-school related expenses. She'll make more money this weekend than I'd make giving handjobs, and she won't have to contribute a dime toward her own basic living expenses.

For the past few hours, I've been feeling a sick sort of competitiveness. There's a part of me that wants to say: $800? Okay, I'll show you $800. I can do it too, you know! There are people out there just waiting to utilize my talents. They're waiting, I tell you. I just need to make the first move...

I am trying to sequester this voice, but it's getting harder and harder with each overdue bill.

Monday, September 15, 2008

Misery loves company (and blow)

A truly pathetic state of being is when two people symbiotically feed off of each other's depression. The sidekick is hurt because our fundamental needs are radically different, I am hurt because Sidekick is hurt, he blames himself for hurting me, and we ultimately compromise our personal convictions in an attempt to keep the other happy. Ugh...

We’ve both been out of sorts recently, and I’ve been looking for something that will help us kick things back into high gear. I told him that I wanted to try something new and exciting - an invigorating morning hike, a cooking class, contra dancing...something! Always the alterna-girlfriend, I of course settled on cocaine.

I am not a hard drug user. I smoke pot to stay centered and sane, I have a drink once or twice a week, and I enjoy my morning cup of coffee. I was made in the 80s, but I was too young to appreciate the Great Reign of Blow that befell a decade otherwise noted for its “flock of seagulls” haircuts and turquoise windbreakers.

SK’s estimation was that I’d be disappointed.
“It’s not what you think it is,” he said. “You won’t stay up all night, you won’t tweak out, you’ll just get a buzz and maybe want to go dancing.”
“Okay,” I said. “That’s good enough for me.”

He cut lines onto a Best of Leonard Cohen album and we rolled a 50 (stylish!).

I didn’t feel “bold, unstoppable, or ‘on top of the world.’” It was a comfortable buzz, something along the lines of an intense caffeine high (without the headache and overactive stomach acids). I didn’t want to go dancing. I was *more* than happy dancing right there in my room. I developed a renewed appreciation for Ladytron, played a competitive game of Taboo, and then retired to my computer to work on some intensely focused video editing until for the next five hours. I went to bed at 4:30am and slept like a baby in Hyperdrive.

I enjoyed myself, but I’m wary of anything that is both highly addictive and deceptively subtle. After some subpar rhinoplasty back in ‘04, I just can’t afford to fuck up my face.

Tuesday, September 9, 2008

Housekeeping Update

Later this week, I will be going live with a website that I've been working on all summer. I'm going to be a bit vague, because I'll eventually post a link here, but I *will* give a hint: it just might be sex work-related. I'm totally giddy about getting the project online, but I'll be making some minor changes to my blog during the process.

1. I will be changing the web address later this week. I'm not sure how this will affect readership, links, etc, but I imagine it won't be a big deal.

2. I eventually want to move the blog to an independent server. Back in the day, I remember Blogger having a paid option, but I'm not finding anything now (my memory often fails me). If anyone has server recommendations/words of wisdom, do let me know.

Just a bit of housekeeping, but I figured these were things worth mentioning.

Sunday, September 7, 2008

Moral Inventory: The Anonymous Blowjob

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Saturday, September 6, 2008

Trials and tribulations of Polyamory Pt 2

One of the problems with making it up as you go is that you sometimes have to break a rule to make a rule. According to the Ethical Slut, this is a natural part of navigating an open relationship. As human beings, it seems only natural that we can't *always* know *exactly* what we want at any given time. What seems okay on Monday could lead to the tragic downfall of a relationship come Thursday. Having broken a few rules before I knew they were rules, I've come to believe that confusion and restlessness are a natural part of figuring this shit out. Regardless, I've given myself a severe emotional beating after each slip-up.

The most pathetic part of a slip-up is that, after the fact, I realize how easy it should have been to avoid. My mother gave me such good advice throughout my teenage years. She never said "just say NO," because that would have been passe, but I do wish she had provided me with a series of sample situations in which "NO" was the appropriate response. Having not been given these examples in my youth (and not wanting to place blame on my mother), I'll give an example here:
Someone gives you honey eyes in a library/bar/video store. You're not immediately drawn to this person, but you like the feeling of being looked at. You like being wanted, and it is this feeling that drives you. For this feeling to continue, you offer honey eyes in return. When eye contact is not enough, you move to conversation. When talk is not enough, you seek out intimacy. When intimacy is through, you are either satisfied or hungry for more; empty or full. Sometimes (to your perplexity) you are both.
This is how I felt when I fucked the honey-eyed boy from the bar. I never wanted him, but he wanted me, and that was enough. Well after 2am, I slipped back into my clothes and left. I drove home, my head still fuzzy from too much pot and one too many drinks, and climbed into bed beside my partner. I burrowed quietly under the covers, as not to wake him, but the sight of him sleeping so soundly made me feel sick. Though we had never clearly defined our "off limits" intimacies, I knew I had crossed a line.

Again, the most pathetic part of this slip-up was its easy "avoidability." The date was easy and enjoyable and the conversation kept my attention; this should have been enough. A handshake, a hug, and back home. When he stuck his tongue in my mouth, I knew that I was riding a slippery downhill slope. First, the kiss was terrible. Second, he immediately pushed me down, climbed on top of me, and started grinding his crotch all up in my business. I knew that every minute of this encounter was going to be aggressive, sloppy, and rushed. And worse yet, I knew that I would do nothing to stop it.

What's the saying? Just another notch off the ol' belt? Just another check off the mental "Oops, I did it again and I don't feel any better for it" chart...

Monday, September 1, 2008

"The Talk"

This is why it's so important that a blog like working hearts exists.

When the sidekick arrived home from work today, I cuddled up next to him and we chatted about our evening plans (something that domesticated, cuddly sidekicks tend to do). I informed him that I had a "date" with Peter, and that I wasn't sure how long I'd be out.

And then this...out of the blue, but not entirely unexpected:

"Please don't have sex with him."

I knew that this would happen eventually. I know that it's been eating away at him since day one, but I needed to hear it from him first. It isn't my job to play games with my partner, poking around until I discover what he is and isn't comfortable with; it's his job to tell me this - as honestly and articulately as he can. And now it's my job to do some emotional juggling. I have a responsibility to protect my best interests, his best interests, and the overall best interest of "us" as a unit.

"I'm sorry," I said.

I couldn't look him in the eye. I felt like I'd lied, although I knew the ambiguity of what I'd been doing was not lost on him.

"No, I'm sorry," he said. "I just can't stand you doing this."

For those of you who have asked what it's like trying to find a balance, here is your answer.

Sunday, August 31, 2008

The art of the cold shower

After a visit from the neighborhood plumber, it seems that the unpaid bill was not the cause of our hot water loss. Though the bill did go unpaid, the hot water heater kicked the bucket on its own volition.

I’ve gone without hot water for longer than this (during February, no less), but this was before I had appointments to keep. As I try to negotiate a level of involvement in sex work that feels comfortable for both me and my partner, I haven’t taken any new clients. This is fine for now, as I’ve been floating by on a substantial donation from one particularly generous individual (see: I am not a “real” escort, just a crafty sugar baby).

Peter (the generous individual) hasn’t come around for some time. Our relationship was becoming a bit muddled for him, and he was experiencing conflict over his decision to “buy” my time. After some erectile difficulties during our last encounter, he stopped contacting me. I figured guilt had got the best of him, and I was sad to see him go.

Last week, he contacted me to say that he’d be in the area this weekend. I said that I’d be delighted to get together, and we set a date.

As I rinsed off in the tub this morning, I thought: “Shit.”

According to the plumber, it could take another week before the parts come in for our water heater. In the meantime, I am a greasy, hairy mess. The water is too cold to spend more than a minute under the faucet. I’ve developed a system that allows me to stay marginally hygienic, but it’s not a system that leaves room for deep cleansing or leg shaving. It works something like this: I climb into the bath and squat under the faucet. I splash myself with freezing water and rinse my hair. I back away from the faucet, do the shampoo and soap thing, and jump back under the faucet to rinse. I turned on the shower head this morning to see how long I could stand being submerged in frigid spray. After thirty seconds, I involuntarily pissed myself.

I might be able to solicit a warm shower from a friend. If not, dear Peter will experience the unexpected delight of Bettina au Natural.

Friday, August 29, 2008

Down on my knees to pay MY bills, not yours

Big apologies for being so slow to update. Before posting the second half of my previous entry, I'd like to interrupt the broadcast with a special message.

I live with four dudes. This alone is a big point of contention in my life. On a good day, my roommates keep the heterosexist bullshit to a minimum and pay their bills on time. On a bad day, I go upstairs and cry about it. Today was a bad day.

The hot water stopped working this morning. Chilly and annoyed, I went downstairs to ask my roommate if his portion of the bill had been paid.

"Sorry dude," he said. "Funds are tight right now."

I don't know how many times we've had this conversation. This guy is nearing 30. He's been living on his own for some time now. Though I know financial difficulties are a recent development in his life, I don't see how this kind of irresponsibility is excusable when you live with four other people (all of whom are struggling to maintain a decent standard of living). I told him that we were all in this together; that he needed to keep up his end of the deal. His response?

"You've got money. Why don't you cover it in the meantime."

We're talking about someone who knows how I acquired this money. This would be an inappropriate response in any situation, but it becomes even less appropriate in this context. I'm down on my knees to cover my own ass, 'nuff said. I feel like I should have some articulate closing paragraph here, but I just can't wrap my mind around this attitude. It's one thing to lend a hand to a friend in need; it's an abomination when someone *expects* that the fruits of your labor will fall neatly onto their silver platter.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

The terms and conditions of lovin'

Last month, I posted Part 1 of a polyamory-related entry and never followed up with Part 2. For a brief recap, Part 1 concerns a young man who somehow wooed me with his brazen, relentless eye contact (note: I am easily wooed). Part 2 will detail my problematic response to this young man's advances (note: I am a huge shitbag). Before delving into Part 2, I'll backtrack by first shedding a bit of light on my primary relationship.

Long before my sidekick and I became romantically involved, we were close adolescent friends. We met at the onset of pubescence and spent the next five years lashing out in our respective melancholic ways. He went the drugs and apathy route, I went the sharp objects and abusive relationships route; not sure which one of us came out on top. Our connection ran deep, but there was something standing between us that would keep us apart for many years. That "something" was a mutual friend who envied our connection; a person who wanted me only for himself, and would do anything in his power to guarantee my humiliation and submission. Fortunately, this story isn't about him; that one will have to wait.

By the time Sidekick and I reconnected, I had changed a great deal. In his absence, I had learned to speak up for myself. I was stronger, but this newfound sense of self was not without stipulations. Before sealing the deal on our relationship, my partner had to agree to two things:
1. Someday, I would don a strap-on and ask if I could fuck his ass. When that day arrived, he would have to say yes.
2. I would love him endlessly and completely, but I could not promise him monogamy.
He agreed to these terms and conditions the way a hypnotized chain smoker agrees to shun nicotine: endlessly and completely. I knew that we'd have a hard row to hoe, but we agreed to pluck the weeds from the ol' Garden of Love as they sprouted. I imagine there are quite a few couples who lay out the terms of their relationship up front (and set these terms in stone). While I'm sure this is convenient and practical for many, this sort of arbitrary delegation doesn't sit well with best friends who become lovers, especially when you throw terms like "sex work" and "open relationship" into the mix.

There are innumerable benefits to navigating the "rules" of a relationship as they apply. There are also drawbacks. Tomorrow, I'll delve into the drawbacks...

Friday, August 22, 2008

I quit my job (and a cinematic epiphany of sorts)

I made big strides today.

1. Through a series of poorly crafted lies and awkward gesticulations, I quit my job and collected my last paycheck, which also happened to be my first paycheck.

2. I decided to do something that I’ve been meaning to do for awhile. The idea came to me after watching Black Snake Moan (the movie where Christina Ricci can’t help but fuck anything that stands on two legs). I almost feel embarrassed saying it, but this movie was a major trigger for me. It’s not that I haven’t experienced trigger moments before (i.e., when anyone picks me up or immobilizes me in any way), but I didn’t expect my “big” trigger to come in the form of Samuel L. Jackson and a kick-ass soundtrack.

This film did two things to me:

First, it reminded me how much I crave the feeling of being used. I got that tingly feeling between my legs, followed by a wave of nausea, followed by the desire to be fucked from behind, followed by the need to cry.
Second, it invited me to trace my patterns of behavior back to a specific person (yes, I know it’s just a movie, but I’ve been needing to place some blame).

My inability to just say “No” has caused me a good deal of disappointment over the years. Every pity fuck and inebriated blow job is followed by a sort of empty complacency, which is soon replaced by the realization that, “Oops, I’ve done it again.”

I thought that I’d broken this pattern of behavior, but I was mistaken. I got myself a boyfriend, pulled my shit together, and for over a year no one requested anything that merited a “No.” Unfortunately, what I believed to be personal triumph was merely circumstantial good fortune.

I’ve fucked up, and I’ll likely continue fucking up, so what's the next step? Or rather, what’s the first step? Admitting my powerlessness? I’m going to skip that one and jump right to step #4. I am going to make a “searching and fearless moral inventory” of my life and myself. What does this mean? Over the next week, you can expect a detailed list of my sexual misgivings (not all of them, just the ones that made me feel like shit seem worth writing about).

Monday, August 18, 2008

Been busy with, you know...work

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Friday, August 8, 2008

Tax paying citizens unite

Today I had my first day of "on the clock" work in over a year. Granted, it's a porn store, so I'm sticking to my prurient guns, but it's work that involves tax forms and government-issued identification (weird!).

I re-shelved copies of Backdoor Hussies #4, learned how to ring up dildos at a 50% discount, and flipped through the latest issue of AVN magazine trying *desperately* to look busy. Every few minutes, I awkwardly glanced up at the multi-screen security camera, wondering if it had been specially programmed to sense the dull throb of boredom.

It's a part time job, so I'm giving myself a bit of leeway as I get my act together and figure things out. If I want to continue with some incarnation of pay for play, I still have the time to do so; now I just need the bikini wax and the motivation.

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Fucking. Freelance. Failure. (Part 2)

Edit: For better readability, I have separated yesterday's post into a Pt1 and Pt2. Part 2 is below:

I opened up to one of my roommates last week, because the type of work I was considering was something I felt comfortable sharing with a limited number of people. After a few jokes and a round of drinks, I left to take care of business. The appointment went well enough, but I left feeling anxious and uncertain. When I mentioned that I might not be able to handle my phone ringing off the hook, my roommate responded: "Dude, suck it up. It's called 'going freelance.'"

My roommate does freelance web design. He wakes up at 9, watches youtube until 11, works for a few hours, eats, and changes out of his pajamas once every three days. When his boss calls to request something, this request is being channeled second-hand. His boss is not actually requesting Joe, but requesting a better color scheme or a different line of code. Joe can draft something up and send it on its way while he's jacking off to internet porn in his Donald Duck slippers.

I looked at my roommate, with his onion armpits and tattered bathrobe, and I remembered the reason for my silence. I closed my door, slipped out of my heels, and washed away my golden eyeshadow.

I'm toeing a line right now, wondering how I fit into the puzzle. Do I fill the role of sex worker...activist...advocate? All of the above? Am I the type of person who can actually maintain (as Emilie Dice so aptly described) a perpetually compartmentalized existence? I'm not sure, but I do think I need to take a step back. I am a solitary, introverted person. I like my privacy and I keep to myself. I am willing to give most anything a try. I learn what feels right and what doesn't.

I know that my desire to reevaluate my choices *before* moving forward is not a sign of failure, but a sign of careful (and necessary) introspection. I know that my roommate, who has a penis and limited knowledge of gender discourse, does not have the capacity to understand the difference between "freelance" and "freelance fucking."

When I wake up tomorrow, I will ask myself how I feel about my place in the world. If I am making the decisions that are right for me at this point in my life, then I should be pleased with my answer. This is what matters.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

Fucking. Freelance. Failure. (Part 1)

Every morning, when I open my eyes, I ask myself one question: Today, in this moment, how will I define my place in this world?

It may sound a little fluffy, but this is the question that gets me from point A to point B on any given day. I ask myself this question every time I get out of bed, because the answer is fluid; it changes from day to day. More often than I’d like to admit, the answer depresses me. For example:

Today, I am a noncontributing member of society; no real job, no reliable income, no real foothold in any of my creative projects.

When this happens (after a bit of moping), I try to make minor adjustments throughout the day. I strive to reach an answer that makes me feel comfortable about my place in the world; an answer that makes me look forward to asking myself this question every single day.

Last week, as I dragged myself out of bed, I realized that my answer had begun to stray farther from what I feel comfortable with at this point in my life. My phone had been ringing off the hook for days; from 9am to 12am, I was fielding calls from men demanding my body and my time. They wanted to know what they’d get for their money. They wanted to know if I'd be worth it. Would I donate my underwear? For an extra $50, would I be willing to add sucking or fucking to my show?

These were easy, stupid questions for what should have been an easy job. Thus is the nature of customer service; you get paid to deliver a service, deliver a product, answer stupid questions. I’d be making a disproportionate amount of money compared to the amount of *actual* labor I'd be doing...so why complain?

I'll tell you why.

Because I'm tired of getting tangled up in longterm "relationships" with men who think that they can buy my love; men who *attempt* to make very clear moral distinctions between college students in need of a handout, sugar babies, call girls. Because frankly, I'm too lazy to maintain a perfectly well-groomed bikini line and I look like a clown in lipstick. Because I can happily fuck on camera or over the phone, but it scares the living shit out of me when I'm placed in a room with nothing but a chinsy pair of stilettos and a man I've never met before.

I've gone shoe shopping, shared more than a few decent Pinot Noirs, ass-fucked an architect in exchange for a semester's worth of books, masturbated for a college professor, and fantasized about someone younger and slimmer while a middle-aged man buried his face between my legs and called me his "good little girl."

While I haven't been emboldened by every experience, these encounters have not left me bitter or broken. It isn't usually the paying customer who angers me, but the "good-intentioned" outside observer. Take, for example, a conversation shared with a male roommate.

Continued in Part 2.

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

Leave a message after the [expletive deleted]

I've been putting off writing the entry at the forefront of my mind because I know it's going to make me angry. If anyone is interested in a preview, you can look forward to a punchy little rant about men, cluelessness, and entitlement. By this time tomorrow, I think I can muster up the ovaries to get it all out there. Until then, I'll preface the entry with a question:

How many times do you try calling someone before you finally give up? After dialing incessantly for a week and a half, are you *still* calling in hopes of making an appointment, or are you calling to give this self-righteous bitch a piece of your mind? I don't want to see you. Your initial emails sent up a red flag, and your relentless attempts to establish contact have only confirmed what I suspected in the first place: crazy, desperate, stalker.

So hear me out: I like my phone number. I don't want to have to change it. I am not going to pick up for you, and I will ignore any incoming calls that I suspect are just you trying to call from another number. There are many other women who can fulfill your needs far better than I. I'm just a shy college student with dwindling financial resources who mistakenly believed I could maintain this type of lifestyle.

Feel free to leave a message after the beep; I've ignored all incoming calls for the past seven days.

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Materialistic Poll of the Week

I was flipping through a magazine with a friend the other day and stopped on a page that featured a pair of cute, floral flats with a big button on the side. "Oooh," I began, but my browsing companion finished my sentence with, "Yeah, gross."

At this point I began to question my fashion sense.

My day-to-day style can best be described as, well, shabby chic. Kind of a post-apocalyptic Punk Rock meets Old Navy sale rack look. But, I will admit that I'm a sucker for "conversation pieces." I place this phrase in quotations because "conversation piece" often means "hideous mass of teal feathers that passersby can't NOT notice."

With that said, I was doing some internet window shopping yesterday and came across these shoes. My first reaction was an "Oooh!" My second was more of an "Eeeh?"

Inquiring minds need to know - If I *am* a walking fashion disaster/public humiliation, I'd like to begin some sort of recovery process asap. So these shoes...ugly...fashionable...eh?

Saturday, July 26, 2008

Bloggin' about pre-cum

It tires me out having to converse with men who are aggressively self-assured and totally wrong. This type of behavior bothers me in women too, but I tend to favor women, and the number of stupidly self-assured men out there seems disproportionately higher than the number of stupidly self-assured women. Yeah, I'm biased.

This afternoon, I was spending time with a textbook case male friend. I mentioned that I had recently gone off the pill and cracked a lame joke about condoms. After congratulating me on my decision to stop poisoning my body (mistake #1), he launched into a tirade about the myriad ways in which the medical establishment polices our bodies via capitalism. See, I *know* that the medical establishment polices my body. I am reminded of this fact daily, so I don't disagree. What I did disagree with was the framework around which he based his argument, which was (drumroll) that condoms are equally as effective as "pulling out."

Now, I don't claim to know everything about sex. In the grand scheme of things, I imagine I know very little, but I'm *fairly* certain coitus interruptus saw its heyday sometime during the 16th century.

My self-assured buddy blathered on about pre-cum before proving his point with time-tested *evidence,* which included a TMI story about fucking his girlfriend three times a day for over a year without a condom and never once having a pregnancy scare.

I told him that I'd hop online to fact-check his fascinating find, but he told me not to bother, as his claim was already backed by extensive research. I hopped online nonetheless, but I must be lacking in the Google search department, as the fruits of my labor have yielded no results. I know there are studies out there that can prove or disprove just about anything; when I find one that fits the bill, I'll let you know. In the meantime, I'm making up for wasted time by blogging about chauvinistic retards.


I even made art. It's a magical penis spraying magical, spermless ejaculate.

Friday, July 25, 2008

And so it continues...


The Pink Scare, Part 2.

*Sigh*

Though it's probably old news by now, I can't help but recall this story from this past February (not so very long ago).


It's depressing...seriously pathetic and depressing. Can somebody remind me exactly what it is we're so scared of?! Every time I turn on the radio, some smooth-talking newscaster is jabbing on about the fact that we live in "trying times." Because, you know, gas prices are really high and the airlines have delayed more family vacations to the Bahamas. I believe the phrase "trying times" is relative, and I'm backed by the fact that *most* people have easily turned a blind (or gleefully blind) eye to this "Pink Scare" business sweeping the nation. If I mentioned the term "Pink Scare" to my closest friends, most wouldn't have a damned clue what I was talking about.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Miss Cleo and the Sacred Whore


Every once in awhile, I'll peruse sites like eros-guide to get a sense of who's advertising and what's out there. I won't directly link to a particular ad here, because that might be in bad taste, but I want to provide a few examples of something that *really* gets my goat.

Now, I want to preface this mini-rant by stating that I don't disbelieve in the healing power of positive sexual energies or tantra. I am, however, very skeptical of repackaged new age practices being sold for a specific $$$ value.

You can certainly be a spiritual ho or an erotic masseuse with a gentle touch, but I raise an eyebrow at every porcelain-skinned 24-year-old named Vishnu who charges $300 an hour for her "goddess body" and "healing touch." I don't think that every Vishnu and Aphrodite on the web is a total hack, but I am reminded of the old Miss Cleo commercials that were eventually pulled from tv.

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Still the second sex

On occasion, in my little hyper-feminist bubble, I forget that women are still relegated to the status of "second sex." My current living situation has allowed that this fact will never again slip my mind. It's not that I *always* feel outnumbered and isolated living with four men; they're fun-loving, energetic, and all around not so bad dudes. But, they're still dudes. On a day-to-day basis, I've got a lot of representin' to do, and I spend a lot of time trying to silently negotiate my minority status: as the only woman, the only self-identified feminist, as the token "queer," as the gender terrorist and sex worker advocate.

Why a silent negotiation, you ask? Isn't it my feminist duty to nip every instance of nauseating heterosexism in the bud? I am woman hear me roar, right?

Right. But even as I write this, I can feel myself growing tired. I am not tired of fighting, but I am tired of fighting the wrong fights with the wrong people at the wrong times. I am at a place in my life where I experience incongruity around every turn. I hear it when men talk about women. I hear it when women talk about sex workers. Hell, I even hear it when most women talk about other women. It is an incongruity born of ignorance and insensitivity, and we're all guilty of it from time to time. But those of us who try our damnedest to remain "in tune" must also remain on the defensive. We're hypersensitive to the type of trash talk that many people would never think twice about. It wears you down, always brandishing an emotional shield in one arm and a worn copy of the Feminine Mystique in the other. It is for this reason that I choose my battles carefully.

But, back to the second sex.

I was watching television with the domestic sausagefest tonight when the comment was made. In the show, a married woman sleeps with another man (her husband, who is a hardworking provider, is also incredibly hostile and emotionally neglectful). One of my television companions referred to the woman as "cheating whore." He then went on to say:

"When you cheat on someone you're dating you're a bitch. But when you get married, you make a vow. When you make that vow, you agree to keep it. If you break that vow, you're a filthy, cheating whore."

This type of comment gets my blood boiling, but it's these comments that I've learned to let go. As much as it pains me (and it does!), I let them go. This type of comment lends moral supremacy to marriage and monogamy. This type of comment invalidates individual experience. This type of comment insinuates that only women (the whores) commit adultery and should be duly punished. It sucks big time, and it makes me want to pull every hair out of my head, but I file it away in my mental "dickwad" log and I save my fight for another day.

My mother spent twenty years trying to fight this war in vain. She nearly abandoned her voice in the process. It wasn't until many years later, when she sought experiences *outside* of her marriage, that she began to realize she wasn't just a worthless woman in a loveless world. So yes, I'm rather biased, but I *know* the problem doesn't lie in the poisoned laps of the filthy, cheating whores.

Friday, July 18, 2008

Hella Barbarella


Cozied up yesterday with a bowl of popcorn (and a box of tampons) and enjoyed a personal movie night. Thanks to an amazing local video store, I’m finally seeing the offbeat flicks that have been on my “to-watch” list for years. Last night was Barbarella night, and I’ve been riding a tripped out wave of thigh-hi go-go boots and shag carpeting ever since. Seriously, I think Jane Fonda circa 1968 just revolutionized my wardrobe.

I also learned (and I’m sure this is old news by now) that a remake is currently in pre-production, which has left me a bit depressed but not the least bit surprised. Why is it that we need to see *every* good movie again, revamped and generally ruined by an astronomical budget, "all star" cast, and updated special effects? It's rather bogus, and it's ruining the aura of timelessness that I associate with classic cinema. Ah, well...I will continue this boycott with microwaveable popcorn and faux nostalgia, but I fear the day (and I know it's just around the corner) that remakes of movies made during my lifetime begin to appear.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Sick (and a very merry Christmas)

I woke up this morning surprised to find that I felt like poo warmed over. Fine last night, swollen and lethargic 8 hours later. Immune system, I commend you on a brilliant surprise attack. Muscles have closed shop for the day, throat's on fire, nose has been replaced by a snot faucet, and my head feels like a bloated, pressurized balloon.

All things considered, I've chosen to dedicate this day to sleep and tea. My immune system and I have a decent working relationship, and I know when it's trying to tell me something. Right now, it's lamenting my erratic mood swings, irregular sleeping patterns, and sudden switch from a healthy, strict vegetarian diet to...well...crap.

So I've been sleeping it off, and in my pressurized cocoon of influenza, I've had some pretty stellar dreams...

I'm enjoying dinner with friends at a downtown bistro when my pager goes off (does anyone even own a pager anymore?). Some anonymous agency has booked me an appointment with a high-profile client, and they claim it's an emergency. I'm asked to show up in red and white striped kneesocks with a skimpy red dress and a tiny crinoline petticoat. I board a red-eye flight bound for godknowswhere with the understanding that I will be compensated accordingly. I arrive at my destination to find a very drunk Santa lying face up on the floor. He's blathering on about the things an intoxicated Santa might blather on about: toys, elves, children, Mrs. Claus. When I approach, he rubs his eyes and strings a few slurred words together:

"And what would YOU like for Christmas, little girl?"

I approach cautiously and kneel beside him.

"Oh, I know what I want for Christmas...but I'm not a little girl."

I straddle Santa's oversized velveteen pants and awkwardly wriggle around on top of his belly o' jelly. He laughs a jolly "HoHoHo" as I begin the arduous task of disrobing Father Christmas.

At this point I woke up, made another cup of tea, and cleared my mind with a bit of online window shopping. As a somewhat observant Jew, it is difficult for me to relate to this dream.

Saturday, July 12, 2008

Are you f**king serious?

"Not having heard from you, I wonder are still interested in your exciting offer? Anyway I am available to meet with you today only from now, 9 am until 4 pm, this Saturday, 7/12/08. If you are interested call me on me cell 555-5555, it's a work cell, but please call me. After that time pse destroy this message and my cell # and don't call me any other time. Thanks for the discretion. By the way this my wife's and my email that's why you see a female name in email address, sorry if
that created confusion earlier. Thanks. Love to hear from you soon."


No further commentary could ever do this justice.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

Entertaining his fantasy (the trials and tribulations of Polyamory Pt 1)

I'd seen him watching me; when we crossed paths in the library, from across the room at a party, sideways glances at the bar. I couldn't escape it. We always seemed to end up in the same place at the same time. It was uncanny.

At a party a few months back, I was dancing with my very best girlfriend and caught his eye.

"I think that kid wants to fuck me," I said.
"How do you know?" She gave him a quick once-over and shrugged.
"I don't know. The way he looks at me, I guess."

She suggested that maybe he looked at everyone that way, and I wondered how someone as bubbly and attractive as Trina had yet to identify "The Look." It was different than the "You Look Interesting Look" and the "I have a Little Crush on You Look." This was a pointed, searing laser of sex and power.

I turned my back and kept dancing. If he wanted it that badly, he'd have to come to me.

When he reappeared this summer, I began to reconsider my position. I'm confident in my external presentation, but I'm no Grade A head turner. I can walk into a bar feeling relatively at ease. I don't get free drinks, no one slides strategically onto the barstool next to me, and I rarely have to deal with bad pickup lines. All things considered, I guess I was...how do you say...flattered? I'd never experienced this type of unrelenting attraction. It was a turn-on, so I offered the occasional flirtatious smile in return.

We crossed paths again last week. I realized that we'd never spoken in person before, and I was happy to initiate conversation. After a bit of idle chit-chat, I asked if he'd like to grab a drink sometime. We parted ways, and I left with that fresh, spearminty taste of power in my mouth (a feeling that I occasionally pretend to control).

As I walked through town, I began to wonder if our roles were now reversed. By remaining at a distance, he had fueled my desire to be desired. The excitement of entertaining his fantasy had left me dizzy and reckless. I wasn't sure whose fantasy this was anymore, but I felt safeguarded by the knowledge of mutual vulnerability.

Thursday, July 3, 2008

I am a precious peach

"I'm conflicted," he says. "You're delightful, articulate, kind. It only makes this more difficult."

This is an interesting mentality; that viewing this as a "transaction" would have been easier had I seemed vapid, disinterested, or materialistic. The emptier the easier - is that the way it works?

But no, I am a precious peach. I am charming and lovely. I don't walk or talk like his fantasy whore; I walk and talk like his fantasy girlfriend. But I'm 20+ years too young, and he feels too guilty to fuck me.

I enjoy his company, but I acknowledge the transparency of his conflict. With faker tits and a breathier laugh, I may have been the perfect transaction, but I'm just...too...nice. With Sally McSlut, he'd accept sex. With Bettina Niceface, he stops at romance. An interesting mentality indeed, but somewhat shortsighted. I'm just a slut with a penchant for careful diction. I'm no precious peach.

Better to be 52...

"My only regret is that I'm 52, not 25," he says. I ponder this sentiment, swirling the last bit of wine in the bottom of my glass.

"You wouldn't want that," I say. "I'm too flighty for men my age."

And it's true. I operate under the assumption that *most* 25-year-old men are looking for sex and spontaneity sans emotional attachment - just like me. It feels safer to proceed this way; to assume that most of these under 30 cowboys are looking for a one night suck n' fuck (call ya later, bye!). I'm not looking for love, and it really throws me off balance when I meet someone who tries to hand me their heart on a silver platter.

I have someone in my life who's given me his love, and this is more than enough. I'm already terrified of what I might do to hurt this person's heart. I may have the potential for more giving, but don't bother returning the favor. I can't handle any more love. It's too damn unpredictable, too heavy.

"I'm not disillusioned," he says. "I don't expect that I'd be on your radar."

My radar? I smile. Better to be 52, I think to myself. A 25-year-old might get a drink and a quickie out of me, but he'd never get this much of my attention.

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

A mother's wisdom

When I was eleven, my mother sat me down and said, "Daughter, one day a man will drop his pants to reveal his penis. The best advice I can give is 'try not to laugh.'"

When you've seen one, you haven't seen them all, but I still stifle the occasional giggle.