Posted by: alphafemme | January 20, 2010

rainy season!

Okay, I need y’all’s help. In the raging storms we’ve been having over here, my trusty umbrella is now … officially dead. It actually snapped in the wind.

Which means NEW UMBRELLA TIME! I’ve posted this poll on twitter too, but since not all of you are on twitter/follow my every move, and yet I URGENTLY NEED your opinions too, I decided to post the poll here as well.

I’ve whittled it down to three options, and these are they (click on the picture for the link to the web pages for these lovely specimen).

Exhibit A:

Exhibit B:

Exhibit C:

So, what do you say? A, B, or C?

Posted by: alphafemme | January 19, 2010

testing

ACCKQMSY4WV3

Posted by: alphafemme | January 18, 2010

allyship: that post I’ve been sitting on all week

I have tried to write this post so many times, and each time I’ve scrapped it and started over. I can’t seem to find my voice in it. Or maybe, I can’t seem to find its point. Or maybe it’s just not a topic I’m very good at writing about. But whatever it is, it’s frustrating me, because I want to write about other things, but I’m stuck on this. So I’m just going to write as if no one were paying any attention. Inspired by Mary Daly’s death (see what I think is the best handling of that over at Feministe) and all the talk of her transphobia and racism, and in honor of Martin Luther King Day, here are my thoughts on allyship.

I don’t like the concept of “ally” because I think so much of what people think being an ally involves is proving to someone else that you’re a good person, whatever that means. And that is so loaded with self-consciousness, with competition and one-up-man-ship, even vanity. I would much, much rather be met by a humble “um, sorry if this sounds stupid, but can you tell me what queer means? I thought it was a bad word” than by someone, upon hearing I’m queer, going on about how they have gay friends and how much the prop 8 stuff sucks and they really think everyone ought to be able to get married and other such drivel. This happens a lot, and those people are just … trying too hard. It’s like if I started spouting my opinions on affirmative action every time I met a person of color. Awkward, right? And de-humanizing. It reduces whomever the person is to whatever identity you’re trying to prove yourself an ally to.

I’m not just queer, you’re not just Chinese American, she’s not just Jewish, ze’s not just genderqueer. [Fuck spell check for not knowing the word genderqueer.] The let-me-prove-to-you-that-I’m-your-ally shtick is really just a way of allowing yourself to allay your own guilt and prioritize your own need to be recognized as good. It’s not really listening to what the needs, wants, and preferences are of the person at hand.

If you want to really be an ally, then you need to really listen. And beyond listening, you need to really hear. You need to turn off the voices in your head that are responding to every little thing you’re listening to, and just hear it with your soul, without judgment, without defensiveness, without shame or guilt or anger. Yes, you’re opening yourself up to being hurt this way, because it can hurt to have your beliefs and your actions crumbled. It can hurt, too, to hear other people, because oftentimes, people don’t speak as if you’re really hearing them. They speak as if you’re not hearing them. So you might hear anger, and hurt, and resentment, and suspicion. But if you’re really going to be an ally, you need to hear all that, and you need to also remember later to take care of yourself and consider what your needs are, and whether and how other people can be better allies to you. And that might mean asking them to listen and hear you. But you have to be open about this, because anything that isn’t shared candidly is just a brick in the prison of self-defensiveness and isolation that you’re building up around yourself, and once that prison is built it is so, so hard to escape.

But I don’t think “ally” is the appropriate word for this — because this, to me, is what it should mean to be human. Forget about proving anything. Forget about trying to live up to what you think it means to be a perfect ally. Forget about trying so hard not to make mistakes that you cry in frustration and from feeling misunderstood. Just listen, and hear. Then, when you mess up, you’ll know because other people will trust you to hear them when they tell you what your mistake was. And you, in turn, will be able to learn from them. And maybe then you’ll be able to tell them when they mess up, and they’ll listen, and hear you too. And then, maybe, gradually, we’ll all be able to stop greeting each other from behind thick curtains that we suspiciously peek out from behind, and maybe we’ll stop having to yell in order to make sure our voices are heard, and maybe we won’t have to resort to communicating to people different from us with anger, because we’ll trust them to hear us when we feel betrayed. Or maybe we will get angry, but then our anger will be met with support and validation, rather than defensiveness and dismissal.

What do you do if you hear someone and they don’t hear you? My friend Ruhi once asked a mentor, “how many people can you love before you love too much?” and her mentor said, “you can never love too many people, as long as you don’t expect them to love you back.” You have an infinite supply of love, as long as it has no agenda. See, the thing is, if you are listening to someone under the condition that they listen to you too, then you’re not really hearing them. In order to hear, you have to give of yourself. It has to be utterly selfless, in a way, because hearing is not an exchange. It’s a one-way action. If you then don’t feel heard in return, you may certainly lose some respect for the person, and you might decide that in order to take care of yourself you shouldn’t pursue a relationship (of any kind) with the person, but that doesn’t mean the person didn’t deserve to be heard. And maybe, just maybe, you planted a seed in the person’s heart. A hearing seed. (And at the same time, I think hearing can be utterly selfish, because you’re acting out of your full humanity, and allowing it to blossom.)

I am not an ally. I’m not an ally to anyone, and I’m not really an ally to myself. I’m constantly fucking up and getting stuck and doing things that aren’t good for me and living out all my various internalized oppressions. And if I keep fucking up with regards to myself, how on earth can I possibly live up to being an ally to others? I try, dammit, I try. But that’s all I can do, and when I do fuck up, the best thing I can do is say, “I’m sorry. I’ll do better next time.” And then try again, and maybe fuck up again, and say I’m sorry again.

I am not an ally, but I promise from the depths of my being that I will do my best to hear you. And when you hurt me, I will try my hardest to tell you, so that you have the chance to hear me too.

Posted by: alphafemme | January 12, 2010

defending my version of femme

Still sitting on the post I was tweeting about yesterday, the one in response to all the Mary Daly stuff that’s been floating around. That should come tomorrow, hopefully.

In the meantime, see this reaction to my posts on growing into my identity as femme (see here and here), and my response to it in the comments. (As of this posting, my comment hasn’t yet been approved, but hopefully it will be soon.)

She writes about how my definition of femme, and my femme fantasy, are not hers, as a femme domme, and it seems that she equates her version of femme with being both feminine AND powerful, and my version of femme with being … not powerful. Which I take issue with. I thought it was pretty clear in those posts that (a) I don’t think my version of femme is THE definition of femme, and (b) coming out as (my version of) femme was EMpowering me, and the way I am femme continues to empower me, rather than (as she seems to think) DISempowering me.

So, I just wanted to reiterate that for me, being femme and being a nurturer/submissive type IS being “utterly feminine and unquestionably powerful,” as she puts it. That’s where I get my power. And, also, I do not live as a full-time submissive, and I do make my own decisions and do make sure my needs are met, whether by mi’lady or my family or my friends or me, and I’m very capable, kind of a control freak, pretty assertive, and of course feminine and powerful. Femininity does NOT equal submissive. But for me, the two are increasingly intertwined.

My femme fantasy is not to be the Betty to Don Draper. On the surface, it might seem that way. But their relationship is my femme fantasy gone horribly wrong. Betty Draper does not get her needs met, and she doesn’t have any space to even communicate what they are, because it’s her job to be the perfect housewife. That is not remotely what my fantasy is, to be disempowered and living solely for and under another person, unable to stretch my legs and meet my own needs. But I do, in a weird way, want to be a Betty Draper. I want to be perfectly put together yet delicate, host dinner parties like the Heineken one in season two, be a perfect socializer, make my husband slash whoops I totally mean my wife look totally put together, be the quiet engine in her background (who makes noise when called upon… ahem) because it’s all so effortless. Those things make me feel immeasurably powerful. But that’s the extent of the way I want my relationship to resemble Don and Betty Draper’s. That’s IT. Because Betty doesn’t have any power. And I do. (I could also do an interesting discussion on how I relate to Joan, but I’ll save that for another time.)

Apologies for those of you are are not totally obsessed with Mad Men and have no idea what I’m going on about.

(Photo from www.vanityfair.com)

I’m a few days late (hello 2010!), but, well, as they say: better late than never.

(Funny aside: when I was visiting visiting my family for Christmas, my brother and sister and I one day decided somehow (don’t remember why) that we would talk to each other only in cliches, idioms, and proverbs. Easier said than done! Ha. Ha. But certainly provided some entertainment.)

Anyway. I’m not usually a fan of reviews and resolutions, but I figure I’ll do one this year because (1) this has been quite an eventful year for me, and some of it’s made it on my blog and some of it hasn’t, so this will be a good way for y’all to come up to speed on my life where it’s at (Cliff notes, if you will), and (2) I’m hoping that 2010 will also be eventful and transforming for me, and so I’d like to make note of some of the changes that I’d like to see. Not so much resolutions as goals.

So, in 2009, I:

– fell in love with mi’lady. We started dating in November of 2008, but I definitely consider the falling in love part to have happened in 2009. It’s been my best relationship yet, without a doubt, and the sex has been the best sex I’ve had too. With her I feel safe to be my best and also sometimes (unfortunately) my worst, with the confidence that we’ll come out on top. With her I can communicate better than I’ve ever been able to communicate, and she inspires and motivates me to be the best person and lover I can be. There are ups and downs, of course, as there always are in any relationship, but I am deeply content and very, very excited about what’s to come for us this year.

– moved out of my former flat in the Outer Sunset in San Francisco, where I was living with a friend from college (a rocky situation at its worst, but absolutely lovely at its best), when she left SF to go to medical school in July. I moved into a tiny flat in the Mission with a wonderful roommate who has become one of my best friends here. Living with roommates I think can be very tricky, and our roommate relationship has its sources of tension and frustration, but we communicate through them pretty well, and I feel very lucky to be here.

– started taking anti-depressants for my PMDD (pre-menstrual dysphoria disorder), which was diagnosed in July after a particularly scary episode during which I was afraid I would actually do something really dangerous. I’ve had an interesting time with the medication, which I’ve discussed a bit on here, and I’ve actually stopped taking it temporarily because it was interfering with my orgasms (!!), but it was a really important step in my self-care regiment and in my acknowledgement that sometimes, it is really, really important to seek outside help.

– learned that my parents are getting divorced. Still processing this one, and I imagine I will be for quite some time.

– started coming to terms with my identity as femme. This has been thrilling! I don’t think I need to elaborate on this here at all, because I’ve expounded on it quite a bit on this blog already — just check out the archives.

– have been at the same job all year, and have become increasingly dissatisfied with it. I almost decided to leave it recently, and then realized that even acknowledging to myself that it is in fact my choice to be there (and that there are major advantages to being there, such as: the income, the fact that it’s a job I can leave behind when I leave the office) was enough to help me feel un-stuck for now.

– applied to several graduate programs in both public policy and cultural anthropology. I’ve yet to hear back from any of them, and don’t expect to hear anything until March at the earliest, but this is exciting for me and has also helped me feel more direction and purpose in my life.

– started working as a volunteer crisis counselor at a local rape crisis center, which has been deeply gratifying (while certainly not cheerful), has helped me feel more rooted here, and has been the catalyst for several new friendships. I haven’t written here too much about the processing I’ve been doing surrounding my own sexual assault(s), but I do plan to do so in the (near?) future, as it’s been a pretty profound influence on my life and my thinking and my sense of direction. It’s hard to write about, but it’s so so so important to me that I can’t imagine not doing so at some point.

– erased most of this blog and more or less started over! Writing here in the latter half of this year has been a source of comfort, comradery, introspection and motivation for me. Thanks y’all so much for reading!

And in 2010, I hope to:

– continue to fall in love and deepen my relationship with mi’lady. I’m looking forward to more great sex, more power play, even better communication as we learn each other through and through and more and more, mini-retreats (that hopefully won’t be too expensive), accompanying her to her sister’s wedding where she’ll be outing herself to all of her extended family and family friends, and maybe even moving in together (!) (but we’ll wait to see what my grad school plans are before we really talk about that seriously).

– start graduate school (speaking of).

– leave my job (which should be concurrent with grad school, but in case I don’t get into any of the programs I’m hoping to enroll in, I STILL would like to leave my job).

– continue to take care of myself and be strong enough to seek help in taking care of myself, from medication and therapy, but also from intellectual, spiritual, and physical mentors, as well as friends and family.

– come out to my grandparents. There. I said it. I made it a goal.

– continue to write here and use it as a platform for airing my relationship-, life-, and self-processing, and continue to strengthen my internet bonds.

Happy new year! In German, they say “guten Rutsch ins neue Jahr,” which means “good slip into the new year” and I love that, it makes the actual moment, the ball-drop at midnight, seem less critical and stretches it out, makes it seem softer and more gradual and a little whimsical, whoopsydaisical, and allows for some glitches and mess-ups. So, I hope you all have a good slip into 2010!

Posted by: alphafemme | December 30, 2009

may this fantasy soon be a reality

[Edit: apparently I have problems with copy/paste and this appeared twice so I’ve edited to delete the repeated text. Didn’t intend to force y’all to read it twice! :)]

A few days ago, she sent me an email with some instructions. She wanted me to masturbate, stop just before coming, vividly play out a fantasy in my mind, and only then make myself come. And then, I was to write out my fantasy and send it to her.

So I did. Here it is. (And tomorrow, I will finally see her!)

***

You’ve had a long day at work; I left my office before you and I’m at my house, cooking, a vegetable gratin, so that when you get here dinner will be almost ready. I love cooking with you in mind; I love it when you eat what I cook. I’m wearing my black leggings and the long light pink cami, the one that barely covers my ass. I know you love the way my ass looks in those leggings, and when I wear them, I’m wearing them intentionally, for you.

When you finally ring at my front gate, I run to the door to buzz you in the gate, as usual, and leave my front door open a crack so you can let yourself in. I run back to the kitchen to give my attention to what’s on the stove. You come in, take off your shoes in the hall, leave your stuff in my bedroom, and come up to me at the stove, approach me from behind. You put your icy hands, fresh from the foggy San Francisco chill, on my waist, under my shirt, and you breathe warm on my neck. I shiver, flinch from your cold hands but you don’t let me wiggle away, and you slide your hands down to the front of my stomach, between my belly button and my pubic bone. I shiver again, from more than just your chilly hands.

“Take off your shirt,” you say. You whisper it behind my ear. Standing there, facing the stove, I oblige. You trace your fingertips down my spine. I’m wearing the bra you got me for Christmas, and you’re very pleased. Still standing behind me, still breathing your hot breath on my neck, you gently grasp my left hip with your left hand and slip your right hand under my waist line. I’m wearing the matching panties, too, and your hand can feel them. You breathe in sharply and lightly bite my neck as your fingers meet my swollen wet pussy. You easily slip two fingers inside me. My head grows light, my breath catches, my eyelids flutter as I try to keep my composure (and prevent dinner from burning).

“Good girl,” you say, as you remove your fingers, hold them up to your nose, breathe in my pussy scent. “I like that you’re wet. Now take off your leggings.” I take them off. You nod, glance me over, head to toe, and then you go to the table and sit down. I stand there, my composure lost for a moment, confused in the empty air that suddenly surrounds me where your body just was.

You see my confusion, and you half-smile from your seat. “Keep cooking,” you say. And you sit there and watch me, never taking your eyes off me, only talking to give me little directions. “Bring me a glass of water. Good girl. Turn around, bend over.” Et cetera. I go about my work, my body aware of your eyes on it, my skin alert under your gaze. I flirt with you, subtly, sassily, making fleeting eye contact, biting my lip a bit, and purposely giving you the best views of my ass. I know you want me, and I savor it.

At one point you stand up and disappear, and my mind wanders, focusing again primarily on the food. Finally the gratin goes in the oven. As I straighten up from closing the oven, you’re suddenly behind me, you’ve grabbed my hips in your hands, and you shove me against the countertop, push my legs apart with your knee, and then I feel something hard and smooth teasing my pussy, and I know it’s your cock. I bury my face in my elbow on the counter as I tilt my ass up to you, wanting you inside me, filling me. Finally you thrust inside me, and I moan, as you bend over and whisper hot in my ear “is this what you want baby?”

“Yes please,” I stutter. Instead you pull out, turn me around, and push me firmly to the floor. I know exactly what you want me to do. I take your cock on my mouth, your cock that tastes now like my pussy. I take your cock deep in my throat, flutter my eyes up at you, and reach up between your legs and find your clit with my thumb, and suddenly I’m in power, I’m in control, because you’re distracted by your pleasure and forget that you were the one inventing the rules of this game.

For a few moments you’re sinking in your growing arousal, but you soon catch yourself and try to get back control. You grab my hair and try to pull me back from your cock, but it’s too late, I’ve got your cock in my mouth and your pussy in my hands and I’m not giving up. You struggle, pulling on my hair and writhing away from my hands, but you have to grasp the counter for support and you can’t help it, your orgasm is rising in you and you thrust in my mouth and your pussy pushes into my hand as you come, and your body crumples to the ground, flushed and pulsing, your eyes floating.

But you don’t stay that way for long. You blink and look at me, suddenly grin impishly, and say “get up.”

I stand up. You stand up in front of me, take off your cock, and now you’re in just your work shirt and a tie that you’ve only recently started wearing regularly because I told you I thought it was a sexy. I think about tugging on your tie, pulling you towards me to kiss you, but think the better of it — you mean business. You shove my legs apart and thrust two fingers in me. I’m sopping wet, wide open, and you easily slide in a third. I’m meeting you open, wanting you, needing you filling me. Instead, you kiss me on the neck so that I get goose bumps, take your fingers out of my pussy, wipe them off on a towel, and take off your tie.

“What are you doing?” I ask wonderingly. You smirk. “Tying you up,” you say. You turn me around so my back is to you, grab my wrists, and securely knot them together behind my back. “Sit down,” you say, and I do, on the same chair you were watching me cook from. You grab two kitchen towels, tie my ankles to the legs of the chairs. I close my eyes, my lust burning inside me, trying to work its way out, but the restraints work like chains to keep it in my body, and it mounts to what feels like a dangerous level. I’m shaking, almost crying, needing you to fill me up and bring me down from this endorphin high.

And oh, you do, you do. You start off torturously slowly and painfully teasingly with your tongue flicking my clit. My moans grow and my pelvis is writhing against your mouth. You force me back down to the chair and shove three fingers inside me. This is what I needed. I gasp, open wide for you, and sink in my body, aware only of feeling you inside me and out, as if your hand were reaching all the way inside me and your mouth were covering my whole body. The orgasm is already squirming deep inside me, and you know exactly how to reach it. You reach your fingers as deep inside me as you can, still sucking and licking my clit, you wiggle your fingers against my G-spot, and you very subtly push in and out of my pussy as the deep squirming becomes a massive tidal orgasm and I’m pushing against all my restraints and into your mouth and against your hand, begging you to go deeper in me and keep working my pussy, moaning and crying out as you fill me up even more and more and more. You’ve got four fingers in me and you’re up to your knuckles and I know that soon I’ll be able to take your whole fist inside me. I’d take all of you inside me if I could.

You stay inside me as I start gently coming down off the orgasm. I collapse against the chair; you release my hands, and I stroke your hair and face and pull you up to finally meet my mouth, craving this closeness. I taste myself on your lips but pretty quickly my taste has dissipated and I just taste you — your lips, your mouth, your tongue, your sweet breath mixing with mine. I feel your eyelashes on my cheeks.

The timer goes off. We look at each other and laugh, having forgotten all about dinner. Perfect timing.

Posted by: alphafemme | December 27, 2009

would you like some heteronormativity with your turkey?

I’m over how my uncle talks about “the gays” as if we were some exotic species, and asks me weird personal questions about my relationship that he doesn’t ask my sister about hers (with a guy).

I’m over having phone conversations with mi’lady about what we’re up to with our respective families that include sentences like “this would be awkward for you” or “I don’t quite know how you would fit into this.”

I’m over trying to explain to old friends from high school why I don’t want to hang out with their ultra-Christian crowd.

I’m over having my sister tell me that she’s got it worse because “at least people don’t constantly ask you when you’re getting married.”

I’m over my mom saying “just get over it, of course people act weird about something they don’t get.”

I’m over being told by my dad, yet again, that he doesn’t see how people can have the “same kind of relationship” with non-biological progeny.

I’m over how my brother finds guys who really “shove it in your face” that they’re gay distasteful.

I’m over feeling self-conscious about recommending a book or movie to someone if it happens to have a queer character or sub-theme (because what if I’M one of those people who “shoves it in your face”?).

I’m over “OMG that’s SOOOO GAY!”

I’m over being left out of conversations about what everyone in the family is up to “because it could be uncomfortable.”

I’m over censoring myself in order to avoid making other people feel uncomfortable about something that’s so vital and important to who I am.

I’m over small-town USA.

I’m over how being around our families completely squelches our ability to be sexual with each other, even by distance.

I’m over being irrelevant to her Playing Straight life.

I’m over playing it straight in my own life.

I’m over sleeping by myself.

I’m fucking over it.

I can’t wait to go home. Four more days.

Posted by: alphafemme | December 20, 2009

“but they’re not my girl”

Just brought her to the airport; she’s on a red-eye back to Vermont for Christmas with her family. (I’m here another few days until I fly to New York.)

Parting was hard, even though I’ll see her again on New Year’s Eve when we both fly back. I had tears in my eyes as she walked away from me to go check in.

I texted her from the train back to the city.

Me:  “Miss you already and love you so much”

Her: “I miss you too i love you too. It was so hard to walk away from you. I was sad”

Me: “But you’re walking TOWARDS your family :) it was hard to see you walk away too though…”

Her: “Yeah yr right but they’re not my girl”

I love her so goddamn much.

Tomorrow brings some house-cleaning and preliminary packing of my own, a trip to Chinatown to get tea for my brother’s Christmas present, and maybe even some baking (no more sweets though, but maybe some Parker rolls?).

Happy weekend y’all.

Posted by: alphafemme | December 17, 2009

bringing sex out of the bedroom

We started talking a few days ago and continued talking last night about how to make sure sex is a central part of our relationship, and not just an incidental part.

What I mean by that is this:

When you first start seeing someone, it’s all about sex. Or mostly, anyway. Obviously you’re attracted to her as a whole person; she makes you laugh, you have conversations about God and past relationships and what your favorite drink is, you share an interest in music and books, you can rib on the northeast, since you’re both from there originally. But if you get right down to it, it’s about the sex. Every gesture of her hands, every toss of her hair, every sideways glance makes your heart thud and your pussy pulse. And when she touches you, even casually, accidentally, you swoon. You’re liquid in the lap of Eros.

Luckily for you and everything else in your life, this isn’t indefinite. The time returns when you can be in her presence without feeling completely dysfunctional, you can exchange emails at work without the rest of the day becoming a fluster of distraction and desire. It’s lucky for your relationship, too, because you can finally get to know and trust and love each other deeply, talk about difficult things and fun things, share stress and anxiety and joy and excitement, unwind together, and (perhaps most importantly) get some sleep. With your bodies warm against each other, of course.

But a side effect of this natural progression of a healthy relationship can be, if you don’t pay attention, that you forget about sex. Or rather, you don’t forget, but sex becomes The Thing You Do In The Bedroom When You Want To Be Intimate Or Just Want An Orgasm. It’s The Thing You Do At The End Of The Day When Everything Else Is Taken Care Of. It’s like “recess” for elementary school kids. A regular occurence, but distinctly separate from everything else you do. For kids at school, it’s workworkworkworkworkPLAYworkworkwork. For you two sexy partnered people, it’s workworkworkworkworkSEXworkworkwork.

And, YAY!, we have great sex. It’s not boring, it’s not mediocre, it’s not slowing down, it’s not tired or old or mechanical or artificial or put on or anything like that. There are days, sure, when it’s kinda like “ok we’re both super tired, let’s just make out a little and get each other off” but even those days are intimate and binding. We desire each other.

But, I guess that rather than the workworkworkworkworkSEXworkworkwork model, I’d rather cultivate a model that looks more like sEwoRXkeskoRseoSEXworsekWORKkerweX.

Um, does that make sense? I definitely still want there to be uninterrupted, undistracted, maybe even scheduled SEX time. Time when there’s nothing on our minds but fucking. And, to that end, I want there to be time for just “work” (and that doesn’t just mean “job” work, but anything else, too, like writing, or doing music, or cooking dinner, or fixing the heater, or whatever it is that we do). But I also really want sex to be integral and fully integrated in my day. So that it’s not just cordoned off into its own little section of the day. In other words: I want to practice eroticizing the daily grind.

For example: cook in a corset, garters, thigh-high seamed stockings, and four-inch heels. Why not? Rather than the more typical “I’m feeling horny, let’s do some role-playing, how about I’m your submissive wife and I cook whatever you want while you boss me around,” let’s make it “I’m feeling hungry, so I’m going to go put on some lingerie and head to the kitchen.”

Another example: get a piece of jewelry that designates a particular role, so that if I, say, wear a particular ring on a certain finger, it means that I’m sexually available the whole time I’m wearing it, and so I’ve got a constant physical reminder of “SEX!” on my body during the day. Or even a gesture, a particular innocuous gesture (biting my lower lip?) could be re-identified as meaning “I want to fuck you hard” or “I want your giant cock inside me.”

I think Sinclair‘s idea of homework is a perfect example of this, too, because it sends the erotic outside of the we’re-fucking-here-and-now, extends it beyond the moments in the bedroom, and builds it into the regular structure of the day.

The reason we’re talking about this is not, I repeat, because our sex is getting boring or tired; it’s not because I want to “spice things up.” It’s because I think our mainstream culture has a way of stifling sexual energy — we’re not supposed to talk about sex in public, with anyone other than our closest friends (if even them), and sex is supposed to take place privately and discreetly. (And, hypocritically, it’s simultaneously obsessed with sex.) But that’s not what I want. I want to cultivate an active sexual energy that isn’t constrained by the bedroom door or the time of the day, and that can be nurtured and activated throughout the day by various things. That way, when I finally do get to have sex, I’m not starting at 0 (or 5 or 10) and going to 60; rather, I’ll already be going at 30 or 45. That’s a whole lot easier to manage, frankly, when I’m tired and stressed and anxious and the thought of needing to find the momentum to get from 0 to 60 is daunting.

And on that note, I’m going to go write mi’lady a dirty email ;)

Posted by: alphafemme | December 14, 2009

in which I take after my mother

So, for those of you who don’t follow me on twitter, you may not know that mi’lady and I hosted a party at my flat on Friday night. In the spirit of not caring about my job, I took the afternoon off of work to prepare (just finger foods and cookies, not dinner thank god). It’s the first time I ever took the hosting controls for something of this scale—we had about 40 people come, and people, my flat is microscopic—and it was stressful but SO much fun. I wish I had pictures, but sadly my camera ran out of batteries after approximately one dismally out-of-focus photo.

On the menu:

– ricotta, parmesan, scallion & black pepper stuffed cherry tomatoes
– spinach, pine nuts & feta stuffed baked mushrooms
– mozzarella, basil & tomato skewers, drizzled with olive oil and seasoned with salt & pepper
– baked pepperjack cheese bites (gluten-free)
– vegan cream cheese, garlic & herb dip
– various assorted crackers
– Acme baguette
– various assorted hummus
– cheese platter

For dessert:

– snowball cookies
– triple chocolate cookies
– gluten-free mint red & green M&M cookies
– friends brought cookies too! candy cane sugar cookies, and peanut butter chocolate chip cookie bars

To drink:

– mulled wine (we ended up using 8 bottles of red wine!)
– hot toddies, choice of whiskey or brandy (used a full handle of each)
– pumpkin pie martinis (which were… meh)
– eggnog martinis (which were yum!)
– folks also contributed spiced beer (forget the brand) and prosecco

So, we had an abundance of delectables. I did the dry pantry grocery shopping earlier in the week, and the produce shopping the day of. The cookies were all done several days ahead of time and packed in airtight containers to keep them fresh. And then midday on the day of, I sat down with all my plans and made a comprehensive list of what-to-do-in-what-order-and-when. So it looked something like this:

2pm
Take spinach out of freezer to thaw.
Prepare ricotta filling and put in refrigerator to chill.
Trim and hollow cherry tomatoes.
. . .

6pm
Make cream cheese dip.
. . .

7pm
Prepare ingredients for hot drinks and set aside.
Get dressed.
Preheat oven to 375F.
. . .

7:30pm.
Pop stuffed mushrooms in oven and set timer for 30 mins.
Take stuffed tomatoes and mozzarella skewers out of refrigerator and set out on platter.

There were a lot more directions under each time slot, but that’s just an idea. It was SUCH a good way to plan, because it meant I was left with no ugly surprises or last-minute chaos. I kept pretty much exactly to the schedule. There was a moment of panic around 5:30 when I found out mi’lady wasn’t going to be able to get here until around 7, and she was on playlist duty and still had to put it together so I wouldn’t really be getting any help from her, but that panic subsided when I realized I did, in fact, have it all under control. And she had a legitimate excuse for being held up – it was pissing rain, and she had errands to run (get creme de cacao for the martinis, buy small plates and cups, etc.), so she got a ride from a coworker and was basically at her generous mercy. (Mi’lady also drew a fabulous reindeer for Pin the Red Nose on Rudolf.)

And then the party itself was great fun. We expected to have it go until around midnight and then hit the Mission bars afterward, but some people lingered and we ended up staying in, cleaning up, and dancing to Erykah Badu and then the Nutcracker Suite.

And for about 24 hours I was like “I never want to see the kitchen again” and now it’s Monday evening and I’m at home and I’m all like “hmm, shall I bake some parker rolls? challah? date bread?”

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