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

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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.