What Has Debbie Done?

So, I was watching Debbie Does Dallas with two of my friends the other night, as you do.

Friend 1: “Hey, let’s watch Debbie Does Dallas!”

Friend 2: “Hell yes! This won’t be at all weird!”

(Film is screened. Awkward silence descends. It is weird.)

Friend 1: “Ha ha ha. Ha. Isn’t this funny? Ha. How about I fast-forward to the end?”

After everyone nods dumbly, he skips through the highlights of the film, straight to the grand finale where Debbie does the guy who owns the sports store. (Bonus points to the dude who played that role, as it required running with an erection).

Now, due to the sheltered existence I’ve led, this was my first experience of seventies porn. And shamefully, I was shocked, as was Friend 2, by how disconcertingly real the actors looked. Specifically: in the shot where Debbie is on top, the viewer is treated to a close-up view of her anus, in its unbleached, un-waxed glory.

Holey moley, I thought. I have never seen an image of a woman with hair on her arse before.

That’s right, folks. Never.

Compared with what I’ve become used to in porn, where the women featured are more-or-less identical, I felt confronted by Debbie. Even though I know that the women in modern day porn aren’t ‘real’, I had still lost sight of what an actual woman looks like, to the point where it took a B-grade seventies skin flick to remind me.

And my overall feeling was not repulsion, but relief.

Now before we go any further, I’d just like to state for the record that I’m pro porn. I’m not saying that it doesn’t objectify women, but I am steadfast in my belief that sexual desire has nothing to do with political correctness. My favourite kind of porn is the kind where the woman gets tied up, tortured and humiliated. Beyond the fact I’m kinky and this kind of shit turns me on – I like it because the woman’s reactions are real. The set up is artificial, (as are the tits, in so many cases), but the tears, the screams, and the moans of forced pleasure are sincere.

Last week I was interviewed by a journalist who was conducting research for her Masters project; a thesis about young people and their attitudes to sex. It is her hope that this research will lead to “…a less sensationalised and more empathetic portrayal of young people and sex”, which is a cause I can totally get behind. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting any of her questions to surprise me or provide any further insight into my own sexuality, since sex is a topic I ponder pretty well constantly. For the most part, I reiterated the same rants I’ve been spouting for years: Australia is a largely conservative nation with very dated attitudes to sex; young people are given conflicting messages about sex; women are presented by the media as either angels or whores; we are a culture saturated in sexual messages and yet simultaneously coy about sex; most Australians are bollocks when it comes to talking about and communicating their sexual desires; many young Australians wouldn’t know what true sex appeal was if it came up and hit them over the head with a piece of two-by-four.

However, one of her questions forced me to revisit how I perceived sex during my high school days, which gave me this realisation:

The most damaging thing the media is doing to young people and their ideas about sex, is propagating the notion that ‘attractive’ people are the only ones having sex, and more to the point, ‘attractive’ people are the only people who are allowed to have sex.

That the concept of an ‘unattractive’ person having sex, or having any sexual desires of their own, is disgusting.

I know ‘the media’ is a uselessly vague term, so here’s where I level the barrel of this gun and point it in one direction:

Porn.

Question: when was the last time you saw a woman in porn with lopsided breasts? Have you ever seen a porn star with stretch marks, cellulite, or pimples? Can you name a woman in porn with hairy armpits? Dangly labia? Buck teeth??

These sorts of things are rarely shown, because they are gross, ugly, and unsexy.

Right?

How often do we really see people, regular people, at their less-than-best, particularly when it comes to nudity?

When I was in high school, I was repulsed by myself. I felt like I had the body of an overweight 13 year-old boy, because instead of curves, all I seemed to get was puppy fat. I had pale (in my eyes: pasty) skin, freckles, acne. I kept waiting to develop into a woman, to suddenly grow long limbs, and ‘actual’ hips and breasts.

I was ashamed of my body, which in turn made me ashamed for having sexual desires. How could a creature so hideous be brazen enough to want anything? Didn’t I know my place?

Women compare their looks to other women that are deemed desirable. Women see other faces and bodies every day. They also see boyfriends and husbands openly ogling other women, especially on the beaches during summer. This sends the message to women that they’re not desirable or attractive enough to their partners or potential dates.

On TV and in porn, you only ever see thin, flawless people engaging in sexual activities. The only time you see ‘fat’ or ‘funny looking’ people having sex, is in comedies.

Pornography plays into the false idea that to be sexually attractive to men, or good in bed, there are certain things women have to do, be, look like, act like or enjoy, whether or not we actually can, are, look like, act like or enjoy those things.

The more I think about this, the angrier I get. Because I wasted my entire adolescence despising my appearance, when the reality was I was in my physical prime. I told my friends, quite sincerely, that I would never let anyone see me naked, and that if I ever got married, it would have to be to a blind man. I really believed that I would never have sex and that I would never get married, because I was so hideous.

And in ways that have only begun to be measured, (porn) is coloring relationships, both long-and short-term, reshaping expectations about sex and body image and, most worrisome of all, threatening to alter how young people learn about sex.

In researching this piece, I stumbled across two remarkable websites:

The Shape of a Mother – a site dedicated to photos and stories of women who have had children, and the 007 Breast Gallery – the pictures and voices of women who want other women to know what normal breasts look like.

The pang of empathy I felt when looking through the Breast Gallery was sharp and profound. And in the space of about half an hour, I went from thinking my own breasts were aberrant, to feeling truly proud of them. Seriously, up until this afternoon, I always secretly wanted some sort of cosmetic surgery (not augmentation, because I think implants are abominable), to accepting my breasts as my own, and beautiful.

Breasts are an issue especially close to my heart, because not only are mine small, but earlier this year I was diagnosed with ‘breast mice’ in my left breast – non-cancerous fibrous growths. This means that my left breast is both bigger and a differently shaped to my right breast, and I am extremely self conscious about it.

An ex-boyfriend of mine once told me that my breasts were the weirdest he’d ever seen, and that my right breast was “basically non-existent”. To say that this was devastating for me is something of an understatement, and I went right back to feeling ashamed for having sexual desires, and ‘lucky’ to have a man who was willing to put up with my deformities.

This was the same gentleman responsible for this pearler: “For someone not very attractive, you get a lot of attractive guys.”

Experts say men who frequently view porn may develop unrealistic expectations of women’s appearance and behavior, have difficulty forming and sustaining relationships and feeling sexually satisfied.

Of course, ‘experts say’ is a ridiculously vague thing to say. Except I’ve lived that. I know exactly what they mean.

Is porn really to blame? And if so, what can be done?

Personally, I don’t think porn is the culprit, I think it’s the producers of porn who only hire actresses with certain body types. And it’s not men who are to blame – the demand is there for women who look different to the ‘usual’. If my week working in a sex shop taught me anything, it’s that men crave variety.

Also, more women are getting into porn, which means we’re going to be able to make some demands of our own.

And, as ever, I think the key to dismantling these body image monsters is to encourage more people to talk about it. To share their photos, their stories, their feelings.

Which is why I think the most eloquent way to end this post is with a photo of myself, taken not long ago (by the lovely Marauder), showing a woman who is far from disgusting, but who is still struggling to believe it:

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).

Man, I Feel Like a… Man?

Of all the complaints I might have about my body, there’s one thing at least that I’m unwaveringly happy about: my gender.

I’m one of the lucky majority who was born, more or less, in the right body. Growing up, I was a girly girl. Pink ribbons, pigtails, frilly socks and skirts made from tulle and satin and chiffon and sparkly things. My favourite colour was purple, my favourite super hero was Cat Woman, and my career aspiration was ballerina.

So, ‘girl’ was always right for me. And even though being a woman can be complicated, I wouldn’t want to trade. I’ll keep my emotional sensitivity and multiple orgasms, thank you.

If anything, my biggest body frustrations stem from not being quite womanly enough. I’ve always felt a bit thick, stout, heavy. I envy girls with delicate shoulders and narrow waists. I’m not happy with my breasts, because, stupid as this sounds, I’ve never felt like they qualified as ‘real’ breasts. And although I’ve never tried it, I’m pretty sure that if I truly threw my weight into a punch or a kick, there’d be a good chance I’d fuck you up. (So be nice to kinkycatlady, y’hear?)

All the same, I’ve mostly graduated from feeling like a ungainly tank-like object, to a sensuous, seductive woman. In conclusion: yay for me.

But wait, hold on. Before you release the balloons, there’s just one thing that doesn’t fit the mould. One thing that has always made me feel different from other women, not quite in the club, not quite as enraptured by scrapbooking as the other girls in the craft shop.

My sex drive.

I’ve always known I was a randy slut, but I kind of always thought all women were secretly like that. I thought the difference between me and ‘them’ was that I’m one of the shameless few who admits it.

Turns out: not so much.

Two things in the last week have altered my opinion.

The first was seeing Bettina Arndt talk about her new book The Sex Diaries at the Sydney Writers’ Festival. For this book, Arndt surveyed the sex lives of ninety-eight couples in long-term relationships. Unfortunately, the results were overwhelmingly in favour of that depressingly cliché –men want sex more than women want sex.

I haven’t read The Sex Diaries (yet), but I get the impression that it paints a fairly grim picture of the female libido. It basically suggests that women are able to live without sex, but men are not. (As in, it doesn’t seem to torment women in the way it torments men).

Arndt’s advice to the women of Australia is to “just do it”. Her reasoning is that desire does not need to be there for good sex to be had. Her argument is solid, but I still find it sad and decidedly unsexy. Just do it? Sounds about as erotic as getting a pap smear.

She did also make a point of saying that there are of course women out there in relationships whose sex drives were higher than their partner’s – but they were exceptions to the rule. (Although she did say that these women’s complaints were particularly fierce!)

Now.  In three out of the four long(ish) term relationships I’ve had, I have out-sexed my partners. In only one relationship did I find a man who could match my desire for sex. Which would have been peachy, had it not been for the emotional abuse and his just generally being a prick. But the sex, the sex…!

I used to believe that women have been socially conditioned to think sex isn’t very important. I thought that the reason I was gagging for it was because I’d given up trying to fit into any type of ‘norm’. That I was paying attention to what my body was telling me, not what my parents/peers/etc thought was appropriate behaviour for a woman.

That was, until I read a Feminist on Testosterone. (Thanks to Marauder for sending me the link!)

I highly recommend you read it in its entirety, but for those of you who are pressed for time, it is basically the account of a person who was born intersex, was raised female, and much later in life decided to become male (the process of which involved taking testosterone).

This experience has given him a remarkable insight into gender, and the social and political issues surrounding it. But what I found most astonishing was the way he described the effect of testosterone on his sex drive. Astonishing because I could identify with it. Particularly the bit about “wanting to do it all the time”, and jerking off “to relieve an itch”. Also, he describes how he started to get aroused in non-sexual situations; a concept most women have trouble understanding.

…Except me, who understood completely.

It had never actually occurred to me that there could be a physiological explanation behind my bottomless sexual appetite. Psychological, certainly. But, hormonal?

Before we get crazy, let’s take it back to the pink ribbons and My Little Ponies. Considering that I’m not balding, I don’t have excessive body hair, I’m not at all aggressive and I don’t have the slightest interest in war, cars, or football, I think it’s highly doubtful that I’ve got a higher than average level of testosterone in my system. (Yes, women do have small amounts of testosterone. Thank you, Yahoo Answers!)

However, there are aspects of my sexual behaviour that are decidedly man-like. I think about sex pretty much constantly, I get turned on in non sexual situations…(but that’s probably because I’m perverted), I jerk off frequently to relieve boredom/tension/restlessness, and if I had it my way, I’d have sex at least once a day. My favourite part of being in a relationship is the sex (and I will admit I’m struggling a bit with being single, for this reason). When I haven’t had sex for a while, I start to get leery. My sexual urges don’t just go away if I ignore them – they get more demanding and more intense.

I promise I’m not just making this up in an attempt to differentiate myself. This is how I’ve always been – ever since about fourteen onwards. And the slightly terrifying thing is, my sex drive doesn’t seem to be diminishing as I get older. Quite the contrary – it’s getting stronger. To the point where it actually frightens me a little.

It leaves me in an in-between place, where I’m forever trying to conceal my sexual desires because they’re unseemly, weird, unladylike. See, I can have a good old chat about the virtues of exfoliation and cuticle oil, and then I can turn around and talk dirty in a way that would make your fingernails blush. It’s a strange position to be in, and sometimes I feel like a bit of a spy – a woman who dares to brave the no-man’s-land between genders, and who gives secrets away to both sides.

I get annoyed when I’m confronted with yet another cultural artefact that reinforces the idea that women are the less sexed sex. Sometimes I feel invisible and voiceless – an anomaly. And I feel despair when I think of all the women out there who aren’t getting the most out of their sexuality – who would ‘rather eat chocolate’.

I’m quite partial to chocolate, but girls, come on. Sex is life! Joy! Abandon! Transcendence!

Compared with… a Ferrero Rocher? That’s Ferrero Fucked Up, is what that is.

I’m also fed up with this assumption that sexual desire is something that belongs to men, and which women borrow from time to time (when they’re not eating Kit Kats, of course).

It’s not. Men don’t own sex. After writing a goddamned thesis on it, I’m here to tell you that female desire is strong, boundless, beautiful, powerful, and unique. To say that sexual desire is intrinsically male is like saying that anger is instrinsically male. If you don’t believe that ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’, you clearly have not yet met my mother.

Despite all the evidence to the contrary, I still believe that women have an amazing capacity for sexual desire. I think women should be encouraged to explore their sexual selves, and to be able to talk about it without being labelled a slut.

Also:

I have an idea for my next thesis. ‘She Kink’ – a book exploring and celebrating the stories of kinky women.

Watch this space.

Empowerment Fail

Lately I’ve been pondering – is it possible to find a middle ground between being a complete pushover and being a complete bitch?

The obvious answer to this is: ‘yes, of course’.

But it’s not that easy. Since way back, women have been divided into two categories: angels and whores. It’s a simplistic concept, but unfortunately, it’s just as relevant as it was a hundred years ago. Case in point: Christina Aguilera.

Good ol’ Christina. Back when I was an impressionable teen, she was on my TV screen every week, fluttering her eyelashes about being a ‘genie in a bottle’ and needing to be ‘rubbed the right way’ before she’d, er, put out. Record company marketing execs know how lucrative the sweet-and-innocent-girl-next-door routine is, and my what a killing they must have made with innocuous little Christina. (Bitter? Me? It’s just that when I was a teen, these were the type of role models my generation was presented with. Vapid air-headed prick-teasing goody two shoes butter wouldn’t melt in their perfectly pink lip-gloss covered mouths. Utter. Bullshit. Erghhh).

So I was amused to see, on Video Hits one day in my late teens, the image of none other than Christian Aguilera, writhing around in assless chaps, smearing herself in brown-coloured water that appeared to be coming from a flooded toilet, dry-humping big black men, and singing about how she wanted to get ‘dirrty’.

Angel to whore – MTV style.

(A word of caution to all you nubile young pop stars out there; the transition from angel to whore is much easier than the other way round. So think carefully before becoming a whore, because once you’ve shaved off all your hair and flashed your vagina to the paparazzi, there’s kind of no going back. Not mentioning any names.)

The journey from angel to whore is closely linked to age. The older you get, the more tainted you become. It’s inevitable.

Having mentioned this – I had a birthday last week.

Now that I’m ten years on from sixteen, I’ve decided that the cutesy schoolgirl shtick on which I’d relied so heavily as a means of getting attention and being desired, is getting old. So I’ve dyed my hair a normal colour, and I’ve tossed out some items from my wardrobe that were wearing thin, conceptually and literally. The aim was to eliminate all the gimmicks I used to use to lure people into being interested in ugly little me, and see if I could survive on the strength of my, er, charming personality.

I had an inkling that it would work, but nothing could have prepared me for how well it’s been working.

Which places me in a difficult position – one that I had anticipated and knew I’d need to face. As predicted, I’m in an enviable place where I’m going to have to say no to people.

Such a little word to bring about so much consternation.

I’m not the only person in the world to have ever had a problem with the word ‘no’, but hells bells, it’s still really bloody hard.

Case in point: last Saturday night.

A while back, I bought myself a ticket to see Dylan Moran at the State Theatre. The opportunity to see your favourite comedian on your birthday does not present itself often, so when my friends were busy or poor or otherwise, I took the initiative and decided to go by myself. I will admit that seeing a comedian on your own is a little weird, but no matter, I’ve been to concerts on my own before and had a good time, so I figured ‘fuck it, I’m going’.

It was great. Dylan Moran was reliably hilarious, and I didn’t feel overly weird or conspicuous.

At interval, a man walked past my aisle and looked at me. Since I’ve been trialling this whole ‘confidence’ thing, lately I’ve been trying to hold people’s gazes, as opposed to blushing and looking away. So I stared back at him, and there was an slightly too-long moment where our eyes stayed connected.

I didn’t think anything of it.

Then, after the show, as everyone was walking out, that same man sidled up to me. At first I thought he was someone I was supposed to know (like, someone from school or uni that I had forgotten), but after he introduced himself and told me “I couldn’t help noticing that you were here alone” I realised that I was being picked up.

Picked up? Me??

I’m just not used to it. And on all of the occasions in my life when a man has gone out of his way to approach me, I’ve behaved like a nervous, giggling idiot.

Saturday was not much of an exception.

He offered to buy me a drink, which I tentatively accepted. By this stage, I was already feeling indebted to this man – feeling as if I couldn’t possibly hurt his feelings by saying ‘no, I’ve already got plans for tonight’ (which was true).

So we went to a strangely empty bar, where a strange bartender poured us glasses of cheap shiraz for free (because he couldn’t accept my suitor’s credit card), and the whole thing was surreal in a not particularly good way.

I was feeling anxious, apprehensive, uncool.

I always automatically place myself below anyone I meet for the first time. I don’t know why, but I always assume that everyone else is cooler and more interesting than me. So it was jarring when my suitor turned out to be boring, egotistical and narcissistic, and spent the entire time talking at me about his unoriginal idea for a TV series. I could barely get a word in, and when I finally did manage to say something (to mention that I too was a writer, which I would have thought would interest him) he said “oh!” and then proceeded to launch back into his incessant diatribe about how all TV comedies were crap, except, of course, for his.

As I sat there blinking rapidly, thinking about how I didn’t find him at all attractive and was not at all interested in him or his TV show, I was also thinking:

Damn, I really wanted to go to Oxford Street, to meet Whipslave as previously arranged, and now it looks like I’m going to have to sit here all night listening to this tool.

And:

I guess I’m going to have to sleep with him, because he was nice enough to approach me and offer to buy me a drink, even though the drink was free.

And:

I suppose I should give him my phone number, because he seems nice and kind of lonely, and maybe I should just marry him and have three of his children and nurse him into old age, because I feel kind of sorry for him, poor guy.

What the fuck!!!

I mean, I go to all these lengths to announce to the universe that I’m not going to let anyone take advantage of me, and that I was going to be empowered and forthright and unapologetic – only to indebt myself to a man I’d know for all of twenty minutes, just because he was kind enough to pick me up?

It was only sheer luck that after he gave me his phone number, he didn’t ask for mine. And it was only sheer luck that I really did have somewhere else to be, because otherwise I would have had to tell him no, which means that I’d probably still be there now.

GAH!!!

And what’s worse is that even as I write this, five days later, I’m still feeling BAD about not calling him!

Yes, bad! Awful, in fact! I can feel his phone number burning a hole in my sim card, begging to be dialled.

It’s so tempting to think that I’m just no good at this dating game, and I should either just get married or sign myself into a convent and be done with it.

But that’s bullshit and I refuse to be beaten so easily.

I’m sick of being an angel. But I don’t quite feel comfortable with being a whore.

Which leaves me with…?

My Kind of Party

A Brazilian man once told me that when he made the decision to move to Sydney, he knew it would mean he’d have to leave parties behind. At the time I spoke to him, he was more than happy with his choice – Sydney is a wonderful place to live. But there was an element of sadness in his voice which, in spite of the massive cultural differences and the age gap between us, I could completely understand.

Not to say Sydney does not have ‘parties’. It certainly thinks it does. But although this might be an undeniably beautiful city, it also happens to be filled with Aussies. And the Australian idea of a good party involves standing around awkwardly, clutching a beer or some other sort of alcoholic beverage, making banal small talk (usually about the football or the weather), listening to terrible music, and sometimes pretending to dance.

…gods!

Growing up, I didn’t like parties. As usual, I blamed myself, rather than consider for a moment that I hated parties because all parties tended to be crap. I liked cake, but that was about all that I liked. Being anti-competitive meant that I didn’t enjoy games (am I the only person who was ever massively stressed out by Mintie hunts?), and being antisocial meant that I didn’t enjoy talking to people. (It wasn’t until I was about 23 that I truly came to appreciate the art of conversation, and the joys of going, like, out).

When I was 18, I attempted to throw a party while my parents were out. And in planning this party, I was struck by the thought: what does one do at a party? Social constructs have never made much sense to me, which is probably due to being raised by wolves my parents. I always overanalyse every social situation, to the point where all I can see is absurdity. Your average 18 year old would not feel the need to question what actually happens at a party. They would just stock up on the RTDs (back when a six pack of Vodka Cruisers did not set you back a million dollars), turn the music up, and set about getting as shitfaced as possible. But as I had yet to discover alcohol, I just didn’t understand the point of parties other than to eat unhealthily and dress up like a mini goth (back when the term ‘emo’ had not yet been coined).

So why was I throwing this party? I think it was really out of a sense of obligation – my parents were out and thus it seemed requisite. Also, I think I might have had a vague idea that if I opened the door and called it a party, I would automatically have fun. Using the Underpants Gnome mode of reasoning:

Step 1: Throw party

Step 2: ….

Step 3: Fun!

Needless to say, my party kind of sucked.

It wasn’t an utter disaster, it just wasn’t very interesting. I think the highlight of the evening was ‘chain smoking’ three Marlborough Lights with a friend of mine in the lounge room, which wasn’t even all that naughty considering I was 18 and could legally buy cigarettes anyway.

The whole ‘I don’t enjoy this thing which everyone else seems to enjoy must mean that I’m the one with the problem’ mentality has been the story of my life. Also, knowing what you don’t enjoy does not put you on a path towards discovering what you do. I reckon that no one enjoys parties as much as they say they do or as much as they feel they should. And yet we all do it – the standing around awkwardly, the banal chitchat. The idea of a party holds so much promise and anticipation – the appeal is contained within the concept, not the execution.

The first fetish party I ever went to started out every bit as disappointingly as every party I’d ever been to, except everyone around me was dressed in fetish gear. I found myself doing what I usually do in awkward social situations – stuffing my face with unappetising food. (Which created some physical discomfort on top of the social discomfort, as I was wearing a corset). And you know when a party is so bad that alcohol is useless? There is nothing worse than thinking ‘well not only am I still bored, but now I have a massive hangover to look forward to. Fan-bloody-tastic’.

(As a brief aside, why do we as a nation insist on pumping ourselves full of alcohol just so we can act sober? It’s a social faux pas to drink so much that you’re staggering around, and yet at every social gathering you go to, alcohol is almost forcibly poured down your throat, and anyone who refuses, especially if they’re male, is considered to be a joyless wowser. Huh?)

So anyway, there I was at this fetish party, eating from the amazingly crap buffet, making small talk with a bunch of PVC-clad people thirty years older than me, wishing that an alien spaceship would fly overhead and take me to the planet Zorbor for anal probes and hopefully death; when at the eleventh hour my boyfriend took me to the front of the house so I could see the room with the cage.

And, just like that, I was having… fun?

‘Fun’ is not the best way to describe the experience I had inside that cage on that night, but it gives you an idea.

It was then that I realised that fetish parties are my kind of parties. For the following reasons:

• They give you an opportunity to shuck your everyday persona

In my experience, dressing up in something outrageously slutty gives me a chance to act out the sexual side of myself that is usually kept frustratingly under wraps. Being a shy introvert all the time gets annoying, and these parties give me a chance to say and do all sorts of crazy things, because the person doing them is not ‘me’. (Even though it is – but shh!)

• They provide you with things to watch, and things to do

At fetish parties, stuff happens. Stuff is entertaining, and means that your night does not need to revolve solely around drinking and talking.

• They encourage acts of imagination and spontaneity

Put a bunch of perverts in a room, give them canes, ropes, paddles and whatever else, warm them up with a bit of booze, and you are guaranteed an interesting night. You never quite know what is going to happen at one of these things. Even though I’ve now been to more fetish parties than I’ve had hot dinners, I still manage to be surprised by how weird and wild and interesting they can be.

• Craziness is largely accepted

If you were at a normal party, and you saw a half-naked person simultaneously screaming, crying, bleeding, and laughing, you would probably call the police. But the fetish party setting provides a heterotopia in which normal social codes are disrupted. Do you know how freeing it is to lose all self consciousness about your body, your mind and your sexuality, all at once? The burden of acting ’sane’ all the time is never so apparent as when you’ve suddenly thrown it off, and have started to interact with people in a way that is intimate and genuine.

• You don’t have to disguise your sexual agenda

Normally, people go to parties secretly hoping that they’ll do something naughty and sexy. Fetish parties remove all that coy bullshit. People don’t have to steal glances at your outfit – you wore it so you could be perved on, and it would be weird if people didn’t look. Everyone is generally very complimentary at these things – a comment of ‘nice boobs!’ is not as sleazy as it would be in an ordinary setting. That said, a fetish party is not a great place to ‘pick up’, and most people who go with this intention end up disappointed. It’s all about the play and the pervery; anything else is a bonus.

• You don’t have to fit into a stereotype to be considered attractive

Most of the people you see at these parties are comfortable in their own skin, which makes them sexy. ‘Hotness’ is relative, and fetish events do not impose the tired standard for women that you need to be tall, thin, big-breasted and blonde to qualify as attractive. I’m willing to bet that there are more men fed up with this cliché than there are women – what would be the point if we all looked the fucking same?

• They’re funny

This might seem a little odd, but allow me to explain. In my general experience, a lot of people at ‘normal’ parties take themselves too seriously. At a wedding, for example, everyone is allowed to have ‘fun’ so long as they stick within the boundaries of how they are allowed to have fun (which, in Australian society, usually means drinking a lot and ‘dancing’ to the Grease Medley). Now, a lot of people at fetish events take themselves very seriously too – but I don’t hang around them. All of my good kinky friends have an appreciation for irony, and have a certain sense of humour about what they do. Sure, some acts of kink are very serious – but they’re only serious in so far as life itself is serious. And since life is pretty funny – good kink reflects that.

Hmm. I set out with this post to talk specifically about the party I went to last Friday, but I got carried away. Which means you’ll have to wait for the next instalment to find out. Sorry!

Stay tuned for more Sexy Times, coming to a darkened computer room near you…

An Open Letter to the Men of Victoria

Preamble:

Before Marauder went on his overseas trip we both agreed that we were free to do whatever (and by ‘whatever’, I mean ‘whoever’) we wanted during the upcoming two weeks. Pining wistfully for an absent partner never helped nobody, and so I proactively, wholeheartedly set out to create as much distraction for myself as possible, even scheduling in a ‘dirty weekend’ away in Melbourne. However by the time I was circling the international airport parking lot, I was feeling a little bit sheepish about how many people I’d spent time with (not a euphemism; sex is not the most intimate thing you can do with another person) and was pretty much planning to throw it all in the vault, lock it, throw it into the ocean, and pretend it never happened. Of course, we were barely in the door of our flat when, faster than you can say ‘big fat slag hag’, I’d blurted out every detail of my two weeks’ worth of debauchery. Which is convenient firstly because it brought us closer (the ‘not talking about things’ approach to relationships which my parents practiced has never quite been my style) and secondly because now I can blog about it. So without further ado:

Dear Men of Victoria,

After providing me with an appreciative welcome to your illustrious state, the enthusiastic nature of which could only ever be matched by the men of Queensland, I was made to feel more than comfortable during my recent visit to your capital city. Demonstrative displays of friendly hospitality were particularly apparent in your fine drinking establishments, such as the Richmond pub I visited early one Saturday evening. Nothing makes a girl feel more special than being affectionately groped on her back and arse regions while ordering herself a beer. Here I was, feeling a little out of place being the only girl with green hair in a bar full of rambunctious AFL fans, when all my fears about not being accepted were allayed by one of your confident and upstanding young men who took it upon himself to run his finger down my spine and tell me in a reassuring tone that he was ‘trying to rub the glitter off’. Indeed, I was certainly thankful to this fine gentleman, because had the glitter that was attached to my top been allowed to remain, only the Lord knows what sort of catastrophe could have befallen me later in the night.

Furthermore, the calibre of the young and not-so-young men who took it upon themselves to sit next to me during the course of my Richmond pub experience were not only dazzling conversationalists, but were also noticeably appreciative of the area of bare skin located around the neckline of my top. This thoughtful gesture alleviated all the tension usually generated by having to make eye contact with the person you’re talking to. I should also point out that strictly limiting the topic of conversation to the amount of points scored in the most recent football game by whatever team it is you happen to support was a welcome change to the conversations I’m used to which involve a lot of tiresome ‘thinking’ and ‘exchanging of ideas’.

Don’t get me wrong, men of Victoria. I like you. I particularly like your fondness for and devotion to the art of drinking. Admittedly, the Richmond pub was probably not the best forum at which to get to know your people (distracted as you were by a rowdy sporting event), but as soon as I’d changed venues to a Tapas bar near Federation Square, my night got exponentially better. The food was excellent, the service was flirtatious and the wine was plentiful. So distracting were the pleasurable delights of eating and drinking that I didn’t quite notice, until halfway through the meal, the hulking figure of potent manhood who had been sitting next to me the whole time.

Like a lone wolf crossed with a dark horse crossed with a dashing wombat, I realised somewhere into my sixth drink that this man was kind of all right looking, and that this kind of all right looking man was looking at… me. More than that, he was giving me The Eye. The Eye is a particular look that I have only just become good at recognising. The best way I can describe this look is ‘hungry’ – there is something about it that sort of roughly communicates a desire to consume. One eyebrow slightly raised, with a glimmering spark right in the centre of the eye, glinting like a black pearl.

Ordinarily, when confronted with The Eye, I would blush and turn back to my half-eaten Spanish cheese, never to look in their direction again. But this time, I decided to sit it out and stare him down, shooting back with my very own version of The Eye, which I like to think communicates something to the effect of ’so you’d like to eat me, huh? Well, I sure am tasty, like some sort of cream-infused gelatinous dessert. But, Mister, the thing you gotta ask yourself is, are you really ready for this jelly? Because too much bootylicious can cause heartburn, you know.’ Rampant insanity aside, once confronted with this, my dinner companion smiled in a sexily evil kind of way which seemed to say ‘I got plenty of Mylanta, baby.’

And so, men of Victoria, I was instantly entranced. This weird and intoxicating and spontaneous thing was happening, and I was loving every minute of it. When he slipped out at the end of the meal for a cigarette, I followed after him. The night was blustery and so very Melbourne, and the city lights were shining. We finished our cigarettes (a bad thing that I occasionally do precisely because it’s so disgusting) and stood about in the alleyway, looking at each other like untethered animals.

Then it was on. We started to pash frantically in a way that felt terrifically cinematic but probably looked more like an episode of Kath and Kim. Clawing at each other and pressing our bodies up against the stone wall. (Even better was that he kept grabbing my arse which was bruised and sore from being caned the night before). It was then that I realised that I had discovered something simple yet amazing – power. I’d never before understood the appeal of ‘picking up’ a stranger, but now I do. The pleasure is secondary to the rush. I get it now.

So we bid goodbye to our friends (who were cheering), and scrambled our way out of there, hailed a taxi and made our way to The Bachelor Pad.

Might I just pause for a second to say: nice going, Victorian men! This Bachelor Pad was top rate. It had art on the walls, a fridge that was full of cheese and alcohol; it was clean and nicely furnished and had a big TV on which Flight of the Conchords was available for viewing. So far, so good.

However. After assisting each other with the removal of clothes, I soon encountered a problem with the Bachelor Pad. This is where, Victorian Men, your attention is required. It went like this:

Me: (breathing heavily) “Do you have condoms?”

Bachelor: (also breathing heavily) “No.”

No? Whaddaya mean, no? Hello! What kind of a Bachelor with his own fully equipped Bachelor Pad does not have condoms? This is a fail, Bachelor man. You can’t expect to be running around the city of Melbourne, giving suggestible sluts like me The Eye, and not be able to follow through with a little bit of lubricated latex. I mean really. Which leads me to:

Bachelor: “It’s okay, I won’t come in you.”

Bachelor was perplexed as to why this didn’t automatically allay my concerns. What’s worse is that Bachelor was a fair bit older than me, old enough to put him firmly and squarely into the category of Gen X, which as the media would lead us to believe, is far more savvy about safe sex than all of us filthy skanks in Gen Y. The icing on the cake was this comment:

Bachelor: “Condoms don’t really ‘work’ for me.”

Excellent! Splendid! Fantastic!

Bachelor: “Can I go inside you, just for a minute?”

My answer: “No.”

This lead to some fairly unsatisfying ‘fooling around’ which resulted in an orgasm for Bachelor (thanks in part to the awesomely expensive silicon lube I just so happened to be carrying in my handbag), and some inept finger poking for me.

Men of Victoria, hear my plea. When attempting to pleasure your lady friends, please note that the clitoris is not designed to operate like a button. Whatever points you might score for locating this part of the female anatomy will be immediately cancelled out by jabbing or pressing motions. If you’re confused, here’s a tip. If you hear your lady friend saying something to the effect of: ‘ow, that hurts, please stop,’ then jabbing or pressing even harder is probably not a good idea.

After ten or so minutes of this, I decided, like the pragmatic and forthright young woman that I am, to take matters into my own hands. Literally.

I have no shame, and I’m proud to say I’ve never faked an orgasm. I tell you – if I’m not having a climax, I’m not going to let the other person get away with thinking that I have. I mean, how are you men going to learn anything if I let you believe that the jabby jabby technique you’ve got going there is in any way pleasurable? I’d be doing a disservice to all the other women folk who found their way into the Condom-Deficient Bachelor Pad of Doom, that’s what.

So, I directed his mouth to my nipple, and finished myself off. It was okay.

All of this said, Victorian men, Bachelor was very nice to me and didn’t scream when he woke up in the morning to discover he’d lured home a green-haired sea urchin. He also didn’t seem to mind when, in a moment of sleep-deprived and hung-over horniness, I got myself off again sneakily in the morning.

I can’t say that I loved every piece of Victoria, but I very much hope we can still be friends, seeing I want to live in Melbourne at some point in the (not too distant) future. I guess I’m just going to have to start carrying my own condoms from now on.

Sincerely,

Kinkycatlady-Winterbottom Esquire the Third.

xoxox

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.

Sex Versus Beauty

Sex.
Beauty.

Related?
Perhaps.

Interchangeable?
No.

Recently I read a book called Sugarbabe by Holly Hill (Random House, 2007). Sugarbabe is the apparently true story Hill’s brief stunt as a professional escort (the long-term variety otherwise known as being a ’sugarbabe’). I didn’t like this book, because I found it to be unimaginatively written, (in no circumstance should the word “flaps” be used when attempting to describe an erotic scenario, nor should the words “pelvic floor” need to be used more than once), and although it raised some interesting and provoking ideas, they were inadequately fleshed out. Literary bitchiness aside, what irritated me most about this book was the language the author used to describe herself:

skinny
beautiful
attractive
hot
perfect
lucky (in regards to her physical attributes)
svelte
gorgeous

“I guess I should also mention that I’m lucky enough to be considered darned attractive. How this came about, I’m not sure. At school I was the tall, pale, awkward girl who was always the wallflower and didn’t even get to touch the male species until I was sixteen… Then, somehow, someway, when all the boys got taller and I stopped trying to appear shorter, the pear-shaped hunchback turned into an alright kind of gal. The straw-bleached hair turned out to be soft and auburn, and the tendency to fat was merely excessive after-school snacking. Even more surprisingly, I moved gracefully and confidently without a hint of curvature of the spine!”
(pp. 6 – 7)

“The girl in my bedroom mirror had seemed gorgeous but I still found it difficult to believe she was me. What if they didn’t think me good-looking? What if they judged me to have an average face? What if they considered me too old?”
(p. 37)

On top of all of this she spends half the book getting herself manicured, pedicured, waxed and fussing over what kind of lingerie/make-up/shoes to wear in the hopes of delivering extra value to her paying customers. Because as we all know; a woman who is not dressed, decorated and painted in the right way is not sexy. After all, who would want to fuck something that looked ordinary?

By now you’re probably rolling your eyes at me – trust the ugly girl to get all bitter just because someone prettier than her has written a book.

The thing is, I’m not ugly. I’m not tall, skinny, perfect nor particularly lucky in regards to my physical attributes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t got sex appeal. That’s because sex has nothing to do with beauty. They can cross paths, and one can arguably enhance the other, but they are not the same thing. Since when did everyone get this mixed up?

I’m sucking in a deep breath, ready to projectile-rant a bunch of unspecific accusations at “advertising” and “the media” and “the entertainment industry”, but I’d be wasting my time. While all of these are culpable in the blurring between sex and beauty (and, even more insidiously, in dictating how “beauty” is even defined), I’d be wasting my time to unleash a tirade in this direction. How do we dismantle something so large, so unwieldy, so culturally entrenched?

It’s just that I’m twenty-five years old and I’m sick of being made to doubt myself, of being told what sexually active women should look like. I’m sick of there being these ridiculous standards of beauty standing between me and my most favourite activity. I’m sick of the only sexually provocative women portrayed on TV as these long-legged creatures with flat stomachs, generous yet pert and even breasts, flawless skin beneath a ton of makeup and the only point of differentiation being whether they are a blonde or a brunette.

Men* suffer the same sort of pressure, yes. But guys, if you want to know the truth, it’s not pecs that get women into bed. It’s confidence. Confidence – that infuriatingly elusive quality that gets further away from you the harder you try.

Confidence is sexy. Yet everything out there in life is set to undermine our confidence in ourselves. It’s fucking retarded. Perfectly beautiful women walking around all down on themselves because they’re not five kilos lighter, because their breasts aren’t big enough, because they have freckles, wrinkles, stretch-marks, scars.

Want to know why I think women have been unfairly accused as being frigid, bitchy, more interested in marriage than they are sex? It’s because they feel ugly. They lack confidence in themselves because they don’t believe they are beautiful. If you don’t feel sexy, you don’t feel like having sex.

Anyone who has met me in the last five years will have met someone confident, outgoing, and attractive in a cutesy alternative sort of a way. But underneath that is someone who is sometimes so wracked with self-doubt it’s unsurmountable. I’m sick of feeling this way. I can look at my own unadorned body in the mirror and see beauty in it; it’s only when I have to pit my own idea of what is beautiful against what appears to be the popular notion of beauty that it falls apart and I feel ugly again.

Some people have a way at looking at a person and seeing only the flaws. I look at the people I love, flaws and all, and love them all the more for it. I love people not in spite of their flaws, but because of them. I love to see the evidence of having lived in the form of scars and lines. I love the roughened edge of experience and assurance that only comes from age. I get turned on by people who have something unusual about the way they look – just because something is different does not make it unbeautiful. Why do we all want to look like everyone else? Why can’t we embrace that which makes us unique?

I had a conversation with a friend where we both admitted to having a fetish for crooked teeth. It drives me nuts that most people have theirs straightened, whitened, homogenised.

What have notions of physical assimilation got to do with beauty and what has beauty got to do with sex?

For everything I disliked about Holly Hill’s Sugarbabe, I did like this:

“I now understand that the increased self-esteem I felt as a sugarbabe wasn’t a result of my sense of attractiveness being reinforced; nor was it from having power over powerful men. Rather, it was because I no longer cared what people thought about me.”
(pp. 300 – 301)

*Note: this particular rant focuses on beauty as it pertains to women, because I am a woman and have something of an insider’s knowledge of the subject. If the dudes want to send me their own perspective on this topic, by all means do. I’d love to hear from you.

Pain – Part II

I went into work last Wednesday with a couple of bandaids on my upper arm. Within seconds of saying ‘hello’ to everyone, the interrogation about the bandaids began. (My colleagues are so horribly bored and cooped up in that miserable space that the slightest, most minute disruption to what is mundane and predictable immediately sparks a flurry of questioning, gossip and hysteria. Haircuts are enough to cause a stroke in that place – in hindsight I was a damned fool thinking my bandaids would slip below the radar).

I didn’t want to talk about the bandaids. I wasn’t ashamed, it was just that it was personal and I didn’t want it dissected as part of the daily office conversation, wedged in-between what so-and-so ate for lunch, and what what’s-his-face said to that-stupid-bitch at the Christmas party.

But they persisted. My protests of “it’s a long story” held them off for all of about ten minutes, when someone came out with “but you love telling us long stories!”. I tried feeding them a few more crumbs, hoping it would shut them up. But “it’s a burn” only added fuel to the flame, so to speak. By this stage they were nearly foaming at the mouths, agog, apoplectic with curiosity.

“Fine!” I cried, ripping the bandaids off, “a friend of mine burned my arm with an incense stick. Okay?”

Finally I was granted that silence I had, up until that second, wanted. There was an awkward, horrified moment as everyone stared at the small round scabs that descended in neat rows down my arm. It was even more awkward than that time Lazy-Jerk-Face said “fuck you” to Pole-Up-His-Arse.

“It’s not what you think,” I said, slightly desperate. “It’s not a bad thing. I was just, ah, drunk. It seemed like a good idea.”

“You were drunk?” The look of concern on their faces was unbearable.

“Yes, yes. So drunk. Stinking drunk. Ah, the silly things you do, when you are drunk.”

At this, everyone calmed down a bit.

And this is what brings me to today’s rant. Because I wasn’t drunk. I’d had half a glass of wine and the whole thing was calm, controlled. Meditative, serene. The only thing I regret about it was that I let her burn me in a place that was so visible. But apart from that it was an intimate moment of power exchange that I found to be deeply soothing. The burns were only surface, the burning sensation only lasted for a few seconds, and now that the skin is healing I’m fairly confident the scars will fade to nothing, blending in with my freckles.

I know my colleagues were only acting out of concern, and I appreciate that, but I don’t understand why “I was drunk” is a more acceptable explanation than “I like pain”. I still feel the slightest twinge of shame in admitting that. Like there’s something wrong with me that needs to be fixed, and that I need to obscure the truth in case some well-meaning person insists on fixing it for me.

Liking pain is not so weird. Hear me out on this one.

Pain is a taboo in western culture (I don’t have the time to go into what constitutes ‘western’ culture, but you know what I mean), but in other cultures it is celebrated, revered. Coming of age rituals and initiation rites are considered, by our ‘humane’ standards to be barbaric, but what we don’t realise is that it’s just one way of looking at it. We consider pain to be a bad thing, and we spend most of our lives shielded from it. As a consequence of this, pain becomes something that is largely unfamiliar and unknown. Thus, it becomes frightening. There is nothing scarier than that which we do not know (see: death).

Obviously, pain serves a purpose, and too much pain is like too much of anything – not so good. And pain in the context of anyone who is suffering from an ongoing illness is by no means glamorous; I’m not saying it should be. But what I am saying is that people should accept that pain is part of the experience of life, and not to make it into anything larger than it is. A little bit of pain helps for you to appreciate not being in pain, and actively seeking a little bit of pain gives you the satisfying sensation of having a measure of control over it. (It’s a common myth that sadists and dominants are the only ones with control issues…)

I think it’s interesting that body piercing and tattoos have become extremely popular (dare I say, ‘mainstream‘) in the last twenty years. What used to be shocking and rebellious has become reasonably banal, something that ‘youths’ are prone to do and prone to regret when they get older. What frustrates me is the way that the pain side of things is downplayed and minimised by those catering to the more fashion-conscious side of the market. If I hear another ditsy blonde talk about ‘numbing patches’ or ‘anaesthetic cream’ in relation to the Playboy bunny they’re going to get tattooed on their lower back or the pink jewel they’re going to get inserted through their navel, I’m going to punch them in the face.

Pain is half the point. It’s about conquering your fear, marking the moment, being reborn. It’s about release. We shuffle around most of the time in our adult lives with politely lowered voices, keeping our tempers in check, not expressing how we really feel for fear of getting fired/dumped/rejected/arrested. But sometimes it is necessary to scream, to cry, to gnash our teeth. To have an opportunity to do so, in an appropriate setting, is a blissful thing.

(I witnessed a nipple piercing on Sunday, of someone who had never been pierced before. I was expecting a characteristically stoic reaction from him, but as the big needle was forced through he yelled “muddafucker!”. I thought about all the people waiting outside for their piercings, and suppressed a smile. The piercer was a no-nonsense lass who was good at her job. She said: “I love hearing people in pain.”)

Body art is one thing, but I sincerely believe that pain for pain’s sake is artistic in its own right. Because it defies logic, it goes against our survival instincts. Choosing to receive pain for no practical reason is, in my book, a poetic act. I have had tattoos and piercings, and I have always hid behind the “it looks cool” excuse that keeps everyone at bay. But piercings never heal on me (overactive immune system) and tattoos are way too sacred and expensive to be getting every time the wolf comes to my door. There is something so pure about pursuing pain in itself. It lets my demons out.

Play piercing (surgical-grade needles threaded through the surface of the skin) is the purest, and most intense sensation of pain I’ve received through a BDSM scenario. The sensation of the needle sliding beneath skin is exact and sharp and blindingly intense. The last time I played with needles, it was with two other people who I love, and the atmosphere in the room was close and heavy. I shuddered with pain at each fresh piercing, but seconds later a rich endorphin rush hit me and sent me higher, higher. When finally I had about 24 needles threaded through my back, Marauder ran his gloved fingers over the skin, twisting the plastic tips. The feeling was so intense that it stopped being necessarily ‘bad’; it no longer had a label. Then, I had an orgasm.

The incense stick was similar to needles in that it was calm and slow. I watched the ember melt into my skin, watched it smoulder. I was not afraid. The feeling was amazingly warm and soothing. She looked me in the eye, smiled, and pressed the burning tip down, again, again. Sinister bliss.

Later that same night, I was caned by a man I’ve known for a long time but have never played with. It was hard. I was lying on a massage table but couldn’t stop moving, writhing, trying to slither away. There was not really a warm up, he just came down on me hard, fast and with force. Halfway through it our light fitting was broken on the upswing. Glass came down like snow. I had the option then of quitting, of calling it a night. But I chose to stay, knowing that something deep and guttural in me was not yet satisfied. I watched, trance-like, as the glass was swept away and as my arms and legs were bound to the table so I couldn’t move. I took it upon myself to shove some material in my mouth. I lay still, breathing like an animal, ready.

He came back at me with the same mad energy, all force and brutality, whack whack whack. The pain was amazing. There was nothing calm about it – I struggled desperately against my bindings and screamed into the cloth in my mouth, masticating it to a pulp. It couldn’t accept it, couldn’t make peace with this pain. The marks burned long after the cane hit. I was sweaty, knotted, ablaze.

As the tears came so did the release. Like a hot flood. I was not simply crying; I wept. And then it was easy, then my body could lie peacefully, accepting fate. All the bottled emotion of that past week came out of me, dredged from where I’d shoved it, out of sight. I realised it had been an emotionally turbulent week, and it all came out, leaving me drained and free. Softened.

Everyone must have been too distracted by the bandaids to notice the way I was wincing ever so slightly every time I sat down at my desk that week. Which is a shame. Because instead of saying “it’s okay, I was drunk” I would have been able to say “you think that’s bad, you should see my arse!”

Sizeable White Lies

This penguin depicts my inner turmoil.

I’m bad at lying. It’s not really a moralistic thing; more just a combination of laziness, naivety and having the world’s most obvious poker face. I inherited this trait from my mother, whose brutal honesty was at times difficult for a sensitive child. I’ll never forget that time my little sister came home from school with a hand-painted plaster of Paris penguin and my mum exclaimed: “Oh great! A doorstop!” Despite the look of horror on my sister’s tiny face, the lovingly crafted penguin got placed next to the back door, which my mum was prone to slamming. It took about five minutes for the beak to snap off, just like that chunk of my sister’s heart that will never, ever mend.

When I was at a similarly young age my dad explained to me that when people say “how are you?” you are supposed to respond with “I’m good, thanks.” I just couldn’t get my head around the concept.

Me: “But dad, what if I don’t feel good? What if I feel bad?”

Dad: “You should still say that you’re good.”

Me: “But that would be lying!”

Dad: “It’s called being polite.”

Me: “But lying is bad!”

Dad: “Yes, but being impolite is also bad.”

Me: “But lying is bad!”

I can’t remember how this conversation ended exactly, except that it probably involved my dad farting, my mum yelling, and the cat urinating on something expensive. My point is, I didn’t understand the concept of social bluffing when I was a kid, and I still don’t. I mean, I’ve gotten better at answering “good, thanks” to well-meaning acquaintances, but that’s probably because I’ve sorted some shit out and I am, actually, feeling pretty good these days. Which is convenient.

Most people appreciate that I’m honest about stuff. However there are certain circumstances where honesty is not always the best policy. Having a friend on Facebook who insists on updating his status every time he does a poo has made me realise that what for me could be exciting news, for someone else could be a gratuitous ‘overshare’.

So okay, I understand that there are some things you just don’t talk about, particularly when you’re at work. It’s just extra specially tricky for me because I happen to do a lot of really interesting yet inappropriate things on the weekend, and I suck at lying.

Oh, the weekend question! Bane of my existence. Bane!

Colleague: “Hi! What did you get up to on the weekend?”

Me: “I, um, er, went out. And, I did, like, things. It was, um, good. Like, yeah.”

This makes me sound like either of two things:

1. A tosser who obviously thinks her weekend was far too cool to share with a pleb from work.
2. A loser who did jack shit on the weekend because she has no friends, and is pathetically trying to hide this fact.

I mean, if I had my way, I’d LOVE to tell people what I really did on the weekend. I can’t tell you how much I’d love to look my boss in the eye and tell her that last Saturday night I was blindfolded, gagged, strung up to an A-frame, caned until I bled, punctured with needles, set on fire, wrapped naked in cling wrap to another naked chick and fucked violently by a machine while ten of my favourite perverted friends looked on. I’d love to tell her this, but gosh darn it, I have a pretty good hunch it would make our working relationship weird.

This problem has been cropping up more and more frequently since I’ve become truly passionate about immersing my life in kink. Earlier in the year I was on national radio (Triple J’s ‘Hack’) talking about BDSM, and even though I was really proud and told all my friends to listen, at the same time I was terrified that someone at work would hear it. By some miracle no one did, (despite the fact I made one of my colleagues listen to all the other informative stories that aired during ‘Fetish Week’) but I was actually a little sad that the cat remained bagged. I love my kink life; it makes up so much of who I am, and I want to share my life with the people around me. But, sharing is not always caring.

It’s just annoying, because coming out as queer is mostly acceptable these days, but somehow it seems neither necessary nor advisable to explain to friends and family that you’re kinky. You can tell your colleagues that you’re gay, and even if they disapprove they’re not supposed to discriminate against you, but mentioning kink during working hours just seems to me like a really good way to get fired.

Maybe I’m wrong? I could be, but I’m too chicken to test the theory. Not that I care about getting fired, but I do care about making other people uncomfortable.

Sometimes I think it’s an insignificant thing, and sometimes I don’t.

I suppose that as long as I can continue to tell my friends and even my little sister (who has never painted a plaster penguin again, bless her) about my life, it doesn’t really matter that I can’t tell the people I work with. And so long as some jackass in parliament doesn’t succeed in his frightful plan to censor Australia’s internet, I can vent my frustration via blogging. Hoorah!

By the way, I work in advertising. Not the best career choice for someone who can’t lie for shit. Who would have thought?