Everyone dresses up like skanks.

It started to get really ridiculous in the 90′s and, now, it’s just gotten worse and worse.  The girls lead the pack when it comes to provacative outfits but, increasingly, the guys are following suit.  I wouldn’t have it any other way!

I live in Chicago which includes Boystown, the main gayborhood within the city, where every Halloween you can be certain to see an endless parade of male and female flesh popping out at all angles.  Some people find it obnoxious and annoying.  Bumping into an infinite number of 20-something trixies made up as Sexy Little Bo Peep, Sexy Strawberry Shortcake, Sexy Cat, Sexy Angel, Sexy Devil, Sexy Alice in Wonderland, Sexy Dorothy Gale, etc., etc. can be exhausting.  Maybe for some people, but not for me.  I truly enjoy staring at everyone looking like sluts because it just seems more natural and fun.  Plus, I’m a huge pervert so that kind of helps.

What makes Halloween truly impressive, to me, is what it unleashes within the male psyche.  It’s difficult to tell the difference between the gay boys and the straight ones.  Many girls’ boyfriends will go in drag and other “completely hetero” guys will appear in some suspiciously revealing costumes and will encourage being molested by their straight (enough) buddies throughout the evening.  And it will seem like a joke until the fondling continues on past the 20-second grace period and re-emerges throughout the evening.  Things can get weird.

“No homo”?  Well, not on Halloween.  Halloween these days has a very murky sexual fluidity to it and it’s completely fantastic.  Yes homo.

I hate calling myself a spiritual person because I tend to want to smack the shit out of spiritual people.  But I still have faint traces of spirituality (even typing that word makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit) and I recognize that Halloween serves as a time of literal and personal harvest, of memorial, and end-of-year reflection.  It also serves as a subversive death festival which our culture needs (we have some serious death-denial issues going on, especially in America).  I hate admitting it but I am a reflective person and autumn brings out the best (and worst) in me.

We Americans can only deal with a certain amount of reflection, seriousness, and darkness however.  Enough is enough!  So we turned our death festival into a fucked up fertility festival while we were at it.  It may be tempting to believe that Halloween is “meant for the kids” which it never truly was if you’re willing to scratch the surface–usually, in our culture, we take that out when we’re looking to explore something absurd while attempting to avoid the risk of embarassment.  Halloween may be a time for kids in some respects but, let’s face it, it’s also an excuse for adults to hang up paper skulls on their doors and parade around in kinky roleplay outfits.

Go out on Halloween, to any place of partying and adult congregation, and this will be brutally evident.  Cassie from Human Resources wants to show the world that she’d make a really saucy Laura Croft.  So here she is with countless Becky’s, Jennifers, and Brianna’s strutting around like we’re trapped in red light district sponsored by Walt Disney.  And all the hot and semi-hot guys want to wear hot pants and weird wigs.  I wouldn’t change a thing.

Is Halloween the time when we see the real you?  Are you trying to tell us that your secret self is actually a whorish-looking cyborg?  Maybe we should have known all along.

Whether you want to celebrate it as a candlelit bummer/mope-fest, a tacky excuse for rubber spiders, or as your one-night chance to wear fetish outfits and be an exhibitionist, All Hallow’s Eve is everyone’s best hope for personal expression.  I see it as insightful and honest.  But maybe that’s being too serious….

What does a Dom wear on Halloween?  This year I’m going as an animal cracker werewolf.  What that says about me is anyone’s guess.

–“The World I Used to Be Afraid Of” by Blanche

Some of the first gay films I ever saw dealt also with the subject of the early days of HIV/AIDS, films like Longtime Companion, Angels In America, and Love! Valour! Compassion!, and Jeffrey (this still continues today with viewings of The Witnesses, Parting Glances, and The Living End). I was a confused new teenager with cable and insomnia, so I would stay up and watch anything that had to do with homosexuality (with a particular fixation on gay men, even then I felt more akin to them than to lesbians). It just happened that most of the films I saw were a little before my time.

I am pretty fresh and sheltered when it comes to the history and realities of HIV/AIDS in our community; I wasn’t born until the early 90’s, have almost always lived in suburbia, and have never known anyone who has HIV/AIDs, let alone died from it.  According to Larry Kramer, that puts me in the league of the lazy, uneducated gays of my generation by default (after he admonishes me for calling myself queer).  However, I strive to be neither purposefully ignorant nor excessively fearful.

Dame, die sich die Hände wäscht by Gerard ter Borch, taken from Wikimedia Commons

As I try to enter the world of dating and sex, I find myself periodically asking the question, “Would I date someone who was positive?” “Would I still hook up with them after they told me?” Looking at the OkCupid and ManHunt profiles of cute guys who are brave enough to clearly admit their status in their profiles (because, it is hard to be upfront about things that are often considered “less than ideal”), it certainly doesn’t rule them out in my mind. If you want to be ruled out in my book then show an open dislike for intellectual pursuits or put something along the lines of “no fats or flamers” in your profile.

There is definitely still a lot of unfair treatment and generalizations made. I can relate in more than one way to being stigmatized for a medical issue and have it become an automatic disqualifier in people’s eyes. There is this judgment that you can see pass through people’s eyes, and often that appalling silence that follows or that damn “Oh…” followed by the silence and judgment.  I don’t have HIV/AIDS, so I cannot fully understand, but I’d like to think I can at least make an effort not to be prejudiced despite my unintentionally sheltered upbringing.

It is really interesting hearing what my peers think about HIV and people who happen to have it.  For the most part, it seems more like a punchline to them than anything else.  With the exception of some of the social justice types with their sights firmly set on Africa and Bono, it seems to have disappeared from the mindset of those around me except in the form of a joke or an eyeroll when adults lecture about the importance of protection.  Our thoughts seem so separate from the interpersonal side of things.  I wonder what their responses would be if I asked, “Would date someone who was positive?” If it is anything like the responses I hear from many people about the question, “Would you date someone who is transgender?”, then clearly we have some things we need to talk and think about these matters on a personal, human level rather than technical terms and afterschool specials.

Paraffin wax is a soft kind of wax that is most typically used during this kind of play.  Undoubtably, you’ve noticed how the material within those tall, cylindrical catholic prayer votives is soft and squishy, much different from upright table candles.  That’s paraffin: almost putty-like, pliable, and full of air bubbles.  This type of wax melts at a signifigantly lower temperature when compared to taper candles which are the upright, rod candles that fit into candle sticks and candelabras.  Paraffin wax is less painful upon impact with skin.  It causes a relatively mellow jolt of heat when it’s dripped or puddled on flesh.  It’s not a huge deal.  If your play partner/submissive has very sensitive skin or gets freaked out by wax application, then you need to be especially cautious and considerate.

There was one particular Master, who I would session with as a co-Dom, that was very passionate about wax application with paraffin candles.  He would take a number of religious votive candles, of many colors, and drip them all at different points on top of the submissive’s body.  This created a rainbow mess of swirling wax that was a play on sensation for the participant but, also, was humiliating and intimidating for them without causing any real sort of signifigant pain.  It was extremely cool to watch.  Afterwards, the wax is peeled off the skin followed by a shower to remove the remaining traces.  Maybe the skin is a little bit rosy afterwards but that’s about the extent of it for most people.  With paraffin, the Dom can apply a lot of wax, in large amounts, on the slave with ease and cautious safety.  It’s also extremely messy, requires a paint tarp (or something along those lines) to protect the space, it’s high-maintenance.  I’ve seen kinksters place Saran Wrap on top of exposed flesh before paraffin wax play in order to:

1.) keep the heat impact but

2.) avoid the stickiness/messiness removal if everything doesn’t end up peeling away easily

Another option is to put lotion on the skin to make the wax removal easier.  That’s always a good idea too but, obviously, it may require a shower afterward anyway.  Be creative and sensible.

I prefer to use taper candles (those upright, rod candles) when doing wax play.  Why? In my opinion, paraffin wax is kind of “cute” and doesn’t cause enough pain.  When I’m applying candle wax onto my submissive, I want it to be in precise, targeted bites of heat like falling needles.  To me, those puddles and splashes of paraffin wax are too messy and require a certain kind of idealized space to work within.  Plus there’s the need for a tarp.  What if I don’t have time to go to the store to buy a paint tarp?  I’m an extremely busy Dom with a tight schedule.  Cleaning gear after a session usually takes at least 30-45 minutes afterwards and I have enough stuff to do……

Taper candles melt in drips that, with a little bit of skill, can be aimed at very specific parts of the human body and in controlled quantities.  These are the kind of wax drips that cause jumps and a bit of dread for the submissive.  I like being able to count and control the exact amount of drips heading towards the slave.  Many drips for the brave souls, less drips for the more sensitive ones.  My favorite way to remove wax?  Ice.

No matter what kind of wax you decide to you use for your adventures, wax play should never be done around the head and eyes (of course) nor should it be used wrecklessly or to plug any orifices.  It’s strictly for the wide expanses of the body and the outer areas–think the back, the shoulders, the buttocks, the chest, the nipples, carefully with the outer genitalia, etc.

The other issue, clearly, is that you’re dealing with fire.  Don’t get too close to your slave’s body with the fire (unless you’re doing fire play which means that you’re highly experienced/skilled and that you’re submissive is fully aware and willing, etc.  We’ll save the subject of fire play for some other article…..).  Always keep the fire at a distance.  Don’t burn anyone’s hair or clothing (including yours).  Only do wax play if you’re 100% focused and lucid.  Don’t do it if you’re tired.  Once you’re finished always blow out the candles.  The best way to get good at wax play is to find an ethusiastic submissive and put in a good amount of practice.

I’m also not so forgiving of celebrities who use offensive language and follow with some sort of caveat about how their comments are ok because they support gay marriage ala The Millionaire Matchmaker’s Patti Stanger, or Kings of Leon’s quick decision to tell a gay man to get a manicure and buy a bra, followed with an “I’m sorry 4 anyone that misconstrued my comments as homophobic or misogynistic. I’m so not that kind of person” tweet.

In my experience, classroom teachers don’t tolerate language like that from students of any age. Where should our tolerance lie as adults? As a student teacher, I took off points for students who used curse words or offensive words in their fiction writing, in classroom discussion, I corrected them aloud.  Teachers help young people learn respect, develop socially acceptable habits and gain understanding of historical, social and literary contexts of modern times. They also restrict aggressive, violent or inappropriate behavior. Who does this for adults? The police might step in for violent behavior, but what about the smaller offenses? Should we  make (theoretical) citizen arrests? Should we take to the airwaves (tweet-waves?) every time we hear an unjust word thrown? Should we boycott celebrities? Should we confront our families?

Mel Gibson: King of Racist Tirades

What do we gain from speaking out?

Enemies and fans alike have jumped on the backs (or off the bandwagons) of Mel Gibson, Michael Richards and Tracy Morgan for their racists or homophobic tirades. In some cases celebrities issue apologies – most likely because those fans pay the bills, not because they are truly sorry, or because they don’t actually agree with the offensive statements they made. Refusing to see the movies/buy the albums/ read the books of a person who has used offensive language sends a powerful message that ignorance or closed-mindedness will not be tolerated from anyone – but a lot of people think the two things are unrelated.  Do Mel Gibson’s racist tirades stop you from enjoying Lethal Weapon?

Digital courage Vs. face-to face courage

A lot of us replaced the tequila-courage of college with internet-courage of adulthood– even the most mild mannered folks might take the opportunity to speak out on an issue on Facebook or Twitter that they would never broach in “real life”- condoning a friend for reposting political or celebrity hate-speech, or calling out @Celebrity for being #homophobic or #racist on Twitter, but what happens in face-to-face situations? How do we react when a friend, colleague or supervisor comments about how “retarded” a call in a football game was, or that how “gay” it is that a buddy bailed on happy hour. Can we muster the courage to call out that sort of language face-to-face? Do our efforts make a difference?

What about Freedom of Speech?

While us liberal, PC, uptight, buzz-killers are out there reminding people that suggesting African Americans only eat fried chicken and watermelon is offensive, there’s a whole colony of commentators gathered around talking about Freedom of Speech. “What happened to the First Amendment?” they love to snarkily ask. These questioners are right – the government doesn’t have the right to restrict speech, but when you are a public persona (a politician, actor, musician, etc) whose career relies on the support, financial and other, of fans or voters – it might be wise to ensure that your Freedom of Speech doesn’t ricochet off your angry fans and hit you square in the face.  When an individual receives 1000 emails, or Facebook posts condemning their language or behavior, that’s Freedom of Speech, too, right?

A Focus on Education

Its easy for us to destroy someone’s reputation on the internet for offensive behavior (::cough cough:: Rick  Santorum), or to embarrass someone in a bar for using language that might not be PC, but its important to recognize that some people don’t actually know better. Sure, Santorum isn’t one of them – he earned his internet reputation for standing strong in his hateful views – but there are bound to be people who honestly don’t think that saying “retarded” is offensive if they aren’t talking about a person, or who think because their minority friends use certain slang words that everyone agrees with their usage. Think about it like our underpaid and overworked educators try to do with our kids – if there is a teaching moment, take it. Ask why the word or phrase was used, what that person thinks it means – explain the origin, or who it can offend. Sure its awkward, and can be embarrassing, but if there’s a chance to create a wizened advocate rather than a smeared reputation – its worth a try.

–

How sensitive are you to language? Have you ever boycotted a celebrity for expressing offensive views (intentionally or not)? Do you Tweet/comment on offensive language you encounter on the web? Do you correct friends, family, or colleagues when you think they’ve said something offensive?

Favored sports teams might be a suitable topic that inspires playful rivalry (especially if one of you doesn’t really care about sports), but, to some, the religious and political beliefs of your potential mate are defining characteristics in the calculations of your potential for success.

Light installation of Robert Stadler

Lets imagine:
As you share a drink and an appetizer with a person you met on OKCupid, the banter might be light and airy, the preferred age of cheddar matching, the eye-contact solid without being creepy. You might begin to feel something for the person sitting across from you, as they tell stories about the delights of being an accountant, or deliberate on the social scene during their undergraduate tenure at State School University. You both liked Lord of the Rings, but not as much as Harry Potter. You agree that Brad Pitt has become a real actor now, and that Mary-Louise Parker only gets more beautiful as she ages. Kite Runner was good, but Three Cups of Tea really loses its flavor once it came out that Greg Mortenson might be a liar.

It’s going really well.

After a couple drinks, your date informs you that they are having an awesome time, but can’t stay out too much later.

“My church is way up North, and I have to be there by 9.”

Or perhaps:

“I’d love to hang out a little longer, but I got tickets to a Glen Beck rally down-state, and my sister and I are leaving at 6 AM.”

Did this charming watcher of Weeds just mention a Churchal obligation? How can a person who enjoyed the magic of Harry Potter indulge in the pure evil of Glenn Beck?

Perhaps these comments don’t bother you at all. Maybe you are the kind of person who thinks that an individual’s political or religious views are just one tiny aspect of their whole being. You think, nothing they said was judgmental of my beliefs, just statements of theirs. Or are you the kind of person who sees differences in religion or politics defining factors in your relationships?

If you run in a liberal or conservative circle, perhaps you often meet people who have similar views to you, but what about online dating? I tend to think, on a lot of levels, that opposites attract , but are there certain ideological things that could keep you away from someone who otherwise you are really attracted to?

Would you date someone who was a passionate believer or supporter of a religious or political group that conflicted strongly with your own beliefs? Is this the type of information that should be divulged on the embryonic stages of a relationship?

“Search for meaning in sores

–“Sympathy” by Sleater-Kinney

I have the amazing power to make people’s heads explode.  How do I do it?  I can merely just out myself.  The problem is that this usually follows a bunch of questions that I really don’t want to answer (either because I’ve answered them before or they are put in an invasive/offensive way).  This superpower and the consequences of it could most likely primarily be traced to the audience of this information.

I may have mentioned before that I go to a pretty progressive and liberal campus.  You would think that I would take advantage of this fact by hanging around with as many understanding and informed students as I could.  Well…It didn’t really work out that way in terms of where I mainly haunt on campus (when I am not pacing up and down). Of all the places I could pick to spend my time, I picked hanging around with the Orthodox Jewish kids.

Now, this not to say that all Orthodox kids are sheltered and completely aware of LGBTQ identities, because that’s certainly not true.  Actually, my two best and most accepting friends on campus happens to be a straight, cisgender Orthodox guy and his girlfriend. Yet, on the whole, it hasn’t been a pretty picture.  There are people who have known me for almost a year, have heard people refer to me as “he” or as a guy, but still call me “she” or include me in statements such as “we have x number of girls right now”

There is now a well-known incident amongst my friends in which a person, being told that I was male-identified and that there were certain questions that are rude to ask. Well, what kind of questions am I suddenly ambushed with by this person at dinner? “So…What are you biologically?” I kid you not.  I nearly had a panic attack after that whole event because I was afraid of what kind of questions that I’d get from other people or what she’d try to get me shunned/ousted from being a part of the campus Hillel for religious reasons.  Luckily, she didn’t…But it is easy to tell that she seems quite uncomfortable with my presence.  Plus, I am rather sure her grandma gave me a weird look when her family visited recently (oh my…Did someone do the “Guess what I just met!” phone call home?).  Another, lesser-known incident (with a different person) involves being told at Shabbat dinner that Levi is a great, Biblical (and male) name and that she’d love to name her future son Levi…But then about 20 minutes later explicitly referring to me as “one of the women” that was there.

At this point, I really don’t try to correct some of these students when they get my gender identity and pronouns wrong. Partially because I don’t want a repeat incident, and partially because being the first trans person that someone has ever encountered can be pretty rough. There are some fellow queer students that keep their relationships an open secret around the same circles because they don’t want others to be uncomfortable.  So, I can’t tell whether or not they already know and just refuse to deal with it or if they are just going off my appearance and voice (which I have said before honestly does not “pass” as male very well).  It is an interest contrast to the rest of campus, where when they hear someone call me “he” enough times or a friend say “Levi’s a boy”, almost always tend to either correct themselves without fanfare, or profusely apologize for thinking/calling me otherwise.

Personally, I don’t want to be anyone’s representation for the trans community.  I don’t want to be the first person to try to explain the difference between gender identity and sexual orientation.  Honestly, I’d prefer not to have to clean up brain matter after I tell people that I’m trans and gay. But I guess that I may have to if I want my identity to be respected.

Lately, discussions that I’ve had with others relate to differerent interpretations of BDSM. Books and articles that I’ve read address this issue as well. A repeated theme, for whatever reason, keeps appearing.

What is BDSM? What isn’t BDSM? What rules do you have to follow in order to say “Yes, this is BDSM”?

Does it have to involve leather or some kind of kink-wear? Does someone have to be bound or restrained in some capacity? Must it involve pain or simulated “punishment”?

No one seems to agree on much of anything, which may be the one of the core strengths of the BDSM community. For many participants, the classic/stereotypical approach is taken in the sense that yes, indeed, there are the whips, cuffs, boots, and the rest of the predictable paraphernalia involved. But what if someone wants to do high heel worship on their Mistress, while she sits in a chair wearing a vintage wedding dress, followed by a good round of old fashioned fucking? Maybe that’s what a couple of my friends bragged about doing this weekend….(good job, you two–it sounds weird and strangely hot). And their question was: Was that BDSM? Was it kink? Or was it just sex with a couple of extra ingredients?

It’s all open to interpretation. Worship was involved. Fetishistic elements were involved. One person was in control while the other person played submissive. Then the control dynamic flip-flopped. No one, according to them, was tied up or spanked. Isn’t kink and BDSM under the same tent nowadays? Sort of?

I would argue that any sensual adventure, with experimental and prop elements involved, could be considered kink. Because kink is fetish. And fetish always goes along with BDSM. That didn’t used to be the case but now it is. Go to any dungeon party or kink event and see the wide variety and interpretations that are out there. Everyone sees things differently.

Who says that you need to have ropes and riding crops? There is no rule book. The old ways, which were overly pissy and restrictive, have crumbled in favor of a more inclusive defintion of “leather” (literal or figurative) and sadomasochistic control.

Do you want it to be kinky and taboo? Then it is. Perhaps what is kinky/taboo to you is weak and vanilla to a harder player but who cares? They don’t have to play along if they don’t like it. Every scene is yours for the making between yourself and your partner(s).

A common mode of thinking in the BDSM community nowadays is that the bigger the tent, the better the circus. I agree. The variety of ideas and perceptions of what encompasses BDSM and kink feeds into the strength of the community. The more shared ideas that are out there, the richer the feast. The more you are exposed to and understand, the better off you are. For some people, BDSM means heavy leather and hardcore abuse. For others, kink play may mean a little bit of exhibitionism, a wedding dress, and some high heels. Why not?

If you want to get very technical and specific, then yes there is a difference between fetish and S&M but less and less people seem to care anymore. To me, that’s progress. This all-inclusiveness has allowed the BDSM community to continue to grow as the years go on.

Don’t ever believe that in order to go to a kink event, that you need to be head-to-toe in traditional bondage gear. If you don’t want your Master or Mistress to tie you up, then you’re no less worthy a slave. If punishment, in no way, involves spanking for you then you’re not a weak submissive–it just means that you follow your own interests. You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do. Traditions are meant to be smashed and rules are meant to be broken.

The BDSM culture? It’s yours. Redefine it to your own tastes and fantasies. The notions of kink, leather, fetish, and S&M are not sacred and fixed. If they were, that would completely defeat the purpose of transcendence.

I think that it’s impossible for the kink community to weaken by variety. There will always be those strong, heavier players (along with the lighter players) present to keep things leaning towards the dark and mysterious. Like a gene pool, the more varied the strains, the healthier the tribe is.

By Russss, taken from Wikimedia Commons

“I’m so tired, sheep are counting me
No more struggle, no more energy
No more patient and you can write that down
It’s all too crazy and I’m not sticking round”

–”I’m So Tired” by Fugazi

There is this intense feeling of numbness and exhaustion in the days following a horrific event in a family (or family-like circle of friends,) especially when one hasn’t really been sleeping anyway. The headache that I had for a week probably wasn’t helping to cure the numbness and exhaustion either. But at least now I have classes as a reason to force myself to go to sleep in order to be mostly functional.

Being away from home is probably a blessing and a curse in this situation. The blessing is that I no longer think about it every single day, because I have to focus on other things like classes and interacting with people. It is a curse because I feel out of the loop with that is going on, am not physically around to be helpful anymore, and most worrisome of it all, I have no idea whether or not I’m still a powder keg of emotion and rage. Is it still going to hit me at some random time that this traumatic and ongoing thing happened? What will happen when it does?

I honestly don’t know how the rest of my family is currently coping, everything seemed really normal after initial event. Quiet, but it was relatively normal. It confused the fuck out of me, but I tried to go along with it. Now that I am away from my family, I can’t look to them to see the correct way to act about things…I’m essentially on my own when it comes to this. Then again, I feel roughly the same about my transition…And I’m barely handling that well. With the forcing back into socialization through returning back to campus, my ability to deal with both trauma and the daily (and increased dysphoria) is compromised. I feel like the walking dead, but am also horribly hyper-aware of a lot of things. It is a really odd feeling, kind of creepy and unnerving in a way.

I know there is a road to recovery; I’m just trying to find out what it is and how it will work out for me. How have you all coped in these kinds of situations?

You think of people tied at the feet, knees, wrists, and elbows on a bed.  Or maybe you think of someone sexy bound to a chair.  Chances are that the ropes look like something that you’d find off of a ship since the the ropes typically used in rope play tend to be white or black, mid-width synthetics. When it comes down to it, BDSM kinksters can be surprisingly traditional.

I like to use ropes during sessions too (sometimes) but I favor stronger absolutes.  I’m an impatient person.  If a bondage arrangement takes me longer than three or so minutes to create, I probably won’t be interested.

My idea of bondage stems from cartoons, action films, and 1940′s film noir.  Those images established a quick, ultra-functional approach to tying someone down.  It was ugly, useful, and done immediately as would be the case if someone was actually abducted to be bound since, naturally, there would be an element of rebellion and struggle involved.  When I’m sessioning, I love to feel that the bondage is relatively plausible meaning that the captive most likely wasn’t asked if he or she would be kind enough to stand just so while the abductor took their sweet time to immobilize them.

I love metal, locks, and straps.  You don’t argue with them, you can’t slip out of them, and they won’t accept fussiness.  They’re either there or they’re not.  The lock is either in place or it isn’t.  Chains, especially, are quick, dirty, and functional which is exactly how I like bondage play.

The only thing that the Master or Mistress of the scene needs to be aware of is making sure that the correct keys to the locks are always within reach.  Lost keys can lead to bad situations, obviously.

I love the sound of chains clinking and clunking when binding a slave up.  It establishes a faintly medieval vibe and pushes that aura of inescapablility and punishment.  Chains are immediately associated with authority, access, and metalic strength.  If it’s man vs. chain, you know automatically who will win.  None of us are Superman.

Pet stores are the best due to the fact that their chains are pre-cut to reasonable, workable, and appropriate lengths for BDSM play.  Their short chains and long chains that are neither too short or overly long.  Hardware stores come in close second and are perfect if you find yourself desiring very specific lengths.

Everyone likes their bondage to reflect their unique tastes. Everyone has their own ways of doing things–just like making coffee.  BDSM is the same.  To me, nothing is more perfect than the sound of a riding crop hitting soft flesh immediately followed by the jangle of metal links, creating a classic combination of sound textures that are instantly and universally recognizable.  Plus, I know that when I want to capture or release a slave, I can do so in no time at all which is ideal for an impatient Master like myself.

And, with chains, is there any opportunity for the slave to escape?  Nope, not a chance.  The submissive if forced to have faith that their Master or Mistress will be relatively merciful…

1. Asking me out for a same day dinner. Sure, once I know you, last minute is awesome, but for a first date? Don’t make me feel like I am a fill in for a plan that fell through.
2. Tell me that it’s super casual jeans and t-shirts attire. I don’t date like that. I don’t do jeans and t-shirts in general. I do pencil skirts, I do slacks. This to me just translates to “I’m lazy and can’t force myself to dress nicely for you, so rather than feel badly about my attire, I’m going to tell you to dumb it down too.” Brown shoes with black slacks and black shirt, really?
3. If you ask me where I want to eat and I offers three choices, don’t make counter suggestions because you don’t like mine. If you make it to a second date, then you can take me to one of those places, but the chances aren’t good if you make me feel that my choices and opinions aren’t good enough for you.
4. Tell me not to rush, but when I am ten minutes later than expected due to the September 1st student U-Haul migration, do not text me every couple of minutes to tell me how hungry you are and that you are going to have to run to the conveinance store for a snack. A snack? Really? As if he was LITERALLY about to die of starvation.
5. Tell me you can’t have a cocktail because it is a “school night” and you are a light weight. My ex fiancé was a raging shit show of an alcoholic, so I don’t want that type of drinker, but loosening up with a few cocktails and flirting is good stuff. Pencil skirts, stockings, and some Basil Hayden is a sexy way to spend a night.
6. Spend the entire time telling me about your ex-fiance who called off the wedding after the refund date, and your subsequent rebound relationship with the emotional abuser whom you fell in love with. Oh yeah, and your therapist… he thinks you only like damaged women.
7. Brown shoes with black slacks and black shirt? Really?

This is why dating sucks. This is why dating at MY age sucks. I shouldn’t have gone that night, I should not have said yes. The same hour Impatient Eater emailed me about dinner, Type Geek texted me about the offer his bosses just put in front of him. A Senior VP position. His own office… in San Francisco. Funny, no one ever talks about San Francisco, it never comes up in my life, until it does. The past 5 days have been unbearable as everywhere I turn, the voices say San Francisco. Customers, strangers blocking the sidewalks, new flat mates, fellow bloggers, even the internet. I can’t escape it, I can’t hide from it.

I canceled the rest of my dates for the next couple of weeks and planned a trip to NYC for the September 11th memorial. I was there ten years ago, in my office, watching the television in the boardroom with my colleagues as the second plane hit. Ten years. I want to wander the city alone this weekend and think about who I was and who I am and what it all means.

Reality television.

When MTV’s  The Real World began its edited broadcast of 7 strangers residing together in a house in 1992, it was clear that their actions would leave the world of televised entertainment changed forever.  The intimacy, the honesty and the grit were impossible to recreate in small screen fiction, and the viewer addiction was dangerous.

Fast forward 20 years and it’s impossible to click through even a few television channels without landing on a reality show. In fact, the variety has increased to a level where we don’t even think of the shows as being of the “reality” genre – they are just TV now. There are still “sharing a house on camera ” shows like The Real World and Big Brother,  but there are also “get help” shows like Intervention and Hoarders, “warning/encouraging bad behavior” shows like 16 And Pregnant,  as well as animal shows, wedding shows, buying/selling house shows, survival shows and plastic surgery shows. There are even shows with no detectable premise (Keeping up with the Kardashians).The list is endless. Today, it could be said that getting your own reality show is one form of Making It in America.  And if that’s true, maybe this trend has brought one gift to the gay community – a slow yet steady increase in visibility.  Gay reality stars have been making a serious impact on visibility of LGBTQ issues, and maybe even acceptance as they stream into American households every night.

The beginning of this impact can be traced to The Real World’s third season castmate Pedro Zamora. The openly gay and HIV positive Zamora brought LGBTQ issues and AIDS awareness into millions of American homes in the early 90s, a time when we were still not talking about openly about homosexuality and certainly not AIDS.  Diagnosed HIV positive when he was only 17, he auditioned for the cast of the show intentionally to spread more information about AIDS awareness. Zamora passed away from HIV related illness just days after the final episode of the season was broadcast. He was 22.

Unfortunately, not all LGBT representatives can be as admirable as Zamora. Sometimes reality shows reinforce negative stereotypes, like Patti Stanger’s attempt to pair up a gay millionaire on Bravo’s Millionaire Matchmaker (read AfterElton’s POV and AfterEllen’s POV on this episode) or LOGO’s The A-List which features a cast of selected stereotypes of gay men, and, as the Washington Post commented in 2010, doesn’t make a great social study but feels more like depressing voyeurism.

More often in recent years, a reality show might feature participants who just happen to be gay, thereby helping to normalize homosexuality. On TLC’s Baby’s First Day a lesbian couple is featured celebrating the birth of their child.  Gay couples get married on wedding shows or buy houses on house hunting shows. (Look honey! Those gays like bamboo flooring, just like us!”)

We have a revolving door of gay competitors on shows like Project Runway, Top Chef, America’s Next Top Model, The Amazing Race, and even a few on American Idol. These shows do a lot to normalize LGBTQ folks. Their sexual orientation comes second to their design ideas, knife skills, vocal talent or travel smarts. Americans root for them for these talents, and maybe sometimes forget that they aren’t hetero. They aren’t gay chefs or gay models – just chefs and models.

We still don’t have a same-sex couple on the US version of Dancing with the Stars (they do in Israel), which is broadcast into 10 millions homes a week, but the cast might be ready for it.

The popularity of reality TV shows might be a result of a lack of creativity of TV execs, our own creepy desire to peer into someone else’s lives, or our desperate wish to feel better about ourselves by focusing other batty people, but they might also be a subversive tactic in the LGBTQ fight for normalcy.

What are the best and worst representations you have seen of LGBTQ folks on reality TV?

The first thing he did when I arrived at the café was offer me 5 different types of candy. Candy?! Maybe some people would consider that endearing, but it turned me off. I don’t want to date teenagers at 36; I want to date men. So, beyond the candy, what I found out next was that he was a workaholic for the wrong reasons, money and status. He mentioned twice that his jeans cost over $500. Let’s call him $500 Jean Guy. At 32, he had two divorces behind him, one wedding that cost him $80,000, which he felt relevant to tell me. The other, the most recent, resulted in his 4-year-old daughter and a contemptuous relationship with her mother, a woman, whom he informed me, before our first cocktail, within 20 minutes of meeting, that she was bipolar and abusive and that she is costing him enough money to afford her nice tropical vacations. All this before a cocktail!

Shortly after that admission we wandered out of the for some drinks and oysters. I needed a cocktail the way this was headed. We finally made out way into a little place in Harvard Square, and given a corner booth, he proceeded to sit a little too closely, keep offering me candy, telling me to look at him and slurping his oysters with sound effects. Eww. I like oysters, love them in fact, but you are supposed to let them slide down, not slurp slurp suck. Eww, as I write this I suddenly imagine that he probably has sound gross effects during oral sex. Eww.

We finished up at that restaurant and I found myself unnerved and in need of another cocktail to deal with him, so we wander to my local go to and sit at the bar. My date-saving waitress comes by and helps distract several times. The bartender offers great drinks, and a shot. The $500 Jean Guy? Well, he starts sniffing me, telling me that I smell sweet, like candy, and then asks me if I think he smells nice. I never ask a date this, I just assume I do. If they don’t like my parfum, they won’t go out with me again. I give big eyes to my waitress friend, who “happens to need to talk to the bartender” and $500 Jean Guy then proceeds to tell her how nice I smell, and how I smell like candy. Suddenly a co-worker of mine appears after spotting me from across the bar and he tells her too… how I smell like candy, as he starts to eat from his bag of candy he bought earlier this evening.

He walks with me for a bit until our paths, luckily, part, and then proceeds to text me and let me know that when I am over my ex and ready for something less than casual, that I can call him. He also informs me that I should have kissed him. No, no, really. Ok, umm, he was weird. Creepy weird. Something also reminded me of Brooklyn , maybe it was a similar body build, facial thing, propensity to just stare at me weirdly. When I met Brooklyn, I thought it was flattering; in retrospect, once I really got to know Brooklyn, from beginning to end, his intensity towards me was just uncomfortable and weird. How many times did I just say weird? I can’t help it because weird, creepy, and unnerving are the only words that match.

So, what does any frustrated girl do after such a date? She walks past the 24 hour grocery store and buys two different types of ice cream, because she can’t decide: cheesecake bites, raisin toast, yogurt raisins and cereal. I rarely buy any of those items. My heart wanted sugar and carbs to usher in the Hurricane that was coming.

So, I spent Saturday in torrential rain pours, feet soaked, dog soaked, body swollen from carb overload and heart heavy from missing TypeGeek. I had texted him throughout the day to remind him of things to do, just in case, like garage his car, secure any plants in pots outside, watch for odd behavior from his cat, etc. At one point, after he mentioned that he was at a party, I mentioned that I was drinking cab and eating pâté, and potentially by the 3rd glass, I would probably be thinking inappropriately naughty things about him.

He responded with a … “pâté, ewww, gross”.

I made fun of him, told him he was 4 and mentioned that I find it funny how he can eat the muscles but not the organs. He came back with a ,”still gross”.

To which I playfully remarked… ” lucky for you , I never had an issue putting organs in my mouth “.

Silence for a bit, and then “yeah, that’s very nice”.

“I would take TypeGeek over Country Pork any day”, I retorted.

“I’d take a blowjob any day over pâté” TypeGeek said

and so… I responded that ” all you ever need to do is ask”

With that comment said, I went silent for the rest of the evening. We then texted a bit on Sunday as he sneered at the lack of impact the storm had on his neighborhood, while I tried to get the 8 feet of fence that fell in my yard to stand back up and told him to shut it. Then for about 5 minutes on Monday. It’s no mystery or great secret that I want Type Geek and I don’t want to walk away. It’s also no great secret that he doesn’t really want me to go away, or he would not engage in conversations with me about oral sex. I want him back in my bed by his birthday. Sigh.

Meanwhile, I conversed with a couple of men on OkCupid, I didn’t sit and dwell and mope. I also touched base with my friend on Google+ who is going through a divorce after far too many years, and my old Kiwi friend who needs girl advice because he has met someone who sends him ass over tea kettle. It’s been a full week. I’m looking forward to a Thursday Night free without any dates or plans. I think I need a little time with just my dog, my bed and a book. Hope you all made it through the storm safely. Speak to you soon!

Last week, I went on one first date. This gentleman, the Legal Design Guy, doesn’t know my ex like I thought he might (thankfully. he was getting into the music school as Type Geek was leaving.) Also, it turns out he knows a circle of people who I know, who also don’t know Type Geek. So we had oysters, we had drinks, we had pâté and confit and more drinks. Conversation was fine, but it felt more friend than anything. There is something slightly smarmy that I can’t get past, that I don’t find sexy. I can’t pin point it exactly, but it’s there.

Remember my Jewish Sex God from the very beginning? The one who ushered me into the folds? Well, we were having a conversation the other night, our friendship never really being the same since my trip to visit him that weekend. In the course of the dialogue he mentions that we had no sexual connection and proceeded to tell me why. Now, it’s fine that he didn’t feel a connection to me, but it isn’t fine that he decided to tell me that my being nervous at the reality of having sex with a well endowed man after 12 years of non-penetrative lesbian sex translated into being a horrible lay who he felt ashamed to touch. WHAT? Yeah, so, he said that I was largely unresponsive — behaving as a victim of sexual abuse does — because I didn’t make much noise, because I didn’t show him how much I was enjoying sex with him. That I was too inside myself and didn’t give much to my partner, that he felt awful continuing to touch me because he felt that I must have been abused because I seemed to be in another place. Ok, once again, WHAT? Again, 12 years…non penetrative lesbian… flies to Seattle to have weekend sex romp with well endowed male friend… maybe, just MAYBE, I was nervous and shy and insecure about the entire thing?! What a dick, and I am NOT talking about his dick. I felt shitty afterwards, so I ended up emailing Type Geek for his take on my sexual style and he confirmed that Seattle is a DICK, and that I should NEVER give another thought to it, because I was obviously nervous and that he had zero concerns with my style. Thank you Type Geek. Grrr, Seattle. Seattle had no idea why I was angry, which at first I wasn’t. After I thought about it though, that is when I started to get angry, and offended.

So, yeah, Type Geek, we have texted. I apologized to him for not being able to pretend I don’t care and just cut ties. I’m not done with him. I can’t shake that a huge part of me believes that our story hasn’t ended yet. It’s just not our time. But, I want it to be. I know I can’t rush it, but I want to. I want the life with him that I know we can have, but he doesn’t have enough balls yet to have faith, to let go, to grasp something unknown, rather than his own fear. He needs time, he needs some self work, and I just need to live my life, which includes dating other people, while he does his work. Someday I will try again.

If you all think I am foolish, honestly, fuck you. I’m not on this journey for any of you, for how you would do it. It isn’t a choose your own adventure, and you don’t have the right to be angry at the roads I choose to take, because they are different from the paths and methods you would. This is MY story, and when I am laying in my final hours, I owe explanations to only my heart and the hearts of those I have chosen to embrace into my own. I thank you all for reading, for getting involved and attached and relating, but in the end, this story is uniquely my own and I have no regrets about how I am living it and loving through it, even if that means I am just filling the spaces between Type Geek. Even if that means I am frustrating the hell out of my readers.

Because of the deep connection I feel with the music I love it takes me a very long time to want to share these songs with a boyfriend. I am only able to put a song that broke my heart on display if it’s someone I plan to be with for a long time. Someone who has already glimpsed into my canyons and valleys. Someone that has stuck around long enough in my sunlight that they’ve grown familiar with my shadows, too.

I can recall so many first dates when I was held hostage before a boy’s stereo. I was forced against my will to endure his grocery list of cool songs that he “just knew I was going to love”. Almost every time P.J. Harvey was involved. I’m still not touched by her music.

Long before I knew these boy’s parents, life stories, shoe sizes, or favorite sexual positions I knew what music we’d be listening to if we took a long car trip. Most uncomfortable is the moment after a song is played when he looks at me and wants a reaction. I’m a deer in an audio headlight. I don’t really hate any music. I am just indifferent to music that hasn’t grabbed me and touched me. During a game of music show and tell I’m too self-conscious to channel the vulnerability necessary to be moved by a song. Better to make me a mix CD that I can listen to in my room alone with the lights off. I still may be unmoved…but at least I can invest myself without an obligatory reaction.

I have no idea why I like the musicians I like. I have no idea why I love Sonic Youth but not the Smiths. I have no idea why I love Mariah but not Whitney. Who knows why Madonna is my girl by Kylie and Robyn bore me. I could easily date a guy who plays “Body Talk” on his stereo nonstop. I couldn’t date a guy who expects me to love or understand “Body Talk” the same way he does. Nor would I ever expect him to see the same beauty in Kate Bush’s “The Dreaming” that I do.

If I’m going to have something rammed down my throat on a first date, I prefer it not to be a boy’s music.

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I read a lot about human evolution, specifically how our ancestors evolved into modern humans and how we determine the dividing point between animals and humans. Some say the change came when our ancestors began to create art, others say when they formed family structures and began supporting the adults and children within those structures.

We often think about species of the past, such as the Neanderthals, as being so extremely far removed from our modern, advanced species. They did go extinct, after all. We picture hulking, stooping beasts, dragging women around by the hair, swinging clubs, void of advanced intellect. We imagine that they were did not survive because they could not evolve and adapt like Homo sapiens – they could not modernize. We actually know better than that Hollywood dramatized image of stupid cave-dwellers now. We know that Neanderthals were much like us, so much so that there is genetic proof that some of our ancestors interacted and bred with them.

I was shocked to learn that many modern day humans have Neanderthal DNA (although I found it somewhat humorous that the only ethnic group that didn’t interbreed with Neanderthals are peoples descended from Africa, people who had suffered from generations of unfair accusations of being “less modern” or “more primitive” which was largely at the root of slavery in the United States.) But, what I was more shocked to think about is how even in our modern society there is this constant steam of political and social issues that reflect a prehistoric attitude. I cannot understand how some of these beliefs have not been left in the dust with our Neanderthal cousins – like the discussion about whether or not women can make their own decisions.

Apparently Michelle Bachman can’t – or perhaps chooses not to. She said in 2006 that her husband told her to get a degree in tax law, even though she didn’t want to, and then to run for Congress, and she had to do it. He’s her husband and she should be submissive. This is a woman who wants to be President of the United States, but believes its her duty to be submissive to her husband. Sooo…why isn’t he running for President?

Also reactions to the new test that can determine the sex of an unborn baby at 7 weeks. People are seriously acting like this new test will cause women to abort babies left and right because they aren’t happy with the sex of this child – so we shouldn’t allow this test because it will cause women to go abortion crazy. A woman who wants to have a child will have a child regardless of sex, and a woman who does not want to have a child would terminate regardless of sex. These people are pretending that the new test doesn’t have an advantage in finding sex-linked diseases. In places like China or India, where often having a girl child is unfavorable – the test won’t make a difference. That child will be a girl or a boy at 7 weeks, 12 weeks and 30 weeks.

Presidential hopeful and overall jackass Rick Perry passed the law that required doctors to show a woman a sonogram and make her listen to her babies heart beat before obtaining an abortion, as thought women who are making the difficult decision of abortion doesn’t know what’s going on inside her body. Some how the state governor knows better than she does whether or not she wants to carry her baby to term.

How is it possible that attitudes like this continue to exist in our “modern” society? Primitive thoughts and behaviors that perpetuate a belief that women cannot think for themselves, cannot make their own decisions, must be submissive to their husbands and on and on, are beyond our worst creative renderings of the uncivilized Neanderthals. Maybe that 1-4% of Neanderthal blood is keeping us in the past, or maybe they understood equality better than some Americans do. Its hard to tell which.

We remember when it was more common to frame women as helpless and men as caretakers, like in this commercial from a bygone era, but times have changed…right?

Me and some of the musicians that performed at Easton Mountain

Terrified. I was terrified to leave my apartment, to leave my city, and to leave my state. A thousand miles away I was being waited for on top of a mountain. I was not friends in real life with anybody that was going to be on that mountain. I left Tampa with myself, my music, and a circulatory system charged with anxiety.

I was one of the performers scheduled at “Out In The Woods”, a two day fest of LGBT performers taking place on Easton Mountain, a queer spiritualist retreat an hour north of Albany. All of the names on the bill were familiar to me. Heavy hitters. Legends. Some of them I’d been emailing for years.

I boarded my flight sour-pussed and finicky. A thousand worst-case scenarios zigzagged through my head. I am secure about my music performance. I don’t get stage fright. It’s what happens before and after the performances that terrify me. What if no one talks to me? What if I get on everyone’s nerves? What if everyone gets on my nerves?

A three hour layover in Philly left me in a food court full of tired and weather-worn Northerners. No one smiled. I sent a dozen texts to a dozen people. I wanted company. My Sbarro pizza was lukewarm and the person I hoped would text back the most didn’t. Color me sour.

As I boarded my plane to Albany I longed for the safety and seclusion of my warm bed. There’s no danger in seclusion. There’s no risk in hibernation.

The Albany airport was eerie and quiet. It was 10 PM and the shops were closed. My Albany snow globe and Snickers would have to wait. I waited for my ride.

Sean picked me up. Sean was a conversational redhead with a thorough knowledge of Albany’s history. This introduction to Albany was friendly and smooth and I knew I was in good hands. I was taken through downtown and enchanted by the historical tales of a quiet and beautiful city.

Upon entering Sean’s apartment I knew I was on safe ground. I was introduced to the other house guest – legendary queer music historian J.D. Doyle. The night’s conversation was varied and fulfilling. In Tampa there is no one to share my thoughts on queer music with. To uncage this interest with other people interested in the same thing was a liberation. If sleep weren’t a necessity the conversation may have never ended.

Early the next morning I was to meet festival organizer Stephen Sims at 9am. Would the hour car ride to the mountain be awkward? Walking into Stephen’s house I felt a coziness that had nothing to do with temperature. Not only was Stephen warm and accommodating – his house guests (fellow out-artist Norine Braun and her partner Alice) were an immediate delight.

The drive into the country was serene. As memories of my childhood in Western New York emerged a surge of regret and nostalgia came and went. As a teenager I recalled driving on similar roads under similar skies. I ran from those northern skies years ago.

The final stretch of road before reaching Easton Mountain is not paved. My cell phone reception was becoming dodgy and I knew I was at the mercy of the mountain. To endure the next 48 hours meant releasing all control of my life and letting the moments take me where they may. I was a willing prisoner of fate.

The first two hours at Easton were a whirlwind of introductions. Within 120 minutes I’d matched a half dozen faces with names I’d known for years. Tom Goss. Terry Christopher. Roger Kuhn. Scott Free. John Small. Morry Campbell.

Over the next few hours I heard possibly the best live queer music I’d ever heard in my life. Each artist was different. Each artist was emotional. In addition to everyone I already mentioned Sister Funk and Jeremy James also performed. There was no ego on the mountain. A supportive harmony between the artists presided. These artists cheered each other on and there was no sense of competition.

Night one wrapped with a mystical campfire underneath a full moon. A dozen queer voices known for their separate bodies of work united to sing sloppy and spirited cover tunes. Under a moody midnight northern sky we became one loud boisterous queer voice. Stevie Nicks could you hear us?

Day two unfurled another powerhouse lineup. Dan Manjovi. Arjuna Greist. Robert Urban. Lucas Mire. Susan Souza. And I played too.

We ate one final dinner together before we had to leave. I looked out the window at the peak of the mountain and the beautiful pond beneath it. I was reminded of the other times over the last few years I traveled alone and found myself enjoying a memorable view. Like the one outside of my hostel in San Francisco in 2009. Or the view of the sky from the Nancy Drew cruise I took alone in 2010.

I made a vow to myself at that moment to never fear again. I promised myself I’d never be enslaved by the shackles of my comfort zone again. I’ve never left my safety net and not come home with new friends. What if I’d let my fear and anxiety preside? A part of my world from that weekend on will always live at Easton Mountain.

I arrived at Easton Mountain a stranger and went home a member of a strong and vital family. I’m homesick already.

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Follow Student Driver, a life-long lesbian-identified woman as she dabbles in the world of heterosexuality, in the syndicated ladysex column “Learning To Drive Stick.”

I had a date last week. Meh. I mean, what do you say? I’m trying to avoid sitting at home and feeling badly for myself. Type Geek has to do some serious personal work, and I can’t help him with that. So, in the meantime, it is either go to Babes in Toyland and buy yet another vibrator OR start dating again. While option A may sound like the preferable one, I get desensitized too quickly with mechanical vibration and then when I have sex with a human, it’s almost impossible for me to get off. This much I have learned at my ripe old age of 36.

Last week was a 44 year old dad of two girls. Career-less and figuring things out, he’s okay, but I find drive to be a turn on, and nothing really DRIVES this one. We drank a few cocktails, had a few appetizers and watched an over-hyped “riot” in Harvard Square. A couple boys got into a fight, and because it was a group of kids, word spread of riots. Hardly.

This week, a 38 year old graphic designer that works in the legal sector. I don’t know much about him except that he and Type Geek went to music school at the same time, so I worry they may know each other in that way that former classmates do. We are meeting for oysters on Thursday or Friday night of this week, when the “end of days” rains cease.

I’m not rushing into anything, because I am not looking for a relationship. I stated clearly to each of these men that I just left something very meaningful to me and that I am not looking for a rebound relationship, but merely some casual dating and fun. I think 40′s Dad is looking for a relationship though. He sounds ready for more in his romantic life. He also sounds like he attaches quickly and easily. He may be a dangerous one to play around with, aside from my not being particularly attracted to him, I don’t want to hurt anyone.

Meanwhile, Type Geek… hmm. I miss him. Honestly, every moment. I can only work with the cards I have been dealt and at this time, he isn’t in my deck, maybe someday the cards will reshuffle, but now, what can I do? Only what I am.

I’ve learned how to put my desperation on mute. I tuck it behind my eyes. I’ve gotten so skillful at hiding my desperation that quite often I even hide it from myself. Perhaps it’s in remission.

Late lonely nights when I turn off the computer, fall onto my bed, and give my mind a break from the everyday noise, I realize that hunger is still there. The hunger to be held. The hunger to be understood. The hunger to connect. And I never do.

It’s so out of fashion to say it aloud. To stand on a mountaintop and scream at the top of your lungs “Goddamnit I want so desperately for someone to fucking love me.” These are the kind of things you are never supposed to feel. And if you feel them you aren’t supposed to. Never say it out loud. Neediness equals weakness.

Our society is rampant with slogans tailored to illustrate the point that severely wanting to be loved is bad. We’ve been told our whole lives that the only way to find love is to not want it, to not need it, and to not look for it.

“If you aren’t looking…you will find it.”
“You should love yourself before you can ever love someone else…”
“The best things come to those who wait…”

Abiding by those rules I’ve gotten it wrong my entire life. I’ve never stopped looking. I love myself a lot and am fully capable of loving someone else. And I’ve waited. And waited. And waited. It doesn’t click. I love men that don’t love me.

It’s easy to dismiss me with a quick retort suggesting I’m psychologically off, and my defense mechanisms draw me towards men who don’t love me because I don’t love myself. Or because I am afraid of being loved. Perhaps this is the case. But what if it isn’t? What if some people just truly have bad luck? What if some people’s lives are just a series of mishaps and misadventures and near-misses?

The loneliness in me is so severe I stay on my computer until 5 am so I am not left with my own thoughts. I look around me. Most of my friends’ relationships are disasterous. Either they are constantly fighting with their partner or they are broken up about an unhealthy relationship that didn’t work out. This doesn’t make me want love any less.

I am past the portion of my life devoted to broken love. I am not mourning any lost loves. I am not crushing on any new loves. I feel unemotional, void, empty, and unable to even hope about love anymore. But within this white blank numbness still lies this intense urge to connect. For something sensual. For something intense.

Tonight I will go to sleep gapingly open. Tomorrow I will wake up with my defenses on. I will be embarrassed I was vulnerable enough to tell anyone just how much I long to be loved. To admit how lonely I am. I will put on my steely smile and pretend it doesn’t hurt when the adorable boy I had a crush on ignores me. I will pretend it doesn’t sting when I see the boy I adore fighting with his boyfriend he doesn’t really love.

I used to pretend I’m a robot like I’m supposed to. I pretended so long in many ways I’ve become that robot. Except on nights like these…

So here I say out loud the most unacceptable thing possible. I WANT TO BE LOVED. Tonight. Right now. With every fucking cell of my being.

And now the masks go back on.

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I just had sex. There was an awkward silence afterwards. He ran to the bathroom to wash his face. I was hoping he would leave. He was okay in bed but his conversation was grating and simple. I reached for my cell phone to pretend I was texting someone. Saved by the cell again.

I was at a concert. It was one of my favorite artists of all time.  I missed my artist’s grand entrance because I was on my cell phone attempting to tweet about being at the concert. By the time I figured out how to send the tweet the first song was half over. Damn that cell.

I was at work waiting tables. The pretty girl was sitting alone while she awaited the rest of her family to arrive. I approached her to take her drink order. She didn’t notice me. She was on her phone texting someone. Or pretending to text someone. I was avoided by the cell.

I rarely make calls on my cell phone. Looking at my call log I see I have spoken to a human being for over eight days. I realize I have used my phone over seven times in the last week to deflect socially awkward situations.

My phone was once a way to keep in touch with the people in my life. Now it’s a become a tool I use to avoid people who aren’t in my life.

Once I stopped to ponder I realized how many dinners I’d texted through while avoiding the person I was with. More often than not, because of my phone, I am only half present in most of my real life situations. I see the same behavior in almost everyone I know.

Over the past week I’ve forced myself to leave my phone in my pocket. It was a miniscule victory but this time when my friends left me at the club I stood with my hands in my pocket and my head tilted upwards. A stranger smiled at me. I would have never seen his smile if I’d been texting. I got his phone number.

I was at a restaurant waiting for my party to arrive. I was tempted to check an inbox I knew was empty just to avoid the uncomfortable feeling of sitting alone. I kept my phone on the table. I scanned the crowd and got to see an old couple kiss each other. It was a sincere exchange of valid affection. I would have missed it if I’d been on my phone.

Technology has enabled our modern lives to be quick and easy. But how much of our lives are we missing enslaved to these devices? Have they made the technology to rid us of our dependency on our damn cell phones yet?

My cell phone often feels like a ball and chain or a life support. I am trying my best to learn how to breathe without it.

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Photo Credit: ArtisticZen on WikiCommons

Everyone was talking excitedly when you came walking over to the buzzing cluster of girls standing close together near the lockers. You hadn’t had a sleepover with Kim, Sara or Patti since you got bumped into honors English and you all didn’t have the same lunch hour, but you were excited to catch up with them between passing periods. When Kim’s eyes, lit with laughter, caught yours as you approached, she grabbed Patti by the hand. You felt the mood change immediately, but didn’t know what to say. Feeling brave, you just came out with it. “Where you guys talking about me?” They weren’t, they told you truthfully. They weren’t talking about you at all; they were talking about the party that you weren’t invited to.

For most of us, if we ever had to endure this devastating realization, it has been more than a decade since. For me? It happened 2 weeks ago; actually three times this summer. Much to my disappointment, there were no lockers around, but Facebook, email and text messages create that same sort of “girls crowded together giggling” ambiance so much so that I feel like I might have 29-11-82 scrawled on the back of my hand with a purple pen. My best girl friends from high school, who’s changing friendships I have always been glad to hold, have not been shy about mentioning their exciting birthday gatherings that I haven’t been invited to.

I’m aware that things are changing between us as they get married, move out of the city, and settle into serious careers. I know this because I’ve attended their wedding showers, bachelorette parties and weddings. In light of those experiences I’m starting to wonder – if I was following the same path, if I was getting married and moving out to the burbs would our friendships have lasted?

Am I now only a wedding guest, like some botox-faced second cousin in an iridescent dress, and not a best friend, 30th birthday party guest?

Has my non-traditional (gay) life trajectory finally split us up?

I’ve spent a lot of time educating and arguing that queer and straight people are the same: that our love and our relationships and our lifestyles are the same. But now I’m wondering if even my best allies believe that. I feel like I’ve gone back to being “other” after so many years of coming closer to feeling like we were all the same. We have never had a serious conversation about this subject, but once, a couple of years ago, one of my best high school friends said she felt like while I was growing distant with her I seemed to only want to hang out with my “gay friends.” While the implication that I’d choose friends based on who they sleep with is ridiculous, I have to wonder now if as the bonds I share with women who are enjoying marriage, the financial stability of a two person household, and children are stretching and thinning, the bonds I share with those in a situation more similar to mine — that is, connected to our sexual orientation– are strengthening. Are my friendships with queer friends still strong because are lives are staying on a similar path?

Can I still maintain friendships with straight women if I don’t get married, move to the suburbs or have children? Is heteronormativity ruining my friendships?

“Hold me, hold me in your arms
Well, now heal me, heal me with your touch
Your touch keeps me hangin’ on”

–”Hold Me In Your Arms” by the Black Keys

I don’t hug people. It is something that people tend to learn about me rather quickly. Every time someone comes in to hug me, I tense up, unsure of what is going on or how to react. It ends up that most of the time that I either awkwardly accept the fact that I am being hugged or that I do the ‘one-armed half-hug’.

Actually, I distinctly remember one girl flat-out telling me, “I really need to teach you how to hug properly”. She gave me instructions on three different hugs, and the next time she saw me I tried to follow her directions to the letter. “Better”, she said, “though you don’t have to be focus on doing it exactly right”. I smiled slightly, though a bit embarrassed that my mechanical nature to basic human acts had still shone through.

In high school, I would make it well-known that I disliked hugs or any kind of unwarranted invasion of my personal space. The underclassmen that were so fond of running up and giving hugs were quelled from these actions by my promises of physical harm and/or death. I eventually relented somewhat and let them pet me on the shoulder… but not before first asking if it was okay. For the most part, I would greet my friends by ruffling their hair or with a near-punch done in surprise attack. When I got to college, the approach changed to surprise raptor attacks, but at least I no longer threatened people if they tried to hug me.

My dislike of hugs has taken a new turn the past couple of years. No longer can my discomfort be strictly pinned on my life-long reluctance towards physical contact. It has definitely become a dysphoria issue at this point.

The fact of the matter is that I haven’t had chest surgery and probably won’t be able to for at least 3 or 5 years. Try as I might with layering, binding, etc… the chest exists. I can cover it up as best as I can, but I am hyper-aware that they can be felt when someone hugs me… or at least that’s what I worry. I also worry that it prevents the other person from really just thinking of me as just a guy with no adjective in front of that word (and no unwelcome flesh in front of me). Doesn’t matter who it is hugging me, the person could be queer, straight, cis, trans, whatever; it is always a concern in floating around in my head.

The queer community is a very affectionate one. As opposed to my experiences with cis and straight spaces, queer spaces are filled with a lot of kissing, hugging, and other friendly touches. It was quite a surprise to meet adults who would physically embrace me while still an acquaintance. The first time I met this one person at college the day I moved into the dorms, she hugged me while wearing only a bra and pants. It does make you feel welcome; but when you hate your body, being that close to a new person can be rather jarring. I am still trying to figure out how to handle this as well as my own bodily malcontent. At least I have a few more years to sort it all out, if you want to try to spin it positively. Damn, this sucks.

To me, more specifically, Scheduling Is Everything – but I’ll discuss BDSM in general rather than get to the nitty-gritty of my personal life.

I’m a big believer in the 10-Minute Rule.  What I mean by this is that, in most cases, it’s best to do one particular activity (for example: spanking, nipple torture, electro play, etc.) and then move on to another one.  Give or take 10-minutes, depending on how the parties involved favor individual activities.  When it comes to extreme favorites and number one fetishes, then that length of time should be obviously extended – go for 20 minutes, a half hour, or even an hour or more on one activity if the time and passion are present.

If you’re trying something out, something new you’re not sure you and/or your partner will enjoy, it’s best to start out on that activity using a 2 or 3-minute time frame.  That gives you just enough time to say “yes, we did it and we tried it thoroughly,” allowing sensations to sink in and psychologically process without overdoing it to the point of someone getting bored, grossed out, or hurt by an unfavorable activity.  If you end up loving an activity, then you can continue along with it.

In my opinion, the dependable and safe amount of time for favored individual BDSM activities is 10 minutes each unless the submissive requests otherwise.  It’s just enough time to dive into an individual scene completely but not enough time to allow redundancy or boredom.

Often times, with bondage slaves, their eyes are bigger than their stomaches in the sense that they think (in their fantasies) that they can handle a certain kind of scene longer than they actually can.  For example, hearing a slave say that they want to be kept in a dog cage for an entire day should be taken with an extreme grain of salt.  A slave may insist “Really! I really want to be kept in a cage for 24 hours! I know that I’d love it and I know that I can handle it!” but then, after 15 minutes, they realize that the sitting or knealing in cramped conditions causes — you guessed it — cramps.  Or whatever.  Every once in a while, I’ll give someone exactly what they asked for just to prove that they don’t truly want it.  As a Dom, it’s part of my job to be a dick sometimes.

Rather than getting frustrated with some slaves, I’m at the point where I usually know how to translate their verbalized desires into realistic scenes.  Like everything else in life, if something sounds exaggerated and unrealistic, it probably is.  The same rule applies to BDSM timing.  If the slave says that they want to kept in a dog cage for an entire day, I immediately translate that to 25 minutes.  If they can go for an hour or two, then I’m definitely impressed.  We take it as it goes.  Needless to say, you must check in on your slave at intervals as the scene continues along.  Leaving them completely alone, in bondage, is a big fat NO and completely out of the question.

The perfect length for a full out, full meal BDSM session is anywhere from 1 to 3 hours, going from scene to scene, activity to activity.  It all depends on who you’re sessioning with.  There are some slaves who love a quick, 45-minute blast of S&M and that’s that for them for the day.  Other slaves can handle 5 hour sessions without blinking.  Everyone is different.

Here’s something to take with you….

If you’re a typical guy or gal and you’re into BDSM and your partner is into BDSM and they want to do some bondage play with you but they’re being coy and unspecific about what they want to do and how they want to go about it, just fall back on this:

An hour or so of play time and, when in doubt, indulging in one activity for about 10 minutes before moving on to another activity.  That’s safe and no one will argue with you for that.  Adjust the time lengths accordingly depending on your favorites and the favorites of your partner.  There you go.

Should you watch the clock?  Should you be overly invested in time management during what is supposed to be free-wheeling fun?

No, of course not.  You can feel time without looking at numbers.  You just go with what feels right, natural, and hot.  That’s all that there is to it.  However, it’s best not to linger or get frozen in particular activities to the point where it’s feeling stale or someone is getting sore.  When in doubt, leave them wanting more.  Or requesting more, for that matter.

But if you need to fall back on anything having to do with pacing a bondage session and you’re not sure what to do or how to progress a scene with your partner, relying on around 10 minutes (or less) per activity is a reasonable bet.  Be sure to try out new things and always play safe.

I realize that this is the most generalized timing approach to BDSM, but it’s a good foundation to adjust according to your liking.  S&M kinksters, especially those starting out, can get easily flustered by pacing issues with new play partners and this is meant to help you out a little.

Type Geek expected mayhem, anger and accusations. He assumed the worst, and it proved in the end that he really doesn’t know me. I told him that the last 14 months have been an example of his ordering the entree and only eating the garnish. He never took a bite of the main dish, only looked at it, pushed it around with his fork, and decided that it would cause him indigestion. You see, it never was about me, any of it.

Trying to love someone who doesn’t love themselves, who doesn’t trust themselves, and who is an eternal pessimist at their core -well, it’s pretty tricky and apparently doesn’t usually succeed. It is  impossible to show them how worthy they are; they need to find it and feel it in themselves.  He told me a story of himself as a child, to illustrate how long he has been this way. I explained that at some point we do have the power to make positive changes to our thinking patterns; that I was a very angry teenager and into my 20s; that it took a lot of work, and sometimes falling back into old patterns, but eventually I was able to look at things and see the positive in life, see how anger was affecting me and limiting me and shutting me off.

He told me that everything ends, and usually badly. That he hasn’t seen examples of it working, of there not being heartbreak, of him not being the cause.  Boy with a fragile sense of self enters the dating world and is eaten alive. Now, at 39, he is so deeply imbedded in a pattern of belief that everything he touches, everyone he touches, will break. How do you convince someone otherwise? How do you hold someone’s hand and show them that they deserve to not be alone? That they deserve to let someone in and be loved? How do you do that, when they don’t believe in their core self that they are worthy of any love and that if anyone does seem to love them, surely they must be fooled?

We had 5 hours of intense, heart-felt conversation. He teared up, I teared up. I told him some things that he missed while he was pushing me away, things I had told him but he hadn’t heard above his own inner chatter. He apologized deeply, as he realized that he really dropped the ball more than a few times. What it came down to is that his disordered thinking, his disordered sense of self, his belief that he isn’t worthy of anyone’s love and respect because everyone is being fooled and eventually everyone will realize who he really is and then it will all explode – all of THIS is what is standing between he and I. Looking into his eyes and telling him how wonderful he is and forcing him to look back at me as I told him what I saw in him, the level of disbelief in his own eyes, the degree to which he can’t see how amazing and loveable he is – that is what is heartbreaking.

I asked him, what does he have left, if tomorrow the career were to end? “Nothing” he said. He has nothing outside of work. Friendships have been kept at a distance, mostly built through his colleagues. He has his cat. I told him that it truly doesn’t need to be that way. That letting people in doesn’t have to result in destruction, yet he has only ever walked away feeling destroyed each time he has let someone in.  But he has the best of intentions, when he begins. He just can’t do it.

My flatmate came home and we moved our conversation to the bedroom. Later in the evening I looked up at him and asked me if he would be with me one last time. I felt so connected to him at that moment, I just wanted to hold on to it. He wouldn’t look at me, instead mumbling that he didn’t think it was a good idea. I asked him to look at me and repeated my question, asking if he wanted to be with me one last time. He said yes. We had an intensely passionate last few hours, we held each other tightly afterwards and slept for an hour, curled into each other, hands touching. In my hallway, we hugged. Longer and tighter and with more emotion than I have ever felt from him. He thanked me for everything. I told him that while I knew he wouldn’t, he knew where to find me, if ever…

Last night was the most senseless loss I have ever experienced. All because one little boy grew up thinking he was inherently not worth loving. If any of you have kids, please, love them. Let them know that they deserve it and that they are wonderful and unique and amazing. Otherwise, at 39, they may not be able to let people in, even those who are patient and love them beyond words and actions.

Before someone got the chance to know me I warned them about everything awful I was going to do and I filled them in on the childhood trauma I was using as an excuse for that action. Long before I let someone know my favorite soda, what I liked on my pizza, and what my favorite Joni Mitchell song was, I let them know each of my defense mechanisms and what all of my flaws are.

With the trap door flying open on all my discrepancies, it’s no surprise not many stuck around for the pizza.

But after eating a lot of pepperoni and mushroom slices alone I had time to reconsider my approach. I was mishandling my openness as a means to distract from my lack of confidence. By showing all of my supposed warts first I saved myself from the terror that I’d eventually be “found out.” By laying my inner-craziness out on the table I felt that if someone could accept THAT there’s no way they’d ever leave me!

The truth is we are all crazy. We’ve all had bad stuff happen to us. Oft times conversations about trauma turn into a competition over who went through the worst shit. “If you think THAT’s bad listen to THIS!”

All of us has a part of us that is jealous, that has defense mechanisms, and that is capable of doing some fucked up shit. I used to keep all my syndicated hardships close at hand to be used as excuse for crappy behavior. I used to get insanely jealous of my boyfriends and I would blame my crazy behavior on a relationship that had dissolved fifteen years earlier. I was using what happened many yesterdays ago to justify my being an asshole today.

To burden a prospective partner with all of our crazies isn’t indicating self-awareness; it’s simply making a horrible first impression.

I no longer lay my flaws out for anyone to see. In doing that it distracted someone from getting to know the good things about me. The kind of pizza I like is just as important as the jealousy issues I need to work on within myself. I hope my boyfriends will share pizza with me but I will try my damnest to never let him share in my jealousy. That’s on me, not him

And the truth is, if your partner loves sharing pizza with you, and watching TV, your sense of humor, and all of the golden things they’ve gotten to know about you then they will stick around to work through the bad stuff if it eventually emerges.

That’s the beauty of an established relationship: when the weather gets cloudy you have the bond to work your way through the storm. I used to force people’s heads into my clouds before they go the chance to enjoy my sun.

You don’t have to hide or expose your inner-crazy. Let it be. Maybe you aren’t as crazy as you’ve convinced yourself that you are. You don’t have to hide or expose your flaws. Those flaws are just part one small part of the huge quilt that is your being.

By focusing on the ugliest patch of your quilt you aren’t allowing someone the time to appreciate the beauty of the entire blanket.

My hair will never be long again, but don’t expect me to put a spotlight on my bald spot on the first date. How do you feel about green olives on your pizza?

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A night out with my friends

I don’t ever want to grow up. Thankfully because I am gay I’m allowed a longer lease on my youth.

I am 36 years old. I still have rock star posters on my wall. I love my stuffed animals. I go out and dance three nights a week. I leave my house at one am. I wait tables and love it. Many of my habits haven’t changed since I was eighteen.

My friends Michelle and Jessica were recently talking to a forty year old girl they knew. Distastefully they chastised the girl for being forty, unmarried, and still going to clubs. “People shouldn’t be going to clubs when they are over forty!”

“Ladies,” I replied. “I plan on still tearing up the dance floor when I’m sixty.”

“It’s different,” they said. “You are gay.”

Michelle and Jessica reaffirmed what I already knew. As a gay man I am relieved of the expectation of having to raise a family, move to the ‘burbs, and lose my soul after twenty nine. Homo say what?

Many things have changed since I was 18. I am much more mature with conflict resolution. Years of soul searching has made me more self aware and more genuine. I find myself to be more insightful than I was in my teen years. Personal growth aside, if one were to view my daily schedule on paper…not much has changed! Many of my gay friends in my age bracket are in the same boat. Without biological clocks ticking in our gay ears do we allow ourselves to feel young longer without the straight guilt?

I don’t drink. I am not enslaved to a chemical dependency. I just love pounding my thirty six year old feet on the dance floor with a big smile on my face. For years I’ve mourned my single life. Perhaps these are the years I still should be enjoying it.

I see many of my gay friends settling down once they are in their mid forties. Perhaps for straight people adolescence ends at twenty one and for gay men it ends at forty five.

I plan on enjoying my gaydolescence while it lasts.

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