Category Archives: broken kinks

Thirsty

I’m in a bit of a emotionally weird place right now. Have done some writing that is rather disjointed, but hey, I’ll put it here anyway. Some of it relates to what is happening now and is written by other wonderful writers, some is just stuff I needed to get out of the system.

Cold Tiles

‘Can I join you?’

Can we ever get close enough, comfortable enough with each other? You only asked that first question then. I ask myself the other questions now. Ask myself why I must be heard or seen to feel like I exist.

But that time, when I nodded and you entered the shower, I did not see anything else but you. Slightly shivering shoulders, face down, the small bathroom filling up with steam. I love the way he touch my body, with such care and devotion. Lathering my body with shower lotion, front and back. He kneeled and I put my foot on his knee, allowing him to soap it in. Then the other leg. Then showering it all off. All with the same devotion. Same care.

We exist in our bubble in this bathroom, in our shower. We exist and feel in this water because that is the only thing we can do, because that is where our bodies push us, our minds knowing without rationalising anything.

At first my fingers force their way into your mouth, then my whole fist. It can rest there, fill up that willing orifice of yours, you are still kneeling in the shower. The stream of water hits your face and you are hulking, both from the water that tricks its way up your nose and from my fingers that gently tickle the back of your throat. I remove my hand, move the shower head closer to your face and you try so hard to not loose your breath. You try so hard. The breathe that is left I steal through a kiss, try to suck as much oxygen from you as I can. It makes you dizzy, especially as I pull you up on your feet, press you against the tiled wall, press your face against the cold surface with one hand in your neck. You shiver and moan, I press. With my other hand, I trace the bones of your spine, the water is still showering across my back. It is a landscape, marked by valleys, muscles, smooth tanned skin, that skin with all that it contains. I can’t get enough of your skin, cannot dig deep enough into it.

I rest my hand at his lower back a minute or so, just at the curve of his ass. His buttocks tense first, then relaxing, pressing the ass against my hip I laugh quietly, pull his head back, force him to arch even more. Whisper in his ear something about how cold the tiles of the wall are, how easy it is to slam his body into that wall until it is not fun anymore. He moans, and then draws in his breath quickly, as my finger slowly slides into his arse. I don’t need a strap on to fuck this man, I don’t need my femme cock at all, it is in my head anyway, and the feeling of his arse around my finger make me want more. More of him. All him. Want to fill him, like a tide, want to fill him until he nearly drowns and I will have to kiss him to life again.
He arches his back now without me having to pull his head back, and his face fits so well against the tiles, I’m pressing him into the wall, pressing it, distorting it against the surface as I fuck his arse, grind my crotch against his arse, slow but hard, his hands trying supporting his weight by resting against the wall. It is like I have told him to puts his hands above his head, to surrender completely. But I have not uttered those words. I fuck his arse until I come. 1 finger. Two fingers. Three fingers. He shivers, not just his shoulders, but the whole of him. Kiss his back, I tell him I love him. That he did well. That he needs a shower. The water is still warm, the steam in the room has erased any possibility to see yourself in the mirror.
I step out of the shower, tell him to kneel, remove the shower head from the stand. Turn it to cold. He screams first when the ice cold water hits him. The whimpers. 30 seconds of ice cold water. His body must feel like it is burning from the cold. The human body can mistake cold for heat, the feeling of it becomes the same, a burning sensation.

I turn off the shower. ‘Stay there’. Don’t move. He is curled up, his hands resting on his neck. I want to watch him here. Watch the lines of his body, his shaking hands. Never want this to end, the lines of beauty. The lines of his tattoo, the sword of Jeanne D’arc. The crown on top of the sword, the lillies on the side. A masterpiece on his skin. He is cold though, his thin, lean body gets colder than most people. I quickly take one or two pictures, then wrap him up in a huge towel. Walk him to the bed, hug him until he has stopped shivering, then push his face down between my legs. When I come, I think about me inside of him, about his face against the white tiles, the arch of his back. The skin. He can always join me in the shower.

I am still inside you

Love

“Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn’t it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life…You give them a piece of you. They didn’t ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn’t your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so a simple phrase like ‘maybe we should just be friends’ turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It’s a soul-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love. “

Neil Gaiman

How can I say if thy voice is beautiful.
I only know that it pierces
and makes me tremble like a leaf
and tears me into rags and pieces.

What do I know of thy skin and thy limbs.
It only shakes me that they are thine,
so that for me there is no sleep or rest,
till they are mine.

Karin Boye

 

So Thirsty

I’m flicking through memories in my mind. Can’t sleep. Yet again. So I’m thinking about that night. He was working late in the bar, I had picked up my computer, walked from his apartment to the bar and sit down for a glass of white wine and some writing.
In the corner of my eye I see him at work. I love it. His posture is different, he moves with such grace and ease. We acknowledge each other with a smile, no more no less for now. I have promised him and myself to not interrupt him. A promise I could never break, his work is far too important to him, this is his domain, and to be honest, to see him doing it is far too pleasing.

The first time I said I loved him, it came from nowhere; the words fell from my lips as I untied his long slim frame, releasing his limbs from his first suspension ever. We stood in the middle of the biggest square in the capital of Sweden and we were doing a rope flash mob. The sun made the square act like a pot on a pan, the sweat ran down my forehead and made my eyes sore. Thirsty stood on his knees, I untied the TK with my face buried in his hair. It had a strong smell of hairspray. It always does. There, in that moment, the words fell accidentally but perfectly from my lips: “I love you”. Tried to swallow the words back, rewind them into my moth, those words are dangerous, not neutral but can instead be full of expectations, those three words lack restraint and control, and they come from the heart, that aching heart.

Back into the bar. It is a weekday, a slow evening and when he pass by my table we exchange some words. Speaking to him in that context is almost like a game, trying to make the lust and the love sound and look as neutral as possible. Resisting throwing him against the wall; resisting kissing him until we scream breathlessness into each others mouths; resisting touching his lower lip. I wont do anything now, just smile, look into his eyes, detecting a reaction deep in there, a flush of desire and submission.

He refuse to serve someone due to them being too drunk. A little while later he decide to close early as the evening is really slow. I can remain sitting at my table, sipping the wine, writing, watching him going through the closing procedures. He is relaxed, a happiness I can easily detect. The soundsystem is playing Billie Holliday and Nina Simone, and the bar is completely empty. He walks past, stroke my neck and I catch his hand. We don’t really know how to dance but move to the music together, dancing to the husky voice of Billie, he drowns into my body, I can hear his breathe in my ear and I kiss him softly on the lips. A little while later, he follows me back to his apartment door, there is a couple of more things to finish and I need to sleep. He walks back, I open the balcony door and see him striding slowly through the park. Thirsty is sleeping at his primary partner’s place tonight, but even if the bed is empty I am not lonely. He has filled my arms, my heart.

Loved enough-lost enough

Having loved enough and lost enough,
I’m no longer searching
just opening,

no longer trying to make sense of pain
but trying to be a soft and sturdy home
in which real things can land.

These are the irritations
that rub into a pearl.

So we can talk for a while
but then we must listen,
the way rocks listen to the sea.

And we can churn at all that goes wrong
but then we must lay all distractions
down and water every living seed.

And yes, on nights like tonight
I too feel alone. But seldom do I
face it squarely enough
to see that it’s a door
into the endless breath
that has no breather,
into the surf that human
shells call God.

Mark Nepo


Angelus Novus- The Renaissance

Angelus Novus by Paul Klee

The last couple of weeks, I’ve written more than I probably have ever done in this blog. After catching up with all the posts from Shibaricon, it was easy to continue writing, because it felt right. One thing which I have not touched upon at all are the recent changes in my personal life, probably because it has been too painful. This is still very much so. Went out dancing the other night, a man looked like him so much I had to go out for some fresh air.  This will be a very introspective ‘memememememe’ post, so if you are not up for some egotistical soul-searching, click on another post or just scroll down to read something else. You have been warned.

I don’t think there has been a more difficult time in my life, ever. At some point this Spring, while juggling university, there was a shift, an emotional and rational shift in how I felt about my relationship with J. I had been with him for almost 3 years at this point but was not prepared at all when it started to dawn on me that although I care about him greatly, and am extremely grateful and lucky about the amazing time we had together, I did not feel that I could continue the relationship. It was for me, at least, about being honest, both to myself and to him. During the time this took to realise, it felt like my whole body and mind was in pain. How could I even consider hurting someone like him by ending our relationship? But somehow, I came to the conclusion that it was the only thing I could do, unless there would have been more sadness and more frustration rather than mutual affection, trust and love. I’m not used to this, not used to listen to emotion but I’ll rather rationalise and ‘think things through’. It is probably my one and largest difficulty; to listen and to trust my emotions while still reasoning. But somewhere, through the stress and the pressure of finishing my university degree, there were so many cracks that the emotional reasoning became so loud I could not ignore it. There was something there that needed to come out, to be listened too. Almost like an internal scratching, that did not stop until it was listened too.

I guess it is typical for all things to come crashing down in the same time. There is never a right moment,  but somehow, my situation just became the perfect storm; an emotional crisis; finishing my dissertation and three other essays; relationship breakdown; hurting someone whom I cared about greatly; a decision having to be taken in regards to remaining in London; giving up my apartment back home in Sweden, revising for exams; preparing for the presentation at Shibaricon and my first trip ever to the States. And so on and so forth. I guess it became too much in the end, and had it not been for my friends I would probably not have made it through the final weeks in May. I remember being so scared of exactly everything; of myself, of others, of being alone, of being amongst people, of eating, of sleeping (nightmares), of staying awake. It took a phonecall to a friend in Sweden who said to me I had to reach out to someone nearby that made me realise I could not stay sane on my own. Another phonecall later and in no time, two very special people wrapped me up in their care. No bullshitting, no morale speeches, just them reaching out and offering a safe haven. As I stayed with them, the days became bareable; as they gave support, but also space and time. We worked together, ate together, I was reminded of how to relax, could speak to them if there was a need. I was fed copious amounts of meat, watched TV, helped with proof-reading. Dreamt about what we would do when it was finally all over. Went jogging in the morning, cuddled with a dog. Was prodded into writing by being promised to be tied up after 2500 word more. Before moving on to the next chapter, I would like to repeat this; there is no way I would have made it through without you, B & L. Also, Thot who proof-read, cuddled, pep-talked and supported in every single way, with so much patience.

And the deadlines came, and the exams were done, and suddenly, I was boarding the flight to Chicago. There was a strange feeling, arriving to the massive conference hotel on a continent I’ve never visited before, a Lost in Translation moment, when just sitting in my hotel-room on my own. A hotel room is a strange space and as Electronic Doll describes it, also perfect for BDSM. But right now, except for having rope and latex hanging around everywhere, it was not about BDSM, but it was about spending time with myself. The room was big and airy, a strangely silent space, filled with past encounters and guests but still empty.  Strangely, I did not panic about being alone, I decided to take some time and spend it with myself, as that was something I had not done for such a long time. That afternoon, night, following morning and day spent in the room became like an existence separate from what ever it was that frightened me so. Spending time with myself and taking the time do so. Eating, relaxing, taking one shower after the other, working on the presentation, unpack, listen to music, iron (!) the clothes, un-coiling and re-coiling the ropes, thinking about classes and the program, where to go next after Chicago. Defeaning silence with music, or turning off the Ipod to look through the huge windows at the rain  that came crashing down from a grey sky.

And then: the convention started. Pushed out from the bubble of the room, into something else, something completely different. And loving so much of it. Not only was I first forced to spend time with myself, but after that I had to push myself to the limit socially, I could not hide myself, there was nothing to hide behing because rope does not conceal the self, it reveals every millimeter of your skin, strips you raw. At times it became difficult, especially after I’ve tied so much and felt like I was draining myself. But after a couple of scenes with remarkable riggers the balance was back. And during the week, I started to believe in DS again, on a personal level. It was all the amazing DS, the loving, sadistic, twisted DS that was everywhere. And here something started to dawn upon me. What kind of DS I seek, who I am and a re-start of what kink means in this life that I live.

I am a switch. But it is through the role as a bottom/sub that resonates the strongest. It is not until now that I’ve actually started to understand this. I am a submissive, and I switch; indeed I do, but it is the submission, the focus of my mind and my body that I wish to emphasise, it is through those mindsets I really understand myself, a continous becoming rather than solid being. As I have said before;

This is not about a ‘gift’ of submission, given away to be unwrapped/discovered/fostered and placed on a mantelpiece; but an active, ongoing relational action and reaction of dominance and submission, an act of submission in which the only thing that exist is that focus of knowing the self enough to just let go, knowing the self so well that the self is forgotten except for the action/behavior which is required.

And I stand by those words, except that I very much can understand elements of ‘training’ and a fostering of a DS relationship. And then there is the whole switch-malarkey  or switchcraft and how I allow myself to speak of what roles I take. I love the play I do, otherwise I would not do it, and there is certainly a sadist and dominant that is a part of what I do. But fact remains, that if I top/dom more than bottom/submitting a feeling of unbalance and anxiety starts to mount. This is not the case the other way around strangely. So here it is, I am a submissive who switch, a bloody sadomasochist that cannot get enough. There is nothing I regret about this, it is more about me being able to navigate and acknowledge parts of myself that has long been neglected.  Furthermore, kink is a central element in my life. It is a large part of how I know and feel myself and others. I don’t want to be a one trick pony or one dimensional obsessive, but it is so integral to my day to day life; thus pretty much non-negotiable. When I started this, all of this kinky shit, I knew what it meant to me. I knew it was a practice that I did, how it affected me, and who I was in relation to it: I am not my practices; I am not submissive, I practice submission. Now, this has been the backbone of my personal politics in relation to kink. But I’m not sure about this anymore, I’m not sure about who I am and that identity in relation to kink. What I do know is that the practices are a part of me, in that they make me find a ground where I feel like I know myself better.

There has also been a resistance from me in identification, because I feel like it comes with assumptions and labels which are not mine. Just the practical thing about putting ‘submissive’ down on a website or internet community such as Fetlife , it is a simple action, but immediately, I feel like I claim something which is not mine, nor ideas and assumptions which does not fit the person whom I am. This resistance is double, in that it is both about me, but also, how often how fucked other people’s appreciation of submission in relationship to dominance is. These are strange politics that are going on both in my own head, but also in the real world of public kink, both off and online. I know, I know, I think too much, newsflash…

The thing is, that there are safe spaces, such as much of the social group I’m lucky enough to be a part of. They know who I am and respect me. So tonight, I’ll be going to a party and stay within the mindset of bottom/submissive. Last time I did this it did not really work out, but that was mainly because I did not plan it or spill it out as well. Today, I know that emails have been sent, people have been spoken to, ‘negotiations’ been made and we are on the same page.

Tattoo with the quote from Walter Benjamin's 9th Thesis on History

This post has been extremely difficult to write, but thank you for reading. Now, it is time to prep for the evening.


So…What do you get out of it?

So…What do you get out of it?

I’m standing in a kitchen after a nice BBQ with fellow perverts. We are in a typical Swedish home, in a typical Swedish town. After the food had been eaten and digested, I had tied a friend up and then ministered some self-loving, otherwise known as self-suspension. It had been an interesting session, as I’m getting closer and closer to getting the Kinoko hip harness right, albeit still not succeeding in placing it correctly on my hip. But I went up, both once, twice and a third time, and somehow, my body decided that it should place it self up side down, me hanging in an unintentional inverted suspension. This is of course amazing and awesome, and afterwards, I was a giggling heap on the floor, high and happy as a kite, body warm and fuzzy and a pounding heart to go with it.

When we were packing up, a friend of the host comes up to me and almost confrontational asks me very bluntly “So.. what do you get out of it?”. I ask what she means, as I’m not really sure about how to answer this question, what does it actually entails?

“Like, the rope I saw you doing, what do you get out of it? Is it orgasmic?”

I probably laugh a bit inside, because the after effect of a good session can make you feel post-orgasmic in that lovely fuzzy, slightly lazy hazy way. I explain to her that it is not always sexual, but that the sensations of being tied can often be enough. She looks perplexed as if I’m saying something in a different language. I try to explain my practice as a way of communicating with someone else or myself, and that does not necessarily entail proper, wholesome penis in vagina intercourse. And I kind of feel like a sex-negative snob, but rope for me is not only the tool that will hold down my body or someone else so I can fuck them. Now, there is nothing wrong with that, it is something I take great enjoyment in doing (because it is bloody hot in every single way!).

But is about so much more; like muscles and movement, gasps, breathlessness and a cruel embrace. It is the look of a partners face as they become encased in so much rope they are only nominally human,  or the look of shame as one single strand of rope cause more embarressment and vulnerability than anything else. It is wandering, knowing hands, bodies moving together, or clashing against each other. It is about sounds, that creaking or rattling sounds of the rope, about sweating and working together with someone else or yourself.  It is about knowing yourself so well that it becomes easier to know others. It is knowing that nothing matters except for this exact moment in time. It is about the care of an organic and ageing  material that you hold dear; ropes that carries memories or sweet forgetfulness. Rope is about learning,not just patterns, not just repeating the same endless pattern over and over again, but learning about the pieces and the elements of each and every tie and what they do, how they act, what they become in your hands or on your body. It is not like regurgitating knowledge, it is about the knowledge becoming the second nature ; the trust in your self and what you can do. What your body can do.

It is the surprise of a fastpaced take-down, the focus of a strict hog tie, the movements of a dynamic suspension, or the sensuality of a long floor-session. It is the endless feeling of strength and vulnerability, openness and acceptance.

I did not really have time to say all of this, but tried to vocalise a condensed version, in which I focussed on the physicality of the practice and the intimacy that is possible through a rope-encounter. And in the end, the only response I got was  “Well, I like cock”, in which the understatement was so clearly about me making things too difficult. I like cock too, just that I like mine with rope .Simple as that.


Pr0n, baby, it is all about Pr0n

 

 

During a talk at Stockholm Pride this summer, we where listening to a talk about the possibilities or rather apparently the inpossibilities of feminist pornography. Now, I don’t view a lot of pr0n, simply because I’m not very interested in the expressions and most of the time find hot things in other places, even if they are not intended to be anything erotic. I’m sorry but I guess that is how I am wired. What I am interested in is different erotic expressions amongst people, and with that comes certain discussions that I do know are reoccurring and sometimes really frustrating.
There is doublebind and a difficulty when it comes to porn and feminist theory. Not because there is something inherently problematic about porn itself, but because it has been made in to being so problematic. It does not matter if you come from a rightwing nutplace like the one below

or if it is a rethoric coming from what is framed as a feminist, because they can both frame pornography as something pwetti evööööööl. It turns men into murderers, women into wanton sluts or depraved victims and wrecks families, lives and it is also the ultimate expression of the patriarchal society in which we live. I.E porn, according to some, is the blueprint of the oppression of women in our society. Etc. Etc. I could go on forever and ever on the massive effects that pornography is supposed to have on mankind. Yeah, that is MANkind, because it is the man who can never separate fantasy from reality, who can’t control himself, who turns into broken rapists and sadists (the bad kind).

I can’t say I’m totally positive towards the sex industries, but that is in the same way as I am not totally positive towards many other industries. We are not perfect human beings, we can’t really claim that everything is alright, fine and dandy, because hey, I make a choice and if I make a choice that must automatically be good, right? Not really, but my point here is to discuss the implications of a possible feminist pornography. The project ‘Dirty Diaries’ from Sweden was filmed with mobile cameras, and with another approach than what porn production usually has. Furthermore, it was also given funding from the Swedish State (which many saw as proof of how twisted the Swedish society had become, funny enough…). Now, I’ve seen bits and bobs and for me it did not do anything, sexually, but I found the approach being interesting. With a mobile camera filming and the participants being a very active part of the creation, the lines between the viewer and the viewed became blurred. By turning voyeurism and exhibitionism on it’s head, I think there is a lot that can be done, especially if it is for someone else than the viewer. This is already in full throttle  with the masses of amateur porn that is produced each and every day by people shagging away in front of the camera.

The thing then is, for whom is pornography produced and why? Usually, the answer is something like, “People who want to get off on watching other peeps shag”. Now, I can fully understand that it is how it is defined, because definitions are important to us, especially in the West with our obsessions of taxonomy here and there and everywhere. But is not definition to narrow? Does it not exclude all of those who do amateur pornography for themselves, for their own private pleasure? Or those who view it with other perspectives than the hands-down-pants intention? There is of course a question of art here, if art is a part of all of this, and also a question of value.
I think many people would say that ‘The Swing’ is different from the picture from the CCTV with the creep who is harassing women. And I would agree.

 

The Swing, by Jean-Honoré Fragonard

 

I’m going to touch on the issue of consent first actually, just because it is a simple but still important bit. The painting depict a playing couple, whereas the CCTV image is, as far as I know, a man who clearly don’t respect women’s boundaries. A sexist pig indeed.
Second of all, I think I’m far more impressed by the work of Fragonard, simply because it is such a beautiful painting. I’m talking workmanship here now, the craft of an artist versus the developed technology which enables the act of the Peeping Tom to be caught on camera. The intention of one of these images is that it is an object d’art and the other is a candid image never meant be put on show or hung up in a gallery.

But to get back on track, or back to the pornography. There is also a thing about what the intention behind an image is. What reactions does The Swing conjure, and how do you feel when looking at the Peeping Tom?
First of all, the reaction to the Swing and Peeping Tom are contextual and situational. They depend on what society we live in, what kind of norms we have, so once in a time, the painting was erotic. It showed skirts, it showed nature and people enjoying themselves, it showed stockings, legs and hints of something more. And yes, the Peeping Tom-idiot can also be seen as erotic, although I personally have a problem with sexualizing images like the above.
In what I am going to say now, is not that we should not take responsibility, but that it is possible to shift the focus of struggles. Feminist pornography is used as a way of escaping the problem, by phrasing it slightly differently, it is supposed to be something completely else. In the discussion at Pride, a member of the panel started to connect art and feminist porn, like they are interchangeable and that pornography has to be art in order to be (feminist) pornography. I don’t know how many turns this logic can take, but it does certainly create a scary binary,  where pornography has to show something special, something specific, as if it would be responsible for for what the viewer might see.
Here is some news: you can’t control the viewer. You can adapt and work with different ways of influencing the viewer, in the same way as Fragonard works with his composition or in the same way as a CCTV erotic image can make us feel a bit uneasy, but I repeat, it is not possible to control the viewer. Just  about anyone can pick up any kind of pornographic movie and it would not matter what the intentions were of the producer. What is possible to control is the conditions that the people on the set work are subjected to, to push for safe sex practices whenever possible.  And this is where the focus needs to be.

I am a sex-positive feminist and don’t see anything inherently bad in connecting sex and money, but my beef is where the focus is and who holds positions of power. This connected with us living in a patriarchal society that does not help young people to shape their lust as well or learning how to take responsibility for ones fellows, in the same time as people choose to pinpoint blame on pornography, creates a really toxic situation.  And is really, really irresponsible and stupid. It is like bombarding someone with images, impressions, values, language, norms and feelings  but not giving them the tool to interpret and relate to them.

As a fan of queer pr0n, on many different levels, I believe that there is more to pr0n than exploitation and misery and I don’t really believe in feminist pr0n, but I don’t want to put the ones who are shagging on pedestal either.

But it is time to stop blaming the pr0n for everything, and turn the attention wider.

 


This just in: Erotic Awards double-standards

Erotic Awards held their prize-giving ceremony this past weekend. I just wanted to raise awareness of how the event went down, especially considering that the person who was awarded the ‘activist of the year’ was denied (due to the lack of accessibility) the possibility to receive the award on the stage as well as giving an acceptance speach. This is mostly a post consisting of quotes, I am afraid you have you live with that. (Revision period, exams starting in a week)

These are the words from De (also known as Clair Lewis,or Dennis Queen) who works with Consenting Adult Action Network:

Just back from trying to attend the Erotic Awards in London, I won ‘campaigner of the year ‘ award. What a sham! Given how I was excluded yesterday by an inaccessible stage, venue which was impossible to move around independently except for outside in the cold.. and a very rude awards compere, I don’t know if someone from CAAN will be going tomorrow to deliver my speech at the Rally after all, despite me having spent hours writing a powerful speech designed to pull more people into active campaigning. And anyway who knows if we’ll even get on the platform!

My costly attendance last night was unnecessary and a waste of my desperately needed personal resources, but we were told it was very important to have someone there by seven (judges decided days before who won) .. the event started two hours late.. and basically we didn’t get to accept the award on stage or say anything so we lost the opportunity to use this for publicity, be filmed and photographed or do or say anything useful.. or to just even identify myself to anyone – every other award winner was invited to the stage, something was said about their work and they were then invited to talk for a minute or two about it. My trophy was passed down (via others, not the person who was doing the presenting) across to where I had been asked to sit in my wheelchair, with the other winners by the stage.. the compere said CAAN is a campaigning group our website is www.caan.org.uk – and that was it. Didn’t even mention I was there (other CAAN people i saw later thought I hadn’t attended!!)

It would be good to hear the views of other CAAN people and supporters what we should do with this token gesture of a golden penis trophy.. Do you think other CAAN people should further personal time, energy and money on publicly supporting this event? and should we keep any kind of relationship with this archaic organisation which is too busy patronising disabled people to let us join in on an equal basis? They didnt even seem to think this was a problem. Really unimpressed.

:-( ended up having to get a hotel cos couldn’t stay at the event as I was so cold it hurt, because it was so late by then that there were no more trains :-( after wandering the streets in the rain.

De

……..

I’d have given these thanks for my award, were I given the mic like the otherErotic Award winners. I know I couldn’t get on the inaccessible stage in my wheelchair, but I *can* still communicate. I will instead use my voice where I am welcome and let the ignorance of the people running things on the stage – Tuppy Owens and Helen Croydon (who were raising money ‘for the disabled’ (!)) – speak for itself.

“Thank you to everyone involved who has worked hard to support me in my role as National Convenor for our Consenting Adult Action Network.

Thank you to the Erotic Awards judges for this great compliment, which is due to everyone involved in our inclusive network, really, and well deserved.

All of us at CAAN are volunteers, donating our personal time, skills and resources, in all sorts of different ways. Many CAAN people work behind the scenes due to the personal risks of being outed.

Please continue to support us and join the fight against state-sanctioned discrimination, exclusion and criminalisation of consenting adults, just because of our sexual choices.

……

To read more about De, activism with CAAN and activism in general, check out the blog

I really don’t know what to say, except that it is embarrassing for Erotic Awards, that pride themselves upon being alternative, open and accessible.


David Cameron is wrong. And stupid.

I know, I know, this whole debate happened in the end of February, but since it is the General Election coming up and I’ve got a terrible backlog of things to get published here on the blog, I thought it was just as good to get it out of the way. And furthermore, this is not a debate that gets old, it is highly topical and it is about gender, bodies and control. Which is basically stuffs that gets written about in this blog.

First of all, I am not suprised that he is wrong. It is not something unusual, and usually I would not give a toss about him in this blog, but his recent outbursts caught my attention.

Apparently, he is very much against the sexualisation of kids and don’t allow his daughter to listen to Lily Allen.  Bloody hell. Ok, so here we go again. First of all, I’m not very much a fan of small girls underwear that is geared towards making them into ‘sex kittens’ from the time they are 7,8,9 years old. Nor am I a fan of poledancing kits for kids in the same age. But that is not because I am against sex or believe that pole-dancing is the most evil thing ever.  We live in a fantasy world if we think that kids are ‘innocent’ because of their age. There is nothing there to ‘protect’ or rather, the only thing we need to save kids from is from ourselves. Our own rotten appreciation of sex and lust. There is no age in which you are ‘innocent’ and then after that you turn into someone who is ‘guilty’. You don’t wake up one morning with a scarlet letter ‘S’ for sinner.
And while there could certainly be stricter restrictions on how advertisement is geared towards children, I don’t think the most harmful one is just the sexualised kind of advertisement and products. If you walk down on the high street, or to Hamleys, you will notice what expectations there is on children today, according to what gender they are perceived as belonging to. We all know of the colors, the activities and the attitudes this foster and pointing fingers towards a padded bra or outspoken singer.
And this is where the populist idiot David Cameron comes into the picture. Because what he is complaining about is nothing new under the sun. Au contraire, it is something that goes along the line of the argument like But-think-about-the-children! And we all know how very well that works.
Because Cameron has a daughter, the focus has been there pretty much, but it is also symptomatic of what I have written before about a body that is female. No matter what age, a female body is a site of regulation, strangulation and modification.

As one of journalist so brilliantly expressed, this is not so much about the kids. It is true, that they live in a reality that is sometimes dangerous, and there are threats to those who are not mature to handle life on their own, but that has more to do with us. And when a kid explore the dress-up drawer, they do not do that because they want to have sex or shoot someone in the stomach with a AK47. But it is still the girls that our dear Cameron is so concerned with. Because they dress in feather-boas, they apparently become Heard of fantasy? About creativity? The sad thing is that we are working very hard to constrict that very fantasy and that creativity already.

But this is not only about the kids, or female children. This is about a larger picture, and it is one in which there is a constant worry about what is happening to females everywhere. Ariel Levy’s ‘Female Chauvinist Pigs’ is one which questions the very base on which the ‘raunch culture’ lies, a base which is perceived as ‘liberating’ and fulfilling.
And I can agree with many of the criticisms, I’m one of those who pretty much is so fed up with burlesque, fed up how streamlined the bodies that we see are.  It is the 21st century version of the 70’s but the problem is that there is nothing in sexuality to liberate, there is nothing that is trapped or needs to be unleashed. There is nothing deep in there in our bodies that needs to be found and put on display. Instead we need to know how we make ourselves understand sex and what possible consequences this might have. It is not a project that one can finish, never ever. Instead it is a journey and a endless exploration,  and I would prefer if there was something more open in general, not making sex in to something special, something threatening, something incredibly powerful. By giving sex so much importance it becomes so important. And by importance I mean sex  in a sex-negative, hetero-normative, binary way of looking at it.

And it is here that I can’t really say what I want to say as good as I would like it to, so I’m going to quote my favourite blogger Penny Red:

Young women and girls are blamed for their concessions to misogynist, ‘pornified’ sexual culture even as we are told that we’re so thick we can’t help but be complicit. Apparently, there is no middle ground between being an independent, dynamic young thing who makes joyful millions selling her body and the subsequent book-deal, and a cringing, broken victim of porn culture crying tears of shame into her cleavage. Elements of this binary thinking reinforce a stereotype which is just as damaging to young women as the ‘happy hooker’ fantasy beloved by bourgeois filmmakers. As the furore over ‘raunch culture’ escalates, all this baby-boomer moral hand-wringing is beginning to sound less like radicalism and more like priggishness. It’s sounding less like genuine concern, and more like good old-fashioned slut-shaming.

I’m not arguing that raunch culture does not hurt young women. It hurts us deeply. It encourages us to lessen, cheapen and diminish ourselves, to think of ourselves as vehicles for the sexual appreciation of men who still hold economic sway over our lives. It makes us understand that what we look like is as important or more important than what we do, whether we’re lap-dancers, librarians or lazy-ass freelance journalists like me. It warps our understanding of power, intimacy and desire and urges us to starve and torture our bodies and neglect our intelligence. It sells us a fake, plasticised image of empowerment that, for most of us, is deeply disempowering – as many wealthy and powerful middle-aged men and women have recently observed.

I am not asking for us to pretend that raunch culture is unproblematic, or that it’s uncomplicatedly fun to be a Southend lap dancer. I am asking for honesty. I am asking for an analysis that is more rigorous, more grounded in an understanding of the gendered basis of capital, an analysis that is less focused on recalcitrant sexual morality. I am asking for an analysis that addresses itself to young men, who also consume and are affected by the brutally identikit heterosexual consensus. Most importantly, I want a consensus that actually gives a voice to young women, not just those who work as strippers or glamour models, but all young women and girls growing up in a culture steeped in this grinding, monotonous, deodorised sexual dialectic.

…….

Censorship should never be an alternative to challenging the roots of patriarchy. Instead of slapping a blanket ban on pictures of tits, we need to look harder at the economic basis for sexual exploitation and at the reasons why many women make the choice to comply with raunch culture. Today’s young women are neither soulless slags nor tragic victims: we are real people with real desires and real agency, trying to negotiate our personal and sexual identities in a culture whose socio-economic misogyny runs far deeper than conservative commentators would have us believe.

I am not even sure that strippers have that much of a voice, but rather the corrected version of something that can best be resembled to the Belle DeJour version of sexwork, further exploited by the crappy television show. And with this, I’ll leave you for a nice  Sunday, and hope the may-weekend is as nice as you want it to be.


Gush! G-spotting?

So, ‘recent’ research has showed that apparently the G-spot does not exist. Or does it?
I don’t have any scientific credentials, but here is my own take on the matter:

The G-spot phenomena has been thoroughly exploited on many levels. This is nothing unusual when it comes to female anatomy and sex. While Dr. Whipple and John Perry in 1982 coined the term for a sensitive area right after the entrance of the vagina they probably could never imagine what it would lead to, in terms of hype. Let us consider how this can be and how the issues concerning female sexuality are so easily exploited and how they constructed as truths or falsifications. We can do that by looking at another part of the female body that has been considered, used, reconsidered and now even re-named. I will not at any point claim there is or is not a ‘ G-spot’ though, for that I’m not enough qualified.
But my main theme in this text is about control. The control over women’s bodies. So, let’s take the hymen as an example that has to do with female anatomy and power over women’s bodies.
It is now proven there is actually not any membrane covering the entrance of the vagina and thusly, the patriarchal invention is one of mythological proportions A mythology that still haunts our modern society as well as many other societies. I’m not going to dwell to much of the impact it has had, but let’s just say that people has died because of it, and that there is a huge business, now, in the 21st century, in to ‘restoring’ something that has not ever existed. It’s big bucks…to maintain an idea about the whore and the madonna.

For those interested, it is more of a wreath, following the anatomic contours. That is why in Sweden, they have renamed it to ‘vaginal wreath’ in order to dismantle to dangerous notion of a membrane.

Now, what the fuck has this to do with anything? Well. I would not dare to say that there is not areas within the body that react in certain ways, and that gushing does not happen. What I do doubt though, is the exact specifics of it and how it’s been used as a holy grail.In one sense we need more research, but it comes with a problem. The problem of how science can become ridden by assumptions that are not scientific. Bodies change, lust is not the same for everyone, and sexual activity is not always streamlined.
The G-spot phenomena has been an amazing thing to exploit, and also something that has benefited many women. But as many as swear by it, there is also many who claim to never found, no matter how many hooked fingers with a bit of a bent, pressuring against the wall of the vagina they have experienced.That does not mean that one is right or the other is wrong. It means that we are different, and react differently.

I soaked the sheets less than a week ago, but for years I did not understand what people were going on and on about. The toys specified for g-spotting was ridiculous. And I would not say that my gushing has anything to do with the spot and it might be that my largest objection is against the name. The Spot.
I had a reaction on a action at is was very pleasurable and fun. I had the benefit of being able to enjoy that and is that not what it comes down to? Enjoying your body in a way that gives you pleasure that is not haunted by a competition.

It can be hard though. I’ve meet so many women who have been frustrated because of their partners frustration in the quest of g-spotting. I remember a moment that I’ve classifed as the biggest turn off ever. The guy was fingering me, kinda nice, then did something with his fingers, and very smugly said “And there..!..is the G-spot.” The expecting look of his face, very much like a kid waiting to recieve an applaud for doing something, implied that I would turn into a gushing mess, screaming like a banshee while orgasming. I might add I did not. Instead, it became boring and I was annoyed. My body is not a map, or a quest. I am not a problem to solve or a puzzle to piece together.

The competition to find the map to the g-spot is utterly bonkers, not helped by porn, crap sex-industry, ill-informed advisors and wrong focus on lust and education. Not helped by bad research, ridden by old and weird assumptions of the female body and lust. Assumptions that haunts the appreciation of the male lust as well.

So, how about trying to move away from the competition, appreciate that there is an AREA inside the vagina that can react in a very distinct way, but that it is not only technique that create a reaction, it is not about a direct correlation between action and reaction? In the same way that our sex-drive is not constantly exactly the same, our sensitivity is not.
NO-ONE, NO-ONE has the right to make you or anyone else feel pressured when it comes to sexual activities. You are the person who can decide what you want, and roam around in any way that you need to make that decision. Make mistakes, laugh about them, hit the right notes and come in any way you like, but always, always remain sceptical. And you don’t ‘need’ to come. Don’t allow anyone to treat your sexuality like a problem, or non-consensually turning you into an experiment, and

For more, really, really good reading on the G-spot take a look at this link:
Yes, there is a G-spot


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