|
November 3rd, Two Thousand Three: So, on Halloween, before I'm about to head out for my festivities,
I realize that I'm both out of smokes and that my pug may cry
if I don't take her out, because she's clearly getting that I'm
going somewhere fun.
Which means a trip to the mini-mart, in costume. Our current mart
isn't the same as our last one, but Sofi is still a celebrity there. We even have specific hours
when the staffers who love her make sure none of those who don't
won't be there. So, after 2, it's safe for us to both go, and
Sofi runs all the way there because it means occasional pieces
of real hot dog and gobloads of attention for her. Because, you
know, the girl is starving for it here at home.
In any event, we head in, and go to the side of the island where
the girl who loves her best is. She first squeals "Sofi!" then squeals "Pippi!" As a fellow redhead, she knows all about Pippi. It's like a requirement.
As we're hanging out, some dude in some kind of satanist costume
gets his smokes from another guy on the other side of the island.
Satan's minion leaves, and the guy turns to us and says "First one to come in costume tonight!" Redheaded pug-lover girl says, "Nuh-uh, Heather was first!"
The dude just looks at me. Blankly. For a long time. Redheaded
pug-lover girl says, "Heather is wearing a COSTUME."
|
The dude looks blankly again before finally uttering, "Did you do something different to your hair?"
This was my experience being Pippi. People who didn't know me
yelped "Pippi!" People who did were all, "Hey Heather, what's up. Cute new stockings!"
I'll give them some leeway. It's true, I bought one new pair of
stripey socks. But I already had the dotted ones, as well as a
half drawer full of my preexisting stripey socks to choose from.
I already owned the little dress (though I did add patches). And
after spending half the afternoon looking for the right shirt
to wear under it, I realized the one I had been wearing all day
was the right one. I did kind of well, feel not unlike me. And
was very jazzed on the outfit, feeling it the very height of haute
couture. And I do tend to go into that mini-mart in my pajamas
a lot.
But my braids don't usually stick out THAT much, and I really
do try and match my socks most of the time. When other people
can see them, anyway. Eh. Nevahmind.
It was neat to be walking down the street and seeing Pippi's shadow,
though. Sofia wanted to go as Herr Nilsson but we couldn't find
her a hat besides her fez and bars don't let pugs in. Or monkeys,
for that matter.
Becca and I make a good team. I came up with Rosie the Riveter
for her, and she executed it brilliantly. In fact, her Rosie so
rocked she got an honorable mention at the costume contest at
the BLB we ended up at because the party we lent to was the stellar
combination of both scary and lame all at once. And there were
Oompa Loompas there. There were not Oompa Loompas at the party.
There were loads of straight people who apparently only get let
out to play once a year and spend little to no time learning social
skills while they're hibernating. Oompa Loompas are less creepy,
and that's saying something.
Look, when you're finding chain smoking, an incredibly bored expression,
sticky-out braids and striped boxer shorts over tights to be a
serious turn-on, you have had too. Much. To. Drink. Period. The temptation to prove that I, like Pippi, am the strongest
girl in the world was overwhelming. But the temptation to just
get the fuck out of dodge and find somewhere more fun to be won
out. I didn't get to dance that night, which is a bummer. The
Pippi costume gave me serious permission to be a total dork on
the dance floor, something I'm always seeking out.
(The lighting sucks on my photos, and for that, I apologize. I
had all of about ten minutes to take them in, and it was dark
outside. But there were folks who were making death threats had
I taken no pictures. I wanna live to next year I can do Eloise
and people will HAVE to let Sofia come. I am starting to realize
that my literary childhood heroes had a larger effect on both
my appearance and my personality than I thought. My mother knew
this all too well.)
While I'm on silly Halloween stories, let me just say that you
know your gay boyfriend is a hairdresser when...
... you go to his apartment to give him a chuckle at your costume.
He fawns and giggles over you and your dog accordingly. As you're
about to leave, he says to you, "Oh! wait, I have a little something for you." It's Halloween. You're thinking, candy, right? Yay!
Wrong. Boy comes out, four guns spraying. "Shine spray!" he yells festively as you duck and cover your eyes.
Cute. This is the same man who leaves me a message last week which
ends with "And by the way, everytime I talk to you or hear your message,
I remember you have got the sexiest, sultriest voice in the whole
world. It is unthinkable that you remain dateless. If I wasn't
gay.... and oh, you weren't gay, too... oh, dammit."
I love this man. And he is an incredible colorist. Can't ask for
much more than that in a boyfriend. Nope. |
|
There were like, zero trick-or-treaters this year. It's been that
way the last couple. Back in my day (it's always fun to say that,
and important to put some gravel in your throat when you do),
you couldn't drive down the street without hitting troops of wayward
kids taking over the world in their costumes and not looking where
they were going through their high blood sugar haze. Stranger
danger sucks period, and endangers kids horribly, since strangers
are rarely who the danger is. I've been pissed enough about that
over the years, but it possibly ruining Halloween is absolutely
the last straw.
Look, on the way to the aforementioned lame party, we saw a homeless
guy in costume. A homeless guy. If a homeless guy can make the effort and get in the spirit,
for the love of Hecate, everyone else bloody well can, too. I
mean it. I expect to see some action next year. I may just have
to work one of the community center parties or something so I
can find where the kids are. Because they know how to have a good
time on Halloween, blast it. And if I'm going to have to deal
with a room full of out of control schoolgirls, I'd prefer it
were schoolgirls dressed up as creeps, not the other way round.
So, had a good time in our way regardless. And the rituals this
weekend were good. Also fit in a lovely afternoon brunch with
my firefighting friend who still needs a nickname, and loads of
housecleaning. I have a week of massive work catchup, some editing
and shooting to do (Please let the sun come through the snow.
Yes, you heard me: the snow.), the works. And for the record,
I'd really like to know who ate the month of September. I remember
August starting to slip away, and I remember October happening,
but now there's snow out of nowhere without there having been
an actual fall, so I'm convinced somebody out there is wiping
the crumbs of September from their little yap. Not nice. I didn't
get to shoot the crunchy leaves. Bastard.
After this entry, I'm going to be starting a month where you don't
hear my narrative voice like this and I don't use it, and instead
use my camera and/or my poetry to express myself, only. In terms
of my work elsewhere, the writing I do will likely be fiction,
not nonfiction. I'll leave comments up, but they're for you all
to talk in, I won't be participating, or answering much email
save my work stuff and mail from close friends. It's kind of my
version of NanNoWriMo, combined with some creative hibernation
and recharging that I need.
I'm not a big fan of winter, or the snow for that matter. But
it is pretty right now, and it is symbolic to me at the moment.
I need a change of season. |
|
|
|
(Note: There has been a major influx of new readers over the past few
days, who are apparently looking for this, so I thought I'd make that easier. Those who have no idea who
the heck I am and what exactly I do may find this and this helpful to them.) |
|
|
October 31st, Two Thousand Three: A blessed Samhain and happy Halloween to everyone. Moreover, Dia
de los Muertos begins tonight.
One of the things I loved about Texas was its proximity to Mexico.
My big dream is that at some point in my life, preferably by the
time I'm 50, I'll figure out some way to net a reasonable savings
and be able to relocate to the Mexican coast. Oaxaca would be
grand, as would Veracruz or Jalisco or the Yucatan. May be a pipe
dream, but one never knows.
In any event, I picked up a few treats from Tesoros, a wonderful folk art shop on Congress (and got in a little trouble
for taking some photos there, but I think the woman working there
was just a bit power hungry, no one else working the shop seemed
to mind), because it's geekery of mine that rarely gets airplay,
especially up here in the great white north. Some sterling milagros,
an amazing curandero cross made by a Peruvian healer, a fantastic
necklace of clay skulls (which I'd been looking for years for
to do a shoot, better still), I even found a great girl-skeleton
figurine in a bikini with boxing gloves. Never fails one finds
some manifestation of oneself when cruising a shelf of Day of
the Dead figurines. There were also some absolutely amazing retablos
I couldn't afford that I gaped at for some time, including one
of my favorite Kahlo piece, The Wounded Deer.
While I was in heaven at the shop, peeking into little retablo
doors, it occurred to me that perhaps we need a Day of the Dead
for relationships as well as physical deaths. I've been hit with
a lot of death in my life, especially my early life, and especially
very violent death, so being able to have at least one day a year
to set out photographs and icons, remember gladly those lost to
me, to do some creative work with my feelings, to have a feast
with my dead and have conversations with them I'm missing, or
never got to have at all, is such a great ritual and comfort.
Being able to remember -- especially in a culture which is so
afraid of death, which cloaks it in so much heaviness and sorrow
-- the lives of those past with joy, even if it's bittersweet,
and look at death with less fear and more reverence and feeling,
is just so valuable.
I think we could use the same kind of ritual for emotional deaths
and endings, with the same sense of honor and love. I know I could.
Certainly, people do ritualistic things with the ends of relationships,
but I think most of them are usually negative: burning things,
chopping up or throwing away photographs, getting sauced with
friends and dissing ex-partners, engaging in behaviour to attack
those exes in some way, et cetera.
But what if, instead, we made a feast for our ex-lovers? What
if we set out photographs of them or gifts from them in a special
place, with flowers and symbols of those relationships in all
their phases? Made them sweetbread? What if we threw our ex-lovers
a giant party and thanked them -- not in person, merely in spirit
-- for the things they gave us? Told them we missed them, missed
what we felt, are sad to have lost it? Let ourselves have a day
to read the love letters we generally tuck away because we know
they'll make us hurt and cry at the worst times possible, but
let ourselves have that catharsis and longing for that day? Or
maybe we aren't sad, because we know how things evolve and change
and grow. Maybe our endings were needed, so we take a day to acknowledge
the growth and change those gave us. What if for those lovers
who really fucked us over or betrayed or hurt us we spent a day
doing what we could to forgive them and let some of our bitterness
or anger go? Maybe what things they've left for us could be put
in a box with care, and tied up beautifully with ribbons for the
next year. Maybe those things we've determined we can't hold unto
or needn't can be brought to a nice place of rest, rather than
tossed in a dumpster.
So, I'm adding that unto my weekend of rituals. Tonight, I get
to go out and get silly and party, then end my evening with a
quiet Samhain meditation. Tomorrow morning I train, and then tomorrow
afternoon set up my Day of the Dead altars and have a small feast
with those gone from me in body, but very much not so in heart:
my paternal grandmother, grandfather and great-grandmother, my
uncle who died at 13, my first real love, my favorite music professor,
a beautiful old German woman my mother worked with who mentored
me when I was younger, my maternal grandparents (even though my
feelings for them tend to be angry, rather than loving), my father's
ex-girlfriend, and my pets who have passed on. I'll set out gifts
for all of them I think they'd enjoy: fresh, flowering basil for
my grandmother, some cigarettes and an old Dead Kennedys album
for Matthew (who appreciated good punk as well as black humour
-- his last name was Kennedy), good chocolate and lilies for Ms.
Malcher, a crinkly toy for Rosie, and I'll play piano for Doc,
my wonderful music professor who died from AIDS.
And Sunday afternoon I'll start this new ritual for my past loves.
I may or may not invite friends, I haven't decided. And I don't
know what to call it yet. But I have a feeling it's going to be
a good weekend, and that this last part will become one of my
annual traditions, and bring something new and positive into my
life; give me a way to channel tough energy fruitfully that too
often ends up being negative instead. Remind me that things which
are gone never really are, and things which are here -- the good
and the bad -- will always pass.
... and since chocolate makes everything more wonderful:
- Nondairy (and super-chocolaty) Champurrado
1/2 cup masa harina (masa flour) mixed with a 1/4 cup hot water
2 1/4 cups chocolate soymilk (or vanilla, if you want it less
chocolaty)
1 1/2 cups water
1 disk Mexican chocolate (can be found easily in mexican groceries
-- if you can't find it, you can substitute with 1/2 tsp. of almond
extract, one tsp. cinnamon and one large square of unsweetened
chocolate)
3 tablespoons piloncillo (hard mexican brown sugar in cone form),
chopped, or 1/3 cup unrefined brown sugar and 2 tsp. molasses
1/4 teaspoon crushed aniseeds
cinnamon to taste
Put the 1 1/2 cups water and the mixed masa into a blender and
blend until smooth. Transfer to a medium saucepan. Add the soymilk,
chocolate, piloncillo and the aniseeds. Bring to a simmer, whisking
with a fork until the chocolate and sugar is melted and blended.
Serve hot, in big, happy mugs, and shout out a toast. Viva la
vida!
|
|
|
|
|
October 30th, Two Thousand Three: "Porn has brought us to a point where no taboo is left."
A statement like that looks deceptively simple, and the conclusions
one might make from that might also appear obvious. But I want
to posit that neither is so, and suggest an alternate way of looking
at the whole works.
If porn has done that -- which I don't think it, or anything else
has yet, but that's beside the point -- might that be a GOOD thing
rather than a bad one? In other words, why is it beneficial to
have sexual practices, relationships or ideas which ARE taboo?
I gotta hand it to Naomi Wolf: I thought a lot of what she said a few days back about porn was uninformed, defensive and silly, and still do, but she sure
got a lot of people talking. I've been reading responses to a
million different comments, like the above, that stemmed from
that piece or what Carly or I said about it (we didn't have the same things to say --
she has made her living the last year or so with a day job in
the mainstream porn arena, so we have divergent experiences, positions
and takes, but I did agree with plenty of what she had to say),
and it's been really cool, and reminded me a whole lot of why
I do what I do, why I still want to, and what I need to keep working
on. It's been refreshing for me to remember, renew and refine
some of the cornerstones of my sexual philosophy.
So, what does the taboo actually offer us? And why would we want
taboos to remain?
- taboo: noun: an inhibition or ban resulting from social custom or emotional
aversion; a prejudice that prohibits the use or mention of something
because of its sacred nature.
verb: declare as sacred and forbidden.
adjective: forbidden to profane use; excluded from use or mention.
In other words, a taboo keeps people from doing things not out
of respect or concern for others, nor out of respect or concern
for one's well being, but out of concern only for appearances
and oneself, or really, one's own karma or salvation. Taboo is
a big ol' symbol and ideal of no, oft applied to sexuality, which
is a big ol' symbol and ideal of yes. They make awfully strange
bedfellows, to say the least.
For those for whom the taboo incites desire or encourages it,
we're looking at people who engage in practices primarily for
the sole purpose of being "bad," of breaking the "rules," of rebelling
in pretty nonproductive -- and in some cases seriously destructive
ways -- that are, by definition, sex-negative. Sexual enjoyment,
in other words, which is based in a lack of actual sexual enjoyment
or celebration of an act, of sex itself, because without the taboo,
it has no appeal.
If I steal a loaf of bread because I am poor and hungry, I enjoy
its flavor when I eat it in a much different way than if I steal
a loaf of bread merely so I can steal and have stolen. If I make
the bread myself, even with less than perfect ingredients, and
I come to it hungry, but not starving, it's going to taste different
still.
Our culture is going to cling to taboo like an umbilical cord
because it exerts serious and effective en masse control, and
what has always scared so many people more than anything about
sex is the fear of what might happen when we lose control, lose
power, lose inhibitions. We are, as a culture terrified of sexual
power, likely because most think of power not in egalitarian terms,
but in terms of power-under and power-over, the way our culture
wants us to because that keeps those in power firmly seated.
We are, as a people, afraid of our sexuality because we know full
well, even in the smallest glimpses, that it can have amazing
power and it is not fully under our control. That scares us because
we don't trust ourselves or others to wield that compassionately
or fairly, because others have not done so. Because many are sure
that if we surrender to it, we will become rapists or nymphomaniacs
or indistinguishable from "lower" creatures (and how arrogant
we are for thinking we're all that different in the first place).
And yet, it seems clear that what the taboo really ends up doing
in relation to that is creating a socio-sexual environment in
which not only are the positives and benefits of sexuality greatly
diminished, but we end up having less control, not more.
Here's what I think, and have for a long time (and it's a big
part of why I do what I do for a living), though I don't think
I've written about it in depth for a couple years: I think if
smut or culture does have the power to "use up" every taboo, if
that's really possible, that might leave us is in an incredibly
fantastic place. I don't want taboo to be any part of sexuality.
I'm of the mind that human sexual development has stages, like
any other sort of development, and that fixation and primary or
total attachment to the taboo is essentially an adolescent stage
of development. To fully reach an adult stage, I'd posit that
needs to become unimportant, or at least secondary, just like
the concept of "virginity." Just like we outgrow shoes that don't
fit anymore and we just toss them out and get new ones that do
fit. We don't keep trying to shove our too-big feet into our too-small
shoes like Cinderella's sisters.
Let me toss out some examples. Over the years, I have once or
twice had people write in asking if incest can be okay. The standard
response would usually be "incest isn't okay," point blank, because
incest is taboo, and a taboo tends to be something we don't question
or dissect or really look at, because we accept that it is taboo
for a reason. Because it is "unnatural" or "immoral," and cultural
relativism is rarely considered or given much merit. And more
times than not, that answer would be easily accepted.
However, I know that incest with youth or teens usually isn't
positive, and that has very little to do with taboo, save that
some of why it tends to be unhealthy is BECAUSE of it being taboo.
Sexological studies show that sexual or romantic relationships
between close family members almost always result in emotional
trauma, due to problems with consent because of familial ties
and closeness; due to at least some coercion often resulting;
due to social isolation and ostracization that results both because
of reaction to taboo and the need to hide such; and because of
not extending sexual and emotional relationships to a broader
social base than the family. Really, no one should need any more
information than that -- or a taboo -- for such to lack appeal;
to know that that isn't a good idea, that it isn't going to be
beneficial and enjoyable for everyone or anyone involved, should
they have those feelings or be inclined to entertain them.
And what "positive" things has that particular taboo brought to
harvest? We have six-year-olds playing doctor who are now being
brought into police stations for assault and psychological dissection.
We have people processing and carrying massive trauma from guilt
and shame over sexual behaviour that has been normal and common
and part of healthy sexual development for as long as we can document
sexual anthropology. We've had more than a handful of teens at
Scarleteen talk about this sort of thing, and often what they're
processing and traumatized by aren't the common childhood "I'll
show you mine, you show me yours" games, but the visceral, terrifying
and borderline abusive reactions from adults who "caught" the
kids in the act and let them know how dirty and shameful and downright
evil they were being. We once had a young man post who had been
entirely convinced he was a rapist for normal, benign childhood
sexual curiosity with a cousin.
Related to this, we have become so scared of childhood sexuality
period, that we have extended the age of childhood to the most
ridiculous borders possible. We are calling 17-year-olds children
(and are then bizarrely shocked when they act like same). All
because of the guilt older men feel when they want to whack off
to a Britney Spears video, really, and all the more do they want
to do it because of more taboo. She's a "child," they're adult
men who must therefore be "fatherly" to her, and thus feeling
desire for a healthy young woman at the height of her fertility
-- something as biologically natural and undeniable as taking
a shit or breathing -- becomes part of an incest taboo. And becomes
all the more powerful and desirable for it, not less.
In the midst of writing this, I've been acting by phone as a mediator
between a friend and his 16-year-old daughter. And it's not at
all unrelated to what I'm talking about here. Right now, the girl's
16. Her family life and dynamic is really very chill. My friend
is a great parent, especially considering he's raised four girls
almost totally on his own, all of whom are now in their teens
at the same time. Try that on for birth control. In any event,
she is the eldest and she is 16, and is grappling with all the
issues and power struggles that happen when you're 16. And she's
taking a lot of needless risks just to take them, which she fesses
up to completely, and manipulating situations so that things she
could be allowed to do are done in such a way so that they become
disallowed and thus, have greater appeal. She's also clearly taking
them because taking them is rebellion and it's rebellion that
nets attention. She admittedly doesn't even know WHY she's taking
them, save that, from her own mouth, that is what one is supposed
to do and it is ultimately more enticing to do so when it is not
permitted than when it is.
| I think a lot of people want The Big Rules, want the stronghold
of taboo, because they want venues for rebellion, either in their
sexual imagination or in action, because it is the only way they
know how to shake off their ennui and make things more exciting,
AND because like my friend's daughter, they want not to have to
really look at and dissect their desires. Or, perhaps, they're
reluctant to acknowledge and figure out why they're dissatisfied
with things as they are and what they can do for more fruitful
rebellion against personal or cultural oppression. Maybe they
want to avoid the tough work that is passing out of that stage
of development, which involves taking real emotional risks, real
developmental steps, and which requires real respect for oneself
and others and means asking all the hard questions. Growing up
sucks. It's hard, and it hurts, whether that's being 16 and moving
to emotional adulthood or being 45 and still stuck in taboo. Likely,
it's worse, because at 45, what we're really looking at, I think,
is a sort of extended sexual adolescence that becomes a sexual
and interpersonal security blanket, but sadly, one which is threadbare
and offers no real security at all. |
 |
|
Photography: 10.26
members (53 photos, guest models) • (1 • 2 • 3 • 4 • 5) |
Lest I come off as some sort of saint or purportedly highly evolved
being, let me add in a disclaimer or twelve. I really didn't have
to work very hard to ditch the taboo stuff. It was just never
inserted deeply into my consciousness. Sure, my mother's mother
was a serious Irish catholic from hell, but my nature is such
that as a pretty analytical kid, it was clear to me her beliefs
didn't serve anyone and she was pretty deep end pretty early in
my life (and my father was an atheist and an activist, and my
mother did things on her own then that most single women just
weren't doing yet, and we all lived very outside the box in many
ways). I went to church with Grandma only once or twice. Somewhere
here are my stories about why she never took me again after a
while, but we'll cut to the chase and say that kids who ask big
questions they aren't supposed to and live to try and usurp the
system don't really blend in catholic mass. I also went to the
black southern baptist church my babysitters went to and was applauded
and led on in running up and down the aisles, jumping and singing
and whooping it up about Jesus with everyone else. My grandmother
and her family were often miserable, mean and tired. My babyistters
and their family were always laughing, kind, and energetic. Simple
object lesson in that, even with very related things: repression,
ick. Expression, whee! Rocket science, it ain't.
I was sexually assaulted at a very young age, I grew up very unsheltered
and independent, I grew up queer before I had a word for it, and
I was the victim or object of enough people in my childhood and
teens clearly operating within taboo that why it was all stupid
and hurtful and idiotic was clear without my having to do a lot
of seeking. You're a girl who kisses girls, you get to be the
petrie dish for a lot of others girls wanting to do so to be "bad."
Same goes, maybe double for being the one girl who is too fast
for the "nice" boys -- because that, of course, becomes her appeal.
My father gave me clear guidelines within my freedoms to experiment
with things sexually, chemically, interpersonally. If things were
just stupid to do or harmful I was told WHY by him. When my mother
and stepfather wouldn't let me continue to see the first big love
of my life because of an age disparity, it was the catalyst for
me to finally leave home, not out of rebellion, but because my
home life was horrifying and I knew damn well the issue with my
boyfriend wasn't about age or taboo but about power and control
and simple fear. And that relationship didn't end because he used
me in any way (in fact, I was the pushy one about sex in the relationship),
because he "abused" any power over me, or because we outgrew each
other, it ended because he took too many ludes and blasted his
head all over his wall because -- perhaps ironically in this context
-- he was carrying a shitload of trauma from childhood sexual
abuse and nasty foster care he was never allowed to discuss or
process. Right after that all happened, more than once, by more
than one adult, I was informed that the object lesson of that
was that that was the price of rebellion. Having seen the scene,
having had a great love, and having someone who helped me get
out of an abusive home, off a park bench, and into a good one
with my dad, I wasn't buying it. More with the object lessons.
By the end of high school, I had boyfriends. I had girlfriends.
I dropped LSD and mushrooms regularly (still would flatly, if
I had the stomach for it and knew I could get anything decent
-- hallucinogens were really good to me). I posed nude a few times.
I had group sex more than once. I dabbled in BDSM. I had a whole
lot of sex with a whole lot of people, more of whom were friends
than "boyfriends" or "girlfriends." I didn't do any of these things
because I wanted to be a "bad" girl, I did them because I found
them enjoyable and interesting and satisfying and they made me
happy. I never felt "bad" doing any of them. Part of that may
be that I was assigned the role of "bad" child from day one by
virtue of being the product of my mother's premarital one night
stand, and with my dego hippie father, no less: I didn't need
to earn that title and no matter how hard I tried, I wasn't going
to be afforded any other role or status. No matter how many good
grades I got, how much I did to be helpful and run the house,
how nice I was to everyone, I was "the bad one" according to my
mother's family. So, my badness not only needed no proving, I
was sick to death of it from the get-go. It wasn't exciting; it
was annoying and painful. In retrospect, I may have that assigned
role to thank for some of my sexual freedom: I knew no matter
what I did, I'd be seen as "bad," so I really didn't have to worry
about what anyone thought of what I wanted to do or did, since
my actions had nothing to do with how I was judged.
Is it possible that I'm in, or was in, denial about my not operating
under taboo? Sure. One can only be so objective about oneself.
But I don't think so. And I know I can say now that the taboo
has absolutely no part in my sexual life, and to my knowledge,
never really has. I know that what I do and have done sexually
I do and have done because it is intuitively what I feel I want
to do and it makes me feel GOOD, not bad. And given the fact that
it'd be hard to find a way to view me as sexually sheltered or
unadventurous, I feel comfortable and confident representing that
it is possible to have an adventurous and diverse and fun sex
life outside of that sphere. I'm not having to reign myself in
sexually to eschew taboo.
This is lengthy and polemic, I know. But these concepts are so
complex and so multifaceted, so it seems to me that one can't
really talk about, ironically, what cannot be talked about, enough.
I'll say it again just once more: if it is possible to "use up"
or exhibit every taboo in something as benign as sexual fiction,
I am absolutely all for it. If we can demystify taboos to the
point that they all look as trite and silly and relativistic as
they are, I'm an advocate. Because while I can't know for sure,
I'm fairly certain where that would leave us culturally is in
the best place possible, a place where people might really start
questioning, rather than just accepting (and if you don't believe
that's possible or is even happening already, look at how scared
the religious right has gotten and how much they're starting to
publicly unravel -- or hell, at how well enforcing taboo works
for some of them). That sexually, we might just wind up in a place where people
are wanting to feel GOOD, really good, not naughty or bad or wicked.
Where destructive risk-taking starts to decline and takes a backseat
to taking risks which actually are beneficial and healthy. Where
sexuality of all sane and consensual flavors starts to really
become okay. Where a woman can have a one-night stand where she
really had a good time and reduced her safety risks accordingly,
and not still feel bad about it the next day or have to apologize
for it. Where we don't think of sex or love as a scarcity economy.
Where I can have a really fun, funny and fantastic night with
three girls in a bed and not have people write in the next day
telling me I shouldn't talk about it where younger people might
see that I'm not apologetic or ashamed as I should be.
Where what inhibits us isn't inexplicable aversion or social custom,
but care and respect for ourselves and other people, simple want
of joy and happiness, and that is so sensible, sane and beneficial
that it no longer feels like an inhibition at all.
Imagine that. Really. I know I sound like a newfangled hippie,
but imagine that and enjoy it for a minute, because not only is
it a great utopia, I think it's totally possible culturally, and
I know it's totally possible individually.
Now, imagine if that were so with sex, what effects it might have
on everything else. Now that's what I call sacred. And not surprisingly,
in our culture, that kind of utopia is pretty taboo. |
|
|
|
|
