Surrender

Believe it or not, I’m actually a shy person.

Certainly, that might seem a bit rich coming from the girl once seen at a fetish party getting her vagina electrocuted while tied to a dentist’s chair. Or from someone who regularly took out the nudy award at any given Sexy Freaks event, and who was always first to put her hand up for a caning/bondage session/rubber sack experience/whatever.

If you don’t know me very well, you’re likely to think of me as that mad, exuberant, drunk person, clutching her fourth glass of cheap red, laughing, shrieking, talking, flirting; always up for a party.

And yeah, that’s who I am – some of the time. But it’s not who I always am, and it’s certainly not how I used to be, not at all.

These last three years have been massive. I went from being someone who found it hard to make new friends, had trouble making conversation with strangers, scared lovers away with my intensity and desperation, and had lingering troubles with insecurity and feelings of worthlessness. I was perpetually nervous and almost completely lacking in confidence.

Needless to say, parties were not my idea of a good time.

I’d like to think that my transformation from wallflower to social butterfly was brought about entirely by my own motivation, but the real reason why I started leaving my house frequently was due to a disturbed flatmate who was eating my food, using my computer, and cavorting naked in my room while I was out. It was during this period of my life that I started seeing Marauder, and it was then that she started to get all Single White Female on me – demanding to know who I was seeing, when I’d be home, and whether or not she should save any of her bizarre vegetarian cooking for me (the highlight of which was the dish made entirely out of couscous and onions).

I went from being a person who was once content to eat noodles in her pyjamas on a Friday night, to someone who would attend the opening of an envelope. Your neighbour’s cousin’s best friend’s bar mitzvah? Gosh, why didn’t you tell me sooner?  I’m THERE!

Marauder helped. An excitable Gemini, I fell in love with his fearlessness. As I fell into step with him, my life became a series of crazy adventures and schemes. By the end of 2007, I found myself in New York, shaking my booty with a bunch of drunk Santas in a jazz bar in Brooklyn, reaching out to him and letting him lead me places I never would have gone on my own.

2008 was something of a blur. Marauder and I started hosting our own fetish parties, the first of which was attended by the press (Michael Atkin from Triple J) and broadcast nationally. (How fucking cool is that?) It was at these parties that I really came out of my shell – and went further with public play than I’d ever imagined was possible.

I learned that pain is only a bad thing if you interpret it as such, and that I am a much stronger person than I give myself credit for. I also gained confidence in my appearance, and realised that 95% of sex appeal comes down to how you present yourself to the world; not the genes you’re born with.

I realised that people are drawn to those who are comfortable in themselves.

Simply: I stopped apologising to the world for my very existence.

All of this is awesome. And in the process of coming out of my shell, I’ve met so many interesting people and made so many amazing friends.

But now I find myself in a place where I’m questioning everything. I suppose it’s the depression speaking when I ask myself: what is the point of going out? What do I want out of public play? What am I trying to prove?

I feel like I’ve reached the limit of how far I’m willing to go in public. In the same way you tend to have deeper, better quality conversations when you’re alone with someone, the same goes for kink and sex. The more people in the room, the more self conscious I become. On top of that, I just feel tired. Summonsing the energy to behave like a socially-adjusted extrovert takes a lot out of me. Yes, it’s rewarding, but at what cost?

It takes a lot of bravery to open yourself up before a group of people. To bare not just your body but your all your emotional hiding places – the little pockets of grief and despair.

Now that I’ve been to more kink events than I’ve had hot dinners, I feel in need of a rest. I also feel like it’s threatening to become stagnant. When you do the same thing repeatedly, even if it’s something as imaginative and energetic as BDSM, the tendency is to become complacent.

This is not to say that I’ve ‘grown out’ of kink. Far, far from it. I mean, gods, this morning I jerked off with the black butt-plug I got in Japan, to thoughts of being dressed entirely in rubber, strung from the ceiling, teetering on thigh-high ballet boots, and electrocuted while having my breath restricted. Seriously. The less I give this thing, the more bizarre it becomes.

(When I went to see Dylan Moran, he did this bit about how we all have a Beast inside us, and the Beast only says one thing: ‘MORE’. He then goes on to explain that if you refuse, the Beast says: ‘GIVE ME WHAT I WANT OR I’LL MAKE YOU WEIRD.’)

My desire for more kink in my life is precisely the reason why I feel like it’s necessary to retreat. Because now I crave play that is more serious, more emotionally involved, and more sexual.

See, one of the reasons I’ve never been interested in the swingers’ scene, is because group sex is ridiculous. Add an audience to sex and it becomes a pantomime. Which is some people’s cup of tea, but not mine. I find it nearly impossible to let go sexually unless it’s private – I even find it hard to fully relax enough to come with partners the first few times I have sex with them. Which I think makes me, ah, normal.

Anyway, I’ve had some truly fantastic public play experiences over the last couple of years – but they’ve not been overtly sexual. They’ve been sex-y, sensual, arousing, but not orgasmic. (Except that one time with Marauder and needles – but that was private – which proves my point).

I *want* my kink, now, to be sexual.

Which means that I’m going to have to open my heart a bit, and let some people a bit closer to me. You know, put something of myself out there where it can be potentially stolen, lost, or hurt.

*Ack*

I don’t know if I’m ready. I’m in a bit of a strange place – caught between the past and the future, wrestling with some old demons which have chosen this moment in time to resurface. I’m still fending depression off with a stick, holding on until it passes.

Kink can be used for healing. I know that. And I know people who would be willing to help me out.

I need to surrender and admit that I can’t do everything on my own, and admit that yes, sometimes I need people. As does everyone.

It’s hard for me, though. Damn hard.

From Whence You Came

I’m sorry. I know that for many thousands of people, some of them kinky, the internet is a legitimate source of soulmates. But for me, it has only ever been a source of pain. (The shit kind).

Aw, c’mon, you say. Can’t have been that bad.

Yeah, well. You know that thing you say to yourself when someone hasn’t responded to an email? When your mind starts to turn over possibilities as to why they seem to have lost interest in your flirtatious banter? The point at which ‘maybe they died’ comes up, and you chastise yourself for being such a freaking egomaniac?

Well, turns out, in this particular instance, the person I’d been chatting to over the internet did actually die.

So, I’m a bit burned. But hey, I’m not saying it couldn’t work for you. Just make sure that the person you’re chatting to didn’t used to be a heroin addict, and if they were, tell them to go easy on the drinking, k?

True story.

Anyway, when I joined Fetlife, it was only ever with the intention of keeping in touch with people I actually knew in real life. (Fetlife, for the uninitiated, is the fetish equivalent of Facebook. I can’t say I dig the name, but as far as kinky social networking goes, it’s pretty awesome).

Now that we’ve got Under 30s up and running on Fetlife, I’ve been enjoying it even more.

But, as tends to happen when sex and technology collide, you get your usual share of idiots.

My profile states very clearly:

I am looking for friendship, and I do not chat online.

However, I don’t know why I bothered to stipulate these things, when the only pieces of information sleazy randoms appear to be reading are ‘submissive’ and ‘single’.

Ger.

On about a weekly basis, I get a new message from someone desperate, saying something predictable, stupid, or both.

I’ve been around long enough to be able to separate these losers into categories. First cab off the rank:

• The Dude Using a Cock Shot as a Profile Pic

Okay, I don’t care if you have the literary prowess of Hunter S. Thompson, if your profile picture is a blurry snapshot of your erect member, I will instantly delete your message. Seriously guys. Seriously. When, in the history of the internet, has a woman EVER been wooed by a picture of a wang? What is WITH guys and photographing their own genitals?! And then feeling the pressing need to SHARE it with everyone? Sharing is NOT caring! BLERGH!

It’s gross. So very gross. Lose even more points (plunging your score into negative infinity) if the cock is pictured ejaculating.

• The Dude Generously Offering to Make You His Lifelong Slave

This gets my goat even more than the cock shots, and that’s saying a lot. You wouldn’t believe the amount of messages I’ve received from dominant males listing all the qualities I should possess to be worthy of being their slave. This one, for example:

From time to time I require, need a woman to give over to me possession (sic), control of her body (ohh and most certainly her mind S) to enjoy, to direct, to ……use. I seek a woman who at a predetermined time, for a set duration and with prescribed limits, will do what I tell her, when I tell her, where I tell her (and with what S). I want a woman who will do ……..things to herself while I…… direct her.

Sounds like… he wants a woman who will… masturbate a lot… with random objects… when told.

(The ‘S’ is for ‘Sucks’).

Dude, I’m not on Fetlife so I can be instructed to masturbate, all right? Believe it or not but I’ve got that one taken care of, and all under my own direction!

Bur.

A dominant asking a submissive to be their slave on Fetlife is the equivalent of a man asking a woman to marry him on RSVP. Like suggesting to a person that you have sex based on the observation that you’ve got a compatible set of genitals.

The thing that REALLY annoys me is that I’m willing to bet that this sort of pitch is probably often successful. Because there was a time in my life where I didn’t value my sexuality at all, and was willing to throw my submission at any old dom who so much as scratched his hairy paunch in my direction. I just couldn’t believe that anyone would be willing to take the time and effort to hit me with things, and as such I always felt unduly indebted to anyone who did.

Well, those days are gone.

• The Dude Looking for a Webcam Playmate

First of all, for me, all the power and beauty of BDSM transpires in the energy exchange between two people. Which generally necessitates both people being in the same room.

I know that it probably makes me a luddite to say that no form of communication can beat a real, physical exchange, but seriously, I just don’t get the whole webcam or phone sex thing. What’s the freaking point? As mentioned, I don’t need encouragement to masturbate. I’m doing just fine with that, thank you.

Secondly, it has occurred to me that the guys who are looking for webcam playmates are probably MARRIED, and looking to get off with some stranger on the internet while the missus isn’t around. Which really isn’t my gig.

• The Dude Who Cannot Construct a Decipherable Sentence

These messages are usually entitled “hey…” and the body of the message usually contains one failed attempt at a sentence.

can we talk?

No, we cannot talk, due to the fact you cannot speak English properly.

U have MSN

Despite your confident assertion that I have MSN, (presuming of course that ‘U’ means ‘you’), I do not. Any other wild guesses you’d like to make about the software I’ve got installed?

hey how r u?

In answer to your question, I’m bursting with energy, unlike yourself, who appears to find the task of hitting the ‘a’, ‘e’, ‘y’ and ‘o’ keys altogether too taxing. I’m not quite sure why you’re sending me a message, since you should clearly be at the doctor’s office, getting that chronic fatigue thing you’ve got going there seen to.

Don’t even get me started on those who end their every sentence with ‘LOL’.

• The Dude With Nothing on his Profile

No picture, no information about himself, no interests – and yet clearly we have SO much in common.

Look, we all suffer from the lazies at one point or another, but if you want to speak to me, at least put in SOME effort to write a sentence or two about yourself and upload a goddamned photo. (Note: A photo of your cock doesn’t count.)

• The Older, Married, Submissive Wife who has been Instructed to Recruit Another Sub

There’s this thing that happens where submissive wives get ‘encouraged’ by their dominant husbands to explore their bisexual, switch sides. (Which is usually just a way for the dude to con his wife into having a threesome – while sneakily tricking her into thinking it was her idea, and that it’s all about her own desires, not his).

Having been in a D/s relationship where my master kept telling me I was bisexual (and then guilting me into having threesomes to prove my love for him), I am particularly cynical about this kind of thing.

It’s especially yucky if the couple is a good twenty years older than I am.

So, no.

*****

From now on, in answer to any poorly-worded romantic query via Fetlife, I will provide the sage words of Jack White (from the end of a very rocking album called Get Behind Me Satan):

I’m lonely (but I ain’t that lonely yet).

By the Throat

Being single (and living alone) is great. I love it. Don’t get me wrong, I do.

(As Mulder once said to Scully, “I sense a big ‘but’ coming.”)

But.

It’s not easy. In the sense that anything worthwhile never is.

See, learning how to be happily single is a valuable experience. I’ve been sticking up for myself, pleasing myself, and most importantly: getting a lot of shit done. (Like, that darned pesky novel, which I did actually finish last weekend).

I have many awesome friends, and more than my fair share of lovers. (Not to mention my wife – for those of you who know me on Facebook). I’ve been busy, productive, social, and assertive. I am, without sarcasm, tremendously satisfied with my life.

So why, I ask, am I so fucking depressed?

*sigh*

Ah, depression. You little gem. One need never be lonely with such an enduring companion!

Now look, right. Don’t get all Lifeline on my arse. I’ve been depressed since I was three years old. (Not a joke – one of my earliest memories was of being overwhelmed by the thought of facing another day at pre-school). Stupidly, it wasn’t until I was about 22 years old did I ever pause to consider that not everyone in the world feels continually anxious, self-conscious, and paranoid; and that not everyone considers everything in life to be pointless because ultimately we’re All Going to Die.

Ah, I don’t *always* feel like that, at least – not anymore. I’m much, much better balanced than I used to be. And, these days, even when I do feel like that, I know intellectually that it’s only The Depression, and not that the world is actually ending.

Being able to compartmentalise it like that is very convenient – because I can be feeling like shit, and still continue my day with no one any the wiser.

It’s a matter of following through with the motions of living life like a Normal Person, and from there I usually become distracted enough to shake it.

(I went to see a psychologist once, who literally said “Wow, well done! You’ve managed it really well. Sure you don’t want some drugs?” To which I responded: “No, thanks.”)

I’ve come to terms with it. This is how life’s going to be for me, because this is just how I am. I like the way I am, and strangely, a lot of good has come out of the depression. It’s not a *bad* thing, not exactly, depending on how you look at it.

But like I was saying, worthwhile stuff is generally difficult, and difficult stuff is… well… difficult. There are days when I just wish everything wasn’t uphill, all the time. Days when I wish I could just take the world and my place within it for granted as do so many people. Days when I dream of making small talk with kindly strangers without it becoming a psychological ordeal.

Ah well. It will all be made right, in my next life as a cat.

This blog isn’t about depression. It’s about sex. So I’m not going to go into details about how I manage depression and anxiety in my everyday life. (If you would like to talk to me about this, please use my brand spanking new email address: thesexytimes@gmail.com).

What I would like to talk about is the relationship between sex, kink and depression.

According to this article, depressed women have more sex. I know this is just a crappy little study shoved into the ‘life&style’ section of the paper, but I indentify very strongly with what they’re saying. The use of the word ‘sex’ in this context is however misleading, as they go on to state that it’s really just a way of finding ‘closeness and security’.

That’s not to say I have sex with people as a way of buying intimacy. I love sex, and I’d never use it consciously just to ‘get’ something from someone.

But what I love best about sex is that moment of pure connection with another human soul. Orgasms aside, that’s where it’s at.

Which is why I blogged about sex being no good unless there is love. You don’t need to be in a relationship with the person for this to happen, and you don’t need to be making love. But if you’re holding yourself back during the act, if you don’t feel your spirit lifting out of your body, if at the end of it you’re still a stranger hiding behind a mask – I ask you – why not just masturbate?

Of which: I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. It feels good. But it’s not what I need.

Sex and kink are different but similar things. In the short term, playing with people when I’m out and about makes me feel good, and temporarily chases away the deadening dullness of depression. It clears my head, puts me back into the present moment, and acts as a kind of on-the-go catharsis that a lifetime of thinking-too-much periodically requires.

In the same way that a good shag makes me momentarily happy, a nice caning can boost me up and tide me over.

The good thing about casual sex and social play is that neither requires much of an emotional commitment.

Which, right now, I’m quite enjoying.

But the only thing that really makes a meaningful dent in the depression is to have emotional closeness with someone.

It’s a catch 22, and it’s got me by the throat.

Bugger.

See, being around people is very different to being connected to another person in the way that a romantic relationship facilitates. Of having a partner in life – someone to share all of yourself with (not just the parts of you that are fun to be around) and someone who, reciprocally, lets you in.

A person you can laugh with, but also, cry in front of when your head’s a mess; when you’re sick of pretending to the entire world that you’re OK.

Someone to make the mundane aspects of living extraordinary. For example: cooking for myself is simply a matter of getting the right vitamins/etc into my body. Cooking for someone else becomes an act of love.

Sex that goes beyond ‘good’ or ‘fun’. When I love someone, I pour all of myself into how I fuck, so that it becomes the truest form of communication. In the same way that you generally put on a happy face in front of your friends, having sex with people you’re not in love with restricts the act to being good, but not transcendently so. There’s only so much I’m willing to reveal to someone I’m not in love with, which is, I think, how it should be.

It’s not that I desperately need someone to love me in order to fill whatever inadequacies I’ve got left over from childhood. It’s that I want to live with love – to feel it coursing continually through me, to express it, share it, breathe it. And yes, it is possible to feel that way when you’re single, and I do. But nothing is quite as strong or profound or as powerful as when it’s directed towards a particular soul.

Thing is, we cannot choose whom we are free to love.

And even if I could, at this point in my life, I don’t know if I would.

Because there’s something comfortingly predictable about depression. It’s not ideal, but like I said, I sure am getting a lot of shit done right now. And I refuse to toss away all the freedom I’ve fought for simply because I can’t hack being a bit cold in my bed at night.

It won’t always be like this.

But must everything follow the same pattern?

(p.s. I did a bit of googling about the correlation between depression and BDSM, and stumbled upon this quite remarkable article. It didn’t end up quite fitting into my post, but it’s well worth a read).

Writing a Novel is Really Hard

…why didn’t anyone tell me?

I haven’t blogged for a while, and I wanted to point that I have not just been sitting on my arse, browsing porn, eating puddings, swilling whiskey, inviting strange men up into my room and yelling profanities at small children.

Not to say I haven’t been doing any of these things, but as well as all that, I’ve been finishing My Novel. (Crazy AND organised!)

Whenever I mention this to people, I am invariably presented with this perplexing question:

What’s it about?

Simple, right?

Um, no. It’s actually very difficult. Particularly since I don’t express myself terribly well in conversation (without the aid of a backspace key and a thesaurus), and most people are only really looking for a one-sentence answer.

Here’s a tip for anyone who is not used to talking to writers: don’t ask them about their novel/thesis/dissertation/collected works of poetry unless you want to be subjected to three hours of them explaining, with a sufficient amount of self-effacing humour, (which is only really there to cover up the fact that they secretly consider themselves to be undiscovered prodigies), the conception, development, grammatical intricacies, emotional hardships, existential crises, highs, lows, and disturbingly frequent moments of utter insanity brought about by their project.

See, I’m even doing it now. I couldn’t tell you how many well-meaning friends and relatives have been bombarded by this torrential outpouring whenever they’ve asked me about The Novel. I’ve watched their poor faces become frozen in the same expression of polite obligation as I’ve opened my mouth and breathed all over them like a neurotic and slightly flatulent dragon.

So, once and for all, at the risk of alienating everyone I’ve ever known, I’m writing down what my novel is about, so I can print off a bunch of cards with a link to this blog, and send these people away to read about it in their own time, if they’re so damn interested.

Kay?

Now. In order to properly answer this question, I must tell you that in order for you to properly understand what my novel is currently about, you must know what it used to be about.

Why?

BECAUSE I SAY SO. Now, shut up, and pay attention:

Way back in 2005, I went to Europe instead of sticking around for the fourth year of my wankerific communications degree. I knew that I would, at some point, have it in me to write a creative thesis, but back then, I was bored, tired, annoyed, and fed up with study. So I went on an overseas trip, (part of which included a Contiki tour of Russia – in which I did not manage to score with anyone – the shock of which nearly prompted me to ask for a refund); and I dedicated much of the time in which I was NOT having sex to thinking upon what my Big Glorious Great Idea for a Novel could be.

All I could think about was how horny I was.

“God damn, Catlady,” I said to myself. “Halfway around the world, standing on Moscow’s Red Square for Christ’s sake, and all you can think about is sex?”

Twenty-two years in the world, and the only thing I had to show for it were some sexy anecdotes. What use were they?

Another year later, I took myself off to a writer’s retreat for two weeks. I went up there with an idea to write a book about a teenage girl who dies… or something… (I’ve since erased this idea from my mind, due to it being shit).

It didn’t take long for me to realise that I hated being a teenager, and revisiting that entire hellish portion of my life in the form of a novel was not my idea of a good time.

So what did I want to write about?

Sex, of course. Sex, sex, sex.

“Okay, Catlady,” I says, pen poised above my blank notepad, “you can’t just write a novel comprised entirely of sex scenes. Think harder.”

Then, like a lightening bolt, like a herald from the heavens, like a thousand other ridiculous clichés, it struck me:

A novel comprised entirely of sex scenes.

Like, not porn. An actual, serious work of contemporary fiction, that just so happens to tell its story from the point of view of two lovers, using sex as their primary means of conversation. Letting everything that occurs outside their bedroom express itself through their fucking.

Sex as language.

It was at this same point that I gave up on feeling guilty about using my own life as inspiration for my writing. As Helen Garner puts it: “People talk as if a story is something found lying on the ground.”

I’d a had lot of unusual sexual experiences. Why not ditch the disclaimer and use them in my fiction?

So I did. And ‘Some Kind of Love Story’ was, uh, born.

I wrote twenty-seven chapters of this, during a period of intense misery in my actual life. I made all the rookie’s mistakes. The whole thing was self conscious, overwrought, indulgent, boring, infested with errors; basically absurd.

But it taught me a lot. By the time I’d made it to chapter 27, I could see exactly how far I’d come since chapter 1.

So I went back to uni, and began again.

My supervisor was an intimidating woman. ‘Ice Queen’, I believe she was unkindly dubbed. It wasn’t easy to walk into her office, located somewhere in the catacombs of the UTS Bon Marche building, and tell her that I intended to write a creative thesis entirely about sex.

The best thing about ‘ol Icy Pole, was that she did not mince words:

“All your characters seem to do is have sex and fight. Where’s the plot?”

Ah, plot. That slippery sucker. It would seem that somewhere in between my character’s second threesome and umpteenth hardcore bondage session, I’d neglected to write anything of, ah, substance.

With two weeks to go before my thesis was due, Disney-on-Ice suggested that I rewrite the whole thing from first person to third person, and write about ‘things happening’. (Crazy concept, I know).

Now, as part of this whole ‘being at university’ thing, I was forced to go a little out of my comfort zone and do some ‘research’ by way of reading some ‘theorists who had lots of fancy things to say about shit’. And what I ended up reading were a lot of feminists, all banging on about the representation of female desire in fiction.

Which led me to thinking: is it anti-feminist to write about female characters who desire to be sexually submissive?

(The short version of my conclusion to this essay was, ‘no, it’s not’).

Anyway. Since all of my research-type-stuff revolved around the notion of desire, I thought: how can I include this as a central theme in my creative work?

Then, late one night, after a lot of teeth gnashing and tea making, I decided to write my story from the point of view of desire. So, ‘desire’ acted as a sort of third character, who even got its own speaking part. (Which was kinda lame, and I’ve since cut it, but hey, the academics just love that kind of crap).

The name of the thesis was ‘A Conversation With Desire’.

At this point, I was willing to part ways with the whole stupid idea. After I handed it in, I would have been happy to burn it and never speak of it again.

Unfortunately, academics are the biggest perves of them all – and they loved it.

Although, they did make it clear that if I wanted to develop the concept into a novel, it would need a lot more work.

Another six months passed while I decided whether I was ready to look at it again. In the meantime, I got myself a job as a retail copywriting whore, and watched morosely as my soul died a little more each day.

Still, the idea wouldn’t die. It pestered me constantly, until there was nothing left to do but sit down again and open a brand new Word document: Chapter 1.

This time, I wrote a plan. I created back-stories and subplots. I worked on my character development. I made it funnier – less oppressive.

Halfway through this process, I quit my job. Now I was free, free to write all the time! No more getting butt raped by The Man on a daily basis!

Which of course resulted in the most crippling writer’s block I’ve ever known.

I got lost in the murk of it, forgot what it was supposed to be about, became intensely frustrated by my writing style, hated my characters, became depressed by writing it, but even more depressed by not writing it.

Around chapter 34 it all turned to shit, and I wanted to throw it in. (And grow up, get a job, and suck it up, just like everyone else. How much easier that would be!)

Then, in all that darkness, I realised I didn’t care anymore.

Which cured the block.

And then I rose up like a mighty horseman, galloping towards the finish, shaking my sword at the dawn.

Ha HA, novel! Thought you could fucking beat me! Well, think again. For it is I, Amazing Novel Finishing Woman, here to vanquish you!

Yesterday, at chapter 47, I came up with a new and improved title, which I think brings it all together:

‘Of Love and Blood’

Now with 50% more blood!

(It’s OK. You can go now. I know that it’s getting late, and you’ve missed all the best bits of the party, and the punch bowl is empty, but gosh, wasn’t it worth asking me that simple little question! Wasn’t it? WASN’T IT??)