Impostor

On the eve of my 17^th birthday, I wrote the following words in my (tragic adolescent) diary:

“I HAVE THE BODY OF A 16 YEAR OLD!”

I was making fun of myself and the world, generally. Because how many times do you read or hear references similar to ’she had the body of a 16 year old’ as a representation of physical perfection? As if being aged 16 automatically guarantees you the body of a supermodel.

Yeah, right.

The irony of this certainly didn’t escape my 16 year old self. There is nothing quite so depressing as finding yourself at the age where you’re supposedly as hot as you’re ever going to get, and being awkward, dumpy, plain.

It’s this image of myself that has followed me into adulthood, and it’s a story that I’m certain that pretty much all women can identify with.

I should also point out that at age 16 I had not, as yet, discovered sex. How can one know sexiness if one has never had sex? (Incidentally, this is why I think the sexualisation of children is utterly obscene. Sex is powerful, dangerous. It’s like giving a person language without explaining the meaning behind it. Other people can understand, but you don’t know what you’re saying. But I’ll save this discussion for another day’s rant.)

Last weekend, nearly 10 years on from my 17^th birthday, I caught sight of my reflection in the full length mirror of the hostel I was staying in while on holiday in Melbourne. I know it’s a cliché, but it was one of those moments where it took me a second to realise I was looking at me.

Me? A woman with graceful curves, a deep sexuality about her, a few really awesome tattoos and luminescent green hair? In pink polka dot underpants and a black bra; wearing it… well?

A woman.

Sex alone does not a woman make. Nor do the numbers on your drivers licence. Nor does makeup, high heels, a full time job, or even marriage. Again I’m edging dangerously close to the clichéd territory of God-awful pop songs, but there is something about being a woman that can’t be bought, hurried, painted on.

It’s the sort of thing that requires a lot of pretending before you actually get the hang of it. The difference between me and other people is that I always feel so phoney when I’m pretending. But sometimes it’s the only way. For example, I learned how to be confident by pretending to be a confident person. Even though I thought my acting abilities were terrible, people bought it. And when people bought it, my confidence grew. Until instead of pretending it became something I just did.

I feel like I’ve been playing a lot of very adult, very ‘womanly’ roles in life for a good while now, but I’ve never quite bought it myself. Not until I saw myself in front of that mirror, and saw it. Seeing is believing; I’ve finally grown up.

How to describe it?

Much as I loathe the expression ‘puppy fat’, I finally realise what it means. Since my teens I haven’t exactly lost weight, but now there’s something about my appearance that looks more defined, more set. The word ‘harder’ carries connotations of roughness, but it’s not like that. A physical manifestation of wiser, perhaps? I feel like at 16 I was an amorphous blob of possibility, and now I’ve settled a shape that reflects who I now am.

It’s like… I had no idea who I was or what I wanted in life when I was 16 – who does? I was living with a set of values that I had borrowed from my parents and the people surrounding me at the time. And as mentioned, I had not yet found sex, which would turn out to be that missing piece that helped me to finally understand myself. (I hated being a child and I can’t understand people who want to return to a place where they were powerless, voiceless and without sexuality). So my body at 16 was somewhat unformed, confused. Something I tried to hide, and hated the idea of anyone seeing naked.

For years I’ve been telling myself that beauty is relative, and that true sexuality is deeper than skin. So I finally got to a place where I was happy enough with how I looked, and dropped a lot of the draining self loathing I carried around with me in my teens. It’s as if the minute I finally lost all care about having a perfect body, I was rewarded by looking into a mirror and realising I had one the whole time.

Which is wonderful.

But here’s the thing. No matter how ‘attractive’ or ‘beautiful’ I might become, there will always be the memory of being ugly. And it’s this that undermines everything, and makes any compliments I receive feel undeserved. As if desirability is simply an act that I’ve mastered as a means of hiding my ‘true’ self. It makes me really nervous when people tell me I’m sexy, because I feel like it’s only a matter of time before they see behind the mask and realise the truth. Like I’m ripping them off or something? Bait ‘n switch!

I don’t know why a younger version of yourself should come to represent ‘who you really are’ but for some reason it does. Even I do it to others, I’ll admit. You know how you might have gone to high school with someone who was all into heavy metal, and now they’re super gay and clubbing every weekend, and you find yourself thinking: who does he think he’s fooling? When clearly that’s a ridiculous way to think, because it’s not like a person’s sexual orientation is a fashion statement, and obviously the heavy metal thing was the cover up, not the other way around. But still.

I didn’t go to my high school reunion because I didn’t want to look like the girl who’d bought a pot of hair dye and moved to the inner west in a quest to become ‘alternative’. Actually I resisted this lifestyle for many years because I thought there was something phoney about Newtown being packed with goths and punks who all actually grew up in the Western Suburbs. But what I realised is that people are drawn to these places because it speaks to something in them. Just because you were born in Blacktown doesn’t necessarily mean you belong in Blacktown. Growing up is a process of discovery. At 16, the journey has only begun.

But still I feel sheepish. How can a girl from the suburbs ever hope to be taken seriously as a writer, a poet? I have these dreams of moving to Berlin, learning German, writing abstract poetry about art and love, swilling wine and hanging with the all the beautiful freaks – but then I think; who, me? Who the hell are you kidding, little girl?

I know that all the beautiful freaks to which I refer were all once like me. That’s what makes us beautiful freaks.

I’m sick of feeling like an impostor. Like someone who’s gatecrashed someone else’s awesome life and awesome body.

Because I’m not. This is me; this is the person I was always supposed to be. Had I stayed in the suburbs and married my high school boyfriend I’m certain I would have ended up depressed, miserable, unsatisfied. And scared, too afraid to go beyond my comfort zone to try and find out what I might have been missing. And, worst of all, with absolutely nothing to write about!

So I’m going to try to leave the past where it belongs, and move forward.

Actually I think I might start by doing something I’ve been fantasising about doing for a long while now. By burning my old diaries!

Thrill is Gone

Oh, I remember the days. When I’d be at it every night, rapturous, feverish, insatiable. When everything was so simple, so deliciously easy, filled with butter-richness, endlessly warm and hazy. When the only thing I could think of was more, more, more, over and over in my head as I lay pulsing in my bed, knotted through the bedclothes, aching.

Yes, although it pains me to say it, it’s time I face up to the truth:

Masturbation is just not as good as it used to be.

I’m not normally one to agree with the sentiment that adolescence is the best time of your life, but when it comes to jerking off I’m going to have to make an exception. As much as I might have enjoyed it at the time (most notably during my 14^th and 15^th years), I need make peace with the fact that my auto-erotic heydays are behind me. It’s time now to put my right index finger to better use (perhaps by typing the rest of my novel), and get on with my life. In the immortal words of Blink 182: I guess this is growing up.

You see, Marauder has been overseas for the past week, and won’t be back for another 9 days. And even though in recent posts I’ve been all on about polyamory, I’ve run into some problems with that philosophy. (Mainly the bits about ‘respectfulness’ and ‘etiquette’; which contradict with *my* idea of a good time, which is ‘being a gigantic uncontrollable trashbag’). I haven’t given up on the concept of polyamory, (I mean, I haven’t even begun to understand it), but I’ve decided that now is not the time. A friend of mine put it very plainly when he told me that my main priority right now should be finishing my book. I know, I know. Goddamn. My life right now is a carnival of distractions – I’ve gotta draw the line somewhere or else I’m going to have to give up on being a writer altogether and just join the fucking circus instead.

(As cool as lion taming would be…)

So anyway that’s all well and good and I’ve spent the last few days dutifully at my desk and generally being productive. Which is fine except that when my head hits the pillow at the end of a long day – I can’t sleep.

It’s evitable to become somewhat comfortable inside a relationship; accustomed to things being a certain way. Now I remember how things were. This is how I get when I’m single – cagey, irritable, intolerably dull. I’m all Martha Stewart, steaming vegetables, doing laundry, forcing myself to exercise, joylessly prim.

And then it grips me, the Terror, the thought that I might have to wait another week before I can shag someone again, when I want it, I need it, now, NOW!

I always used to think of myself as someone who lacked willpower. A slave to my uncontrollable appetites, greedy, weak. But then I realised that contrary to what I’d always believed, I’m actually a master of self control, because my ‘hunger’ is always far, far greater than what I ever let myself consume. I am so very controlled all of the time, because I have to be. I can’t even imagine what would happen if I let the floodgates open, only that it would probably result in my death.

I’ll order one serving of dessert – but I could eat the whole cake.

I’ll have a couple of glasses of wine – but I could drink the whole bottle.

I’ll survive on sex every second day – but I could fuck all day and all night, for the rest of my life.

Don’t even mention drugs.

And kink?

Honestly?

I used to do the 24/7 D/s thing. And I  loved it.

According to Mae West: too much of a good thing is wonderful.

Is it?

And what has all this got to do with the physical act of self love? Well here I am, you see. I spend the whole day being prim and proper, all smug that I’ve managed to keep my swollen, gluttonous desires in check for another day, and then it gets me back with insomnia. I’ll get to the very end of the day and something in me just refuses to lie down and sleep until it’s had some fun.

Which is when my thoughts usually turn to masturbation as a quick, easy and harmless solution.

Trouble is, I don’t want quick, easy or harmless. It feels like trying to put out a volcano with a glass of water. And all that this mockery of passion does for me is to create more frustration than it actually alleviates. I’ll finish up and not only feel less satisfied, but angry because without someone there to share it, it feels wasted. And that’s at least one thing that both Martha and the Demon can agree on – waste is a terrible thing.

Last night I literally got so bored halfway through that I gave up altogether. (It doesn’t help that my downstairs neighbour is currently having the loudest, most enthusiastic sex I’ve ever had the pleasure to overhear). I just can’t be bothered anymore, and I’m not going to insult myself by pretending that a physiological orgasm is the answer to what I’m craving.

I should also just clarify here – I’m not talking about a desire for any person in particular. What I want is vague and nameless. I can’t even quantify what it is in words, but I’ll know when I find it.

I haven’t found it yet.

I’m afraid to.

But the alternative is…?

Yay for Men

Before I write anything further about kink, I feel the need to make a shameless confession:

I like men.

Gasp! Horror! Outrage!

Who am I? Am I a woman who not only disagrees with the notion that all men are liars, scumbags, oppressors and rapists, but who would actually go so far as to say I *like* them? What is this world coming to! Haven’t our feminist fore-mothers taught us anything? Next I’m probably going to cancel my library membership (because my pretty little head can’t handle reading anything more strenuous than Woman’s Day), write to the electoral commission explaining that I couldn’t possibly accept the responsibility of being a voting citizen (owing to the fact I eject blood from my lady-bits for approximately six days of the month and am thus mentally unsound), and then devote myself wholeheartedly to the task of getting married and popping out sprogs (because, let’s face it, at nearly twenty-six years of age, I’m virtually a washed up old maid)!

Forgive the rant, but I think the brand of feminism that promotes women to a higher status than men is intrinsically fucked. I know that sort of attitude isn’t as popular as it was in the seventies, but there still appears to be an arrogant assumption among women that ‘equality’ means ‘reserving the right to slander men’. At the innocuous end of the spectrum, men are often used as the butt of jokes (portrayed in advertising and on television as stupid and gormless) and at the extreme end there are feminists out there who believe that women who are sexually attracted to men are still buying into the patriarchy. Announcing that I like men shouldn’t be a political statement, and yet it is.

In my younger days I was defiantly straight. Despite the fact I’d slept with women, I still felt a certain stubborn pride in listing my sexual preference as ’straight’ on my Myspace profile (shut up, all of you). I’ve always had a thing against liking what is popular, and describing yourself as bisexual during my undergrad was extremely popular. But I liked men and I wanted people to know that. I didn’t want to have to feel apologetic about mentioning my boyfriend when chatting to the lesbian with the dreadlocks from my cultural studies class. But I did. Behind my staunch defiance I felt sheepish, immature, uninitiated. I went to lengths to avoid using the phrase “my boyfriend” in conversation, because it made me sound like I was still in high school, like I was reliant upon a man to prop up my personality. What is it about women using that phrase that makes them sound a bit lame? I still don’t like it, and I still feel a twinge when I tell people I live with my boyfriend. Something that makes me sound weak? Like I’m a woman who needs a man?

I’ve been hurt by men. I’ve been patronised, made to doubt my abilities because of my gender, belittled for expressing my emotions, bullied, lied to, threatened. But I’m not going to hold it against every member of the male gender just because a few of my ex-boyfriends (and ex-employers) were dickheads. Women can be just as shit as men, yes, even lesbians. What it basically comes down to is the fact that people are shit, not just men specifically.

People are shit, people. Learn that, and then forget it.

Another thing that really annoys me is the way that women expect men to behave like women. Fight Club (both the novel and the film, but especially the film) should be required reading/viewing for every teenager – because it addresses the taboo of finding (/’fighting’ for) male identity inside a post-feminist culture.  The men of today are confused, at odds with themselves, lacking role models, lost; a concept which is distilled in the film by the line: ‘a generation of men raised by women’.

I grew up in a family run by women. My mum was the ‘man’ of the house, and on top of working full time she also cooked, cleaned and made all the important decisions. My dad didn’t dare get in her way – no one did. We were all afraid of her. I grew up with an implicit understanding that ‘empowerment’ meant ‘being a massive bitch’. (I do love my mother, but yeah). I treated my first boyfriend horribly. I was controlling, stroppy, demanding. Interestingly, he also came from a family where his mum ran the show and tried to control his life. We were both unhappy, but that’s how we’d been raised to behave. Compared with the relationships of our friends and seemingly everyone around us, it was normal.

My second boyfriend (the one who introduced me to BDSM) was older than me, rough, rude, arrogant and unafraid to be dominant. He was very masculine but at the same time he respected my intellect and urged me to fulfil my potential in life. He didn’t need to push me down in order to assert his masculinity – in some ways the fact that he was the master and I was the slave was incidental to his being male and my being female. This is very important. He wasn’t dominant because he was a man, he was dominant because he was dominant. So many men are afraid of acknowledging their dominant side for fear that they will be persecuted as sexist wife-beaters. This is why the act of dominance needs to be separated from gender – because it has nothing to do with politics. It’s about sex, and sex is not politically correct. How many heterosexual couple’s sex lives are suffering because men have been taught that it is not acceptable to exert dominance? How many men have received the flawed message that women want ’sensitive’ lovers? I tell you, whoever invented the fucking ‘SNAG’ thing should be shot.

Might I also say that I love everything about men’s bodies. Love them. I think they are beautiful in their own right – women are not the only ones capable of beauty! I even think cocks are attractive (well, when they’re erect). Like I said, I’ve fucked women and it’s been awesome, although the most awesome time was when my girlfriend and I were stoned and we both imaged we had… cocks.

COCK! I LOVE COCK!

Ahem. (Funny thing, actually. I love cock but I hate dildoes. What I love about cock is that it gets pleasure as it pleasures me. When the pleasure stick is inanimate I just wind up thinking – what’s the point?)

Oh and hey I may as well milk this to its predictable conclusion, (haw haw), but how cool is ejaculation? Even though I generally always experience multiple orgasm (yeah poor me, I know) I do sometimes envy the spectacular finality of the male orgasm. To blow. Oh, man, so hot!

IN CONCLUSION, I am a woman who likes men and I’m not ashamed to say it. I think men are severely underrated and that the Australian Government should run a campaign to increase their approval rating. Something like this:

Assuming All Men are Violent Jerks For No Justifiable Reason?

Australia Says No.

Pain Slut

At the risk of sounding repetitive, I love pain. Did I mention that I love pain?

2008 was all about my experiments with the physical sort. I got needled, tattooed, caned, flogged, spanked, burned, choked. It taught me a lot, improved my confidence, got me high and made me sparkle with secret glee. All the while my life in general was sunny, calm, domestic, creative. All good things. But a certain dryness had crept into my kink. My forays into pain were strictly regulated by scheduled social fetish events. I kept the ‘Creature’ (as I like to call it) firmly in place; I thought I had it tamed.

I was wrong.

Events of the last few weeks have forced me to remember something about myself, something that I thought was long buried. And now I realise that the Creature was not tame, nor could it ever be tamed; it was lying in wait.

Before I go any further, allow me to explain: I have an uneasy relationship with this thing. On one hand, it makes me who I am, it gives me my sex, it has brought me unadulterated, animalistic joy, and it breathes life into my writing. On the other hand it makes me make terrible decisions, it hurts people, it fucks up things like study and work, it obliterates everything and leaves me with only its own selfish, bottomless need.

Having been nearly destroyed by this thing in the past, I suppose it was understandable that I’d shoved it out of my conscious mind. I knew that I’d always need an outlet for kink, so I found a way to incorporate it into a life that was mostly balanced and happy. I also knew that the Creature would always demand a voice, so I channelled it into my novel (of which I’m up to Chapter 23). Things were humming away nicely; I was so proud of myself. But as we all know, pride comes before a…

…oophf.

Damn. The air was so very nice up there, too.

Which brings me back to pain. See, physical pain is sexy and interesting in its own right. But for me, the real, absolute power of BDSM comes from the combination of pain and emotion. Pain AND emotion. Maybe it wasn’t so much that I’d forgotten about this, but that I thought I’d never encounter anyone who could deliver it as potently as did my psychotic ex-boyfriend. Now, five years later and seemingly out of nowhere, there is a contender. (A non-psychotic one).

I should point out that emotion/pain combo is not the same as emotional pain. It comes down to the difference between ‘good’ pain and ‘bad’ pain. In a physical sense, good pain could be described as being spanked suggestively, while bad pain covers anything from slamming your thumb in a door to being slapped by an abusive lover. In an attempt to describe the good sort of painful emotions, I’ll start by describing what invokes the bad: blackmail, guilt-trips, insults, meaningless cruelty. My ex inflicted this sort of emotional bullshit on me and it hurt far more than anything physical he ever did (and meant that his behaviour did not technically qualify as domestic violence). I’ve also suffered enough emotional pain through other problems in life, as well the angst that’s generated from my ongoing troubles with depression and anxiety. So I’m well-familiar with all that kind of crap, and am not seeking more of it, thank you.

So how can painful emotion possibly be good? It’s not all that hard to understand, considering that most of our euphemisms for love are based around references to pain: ‘burning’ with desire, ‘bleeding’ love, ’stabbed’ through the heart, ‘tortured’, ‘breathless’, ‘aching’, ‘trembling’, ’stricken’, ‘throbbing’, ‘helpless’, ‘consumed’, etc, etc, etc. In the same way that I like to experience physical sensations right on the very edge where pleasure becomes pain, so too do I like to feel emotion to the point where it hurts. Or rather, ‘I’ don’t necessarily seek this, but ‘Creature’ does.

Perhaps ‘Creature’ is just a silly way of describing the things that, deep down, I want, but am too frightened to admit to myself. In the days of my misspent youth, I didn’t care about throwing myself away, throwing myself at full force towards foolish things. Now I’m old and I’m cautious. What if I fuck everything up? What if I lose everything I value and love? And worse, worse than anything else, what if I hurt Marauder?

I can try to ignore it, but that has never proven to be an effective means of controlling this thing. It just makes it angry. Perhaps this is my opportunity in life to find harmony, at last? To figure out a way it can work for everyone?

Then again, who the hell am I kidding?

I’m confused, and the hot weather in Sydney right now isn’t helping. Talking about it feels so useless. The side of the brain which handles language is miles apart from whatever part of me screams, bangs, thrashes wildly.

I don’t want to live a neutered existence where this sort of stuff doesn’t affect me. I don’t want to dull down my experience of living, just to make it more bearable, more ‘acceptable’. I want to burn, I want to bleed, I want to suffer beautifully. But I don’t want to hurt anyone.

So I’m stuck.

Ah, advice, anyone? If you have any idea what the hell I’m talking about?

P.s. For anyone who is a Dexter fan – I particularly love the expression he uses to describe the serial killer side of him: dark passenger. I suppose I should feel lucky that my vice is not so terrible (or illegal) as murder. There are far worse things to be addicted to. But I do still find it disturbing that I should identify so strongly with a serial killer, fictitious as he may be.