Recently I played with someone for the first time. I’ve known this person since they came into the scene 5-6 years ago, and while we’ve never been close friends, there has always been a comfortable rapport between us. I’ve been to private parties at their house and we both attend some of the same larger kink events, but our preferred bdsm passions are different- rope for them versus heavy impact play for me. We aren’t usually at the same smaller parties or classes.
We are Facebook and Fetlife friends, so I know the basics of what’s going on in their life, but we’ve never hung out and done vanilla things together. We both own and operate our own small businesses and have very busy lives. Still, I’ve always thought that if circumstances were different and we spent more time together, we would probably become good friends. I have the utmost respect and admiration for their integrity, knowledge, and dedication to learning their craft. When they asked me to tie with them out of the blue, my answer was an easy and enthusiastic yes.
We played, and it was absolutely lovely. I suspect we will do it again sometime, though we haven’t discussed it. But even if we never do, that doesn’t mean anything went wrong. We connected and enjoyed each other’s company. That’s enough. If a deeper friendship or play partnership develops organically, wonderful! If not, I’m still grateful for the experience. And this brings me to something I’ve been meaning to write about for a while now:
It’s okay if we aren’t friends.
I’ve met hundreds (thousands?) of kinksters during my time in the bdsm community. I’m often one of the first people newbies encounter at a munch, because when I see one or two people I don’t recognize standing off to the side, I like to introduce myself. If they seem receptive, I try to include them in conversations, introduce them to others, and just generally help make them feel comfortable and welcome.
Sometimes I “click” with the new people I meet, and sometimes I don’t. I might never see them again, or I might run into them occasionally as they navigate through the scene. I probably won’t ever play with them, and we most likely won’t become extremely close friends or lovers either. That doesn’t necessarily mean I don’t like them or even want to get to know them better; I just have a very full life and limited available time and energy.
I’ve also figured out over the years that sharing the wide category of “kink” with someone as a common interest is not (for me) enough of a foundation on which to build sustainable friendships or relationships. And that’s ok. I don’t need to become best friends or play partners with every single kinky person I meet. In service to my community, I try to help ease the way for new folks entering the scene, but I don’t have an agenda with them. Nobody owes me anything, and vice versa.
There is room in my life for casual, kinky acquaintances whose company I enjoy, but who I don’t spend a lot of time with outside of social/public events. There is room in the kink community for people I don’t play with or know that well or even particularly get along with, as long as I don’t have reason to believe that they are a predator or abuser. Because everything else is a matter of personality, preferences, and personal ethics.
Do I like someone’s energy? Do our bdsm interests intersect or overlap? Do we have complimentary (not necessarily identical) levels of social awareness, discretion needs, emotional intelligence, relationship practices, and communication styles? Do our schedules align? Because we are grown ass human beings with lives and responsibilities, and sometimes it’s just not a good fit. It doesn’t have to be anybody’s fault or shortcoming; it could just be bad timing or lack of compatibility.
The bottom line is that unless you are espousing some fucked up racism, white supremacy, misogyny, LGTBQIA-phobia, or predatorial tendencies, I will make an effort to be civil and courteous when our paths cross. And who knows? People and circumstances change. Someday the Universe may see fit to bring us together in a different way, but unless and until then…It’s okay if we aren’t friends.
I’m pretty damn happy with my life, and I try really hard to make decisions that cause me little regret. But I think if you asked sixteen year old me what she thinks of now me, she’d be disappointed that I haven’t traveled more. So when this once in a lifetime opportunity to plan a trip anywhere in the world fell in my lap a few months ago, I was overwhelmed with possibilities. After much discussion with H, we settled on France and the planning began. We did two nights in Lyon, two nights in Beaune (the heart of Burgundy wine country), and six nights in Paris. I posted some pictures to Instagram and a ton on Facebook- feel free to check there for the visual feast.
I’d never been to Europe before, so I did my due diligence before the trip and read all the “how not to be an annoying American tourist” and “what to expect in France” articles. Lots of things they mentioned you’d notice once you got there were spot on. For example, what the ever loving fuck is wrong with our bathroom stalls? Why do the doors and walls not go down to the floor? You don’t realize how weird it is until you go somewhere there’s actually privacy in a public bathroom. Also, pay toilets are a thing I wish we had here. Seriously.
Also, stores and restaurants are actually closed a couple days of the week, usually Sunday and/or Monday. Like, not open. Like, potentially missing out on revenue and not milking every last capitalist drop of possible earnings. It’s almost as if these people have lives or something. And the customers who might normally shop or dine in those establishments? They just figure it out instead of leaving shitty Yelp reviews.
People eat dinner late. And make reservations. And wear scarves. And they have 894 different ways to wear said scarves, one of which was taught to me by the haughty saleslady in the boutique where H got me my very own Parisian scarf so I could blend in. Or try to anyway. I asked her in my terrible French if she could show me how to tie it like hers. She said yes, but the look on her face said “doubtful.” LOL. Those damn Frenchwomen are frighteningly stylish. It strikes you: they’re allowed to age gracefully and remain sexy/stylish. I want to be perfectly coiffed 60 year old walking my dog in Paris someday. I better get on that.
Speaking of dogs, you just stepped in some poo. You can’t avoid it. You will do it because there’s dog doody on the street and you’ll be so distracted looking up at the incredible architecture and saying “I want to live there!” every five seconds. And so much art and history everywhere you look, it’s overwhelming.
I hope you’re not allergic to cigarette smoke. If France has a Surgeon General, they’re not warning citizens not to smoke. Or they’re being ignored. I smoked off and on for 20 years. Mostly socially or to pass the time at work, and often I’d go days without a cigarette. Haven’t had so much as a puff in over two years, and have barely missed it. Maybe once or twice out on the town, friends have excused themselves for a smoke break and I’ve felt that nostalgic twinge. But no real cravings until France. Something about sitting at a sidewalk table on bustling Paris evening, drinking wine and smoking cigarettes. I wanted a cigarette so badly. I just ended up drinking more wine.
Oh. My. God. The wine. And the cheese. And the butter. And basically all the food and everything I drank and holy crap WHY DOES EVERYTHING TASTE BETTER? I also ate in my first Michelin starred restaurant, which was a bucket list experience for sure. Not sure I could stomach spending rent on one meal ever again, but talk to me when I win the lottery. Here’s me spending more money than I should have on Belon oysters and rose wine…
There’s more I’m sure, but jet lag y’all. Plus the time change. And it’s clear you missed me, because the phone hasn’t stopped ringing since I got home. Not that I’m complaining, mind you, I’m just already scheming how I can get back to France…
T
Many of you don’t even know I was ever married, but Halloween was our wedding anniversary. I found out last week that my ex-husband just passed away in Arizona. Those of you who knew him, know he was a profoundly damaged human being. Our relationship was inequitable, unhealthy, and abusive, albeit not physically. I was young and naive, but I loved him. Even after I left, I only ever wanted him to find the strength to be a good father to his daughter (with his first wife) and the courage to become the person he was capable of being. But I knew the chances of that happening were slim.
I was completely unprepared for how much the news of his death has affected me. I’m letting myself be sad. I’m letting myself miss the parts of that life that were good. Today, I’m choosing to focus on the sweet, happy memories.
RIP, Michael John Fisher. You’re finally free.
Just got my venue assignment and show times for A Story of O’s at Edmonton Fringe! I have to confess I’m a little torn about my venue, #2, the Fringe Cabaret Lounge. “Lounge” is a bit of a misnomer, as the room is basically a big warehouse with tables and chairs in front of the stage and row seating on the sides. Cabaret-style, yes, but lacking the small, intimate vibe I prefer. The good news is they serve booze, and I really think a little lubrication will help the audience. Honestly, the show isn’t done yet. I keep adding and editing. But it’s already clear to me that pretty much anybody who comes to see it will have both a moment of “ewww, I really don’t get that” and “oh my god, that’s hot!” Which is of course intentional. Heh.
My show schedule is…not bad. You’re basically guaranteed to get a couple peak show times (i.e., Friday or Saturday night), a couple good times (weekday evening or weekend afternoon), and a couple crappy ones (anything after 9p Sunday-Thursday, weekday matinees). Some festivals will take your input on which non-peak times you prefer, so for example a kid-appropriate show can request an early afternoon slot over a late night one. With Threads, I always requested matinee times. Audiences for that show skewed older, as the subject matter resonated more immediately with people who lived through the Vietnam War era. But A Story of O’s is way more suited to a boozy, night-on-the-town crowd, and I have an awful lot of afternoon shows…
6:00p Saturday 16 August
8:45p Sunday 17 August
2:00p Monday 18 August
4:00p Tuesday 19 August
12:00p Friday 22 August
2:00p Saturday 23 August
6:00p Sunday 24 August
*shrug* Nothing to do about it. Such is the nature of the fringe. And I’m not particularly worried, because after all…Sex sells, right? Heh.
I also booked five shows of A Story of O’s in Portland as a warm-up for Edmonton. Details and ticket purchase link available here. Plus, I’m going to be teaching my Talking Dirty & Roleplay 101 workshop when I’m up in Edmonton. More info here.
I’m going to be a busy lady the next couple months!
you make me
shiver
shudder
shake
you make me
scream
squeal
squirm
you make me
writhe in pain
beg for mercy
pray for more
you make me
bellow loudly
give completely
whimper softly
you make me
want it
wet and
wanton
you make me
come harder
go further
stay longer
you make me
naked
cherished
safe
you
make
me
DISCLAIMER: I began thinking about and writing this months ago but haven’t been able to bring myself to finish it until recently. It isn’t inspired by any one particular person, but by a combination of relationships. I’m going to be posting a number of pieces over the next few months that are works-in-progress intended for performance eventually. I am using a healthy amount of creative license here, so nothing should be taken personally or as my version of gospel truth.
Usually, you don’t know it’s the last time when it’s the last time. I read something along those lines in a book somewhere, maybe Written on the Body? Things fall apart and there’s just a hole, and then you realize, “oh, that last time we did X, that was the last time we’re going to do that.”
The last time we giggled over an inside joke. The last time we kissed. The last time we fucked. The last time you made me breakfast. The last time I looked at you without anger, expectations, or resentment in my eyes. The last time we were nice to each other. The last time it was good.
Other memories begin to fade, but the last times linger, bittersweet. The last time you brushed my hair. The last time I gave you a massage. The last time you held my face in your hands. The last time we watched cartoons on a lazy Sunday morning. All these last times pile up on my chest, slowly collapsing me, forcing the air from my lungs.
When it hits, the realization of what “last time” truly means, I don’t push the weight of it off me. I want to be crushed, decimated by the loss of you. It needs to feel real. Otherwise, how will I get my brain around it? I keep forgetting. I catch myself making plans for us in my head. I tell myself it’s the last time, every time. And I hope eventually I’m right.
Slowly, it becomes a different kind of last time. The last time I’ll have to lower the chair at my computer desk. The last time I’ll clean beard trimmings from the bathroom sink. The last time a thought of you sends shards through my heart. These last times are good things. Little victories leading up to the big one. The last time I think of you and still want you. The last, last time. Because that one leads to the firsts.
The first time I make exactly what I want for dinner. The first time I flirt with a cute stranger. The first time I sing karaoke without you. The first time someone else tells me I’m beautiful. The first time I kiss another man. The first time I feel a new lover’s hands on me. The first time I come without you in my head.
The first time I realize I’m me again.
The first time I think of you, and smile.
The first time I click on this link and it doesn’t make me cry.
Just in case you’ve ever wondered what I look like with bedhead and no make-up…
Tonya
I used to play this game when I was a kid. Well not a game exactly, but it was something I did, a parlor trick. I believed I had the power to heal headaches, and I guess my childish exuberance seduced adults into playing along. Whenever anyone would mention having some kind of migraine-like pain, I’d beg them to let me try and “fix” it for them. Looking back, I can see what I was doing was a light hypnotic trance/visualization exercise, which might explain why it was actually successful about 90% of the time.
I’d tell them to close their eyes and describe their pain in detail. I’d make them put a shape and size to it, ascribe color(s), texture, movement. Rate its intensity on a scale of 1 to 10. I’d repeat the questions over and over until their pain was as real and concrete to me as they themselves were, until it was a living, breathing entity in the room with us.
And then I’d make them talk to their pain. Say hello, ask it what it wanted. Touch it. Reach out and feel its surface. I’d tell them to will it into a size that would fit in their palms, to hold it out in front of them, gently and kindly. I’d tell them to see it and kiss it and caress it. I’d tell them that love was the only weapon that would vanquish it. (Don’t ask me where this came from at 8 years old, it was just this knowledge inside me.)
Then I’d tell them to shrink it even further until it was as small as possible, and repeat my original questions. How big is it? What shape is it? What texture does it have? What color is it? Does it move? The answers were always different than they had been initially, even if the intensity of pain didn’t change significantly. Then I’d tell them to banish the pain. To fling it or shoot it or dropkick it as far away from them as possible.
And after a few breaths, I’d have them open their eyes. I couldn’t tell you whether their declarations of relief were genuine, but in my memory, there was true gratitude and surprise in many of them.
And I suppose therein lies the lesson I learned: acknowledging and taking control of your pain is the quickest, surest way to relief. Funny that it has been nearly 30 years, and I’m still having to learn and re-learn that one.
I’m raw today. My nerves are exposed. Part of me is already gone, already in “show mode” and steeling myself for the sweet Hell that is touring. You have to…believe in yourself so much. I don’t know how else to say it. I have to sell myself to get butts in seats, and I have to sell my story once I’m onstage. I have to seduce everyone I meet, and I’m never off duty. I have to believe I’m worthy of all that attention.
That’s what it boils down to. I have to believe I’m worthy and capable and enough to do the story justice. Somewhere, deep deep down I know it. I know I can do this. I have done it, and I’ll do it again. But right now my pain comes from fear, and I’d give anything to be able to will it away.
How big is it? What color is it? What shape is it? What texture is it? Does it move? How bad is it on a scale of 1 to 10?
Hello, pain, what do you want?
Just a note to say I now have venue assignments and show schedules for all my upcoming Threads festival performances except Vancouver, BC. If you are anywhere nearby, I hope you’ll come out to see the show!