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People You’re Not Attracted To At Events

July 14th, 2010 · 9 Comments

Hokay. So I think I may be about to share an opinion that might make me a little bit unpopular and will definitely make me sound like a bitch, but I don’t care. While this was inspired by some hot blooded words shared on twitter, it is *not* directed at anyone in particular. However, I have had experiences with this waaaaay to much to keep my mouth shut, and quite frankly, I don’t want to keep it shut.

One of the things I love about attending Sex Positive and BDSM events is the truly amazingly wide variety of people you meet – I have had the opportunity to meet people from all sorts of different spiritual paths, BDSM paths, sexual orientations, genders, states of being, ideologies, relationship constructions, you name it, and I know for a fact that my life is richer and more interesting for knowing each and every one of these people, no matter how long we met and interacted, even if we don’t interact much now.

That we can all come to one place, whatever that place is, and be accepted is a beautiful thing. That whatever we are can be treated with respect, even if others don’t understand it, is a beautiful thing.

Now maybe I was weird when I was young, but I never thought the BDSM/SexPos scenes were going to be any different from the rest of life. I figured there would be a wide variety of people there. People older than me, people I was attracted to, people I wasn’t attracted to, people that I wanted to bone, people that I would never want to see naked under any other circumstances, people that I would want to be friends with, people that I couldn’t stand, scenes that I would find super hot, and scenes that would totally gross me out, all that sort of thing.

So, I put on my manners, and I went with an open mind, because I’m an adult who knows how to act in public, and who knows that if I don’t like what I’m seeing, I can just move along.

That, my friends, is the key to going to an event. Maturity. If you think you might be freaked out by seeing people you don’t find sexually attractive being sexual, and don’t know how you’ll react, then you either need to get the fuck over it and go, or simply not go until you think you can deal with it.

If you’re going to be all judgy about people’s bodies and the way they play, then I wouldn’t want to be at the same event with you anyway.

People aren’t perfect – we are going to have our own thoughts and ideas about what we like and find attractive, and that is *perfectly* fine. We all have our body types that we inhabit, and we all have types that we like. We may even find someone kind of sexually icky, and that’s fine too. You don’t have to find everyone else sexually attractive in this world, and fie on anyone who says you do.

But there is more to hotness than body. I think every time I’ve described the attendees of Dark Odyssey events as anything, its been as awesome, hot, cool people with good energy. Same goes for most of the events I attend – for me, its more about attitude and energy than the way people look.

One person mentioned their discomfort with events by saying that they think of kinky events as being on a date with everyone there, and getting weirded out if there are people they find icky there. (Which, by the sheer number of people involved in any scene attended any event, is pretty much inevitable. There is such a broad spectrum of people that you can’t help meet both people who get you hot and squishy and people who do the opposite. Its just, that definition is different for everyone.)

Part of this way of thinking, to me, is the idea of thinking you are on a date with everyone there – because you are *not*, and in my opinion, it is presumptuous to think so. The idea of thinking of everyone at an event as your date, because you are at that event? Not cool.

I had another person tell me the reason they didn’t want to attend a particular event was because they ‘heard’ (because they never attended, so how would they know?) that it was filled with old, unattractive people being naked and having sex. IMO, also not cool.

I’ve heard people complain about there not being enough ‘hot’ people at events.

I’ve heard people complain, and even had them complain to *me* about their being too many fatties at events. Or too many ‘old’ people. Or too many of whatever, or not enough of whatever.

Maybe this whole topic gets to me because I have personally encountered this kind of douche baggery from people, as I have been a fat chick, but it bothers me no matter what the particular focus of their whine is.

The people attending an event are *people*. People who are there to attend classes and learn, to meet new friends, to make use of the dungeon facilities or the orgy rooms, or to skinny dip or whatever and who are there to have fun, and to do all this in what they hope is a fairly open, accepting environment where they can let their hair down, relax, and express an aspect of their personality, or their lives, that they may not get to express publicly most of the time.

The assumption that these people are there and playing for your entertainment, titillation, or are in any other way doing anything that is related to you unless they specifically state they are is kind of presumptuous and jerky. Nothing someone else is doing, or being,  is about *you*.

The idea that its gross for older people to be out there being sexual is ageist – and eventually, god willing, we’ll all be old and boning one day. The idea that its gross for non-attractive people to be out there being sexual is offensive (And besides, who sets these standards? I always love to recall a slogan I’ve seen on t-shirts at lots of events ‘I’m somebody’s fetish!’ And who says that you’re so great, Mir Fancypants? I may walk around saying ‘I’m so great’ and ‘I’m so hot’, but the only person who needs to believe that is me, and if no one else does, it doesn’t matter.)

If you aren’t mature enough to handle people other than yourself and those select few you find attractive being sexual or kinky, maybe you’re not ready to go to kinky or sexual events. Just sayin’.

Generally at events, no one expects you to show up and fuck/play with them just because you’re there. (Of course, there will always be that type of douche floating around, but they’re in the minority, thank god). You don’t have to worry about playing with someone you don’t want feel attracted to -you can just say no. You don’t even have to say why. If someone presses you for a reason, well, fuck ‘em. Its not something they need. You can just say you’re not interested right now, your not feeling good, or no. Generally, I find people aren’t offended. I know I’m not offended when people I’ve asked to play say no thanks – its just how life is.

And the only advice I can give for dealing with it is to get over yourself – because in this case, the issue is squarely with you. Unless you decided to host your own, private, screened party, there are going to be people you don’t feel attracted to at events. Think of it like this – you go outside every day and there are people you don’t want to bone around you. Do you complain? Probably not, because you realize that it happens.

Same goes for kinky events and sex events or what have you. Its the same deal. If you don’t want to fuck someone, you don’t. If you don’t want to play with them, you don’t. If you see something happening you don’t like, you don’t look at it. No one expects anyone to do anything, and if someone expects you do do something you don’t feel comfortable doing, they’re a jerk.

I’ve met people who’ve stayed fully dressed at orgies. I’ve met people who’ve gone to events and just attended classes because they didn’t feel like playing. Hell, we’re a very negotiation-happy bunch – you can do whatever you want within the parameters you’re comfortable with if you just be cool and try to communicate.

Deal. Be a grown up. Or don’t – its your choice.

But from my experience, its been rewarding, fulfilling, sexy, interesting, and damn exciting. You get to learn stuff and see stuff and try stuff, you get to meet people, and you get to broaden your mind if you’re willing.

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On My Crazy

June 9th, 2010 · 9 Comments

I’ve been kicking this post around in my head for a while, since AAG wrote a post about dealing with the search for meds that work and don’t kill you with side effects.

I am crazy. Clinically, brain chemically, if I don’t take my meds Bad Things Happen crazy. I have been diagnosed with a super fun combination of things over the course of my life.

Starting in the second grade, I saw the school psychiatrist twice a week, along with the school social worker to try and deal. I was already shy, introverted, and likely to say the most inappropriate things in an attempt to try and fit in.

Third grade, I started seeing a real shrink outside the school. I went to Girl Scout camp, and something about it made me snap. I came home and started self injuring by picking at my scabs and pimples. And eating. I was already a pudgy kid, but that was really when it started to get out of control.

Eventually, I was picking at my scabs so much in class, and thus, bleeding, my parents took me to a therapist. They asked me a bunch of stupid questions that made no sense, told my parents to medicate me (probably for ADD/ADHD) and that was that. They never did, and nothing changed.

I got progressively worse, and started developing weird little habits and ways of doing things. And I got more and more depressed, and felt ostracized at school.

Because of me, the school therapist and social worker started a lunch time group for me and a bunch of other weird kids at school. I think it helped them a bit, with the exception of the girl with obvious autism spectrum issues who’s parents refused to accept that she needed some extra help. I still felt stuck, outside of things, and sad.

I was always, always sad. I kept telling my parents, but they didn’t think anything was wrong – which was a theme that continued through out my life, both in terms of my mental health, and my physical health. In fourth grade, I broke my ankle and wasn’t taken to the doctor for four days, because they didn’t believe it was really broken, that it was just sprained, despite my attempting to explain that I was in excruciating pain.

My weird habits, which were early manifestations of the compulsions and obsession of my OCD were causing a ridiculous amount of strain in the already difficult relationship between me and my mother.

We saw a family councilor, whom I despised, which did nothing.

Middle school and high school were filled with the onset of as of yet undiagnosed bipolar disorder, along with an increase the the OCD issues.  I cycled constantly, but slowly. I had good weeks, and bad months. Thankfully, my mania was not nearly as bad as it could have been – it resulted in a severe lack of sleep, half completed frenetic projects, the lovely grandiose feelings, and an extremely fast, and loud, speech pattern, which my parents, particularly my mother felt were totally my own fault and under conscious control, causing more fights.

Throughout all this my self injuring was increasing. By the time I got to college I had graduated from picking scabs, acne, chewing my nails down, and pulling my toenails off (yeah, that was the lesser stuff), to cutting with razor blades I got from dismantling a lady Bic safety razor with a cuticle nipper. As I got older, I would also punch myself in the ankle and head.

Couple all this with a ridiculous two year long, long distance relationship with another poet, and high school was kind of a mess.

Still, I managed to do well for most of senior year. I learned to channel my manic episodes in to writing or other activities. I lost a bunch of weight. I held down a job, and by the time I started college, things were pretty ok.

Then, college. I went through ups and downs, and towards the end of my time there, when I was about to graduate, I had an existential life crises about the nature of growing up, the nature of responsibility, and stress. I was working three jobs, going to school full time, heading down into a depression, and my OCD was spiraling out of control.

It got to the point where I was pacing constantly, counting things under my breath. I was unable to go to work unless I walked into the mall in a very specific way, walking between a plant and a divider – and the day they moved that fucking plant I nearly had a fit. I had been seeing a therapist for a few months now, actually, a therapist in the same office I went to when I was in third grade. It was a facility for children and youths, but they took me as a client because I had been there before. Big mistake. Pediatric psychiatry is vastly different from adult psychiatry. Plus, my talk therapist and I were a bad fit – she was extremely judgemental about certain aspects of my life style, particularly some of my sexual choices.

I saw a psychiatrist there who put me on zoloft, which was a bad, bad medicine for me. Basically, it made me not want to die, but that was about it. Plus, I had violent side effects – nausea, vomiting, dizziness, palpitations, paranoia, etc. The first day I took it, I went to work at the tea shop I was working at (job three), where I promptly scalded my hand with water, vomited in the back room, quit, and called my parents to come get me because I was incapable of driving my own car. My dad drove me home, and we had to stop twice driving through the park for me to vomit.

However, I kept at it, on and off (Mistake two, fucking with my meds) until I eventually quit seeing that doctor and therapist.

I started my residency at a funeral home shortly after this, while taking my meds on and off, and suffering even worse depression, with only minor flare up of mania.

The work environment was awful – my managers favourite game was to see how long it could take for him to make me cry. I hated the hours. By this time, I had stopped cutting myself (and as of now, have been SI free for many years), but I started eating. I was already around 200lbs in college, about 215 when I left. By the time I was done at the funeral home, I was 250lbs. I did some yoyo dieting for a while but basically, I self medicated with food, wine, and weed.

I left that job, switched careers, and went back to school. I moved out of my parents house. I was doing well, until one day I had a complete and utter mental fucking breakdown OCD fit where I spent four hours glued to a couch obsessively paying Mario Brothers on my DS, TERRIFED that I was going to kill everyone in my apartment by using the stove incorrectly. There had been wild mood swings and an increase in my OCD fits, as well as sever BPD cycling leading up to this – I forever regret the insanity my friends and roommates had to deal with.

I broke down, asked my dad to help, and he took me to the psychiatrist he and my mother were seeing for marriage counseling. This worked out well – I didn’t have much time trying to explain my parents and history to her, because she knew them. This was good – she was the best therapist I ever had. We even got along despite my being a pagan, and her being a Messianic Jew. She had a history of dealing with OCD patients, and immediately recognized that my biggest problem was NOT clinical depression or BPD, but that it was OCD. We worked on that, and all sorts of other things.

My mother hated this therapist – she was convinced that the therapist hated her, and was out to get her (Obviously, mental illness runs in my family, through my mother’s side…this sort of stuff goes way back the family tree). She particularly didn’t like that the therapist and I were discussing if it were possibly that I had been molested as a child due to what I had incorrectly described as having dissociative experiences – I had asked my mother, and she had a fit and felt like we were accusing her of being a bad mother. It turns out what I was feeling was a depersonalization and realization that was more involved in my panic attacks and mania. Did I forget to mention the panic attacks? Yeah, I had crippling panic attacks, which my mother felt were just me being immature and having a tantrum.

Eventually, I started seeing a doctor who could prescribe me medicine that worked with my therapist – his name, I shit you not, was Dr. Who. I mean, it was spelled differently, but it was Dr. Who. His diagnosis for me, was basically a mixed basket of things. I had OCD, BPD, anxiety, panic attacks, the depersonalization/derealization, all sorts of lovely.

Thankfully, the first combination of medication we tried worked almost perfectly – I was put on 10mg of Celexa and 1/4 of 25mg of Seroquel. Eventually, we upped the Celexa to 20mg, and cut the Seroquel down to 1/8 of 25mg. Seroquel is used off label as a sleeping aid, and I was finding it difficult to function during the day on more than 1/8 of a pill.

For the first time in my entire life, I felt normal. I felt real. I felt like I could live life and be happy. However, a side effect of taking medication meant that if at any time, I experienced normal sad, grumpy, angry or depressed moments, my mother would immediately freak out and go “OMG YOUR NOT TAKING YOUR PILLZ! WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU HORRIBLE PERSON!!!” (all this, and I don’t even live with her.)

I was lucky that I found a combination that worked so well for me so quickly – I know too many people with medication horror stories – all I had was a blip with some Zoloft a few years before all this.

The only hiccough in the past few years with my mental health was when I was assaulted three years ago, at a sex/BDSM party, by the host, who was a friend of a friend and a fellow blogger.

I wound up suffering from a low grade form of PTSD, freaked out, went off my meds and stopped functioning, dropped out of school since I couldn’t bring myself to leave the house alone, and basically, things sucked. I was saw my therapist intermittently when I could, but we never started the EMDR treatments she wanted me to have because I fell of the grid. I think, writing this, that I ought to look back into seeing her again for those. I’ve been doing much better, but that shit can still come up. And I’d like to not having to restrain my self from punching people who touch me.

Anywho, since then I eventually got back on track with my meds and mental health, and things have been awesome. I take my pills, deal with my shit, and mostly function like what one might call a normal person.

I still have OCD issues from time to time, but they are manageable, and I don’t have an issue living with them, since they no longer impact my life as greatly as they did before – unless I get stressed. Then they flare up a bit, but otherwise, I’m well, happy, medicated, living the good life and totally getting all my shit gathered up together.

Go me!

*whew* That was cathartic. Felt good though.

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Huzzah!

June 6th, 2010 · 4 Comments

Last weekend, after several years of hard work, several hours of intensely awesome sex, and with the help of a bath tub, a hitachi and and extension cord, I did it.

I finally squirted!

For the past few years, I’ve had a feeling that if I could only get over myself, I could squirt. I often felt things building up and building up inside me, and then fizzling out. I’m extremely bad at letting go and giving up control when it comes to sex – one of the many reasons bottoming didn’t work out for me. Hell, having an orgasm in front of another person takes work!

But there have been times when I knew I could do it. I just had to relax. I’m really weird about getting messy with bodily fluids, which is odd, considering my past work – I’ve been elbow deep in things you don’t even want to hear about, but I can’t get my self messy sometimes. Lots of time. Stupid OCD. It was only a few months ago that I managed to pee on Anon, and I think that was a big factor in my recent squirting.

Over Memorial day weekend, Anon and I were cat sitting for a friend, and on Monday, we were having a particularly fun and sexy romp. Anon had pounced on me after I used a hypno trigger on him that induced horniness (which, so far, is my favourite hypno trigger ever!) There was much sexy times to be had – there was a hood involved, and lots of oral sex – gotta say, that hood with the mouth hole may have been the best thing I ever bought – some quality hitachi-on-Wendy time, and some great g-spot stimulation thrown in for good measure. There was a liberator ramp, a leash, and some hot hot doggy style fucking.

Basically, what I’m getting at is that we were having one hell of a romp. I needed breaks, it was that sort of romp.

Now the squirting.

We were in the missionary position, and Anon was doing that very focused, single minded, fucking me through the mattress thing that he does. (I love that thing. Its fucking awesome.) I felt that sort of building up kind of have to pee thing starting to happen down around my cunt, and I was trying to focus and let go, but all I could think about was how I couldn’t squirt on my friend’s bed because there was no towel down, and there was no amount of sheet changing that would make that cool or easy to clean up.

Finally, I figured that maybe if I were in the tub, it would be easier for me to relax, since I wouldn’t make a mess. That was how I learned to pee on Anon – first, I practiced peeing in the tub on my own, and then I peed on him. Now, I can pee on him at the drop of a hat, if I have to go.

And lo and behold, it worked! By the time I got to the tub, I had been worked over so thoroughly that I could *not* squirt. It only took about 1o minutes of relaxing with the hitachi before I was able to relax, and let go.

What was interesting to me was how different it was from pissing – I had often heard that squirting felt similar to peeing, but in my case, it only felt like I needed to urinate. When it squirted out, it didn’t feel anything like peeing.

It was also a bit underwhelming as well – I didn’t have an orgasm that was particularly different or stronger than other ones. Perhaps it was because I had already had so many that day.

And yes, I’m dead sure it was ejaculate – for one, I had peed earlier, and it was practically clear, as I am often a little over-hydrated.  The substance that came out was substantially darker, a bit more amber looking than my pee looks, even in the morning.

I also had Anon get down in the tub and sniff it – this is a man who is quite familiar with the scent of both my piss, and my cunt. According to him, it was not pee. (In hind site, I ought to have had him lap some of it up as well. Ah well, next time. Yes. Next time!)

I’m interested in exploring this again, but in a way, I find myself much more relaxed as well. Since I have accomplished this thing I have always wanted to do, I now know what its like. I feel like I can do it again if I want, and I feel relaxed having finally *done* it. It a way, it was kind of like when I lost my virginity. Important, something I wanted to do, but a little underwhelming until I did it a whole bunch more!

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Floating World!

June 1st, 2010 · 1 Comment

Whee! Lots of fun events are coming up in the next few months – but the only one I’m heading to is The Floating World, in Edison, New Jersey.

In fact, I’m not just attending, I’m also going to be presenting at this event! Whee! So exciting! It’s still so amazing to me that people want to hear what I have to say about stuff. I’m a blogger because I have opinions and I can’t shut up about myself and things that I like, but I don’t actually think people read me – and then people come and see my classes! Wow! I’m flattered and awed that this happens, and I’m psyched to be doing it at Floating World.

I’ll be presenting both of my anal sex workshops – Anal 101, and Anal Fisting. I’ll also be on a panel, discussing intergenerational BDSM, something along those lines. We’ll see.

Floating World is one of the largest BDSM events I’ve ever attended – they have a huge facility, a huge dungeon, and they draw a wonderfully varied group of attendees, and hot damn, they’re list of presenters and classes for this year are *fantastic*

I mean just look and see! They’ve got a veritable who’s who of BDSM presenters from all over the country. They’ve even got Patric Califia! Holy shit!

And I have capital P Plans for FW. I hope I can get my Wolverine costume in time…I will hopefully be able to make some sort of Gambit costume for the boy as well. Anyone know where I can get a bo staff? Tee hee.

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3 Year Bloggiversary

May 26th, 2010 · 3 Comments

Today marks 3 years straight of blogging. Who knew?

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