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- A Story of O’s
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
you make me
you make me
writhe in pain
beg for mercy
pray for more
you make me
you make me
you make me
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…
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?
Ok, some posts back I was talking about how I watched For a Good Time, Call… and was going to write a review of it for Tits and Sass. Well, I suck, but I have to renege. I can’t do it. I just…Can’t. See, it was such a goddamn awful movie, I think I managed to block it out of my brain. I’ve actually sat down no less than four times to write my review, looked at my notes, and had no idea what to write. Finally today I realized that if I wanted to make any sense, I was going to have to watch the movie again. And I simply cannot bring myself to do it. I refuse. The damn flick doesn’t deserve another hour and a half of my life. So, I’m sorry if you were looking forward to my take on it, but I have to disappoint you. Trust me, it is no loss. You didn’t want to see the movie anyway, and nothing I said would have changed that. Jesus that movie rankled me more than I realized.
I hid her away. Buried her deep in my gut, covered with layers of muscle and fat and fear. Every day, I felt her roiling and screaming, battering me from the inside, desperately trying to break through the tightly-knit sinews protecting me from her. I began to hate her.
Why won’t you just go away? I would stare at my belly, dig my fingers in and imagine ripping her from my flesh. If I were pregnant, it could be done. But the deeper I pressed my searching hands into the softness, the more wily and evasive she became until finally I believed I had succeeded in folding her in upon herself completely. And so I was alone. Me, in this body.
My lovers tried. They accepted that I had driven her away, that I needed to. They let me know, gently, that she was welcome to return if I ever wanted to invite her back. They learned to love me, divorced from her. They took care of me, and let me take care of them. They tried not to be too concerned, but they knew: I was not whole.
Days. Weeks. Months. Years. Sometimes I missed her, but more often I was relieved to be free of the emotion that was so inherent in her. The god-damn need. It can be dangerous and self-destructive to go on a bender because you just don’t want to feel anything anymore; it’s so much worse when you realize you’re already numb. When no amount of poking or prodding can elicit a response. When the thing that once sustained you has devoured you from the inside out until there is nothing left. When you are hollow.
Yet if I was empty, she had to be gone. Right? It was safe. I took a breath. I relaxed my stomach muscles and let my tummy hang defeated. My carefully knit pattern kept its shape. I had survived. But somewhere, in the tiny, tucked-away corner of an errant cell, fiber, or membrane, so had she. And now…
Tug. Tug tug tug. She is pulling on a loose string somewhere. She has woken, starving, and she intends to feast. Every slap, every spank, every welt, every bruise, every jolt to my cunt, every loaded glance, every naughty text…Nourishment. Yes, she is a hungry girl, and I will no longer deny her.
Submission. Me, to her. Submission. Mine.
Thank you thank you thank you! Hotline made their Kickstarter goal!