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May 17th, Two Thousand Four: Fried, with catch up
This is going to be one of those completely crazy, jam-packed
weeks. Between today and tomorrow night, I need to update SL (including
a gallery from my friend Jaime Carrera, whose work is SO fabulous
-- take a little look at this series about gay male stero/archetypes, for instance), scrub the house,
get another afternoon of trench-digging in (if it isn't raining),
put in orders for some building repairs, do my level best to finish
the sexual orientation/identity chapter of the book, pay bills,
send out invoices and pack a bag for Milwaukee and make lunches
and snacks for the trip. I've already edited a small set of The
Girl and I from the weekend and gotten that up for patrons and
handled the morning's email and phone calls.
As for the rest of the week, I'm hoping that I can get some writing
done on the road with the laptop: some fiction work on spec for
another publisher and a start on a freelance article for the local
alt weekly here. What I can't do while we're driving, I'll need
to finish up here Thursday night and Friday, and hopefully have
yet one more chapter of the book tackled by week's end, perhaps
even one of the chaps I've been putting off. It's the pregnancy
and gender chaps that keep finding their way to the bottom of
the to do pile: they're just both so damned tricky, and my take
in both areas is such that no one camp is going to love me to
bits over the way I approach them.
The weekend will see more of same, as well as more shooting and
photoediting if I can figure out what the fuck is wrong with my
remote this time, and hopefully with a boxing session wedged in
there somehow. I also need to try and budget and fit in a hair
appointment: I haven't had a trim since February. I stopped coloring
the base of it last year to let my greys grow in, and in summer,
when I end up bleaching out really blonde from being outside all
the time I don't bother screwing with color at all usually, but
I still like to have a few streaks and highlights to keep me from
looking like a total hippie. Haven't had those in months and months
either. Some sleep'd be nice too. Last night I went to bed good
and early, and my body and mind are most appreciative. It'd also
be really great if next Sunday afternoon I could get SOME real
downtime. I don't feel like I got very much of it this weekend,
unfortunately.
I'm often spread os thin that I'm used to feeling overextended
and frazzled, but it's been worse lately. The other night, the
Girl needed to wake me from a nightmare I was tossing around and
yelping about, in which I was being held down by this mean woman.
The way she had me pinned, behind me, holding my back to her chest,
I couldn't do shit about it to get out: I tried biting, kicking,
clocking her with the back of my head, wiggling out: nothing worked.
It totally sucked, especially given how symptomatic it is of how
I feel at times lately: overpowered and helpless. Don't care for
being reminded of that overmuch. Which is why today's entry is
going to be on the short side: I need to do the best I can to
use my worktime as efficiently as possible right now. When I do
a good job of that, I have those feelings far less often.
I said to myself some time back that I wasn't going to do portraits
of, or shoot portraits with, real-life lovers anymore, for a multitude
of reasons too long to list entire here. primarily, it's issues
of privacy, for myself and them, of protection (for them), and
as a means of avoiding something I've found really uncomfortable
in terms of a sizable public developing not just investment in
my relationships, but either feeling a part of them, or bringing
their own views to them, especially based on visual perception.
That'd be a big part of why The Girl doesn't even have an initial
for a name here yet, and may never.
I'll give you that I can be somewhat overprotective in general
when it comes to people and my artwork. I don't think most people
fully realize that when you participate in artwork in which you're
nude, or are being sexual, or being perceived as sexual, that
it can carry some negative consequences and some uncomfortable
issues. (Mind you, I may be projecting in part: as I've said before,
it is not in my nature to be exhibitionist, so parts of my work
are a real struggle for me sometimes.) So, it's typical for me
to lecture to high heaven before I do work with someone which
is either expressly for public showing, or which they're agreeing
to have publicly shown. Yes, yes, these folks are grownups, but
you know, so am I, and my judgment on whether or not I am down
with skydiving isn't likely to be very sound if I've never done
it before and haven't talked to people who have. So there.
In any event, after lots of time talking about it on and off,
the Girl and I finally decided we can do some work together. I
know by now she really gets what I do, what I'm trying to do,
without being either way too excited I do it (that always yucks
me out and makes me feel weird, the "Oooh, ooh, my lover makes
controversial or naked art, so I'm so hip/progressive/sexually
outré for being involved with her" stuff), or too lassez-faire.
She's heard my schpeal, she's also been an actor and performer
for some years now, and the thing is, my best work is incredibly
personal. I can do good work that isn't nude or sexual, I can
do quality work with strangers or casual acquaintances. But my
very best has my heart in it. What challenges me most in terms
of bringing what I see to others eyes (or ears) is work with people
or things which are very dear and close to my heart, or which
is about myself in a very internal way. That's the stuff where
I can work hardest at showing -- with words or images, but it's
more challenging for me to do visually -- ON the surface what
lies beneath it, what's around it, what the images display, symbolize
or illuminate.
It was good to dip into that for a short while this weekend, and
in a small "Let's test these waters," sort of way. I was reminded,
when working, of how utterly unselfconscious we are around one another, of all the trust that's
there, nearly effortlessly. Of all the good stuff we've got going.
Which if I start to list, will keep me here all day, gleefully
distracted, when I've got a billion things to get started with
and catch up on. |
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May 15th, Two Thousand Four: Somewhere, I have a Xerox of a newspaper, circa about 1930, with
a very bizarre little obituary for my mother's grandfather. The
mini-headline reads something to the effect of "Man, 60, dies shucking corn." The story was, that during a day of work, truckloads of corn
needed to be shucked. Apparently, my great-grandfather didn't
look so good all day that day, but he finished shucking every
last ear before he dropped dead.
That perhaps sounds morbid. Besides the fact that given aspects
of my upbringing, things which seem morbid to others tend to seem
normal to me, I actually like that little story. I like it because
it illustrates a long history of a very intense work ethic in
my family, a real love of hard work. I've said it before, and
I'll say it again: it really is pity I'm Buddhist, because I'd
make one hell of a Protestant.
I lucked out today: I've been hurting for income, and between
being sick, and being stuck at my desk a lot due to working on
the book, I've felt very lethargic. I haven't been able to train
as much as I like because of money and time. My friend Jaime started
dating this fabulous new man over the last couple of weeks, and
last night, as the three of us, as well as Becca and The Girl
were out for dinner and some bowling, he mentioned that he had
a part-time landscaping business. And that the Rugby player he'd
found to help him move boulders and trees and dig trenches this
weekend had finked out, and he was in a massive jam.
Longtime readers know I am an absolute junkie for manual labor.
I did various flavors of it for years. Being able to do hard,
physical work all day, especially outside, always guarantees me
a lapse in my insomnia, a clear head, a healthy body (pity, really,
they don't bill things like Habitat for Humanity work as health
clubs -- more folks would probably do it, and get just as fine
a workout, if not better, than on a climber) and a really good
mood. I have missed doing the farmers markets I did for almost
seven summers straight since I moved here immensely. Given I used
to do that and teach, my body had a total freakout the first two
years I switched to doing web publishing, writing and photography
full-time. The old girl was NOT happy with me for a while there.
So, today, despite being up late in bed with my girl, I very easily
work up at 6:30, washed my face, brushed my teeth, strapped down
my tits, slid into a t-shirt, muckaround pants and sneakers, roped
my hair back, and headed out, even without coffee, an hour later.
I took a long, pleasant walk with my temporary employer over to
the site (stopping for java, because you know, this is still me
here, kids), and from the early morning through early afternoon
I moved trees and boulders, dug trenches to help build a waterfall.
I talked plants and farming. I got to stay moving, outside, in
the spring air, all morning AND make enough cash for a grocery
haul. I walked back home, cold but feeling good, through incredibly
ritzy houses, knowing that's not my life, nor likely will it ever
be, and having no real problem with that inequity, just appreciating
their beauty, and noticing, along the way, all the gardeners and
handymen most responsible FOR that beauty. I'm physically exhausted,
but after a bath, I'm SO ready to grab the laptop, head into the
sunroom, and do some writing before a night with my girl.
Luckily, I get a few more afternoons of this outdoor work this
week, before we head off to Milwaukee for a day or so to go see
Bowie again (my gal is a serious groupie, what can I say?). It
means less time for the book, as I'm hitting crunch time, butcha
know, I'm broke and I need a breather anyway. It means, in a weird
way, honoring a lot of what I come from: hardworking, physically
intense immigrants who, even when the work is hard, put a lot
of import in doing it all, and would probably work just as hard,
even if necessity didn't require it. It's a Zen meditation for
me on things like appreciating what one has, rather than longing
for what one does not or cannot have; on all the small joys we
can find in things, in my own energy and determination to live
my life as I want to, even if I'm limited in that, in getting
by on what I've got. In a good feeling that when I go, I'll probably
go busting my ass to finish my work as well, whatever that is
at the time, and thinking that's a really cool thing. |
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May 13th, Two Thousand Four (#2): My brain cells appear to be on the road to becoming fully functional
again tonight. This is good: I thought this evening would be another
one spent on the couch spaced out and feverish, but looks like
I can at least start writing while on the couch, maybe get a book
chapter done tonight. This'd make me happy.
I discovered the synapses had started firing decently again this
afternoon as I was thinking about pornography and sex work. I
was thinking about it due to a few different conversations and
message board threads lately, one at Scarleteen, another couple
at the feminist community I participate at.
At Scarleteen, a 19-year-old was saying she was thinking about
stripping, largely because she's unemployed, and because she's
"an advocate of sex work." But at the same time, not only was
she not taking some realities of stripping into account, she was
purportedly very offended at friends insisting to her that stripping
was akin to prostitution (and I'd agree that it can be, but I'd
also not attach negative connotations or value judgments to that
as she and her friends were). A big thing was this: it struck
me as odd, kind of rubbed me the wrong way, and it has before,
to hear someone say they're an advocate of sex work, just as a
whole. Because while I'd say I am in some situations, I certainly
would not of others, and my support of that work (and to a far
lesser degree of exclusion, the workers) very much depends on the situation and the environment, just
like it does for any sort of work. And I see the inverse all the
time as well: those who abhor or protest "sex work," but without
any regard for what types, in what environment, with whom, by
whom, where, how or why.
It occurs to me that a lot of the time, people's ideas about sex
work are often largely based in not just what they see or perceive
it to be, but in why THEY wouldn't want to be sex workers. Like
the term "sex work," of course, what one means when one says "sex
worker" is often obtuse, vague or undefined.
I would say that a good 75% of the work I do is sex work. I write
and publish loads of sex information and education, with the intent
of educating. I write and publish erotic fiction and nonfiction,
with the intent of arousing and inspiring, of documenting, providing
entertainment in some situations, and in others (and sometimes
at the same time), awareness and education. I take photographs,
often nude or seminude portraiture, couples photography, gender,
orientation and general sexuality exploration, even headshots;
a good amount of which is often either intended to be -- or even
when not intended, which I know may be perceived as -- erotic
or sexual with the intent of personal expression and exploration,
awareness, arousal, inspiration, spark. I'm not always 100% comfortable
with the work I do, but likely for different reasons than might
be expected. For instance, as was surprising to a friend to discover
the other day, I don't actually like having my photograph taken.
But I know I'm a good model, moreover, a good performance artist
in that context, being my own model usually works best for me
for many projects, and the product of that work, as photographer
and model both, is fulfilling for me; it often achieves what I
intend in terms of the art I'm trying to create. I don't care
for assumptions and perceptions of me because of some of the work
I do, and some of the negative effects that can have on my life
because of how that work doesn't mesh with my culture or community.
I really am not comfortable being the center of controversy, and
I wish I could work in sexuality without that happening a lot
of the time. And my brands of sex work aren't moneymakers, and
being broke sucks. But overall, the sex work I do -- as with any
choices we make about our given work -- is the work I want to
be doing, and feels right for me. It feels like what I should
be doing now.
There is sex work I know I'm not comfortable doing, though, some
of which I've never done, some of which I have before and may
have never been comfortable with, or may once have been but am
not anymore. Live sex work of any kind isn't something that would
work for me or be right for me, even including things like phone
sex. Plenty of forms of sexual or erotic writing (even basic copy)
or photography don't align with my aims, personality, wants or
personal ethics.
It seemed to me that making a list of my own limits, ethics, aims
and wants in regard to sex work might be valuable, just to see
them, and to evaluate what, if anything, I might also be bringing
to whatever ideas or hidden biases I might have towards people
who do other forms of sex work. Really, I'm not drawing any conclusions
nor looking for analysis of my own list here, just putting it
out there as food for thought. It'd be interesting to see others
lists too, including those from people who do no sex work whatsoever,
because I think looking at why not can be interesting and helpful
in discussing issues pertaining to it all, as well as general
sexual values, needs and wants. I find I'm particularly interested
lately in why it is so many are very essentialist about sex work,
in any form, being automatically degrading, violent or dehumanizing
simply because it involves money, no matter what the situation
or exchange AND in how sex is being defined in those assertions
(as in, usually live and only including manual, oral, vaginal
or anal sex, or BDSM). For instance, what is it about sex and
money that makes them such a volatile combination? And why might
my, say, taking a donation for informing someone about how orgasm
works be different (or not) than someone charging and accepting
money for helping bring someone to orgasm? Why do we (if we do)
differentiate between an image of vaginal penetration and a deep-mouthed
kiss?
All that said, here's my current short list of my own limits and personal ethics when it comes to sex work ...
1. I don't want to have any sort of sex with anyone I don't feel
a physical and some form of emotional (though it needn't be romantic)
attraction with, or with someone with whom I simply don't feel
chemistry. And by that, I mean anything I interpret or experience
as sexual, from intimate kissing or massage to vaginal penetration.
I don't want to engage in sex in which there is a one-sided love,
attraction or desire. I don't like doing it, having tried for
numerous reasons several times in my life, and find that even
the attempt leaves me feeling icky.
2. I only want to have sex when I'm in the mood for sex.
3. I don't want anyone else to dictate to me when I should or
should not have sex, or what sex acts I should be engaging in
without communication and negotiation beyond that which is monetary.
4. I don't want sex in my life or my mind to be overtly or solely
influenced by money or basic survival. I don't like money in general,
and I know I associate it with power inequities to a large degree.
So, having gross monetary issues involved in my sex makes me unhappy,
which has shown itself over the years even in discussions about
splitting costs for sexual healthcare, safer sex items, etc. I
don't even ever want wealth or lack thereof to come into play
in who I choose to date or see platonically. I think I can even
safely say that I enjoy my sex toys more than I might because
most of them have been received via exchange for review. This
also factors into another issue, which is that the older I get,
the less I want powerplays of any kind in my sex or my life in
general.
5. I need to be able to know that I can say no to anything at
any time and feel totally assured that will be respected, and
not met with hostility or violence of any kind. I don't want to
have any form of sex where I have to be ready to defend myself
physically, or defend or argue my sexual, creative and/or emotional
limits.
6. I don't want to engage in heterosexual sex (which, IMO, is
not necessarily the same thing as opposite-sex sex). Sounds silly
and obvious, but given the population generally served in a lot
of sex work, it's an issue.
7. I need to feel like the work I do is as beneficial and positive
as possible, with the least capacity to harm all involved, physically,
emotionally and socially, in the microcosm and macrocosm. I need
to feel the work I do is working towards changing, furthering
what I feel are positive sexual dynamics, and reinforcing what
I feel are negative, destructive or limited sexual approaches,
attitudes or dynamics as little as possible.
8. I don't want to have sex during which I'm not as fully present
as I can be, need to tune out, or fake intimacy, interest or pleasure.
I don't want to simulate sex in any way which is outside what
for me is flirting.
9. I don't want to have any kind of sex with anyone who doesn't
at least have a basic level of respect for me, or in situations
in which a lack of respect is tolerated or encouraged.
10. I want to be able to provide all of the relevant things above,
likewise, for anyone directly involved in my sex life and/or consumers/viewers/readers/participants
of my sex work.
(Caveat: as should perhaps be obvious, some forms of sex work
which my list above would toss out in the present day might NOT
be weeded out if the world we lived in was a very different place,
or if certain forms of sex work didn't have expected norms, certain
cultural consequences or patterns or include, either by requirement,
tradition or habit, things listed above which would exclude that
work. Just more food for thought.) |
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May 13th, Two Thousand Four: I know, I know, I'm a big ol' gushmeister lately. But.
Seems like what I've had going the past couple days is either
an eating bad lettuce/spring allergy combo or some kind of flu.
Yesterday, I was totally useless. I was a lethargic, feverish,
blarghy, whiny mess. Leaving the couch was as painful as saying
goodbye for good to a lover at the airport.
When I'm sick? I, like Greta Garbo, want to be alone. If someone
wants to be around, they can drop the soup and water at the door
and then go away, leaving me to wallow in my misery all by myself.
That's usually how I am, anyway. But last night, I did NOT want
to be alone and sick. I needed care, I needed someone to rub my
head and murmur "Aw, babe." I wanted someone around who could
appreciate how frustrated I was at being helpless and unable to
do my work or anything even remotely productive. So, despite being
sure I told her some months back that when sick, I like to be
isolated, I left The Girl a rather pathetic message on her voice
mail asking if, perchance, she didn't have other plans and would
like to come sit by whimpering, simpering me for the evening.
Maybe three minutes after I left the message -- not enough time
for her to get it and bus here from her place, mind you -- I hear
my door being opened (yes, I gave her a key last week). And there
she stands, armed to the teeth with a big smile, fresh flowers,
juice, fruit, cashews, a thermometer and flu medicine. For a minute
I was delirious enough that I thought she'd figured how to beam
herself here, but then I realized she'd made an executive decision
on her own to come take care of me, and was informed she got my
message as she was already down the block and the market picking
up the goods for me.
This has been my favorite t-shirt of late. Go figure.
I at least managed to get proofs done for a client who's been
waiting a while this morning, before my temperature dipped below
normal again (why it is that when I get sick I'm inclined to low
temps is an ongoing mystery). That done, I only have two other
photo clients currently left in the lurch, who I can hopefully
get taken care of by the end of the weekend, so I can get back
into the all-book- all-the-time swing, after I update the sites,
something else I'm also terribly behind on. The fact that I additionally
have to do a 25 page writing sample for another possible client
in the next week AND get a leg up on an article in progress for
another AND fit a new shoot in sometime AND find some income somewhere
in there isn't making me feel much better. Yeah, back to the couch.
I'm having separation anxiety. |
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May 11th/12th, Two Thousand Four: Sometimes a weekend away can feel like a full-fledged vacation.
Why I always forget that, and forget that while I can't afford
vacations, I can sometimes afford small local weekend getaways,
I'll never know. Remind me, will you?
This whole weekend, the entirety of The Girl's Mega-Birthday Extravaganza,
was just utterly lovely. In the five monthsish we've been dating,
we've never spent three nights and three days in a row together,
and it was really, really, really nice. And shit, if I'm not glad it's over, but only because keeping
secrets and staying mum about cool stuff is SO not my bag. I don't
know if international spy is in that what color is my parachute
business, but if it is, much like bright yellow and cobalt blue,
it is really not my color.
Friday night, we had dinner with her folks, then came back here,
lazed about a bit and spent a good deal of highly enjoyable time
in my bed. Saturday was a bunch of errands, picking up Becca's
car for the weekend trip, getting keys made, stocking up on pet
supplies (and to some degree, buying treats for the critters out
of the guilt of leaving them for a whole night, oy), stopping
by a nursery on a whim to get some things for me to plant, and
grabbing a bite outside in the sun. She headed off with friends
to the Peaches show at First Ave., I started doing a bit of tidying
up and packing here, then spent a lovely night outside down the
street at Giorgio sharing a bottle of wine and some dessert with
Elise and Juan. We came back to my pad for more hangout time,
and The Girl showed up as they were leaving; many hugs were shared
all around, I got gifted with a very silly black monster fur thong
(will be nice to wear it and actually experience having a real
bush for a day -- the powers that be seemed to have decided long
ago that all my body hair needed to go only to my head, pits and
ankles, go figure) and we passed out in fairly short order. |
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So, Sunday, we slept in a little -- okay, so she slept in a lot,
and I woke up nearly as early as usual but not quite. Thus, it
averages to "a little" between the two of us. We gathered our
stuff, took the pug out, I mowed the lawn around the building,
and we headed out towards Stillwater.
(Note: I only took clean pictures this weekend, so the links to them are all safe for viewing wherever. Actually, I did grab a few
snaps of the girl in the bath, but you don't get to have them.
They're for me. So there.) |
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I really like it there: it's about 45 minutes away from the cities,
but close to a world away. The riverfront (it's on the St. Croix),
downtown and residential areas are devoid of chain anything, strip
malls, etc. It's pretty and very hilly, there are good places
to eat, quirky stuff, the population isn't as white and crusty
as you'd expect, and some of the old building are just glorious:
I saw more than one vacant loft or storefront I was lusting after.
We had a drink on the water, lazed around in the grass, did a
bit of walking up and down the main drag, then headed off to dinner.
The restaurant we were eating at was glass-windowed overlooking
the river, so when it started to seriously storm as we ate, it
was divine. The Girl ran out to get the car afterwards, and picked
me up sopped to the bone, and we headed off to the B&B.
Okay. So, here's the story on that.
I shopped for a good place to take her I could afford for a couple
of weeks. As many of us know, a whole lot of B&B's look like Grandma's
house. Doily City. Yuck. Plenty too aren't exactly especially
happy places for queer couples. More still don't work out real
well for folks who don't eat meat or dairy, especially in the
Midwest. So, I looked and I looked and then I found this.
Just look for a bit. At the colors. At the beauty of a place like
that for a literature geek. At the unreal fucking lushness of
this place. Observe the price tag. Say ow. Loudly. Follow it up
with a sigh and a big "Dammit."
So, I start looking again, but nothing else is working for me
at all now because I found B&B heaven, it's my girl's birthday,
and she simply must have absolute splendor and I same, by proxy.
So, because it really does never hurt to ask, I drop a line, say
how much the place is just to die, say it's my girlfriend's birthday
and no one has really ever taken her anywhere before, say I am
a starving artist in an especially fiscally malnourished phase
at the moment, but am an excellent photographer, and perhaps they
would be willing to talk about a discount or barter should they
need new promotional photos done of the place.
People often politely decline those sorts of offers. Broke person
+ dyke + difficult to feed isn't exactly a winning combination.
And yet. Every great now and then, there is serendipity.
Like, say, when you send an email like that and the innkeeper
gets it at the exact moments she was looking through their website
and current photos, thinking they really need to get some new
ones. Now and then, good karma steps up, man. And how. |
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So, we got to go. And sleep (okay, not so much sleep) here. When
there were no other guests in the entire place so we had it all
to ourselves. And spend a whole lot of time in a double whirlpool
with a waterfall. And rock on a lovely, quiet porch just outside
our room. And roam in their gardens. And I got to watch my girl
walk into our room and grin like a total idiot, after she picked
her jaw up from off the floor.
I'm pretty sure she'd be fine with my mentioning that she has
struggled, since her early adolescence with debilitating and chronic
depression of the toughest sort. She's been on endless medications,
and spent WAY too much of her life with the sort of blues blues
musicians hardly even write, because when you're that depressed,
you can't will yourself to move to get the guitar. I've dealt
with some depression myself in my life, but not like she has.
I've been very close to chronically depressed or bipolar people
in my life: my first big love, my father, other partners, and
I have never seen anyone manage it the way she does. She's amazing:
she doesn't screw around with her medications, she's incredibly
honest with herself in terms of assessing where she's at, she's
very good at knowing when her moods are turning and recognizing
them. She's a wonder. But the point is that some of why, likely,
her smile is such a majestic thing is that when she is over-the-top
happy, she doesn't take it for granted. Seeing her when she's
just overjoyed is such a delight. It's a home run in the final
inning. In a word: it fucking well rocks.
Just after we checked in, the storm stopped, and that amazing
thing happened that sometimes does after an evening storm where
it's suddenly as light outside as it is midday, then the sky turns
brilliant, rich colors, like a second sunset. Gorgeous. So, we
went for an evening walk, gazed at some cool and spooky houses,
babbled away as we usually do, took photographs, enjoyed the wet-smelling
air and the amazing brightness. She headed in before I did, and
as turned into one theme of the weekend -- which will noncommittally
be known as Everybody Must Talk to the Freckleface -- an elderly
man from across the street (Mr. Leo Lohmer, to be precise), came
out to talk to me as I was taking some photos of the gardens at
the B&B. I love old people: Leo has served in and lived through
three wars, he was born two blocks from where we were at, grew
up helping work his father's creamery, had a mother die when she
was just forty, a wife die as young, and was a single father way
back when. He was highly perplexed by facial piercings and tattoos,
couldn't wrap his brain around my staying there with my girlfriend,
did not want his picture taken, and had plenty of local gossip
for me. It took some time for me to wrestle my way out of the
conversation so I could spend time with my girl, but I swung it
eventually.
Suffice it to say, Lord Byron would have seriously appreciated
the goings-on in his room that night. There was champagne, there
were many bedposts, there was my girl in truly saucy silk jammies
I'd procured for her. There was a long time spent in the tub.
Mouths, hands and fingers kept themselves very busy, and there
were accessories and contraptions I'm sure he would have found
quite fascinating. He likely would have wanted to join in or watch,
but that's too bloody bad for him. We stayed up pretty late after
the horizontal gymnastics, sitting out on the adjoining porch,
sipping the bubbly, chatting and grinning, and eventually passed
out.
(She slept very well: I don't sleep well in unfamiliar places,
so it was a given I wouldn't, but I got enough to be reasonably
energetic the next day, and watching her sleep all smiley was
nice.)
I woke up early, and went downstairs for some coffee (I have to
say, shuffling around a mansion in jammies and bare feet when
there's no one else is incredibly cool), then went outside to
take some more photos before going up to the porch to sit. A man
from across the street, employing Everybody Must Talk to the Freckleface
tactics, shouted greetings from below and attempted to engage
me in a conversation without a megaphone or one of those wax paper
and cups jobbies. Breakfast time rolled around, and in a beautiful
didning room, we were served, with adaptations made for me, fresh
juice, a strawberry balsamic tureen, granola with chocolate soymilk
(AKA chocolate "hoo-ha" soymilk, according to the innkeeper),
and a cool herbed tortilla stack thingie. With two hours left
until checkout time, I was prodded back up the stairs and informed
that the whirlpool needed to be used until the very end, so we
jumped back in, I serviced m'lady, and then while she bathed further,
I toddled around the place some more, and took some exterior photos
(I'll need to come back to do the rooms for them -- the deal was
that they wouldn't all be clean by Monday, so my main half of
the barter will happen at a later date.) We spent the rest of
the day walking around Stillwater: stopped at a local winery and
grabbed a few bottles, at a cooks store for a grater I was slobbering
over at a friend's last week, a new potato peeler since the girl
has been having homicidal thoughts about my old one, and some
raspberry wasabi mustard. We swung by the co-op there and grabbed
goodies for a light picnic, and enjoyed the lake and the grass
one more time before we headed back to the city.
On the way out, which we fumbled twice, we discovered that when
we had come in the day before? Where we turned around, sure we
had missed the exit and then drove in circles until we found it?
We were RIGHT around the corner from the actual exit. D'oh.
After we came home and walked the pug, we headed on to The Girl's
birthday dinner at Luce downtown with friends, where my slight
orneriness (?) at being back here and in large social situations
was tolerated nicely, and finished the night with a long snuggle
and chat on my stoop.
It's so hard to end such a beautiful, perfect weekend, which is
perhaps why we're both totally exhausted today. And why, perhaps,
writing this has taken a couple hours.
It occurred to me this weekend that I love this girl to bits.
I wasn't expecting her, and neither she nor we were what I expected.
She's outside "my type," for however much I have one, in a million
different ways, and it's become clear that that is a very good
thing. There's little else that's been as scary for me, throughout
my life, as deeply loving other women, not just romantically or
sexually, but overall. The stakes for me are high, my emotional
baggage there is heavy, my past trauma mighty. Same goes for getting
involved on all levels with someone who is as much lover and partner
as friend: after all, I lost my oldest friend that way, and that
loss still hurts. But somehow -- and really, I don't know how
-- I appear to have walked into this with all but zero expectations,
with no idea it'd turn into something big or very deep, and so
multifaceted. I didn't see it coming, and it just evolved at a
nice, easy pace without anyone even trying at all, and shazam
--- here it is, as it is.
So, last night I told her, we both, as it turns out, have realized
we felt this way, but it was just one of those things that again,
just grew, and didn't even seem to need to be vocalized, though
it was nice, and a really special moment, to both vocalize and
hear that.
When I mowed the lawn the other day, I was really bummed out that
I had to decapitate a lot of dandelions. I realized all weekend
I kept looking at them everywhere, fixated on them. It struck
me that I feel very akin to them; I have this respect for them
that's very different than the feelings, emotional and aesthetic,
I have for other flowers I admire: irises, lilies, larkspur, wood
roses, poppies, tulips. Dandelions are fucking determined. You
can pull them up, mow them down, and still they crop right back
up, in droves. Their roots and greens nourish, for free, and are
one of the most potent detoxifiers on the planet. They don't mind
blending into a crowd. They mean business, but they grow easy,
without even trying. They're simple, they're unpretentious, they're
sunny. They change drastically as they age, housing everyone's
wishes as they blow off the fluffy white strands. I both feel
akin to them and aspire to be like them. My luck ever seriously
changes and I have a means to actually own property, not only
will their lovely little heads not get chopped off, I may well
plant them purposefully and have a lawn that's all dandelion,
no grass.
We had a weekend where we lived like dandelions. More, please.
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| (Some more small photos here -- unfortunately, it seems a few of us, myself included, got
some bad lettuce at dinner Monday, and are sick as shit, so no
time for big photo editing yet or anything but a tossed-up and
messy pile of stuff. Eh, so it goes.) |
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May 6th, Two Thousand Four: Thus far, this has been a shit of day. And it’s only 11:00. Last
night, I was attacked by yet another bout of insomnia, which is
especially problematic this week, because for the past three days,
I have been writing my as off from morning to night.
And hour after I finally fell asleep, at 1 AM, knowing I needed
to wake up around 6, I woke up again at 2 or so, realizing that
I'd totally spaced to notify the tenants here that I would be
coming through all the units with a repairman for our dysfunctional
buzzer system. Sine I’m usually the one giving the landlord and
the repairmen shit about adequate notice, being the one to space
it was crappy. So, I got up, again, typed out notices and posted
them and crawled back into bed around 3:30.
Woke up around 7. You know, even though I rarely get paid lately,
I’m spoiled in my work habits. In my book, having to wake up,
run into the shower and get dressed before you’ve even finished
the morning cuppa just AIN’T livin’, baby. It’s one thing if I
need to be writing while I’m waking up, but something entirely
different if I don’t get to still be in my jammies, take my dog
out at a leisurely pace, slowly sip my coffee in some fresh air
and so forth. I hated the morning rush when I was teaching and
doing other jobs, I still do. It just seems completely opposed
to the natural pace of the morning.
In any event, it turns out that the repairmen, when they arrive
at 9:00 (after my phone started ringing every fifteen minutes
or so at 8), have the wrong type of buzzer boxes. So, they decide
to work on the source amps. This means for the next hour and some,
running up and down the stairs and having my newly loud door buzzer
buzzing every three minutes or so. Add one vague migraine to the
mix.
In the midst of this, I get a call from the building owner about
hiring out a housekeeper to vacuum the stairs and sweep the lobbies
and laundry room once a week. Mind you, I’m not the neatest person
in the world in my own home, but I used to clean entire schools
and classrooms, and the halls are really not a big. But we’ve
had several tenants lately who’ve decided my skills aren’t up
to par (and that may be about their perception of the appearance
of the building, but it also may be about the fact that my direct
demeanor and candor is VERY not Minnesotan). So, he’s outsourcing,
which means I lose some of my rent reduction, always joyous news
to get when you’re still already sans income, and have been watching
the one savings you’ve actually managed to garner for the first
time in your life over the last six or so months dwindle hopelessly
as you pay bills and basic expenses. Ugh.
I’m tired of the battles though (and no doubt he's tired of the
tenant pissies, too), so...well, so. I said that was fine. ‘Course,
the complaints still come in, as I expect they will, who knows
what the deal will bet then. A few weeks back, to give you an
indication of how things go here sometimes with tenants, I came
home from running errands, and on the first landing wall were
about eight yellow post-its with little down-pointing arrows on
them, all leading to a dirty band-aid someone apparently dropped.
So, I picked up the band-aid, picked off all the post-its, threw
it all away. Now, I ask you: how hard would it have been to either
just leave the band-aid, which I would have seen without the stickies,
or just pick the fucking thing up and throw it the hell away?
Entitlement issues WILL be the death of me. We live in a midrange
100-year-old building, for crissakes, not the bleeding Ritz, for
fuck’s sake. But I’m letting it go. See? Watch me, letting it
go. Through my gritted teeth and forehead wrinkles, I’m oh-so
letting it go.
I actually didn’t start typing here to kvetch until the cows came
home about my cruddy morning. I sat down to write here because
there is something really, really bothering me about the approach
to the porn industry HIV outbreak. And it’s the same thing that
bothers me with some styles of radical feminist address about
porn and sex work.
It’s the assertion, assumption, or implication that somehow, sexually
transmitted infection and disease, or sexual injury, is worse
-- emotionally, physically and socially -- than any other sort
of illness or injury. Mind you: I take it damn seriously. Considering
I spend at least half of my day, if not more, every day, and have
for years, doing largely if not entirely pro bono work to do what
I can to reduce the spread of STDs and STIs, especially among
the group hit by it hardest (16-24 year-olds in their private
lives), I think we can say it’s a given I take it seriously.
But statements or implications that sexually transmitted illness
is someone intrinsically worse, or more serious than ANY other
sort arises from that ever-popular age-old belief that sex, sexuality,
and people’s genitals are either or both, more sacred AND more
dirty than any other part of their body or being.
I’ve said it a zillion times over the years and I’ll say it again:
personally, I don’t like most porn. I don’t like watching most
of it for many reasons, but one substantial reason is that watching
unprotected sex among folks I know haven’t been following even
moderately sound safer sex guidelines, and who I know are likely
at increased risks makes me feel like I’m watching a snuff film.
I’d likely feel the same way if perhaps I knew more about the
safety or lack thereof done by stuntpeople, though to my understanding,
their safety is taken into much greater account, and less risks
are taken. I feel the same way watching people ride by on motorcycles
without helmets, remembering really grotesque accident scenes
I was present with my mother at as a child. I felt the same way
watching anyone put a gun to their head, for any reason. Obviously,
the more experience you have with a given danger, the more you
understand about it, the greater it’s likely to effect you. That’s
a given, and I’ll even allow that some of that is bound to be
at least somewhat biased. Fine, then.
And my day would be made, truly made, if viable safer sex practices
became a standard in mainstream or indie pornography, even if
I still wasn’t a consumer myself (heck, even as an erotica publisher,
I’ve always had guidelines about safer sex in just textual erotica,
where no actual people are being put at any risk in its creation).
But.
I’m really, really uncomfy with how all of this is being approached
pretty much everywhere. I’m uncomfortable hearing radfem analysis
of sex work which involves in-depth description of herpes sores
or fissured anuses when not only can (and do) those things happen
to people outside sex work all the time, if we sat here discussing
the injuries of fireman, electricians, police officers, construction
workers and the like as reasons why they shouldn’t DO that work,
or why that work is bad news, it’d hardly be taken at face value.
If we went on, in lurid detail, about yeast infections, what they
look like and smell like and feel like as a moral parable for
why many simple sugars and carbohydrates, processed foods and
man-made fibers should be outlawed and are capital E-evil, most
would be none too shocked if we were dismissed as wacky, half-baked
hippies with insane troll logic.
I don’t like that so few people stop to examine perhaps WHY sexual
trauma might be so traumatic, or why sexual illness seems like
such a bigger deal than anything else. Here's a hint (and no,
I'm not saying a scraped knee is comparable to being diagnosed
with HIV, but merely talking about approaches to any possible
emotional trauma from physical trauma): if you have children or
work around them, and one falls down and scrapes a knee, what
is the difference in their reaction, their trauma, if you say "Hey, that looked like a big fall, you doing okay? Shall we go
clean that up? How are you feeling?" and when you turn green, become faint and run to them screaming
"Ohmigawd, ohmigawd! Oh my baby! Oh no! Look at that blood! You
must be so scared! That must hurt so bad!?"
(Slight veer: I've had a similar discussion many times in my life
with abuse/assault victims about assumptions made about sexual
abuse or assault, and about how for many of us who have survived
a few kinds of abuse, plenty have found that verbal abuse has
effected us far more profoundly, and been far more traumatic,
than sexual abuse. Not for all, no, but the point is that none
of these things are universal or arbitrary: trauma is very personal,
individual and situational, as well as often profoundly effected
by how it is treated and viewed by others and the world around
us.)
Or why sex work in and of itself, even in conditions vastly different
than illegal on-street prostitution -- and far better, for some
sex workers or types of sex work, than the conditions for corporate,
fast-food restaurant, chain clothier, or hell, housekeeping workers
-- is considered to be, de facto, more demeaning, dehumanizing
or arbitrarily worse than all other types of work.
I feel really confident saying that half the reason STDs and STIs
are as prevalent as they are is because of the shame and stigma
attached to them, still attached to sexuality and the genitals
as a whole, still attached to anyone and everyone who lives, or
is assumed to live, outside a given set of social norms or values.
So, I don’t see how approaching them with that stigma fully intact
or even vaguely implied is at all helpful or constructive. A big
reason why every STD and STI BESIDES HIV is still so epidemic is because initially, and still widespread
now, safer sex has been put out there as something which is largely
about HIV: HIV has been put out there as the biggest risk of all,
when not only is it nothing close to the most prevalent STI, several
far more common STIs can result in health consequences no less
grave or serious. And a big reason why HIV initially got and still
gets the big focus isn’t because of health concerns or issues,
it’s because HIV so often targets members of society all too many
are glad to have any reason to marginalize or demonize: intravenous
drug addicts, street sex workers, adult performers, homosexual
or bisexual mean, etc. Even when it doesn’t affect those populations
-- and it often doesn’t -- we’re hardly hearing news reports for
every heterosexual married woman who gets a positive HIV result,
and that’s dangerous in and of itself, because it reduces accurate
awareness people need to have, and encourages the ever-popular
It’ll happen to everyone but me-itis I see among so many young
adults all the damn time that puts them, and all the grown folks
with it as well, at serious risk.
I guess that what I’m saying is that until the world as a whole
can remove those stigmas, work fully outside what should be truly
obvious social or political agendas -- or hell, even just take
them into account -- and adapt certain misinformed or well-intentioned
but ultimately misguided approaches, I don’t see how we’re going
to create any real changes in this arena, whether it’s in adult
entertainment and big business, or in everyone’s private lives.
Gawd, that’s depressing. Mostly because all too often I feel like
I see that many people who are the most passionate about some
of these issues, who are the most motivated to work to improve
them, have approaches which seem to be the least likely to have
a positive result, and the most likely to keep the real issues
from being addressed, the real changes from ever occurring. I
have a meeting for some sex worker activism this afternoon, but
until then, back to writing with me. Depressing as all this shit
is, it sure does make staying motivated to create work that I
feel can at least plant seeds in the right direction a whole lot
easier. |
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May 4th, Two Thousand Four: Let's bypass the pissy bits and move on to a fine list of good
things from the weekend, yesterday and this morning in chronological
order:
1) Seeing your girl first thing of a morning, and being greeted
with a soft kiss and a smile (she really does have a smile that
could crack the sky wide open), as you're a bit bleary eyed, sipping
cool water on your stoop, soaking up the early sun. All the "good
mornings" of passersby as you sit.
2) A five-mile walk on a slightly chilly, but otherwise beautiful
day, with the aforementioned girl and friends. Lots of silly dogs
everywhere, a veritable pug parade, wee kids loving every minute
of it, and the much-needed addition (especially at a Humane Society
function) of veggie dogs at the end for the walkers. Harvesting
new freckles. Really bizarre photos of your dog eating a hot dog
-- her reward for the five miles -- which verge on the obscene
(will add these later -- you may wish I hadn't).
3) Having your girl be unable to take her hands out of your hair
all day.
3) A breezy afternoon spent entirely in bed, getting to watch
your girlfriend have one of those fabulous and this-doesn't-happen-every-day
orgasms under your hands which involves screaming into the pillow,
followed by a massive run of post-release laughter, and a very,
very nice way of saying thank you.
4) Cauliflower-carrot-cashew-ginger curry with mango chutney.
I'd forgotten I hadn't made it in months and months. I have leftovers
for at least two more meals. Yum.
5) Sneaking out of bed early to work, old bathtubs big enough
for two, and spending the afternoon at rest (pleasant even when
nursing a matching set of menstrual cramps, no less) in snuggle-mode,
in a Buffy-marathon with the newly-addicted.
6) Slipping into a freshly made bed, when the pillows still smell
like your lover from the night before.
7) Early morning walks with your dog. Coffeehouse camaraderie.
8) Friends (like Elise) who stop by for a cup of tea to talk art and creation, lovers,
life, networking and other goodness.
9) 27 pages of good work finished, even with noxious cramps, even
with pissy stuff out and about. having safer sex chapters which
are un-scary and even include happy DIY projects, like dental
dam harnesses (thanks, Clare!) and whimsical modifications to
latex gloves. Reading a pediatrician who says he's been noticing
an increase in teens coming in and asking for full STI screenings.
10) The keeper and lunapads.
11) Sweet old cats, even if you have become allergic to them.
12) Wracking your brain to figure out what's wrong with the order
of certain chapters in your book, then waking up with a lightbulb
idea that fixes it easily. A night of sound sleep. Sunshine through
your windows in the morning.
13) A steaming hot shower -- with beautiful scents wafting round:
chamomile, mint, greens, cinnamon -- paired with a steaming hot
cup of french-pressed coffee. Lush clove foot cream. The luxury
(weird that it is one, but still) of being able to spend your
days in comfortable clothes without makeup or other fussy stuff.
Warm enough weather to go outside with ropes of wet hair you can
see all your greys and whites sparkling in. Women of the world
who need to do the pantyhose/shave/blowdry/iron thing in the morning,
big sympathetic hugs out to you.
14) Heading out early into a sunny day to sit on the coffeehouse
porch in solace (hopefully) with your laptop and write, write,
write, write, write. |
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May 3rd, Two Thousand Four: I realized that I all too often use my most productive morning
hours to write the journal, rather than working on the book, so
this morning, I’ve started remedying that pattern.
Since I have penned a good ten pages already today, I felt justified
in journaling. I was going to wait even longer, and post a bunch
of pics and fun about the Humane Society Walk and my weekend,
but I’m too pissed off to do that right now. I warn you, this
may be somewhat incomprehensible: I lose a little clarity when
I’ve got a big, angry hard-on.
I got an email from an indie webmaster friend this morning informing
me that CCBill, the biggest third-party processor out there for
porn sites, informed her she needed to remove links to Scarleteen,
and my sites which link to Scarleteen, because it “provides sex
information to minors,” which apparently is included in their guidelines against
processing pornography of minors -- or else she would lose her account with them.
Let me say this another way: a major player in the online PORN industry, either by their own
standards (or by way of Visa’s), to protect their profits and
someone’s moral agenda, has decided that accurate and nonexplicit
sex INFORMATION, not OF young adults, but FOR them, not for profit
or entertainment, but WITHOUT profit and for EDUCATION, is akin
to explicitly sexual material for ADULT entertainment OF minors,
FOR profit.
If I wasn’t so motherfucking pissed off, I’d be able to appreciate
the unbelievable irony of the pornography industry deciding that
my work is not morally up to their standards.
If I wasn’t sitting here with steam pouring out of my ears, I
could perhaps sit in silent, abject awe as I looked at an endless
pile of “teen” (but all models over 18, so it’s okay!) hardcore
sites that are perfectly defendable and acceptable, while telling
a teenager how to use the condoms they never see used in porn
isn’t okay.
If I wasn’t so bloody sick and tired of being every damn camp
and factions enemy or exile -- whether it’s feminists or pornographers,
the workforce or the credit card systems -- and mainly, for treating
sex all around as normal, natural and not solely or primarily
as a means for profit, purchase or cultural manipulation, I might
just be able to appreciate the harmonic convergence between the
religious right and the porn industry on an issue like this.
If I wasn’t so damn tired of having one group say I belong to
that one and benefit from them, the one I’m apparently benefitting
from had little or nothing to do with me and shoved me over there,
and this one said I was really theirs -- essentially leaving me
where I usually stand, by my own fucking self, alone, I might
be able to relish, for a moment, how ridiculous all of this crap
always is.
And no, I’m not going to write them a letter and plead my case.
I’m too busy trying to do the damn nonprofit work that’s so unacceptable
on the first place, to spend my time trying to convince the big
boys with the big wallets that my work doesn’t put their big,
happy money in jeopardy, to reassure them that all the fine lines
they walk, all the shifty crap most of them do won’t be pushed
over the edge, or found out, due to my work in young adult sex
education.
No, I’m not going to try and find every webmaster scared to lose
their dough who is in a big hurry, due to one announcing this
happened to her, to remove links to Scarleteen or my sites, and
ask them why they bothered linking out there in the first place
if it was that unimportant and disposable.
Scarleteen is currently an outlink for minors who arrive at porn
sites (some on their own, but many because when you enter in “sex,”
“teen sex” or even “sex information” in any major search engine,
you get porn) at many, many many adult sites. (Though thankfully,
if you put “sex ed” in, you do get relevant links, with ST at
the top.) We get a lot of traffic that way. Mind you, since I
don’t get paid for traffic, that’s only a good thing because it
brings some of those users to the information they were looking
for or need. The higher the traffic we get, the more I pay to
do my work there because of higher bandwidth, not the other way
round. Traffic to Scarleteen doesn't benefit me personally in
any way, it benefits the users it’s intended to serve.
Many many adult sites use processors like CCBill, and most operate
solely or primarily for profit, not to educate, not to do anything
of any import, or even to entertain. They exist to make money.
So, I’d hardly be disappointed or surprised if any or even all
of them who heard about this removed links to Scarleteen, or anything
else like it, without a smidgen of ethical quandary or a moments
pause.
And ultimately? It doesn’t effect me. I don’t make money from
the porn industry, they don’t offer me their resources or hold
my hand. When I do make money at all, it’s from folks wanting
to purchase or view my art or my writing, from freelance photography
work offline, from (usually woman-owned and indie) advertisers
at Scarlet Letters selling books, sex toys to women, or nonsexual
items altogether, and from gifts to Scarleteen from individuals.
Some “porn” sites do link to my work, but for the most part, that
doesn’t net me subscriptions because I don’t create or market
what they’re looking for or expecting.
Something like this effects me in terms of making my work even
less visible, sure. But who THAT really effects are my users.
In the case of Scarleteen, it effects the minors themselves (the
real minors, not the grownups dressed up in schoolgirl ensembles
the actual minors can’t stand) by making the information they
need even harder to find, by nearly guaranteeing that if they’re
looking online for sex information and education, all they get
to find is porn.
It helps make sure that the minors in such dire need of “protection”
don’t know how to protect themselves: not in terms of sex, not
in terms of being smart or ethical consumers.
Kinda makes you wonder whose agenda that’s really about, don’t
it?
And who is really being protected here.
(Addendum: seems more than one person wrote into CCBill on this issue and
got that decision reversed. Furrygirl, Gray, everyone else, good
for y'all! Bless.) |
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