Self-indulgence

I thought I was finished. I thought I was completely free. I was wrong.

Choosing a background picture, I stumbled across an old picture of her. I felt the same old electric jolt, the same hot rush. No! "No," I say.

I had hoped to rinse it all away, standing disconsolate beneath the shower head. Water streaming against my body, head hanging, I hoped to cleans myself. I hoped to rinse away every last petty insult, every last little barb. I hoped to forget as easily as I was forgotten. I hoped to lose those poignant good moments right there with the stinging remarks, right there with all of the rage. Let it all wash away. Force it out. Let it all swirl down the drain. That same old cleansing ritual: breathe in pure white light, force out bad black air. I submerged myself, a baptism. Hot water streaming, pooling in my mouth, covering my face, warming me, cleansing me. Water gently pounding at my eyes, water trickling across my lips, wrapped in the sensation alone, all thoughts forced away.

Stepping away from the stream, the cold strikes me, pin-pricks my skin, tears away my comfort. It's the same old game. Nothing feels as good as that water, that hot, beautiful flow. Nothing feels as horrible as being forced out, out into the cold, out to face the emotion the waters numbed.

I want to sit you down, I want to ask you "why?" Why do you hate me?

The pleasant moments still grasp at me. They pull at my skin, my hair. They taunt me, dancing their path inside my head. They leave a filthy dark residue, a permanent stain. They break my resolve. I want to feel nothing when I look at you. Stop TAUNTING me.

Genderplay

I like surprising people. I like toying with notions of gender.

I am a feminine woman. I am not any incarnation of high femme, but I wear eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara. I paint my toes pretty colors. I like heels, but seldom wear them. I wear curve-accentuating clothing, but still love sleeping in huge baggy sweatpants. Feminine enough. I have natural nails; no French manicure for me, thanks.

I like taking on stereotypically male roles. I love the little jump-start surprise men get when a femme woman holds the door open for them. I love the discomfort men display when they can't decide whether to walk through the proffered open door, or to attempt to encourage the woman through instead.
I take secret delight in taking up more space than I need, as men so often do. Maintaining the "'own your space' butch sit" (see Roxy's blog) while owning a femme identity replete with cleavage, pink lip gloss and ass hugging jeans tends to create visible dis-ease in others.
If you've noticed, while walking, many men refuse to make way for a passing woman. This is easily noted in malls. Women will yield, making space for men to pass; a femme woman refusing to make space garners many strange looks.

Defining oneself requires some measure of defining one's gender and one's sexuality. Any possible assemblage of gender and sexuality is acceptable, but maintaining fluidity confuses people. My definition: I am femme, I am bisexual, I am a woman who chooses to perform gender in any way I wish. Performing gender my way is my fluidity.

I have had the pleasure of meeting many people who enforce strict roles for themselves. A slightly feminine lesbian acquaintance allows the length of her hair to dictate the role she inhabits. A longer cut exposes her submissive behaviors, allows her to let others take charge. A short cut yields masculine behaviors, brings out the "player" in her, gives her confidence to walk like she owns herself. This friend is discomfited when I pay for meals, initiate sex, or hold doors open for her. Because I am a femme woman, I am subverting her masculinity. This same friend prefers women daintier than I; it seems the smaller her partners are, the less threatening they become. I am not surprised that maintaining traditional masculine behaviors scratches her itch for gender definition.

I fully understand why a woman would choose to maintain a rigid, masculine gender performance, and why a man would choose a feminine one, but I take pleasure in loose definition.

JFC

Oh, I do so cherish those I can be real with. I delight in the ability to say, "You know, I actually haven't thought of you at all," without provoking offense. Thank you for that.

Nothing piqued me more than B's creation of this alternate personality for me. I do not take offense easily. I do not fly into jealous fits of rage. I do not do things to intentionally piss anyone off, and then pretend the action was innocent. I do not manipulate people. I do not send snide text messages. The creature B thinks I am does these things.

The actual me aims to be brutally honest. I ask for what I want. I tuck unwarranted jealousy away, and do not act on minor outbursts of anger. How could my character be so grievously mistaken? Very little of what I say has hidden meaning. I do not understand. Perhaps an over-reliance on introspection leads B to believe my character bears similarity to the antics she displays?

Because I am female, people assume I will exhibit specific behaviors. Men assume I will fall in immediate postcoital love. Women assume I am casting a jealous eye toward any female person they speak to. No one believes I visit gay clubs without underlying reasons (relating to spying on exes, of course.) How droll.

Is it unbelievable that I would dare, as a woman, to approach a man? Is it implausible that I could enjoy sex for sex's sake? Is it crazy to think that I am a reasonable human being, merely because I'm female? JFC.

Three Seed

I leave you with this song today. The music steals me away. The song is a blog all it's own, as it says so much more than I can say.

Don't forget to press play.

Bookslut

"The defining emotion of the romantic period was yearning, not love," I heard today while passing another classroom. Yearning. The word creates delicious feelings for me. It was a pleasure to overhear this morsel of information. Yearning. It echoes so mysteriously for me.

Reading a book review via Bookslut awoke another yearning for me, today. Touching others' creations breeds a yearning to create something myself.

This passage resonated particularly strongly:
"...and the reason I was so transformed wasn’t that it was an opaque experience, with its workings hidden, allowing me to forget that it was a creation, of actors (onstage), of a director (now invisible), of a writer (once alive). It was exactly the opposite. It was that I was participating in that whorl of energy. I could feel the creation happening, right at that moment. And the best books allow their creation to bloom up, again and again, whenever they’re read, and maybe even when they’re closed, on the shelf."

Read the full review here.

Dare

Nothing infuriates me nearly so much as being judged. The slightest indication of disapproval makes me want to hurl expletives at you as if they would strike you with any significant force. They do no damage, however.

What holier-than-thou judgment can you pass on me for being free? Others say your judgment is a product of your green-eyed monster. I do not care for the cause.

I do not find flaw in my licentiousness. You enjoyed my writing when you were among the subject matter. I am amused that my compositions become contemptible following some perceived offense against you.

I write about my all-consuming moments, about what stirs my passions. You should count yourself lucky to be listed thus.

My writing is truth and fabrication, and an extension of me. With a scornful voice, you alert others about it. About me. You warn potential partners about my propensity to write about sex, as if they would need a warning, as if I would not ask before posting, as if what I do is dirty in some way. You insult me.

Writing, for me, is a potent expression of pleasure. Many things please me. Yes, sex pleases me. Yes,intimacy, love, affection, and joviality please me. Yes, literature, art, music, dance, individuality, free form expression, and writing please me. I immerse myself in my loves here. I recline on my literary couch and indulge in a little lotus-eating here. I am not ashamed.

Abhor

I said in a previous blog, "Give me someone who burns the way I burn."

I am continuously drawn back to this. Match me. Exceed my expectations. There is no room for timidity here.

The first night she was pissed because I showed my nerves. She would explode if I were to ask her, "Can I have you?"
I understand. When you want to be swallowed up, the last thing you want to hear is a request for permission.

I am multi-faceted, as is everyone else. I force exhibitionism. I create this alter, this other me. This alter, she exudes fervent sexuality. She rides the men she wants; she seduces the women. She's capable, strong, independent, and in constant need of a fucking. She abhors fragility.

Fragility. It should be a name. The other part of me. The one I too abhor. The one who questions. The one who would dare query, "Can I have you?" The one who thinks, "What if?"

There is no reconciling these two opposing entities. Whether I am Fragile or Exhibitionistic matters little, as I still burn.

It is clever that I can be so many things. I am still playing. I am still trying on so many, many hats. I hope never to be forced to choose just one. No rule exists requiring a permanent hat, right?

Today, give me the Thoroughly Bad one.

Exhibitionism

There are blogs sitting in my drafts list, blogs that I want more than anything to publish. Being the exhibitionist that I am, I told the wrong people where to find this blog. Too much truth for all the wrong people.

I'm working to fix my error. I may need to delete a few details, but I will post as soon as I am able.

Muse

She begins it with a burning, a yearning, a small fire. I’ll be seeing a movie, checking my email, sitting in class, driving home or reading a book, and suddenly she’s there: an intrusive demon requiring placation. She rears her head, smiles her sadistic, toothy grin, and will not be buried. She tells me, “Now. The time is now. Do it.”

The beast visits often; I am no longer surprised by the calls. I still try to drive the need away, burying myself amongst the pages of the book I was reading, narrowing my focus back to the film I was watching. I tighten my control each time in a mere attempt to keep her at bay. I always believe my will is stronger than hers, this fiend, this she-devil. It is never so.

She prods me from inside, stroking my brain’s synapses, performing a tap dance on my mental sinews. She writhes against my lungs, causing my heart to palpitate, my breath to come short. She slides her lithesome body inside mine, pressing herself into my veins until she becomes a wet, throbbing part of me. She makes me her marionette; making me dance, her unwilling victim on strings. I cannot ignore her.

Perched in my ear, she implants ideas, stories and images. She creates other lithesome, seductive, bewitching little succubi with my fragmented thoughts and her wretched kisses. Together, these succubi straddle my ankles and bind my wrists with their tongues. They pour poison into me, and the poison always eats its way out. Her words paralyze me as if they were toxins; forcing me to take my hands, use them for her purposes.

I fight her. I tell her, “No! I can’t!” When she has had her way with me, I tell her, “No more. I have no more to give.” She nods her head, smiling again, hissing, “Yes, you have more, and you’ll give more.” She makes me. I give her what she wants.

My she-devil, my beast. My inspiration, my muse.