Archive for March, 2006

the story of two blue roses

Thursday, March 30th, 2006

There’s a blue rose in a vase on my coffee table. Its twin is in a beautiful woman’s home somewhere in a West End highrise.

We had dinner last night at a lovely Italian restaurant, where the manicotti melts in your mouth and the tiramisu is like eating a cloud gently perfumed with coffee and whipped cream. The conversation flowed, as did the red wine. (Well, OK, it flowed for her and trickled for me - I’m not much of a drinker. Boring date.) We talked about books, family, food, sensuality, language, sex. She was charming and articulate, with a gorgeous smile.

After dinner we sat on a bench on the sidewalk near the restaurant, which was buried in the part of town my ex-girlfriend always called "Hetsville." I was wearing a skirt and a turtleneck; my dinner date has shoulder-length hair. A small group of clean-cut, cologne-scented men walked by us at one point, and one of them leered and said in a loud and drunken voice (or was it just obnoxious?), "Can you please take me hooommme?" We ignored him - a skill I learned in exactly that part of town many years ago. The part of town where I did the bulk of my undergrad degree before coming out of the closet, went out clubbing with the friends from high school I still saw fairly often at the time, and attended the occasional bachelorette party dinner, all of us in stiletto sandals and trendy tank tops, before jumping on the 211 bus after class or piling into someone’s secondhand car with a designated driver to head back to the safety of suburbia.

As we sat there, a flower-seller walked by, gave us a cursory look, and went on his way with his garbage bag of tightly wrapped blooms still slung over his shoulder. I said to my companion, "Now see, if we’d been in the Village, that guy would have stopped and offered us flowers."

We decided to take a walk. The air was mild, the night was fresh, there was good energy afoot, and the downtown core was surprisingly calm despite the sweet weather and sparkling lights. Block after block, the street rolled away behind us. We passed shop windows full of harshly lit mannequins displaying the new spring collections. The expensive Italian shoes. The rhinestone-studded jeans (that’s one trend from the 80s that should have stayed dead). The simply cut coats with attractive collars designed to look good on women no larger than size 10, even if they come in sizes up to 16.

As we headed East, the boutique windows became tattoo parlour windows, and cheesy sex shop windows, with scratchy lingerie and cheap bongs on display. Eventually we came to the place where you start to see little rainbow flag stickers on every door, where the men often walk with a swish and the women often don’t, where the familiar aroma of beer, smokes and piss wafts out of the door every time someone walks into a bar nearby, where the restaurants are staffed by people of various genders with great cheekbones, horn-rimmed glasses and ties.

We walked by the Village flower-seller, relaxing on a bench. He’s been around for, oh, a decade or more. I’ve seen him pretty much every time I’ve been in the area for as long as I can remember, and he’d been around for many years before I ever got there. He’s an older man, I’m guessing late fifties, with an accent that sounds something like Greek, though I could be wrong. He schlumps around in a navy blue parka when the weather’s still nippy, and wears a heavy knit tuque. Someone once told me he put his kids through university by selling flowers. One of these days I will stop and sit with him, and ask him questions about his life, about how he became a purveyor of late-night romance for Montreal queers.

He called out to us, but looked straight at me as we passed. "You wanna buy a flower for your girl tonight?" I thought for a moment, and turned back. "Sure." And to my date, "Which one do you like?" She chose the blue, and the flower seller said, "Two for five dollar!" So I took two and handed him a blue bill to match.

As we walked away, he shouted down the street, "Is she your girlfriend?" I yelled back, "Not quite!" And he answered in turn, "Well good luck tonight, then!"

I wonder how many couples he’s seen in his time, in various stages of romance and lust and drunkenness and conflict and long-term love. I wonder if he’s ever been assaulted or robbed as he wanders the street with his flowers. I wonder if he feels more comfortable in the Village for some poetic reason, or if queers just buy more roses. This man must be so full of stories.

And speaking of stories, I don’t have a conclusion for the one that began last night, not yet at least. Before we parted ways at the metro station, the beautiful woman and I decided we’d sleep on it and talk again soon. She went home to her husband in the highrise. I went home to my girly-boy, who handed me a bag of fresh bagels and asked me if I had fun on my date. The answer was yes. But will it be a short story or a novella? I don’t quite know. Maybe I should ask the flower-seller.

polka-dot stilettos

Tuesday, March 28th, 2006

Yup. Polka-dot stilettos. That’s what I want.

In the new issue of Bust magazine, the cover article is an interview with Gretchen Mol, who plays 50s fetish pinup model Bettie Page in the film The Notorious Bettie Page, which is to be released on April 21. (Bet your ass I’ll be there. Mol’s not my style of hottie, but put her in a corset and stick a whip in her hand and you never know.) In the article itself, there’s a great photo of her wearing the most amazingly drool-worthy pair of white stiletto heels with black polka-dots. They’ve got a black T-strap ankle strap, and black piping around the edges. Don’t roll your eyes, folks - for the shoe fetishist, this kind of detail is significant. I think I’ve become a very particular sort of shoe fetishist, with a preference for ankle straps, tone-on-tone colours, retro styling, and very specific shapes. Anyway, I digress.

So I got myself to Google and typed in "polka-dot stilettos." I thought maybe I’d get a link to the latest Steve Madden collection or something. At the very least I thought maybe I’d be able to track down a similar pair to Gretchen’s. Instead, I discovered that everyone who likes polka-dot stilettos, online at least, is either a suburban shopping-club member or a bone fide pervert.

I’m so not kidding. One of the first sites to pop up was for - get this, folks - crush videos. Ever heard of those? The only reason I wasn’t completely floored (so to speak) is because Patrick Califia mentions them in the essay "Boy-Lovers, Crush Videos and that Heinous First Amendment" in his 2002 book Speaking Sex to Power: The Politics of Queer Sex. Here’s his description:

"So-called ‘crush videos’ usually depict a woman stepping on an insect, snail or worm. Occasionally, baby mice or rats, and (rarely) larger animals, have also been featured. (…) He (JV, a video producer Califia interviewed) estimates that his fetish is shared by perhaps a couple of thousand men in the entire world - very specific masochists and foot fetishists who usually identify with the creature that’s being tortured and killed." This same video producer says, "My ultimate fantasy is to be one inch tall and trapped inside a really vicious woman’s kitchen."

So one of the videos on the site featured a mistress wearing a lovely pair of polka-dot stilettos as she squished a snail. Zowie.

Of course the idea is pretty gross, in a lot of ways - particularly for a vegetarian sort like me. But at the same time, Califia goes on to make a couple of excellent points later in the same essay: "Outlawing crush videos will do nothing to eliminate the most common forms of animal maltreatment. If anything, the deaths that are documented in crush videos have more meaning than the millions of gallons of pig, sheep, and cattle blood that daily soils the floors of slaughterhouses nationwide." He’s referring to a First Amendment case in which a crush video producer was actually prosecuted for his work; he wound up with a year of community service and three felony charges. Awfully stiff penalties for the premature deaths of a few snails.

Touchy stuff. To me, the idea of hurting and killing animals is horrid; I haven’t eaten meat in fifteen years, I buy beauty products that aren’t tested on animals, and I only buy by-product leather when I buy it at all - and even then, only because I learned about the comparatively much larger environmental consequences of PVC production a couple of years after I’d started to develop a PVC-based fetish wardrobe. Hell, I recycle my gum wrappers and use organic biodegradable laundry detergent. The idea of someone wanking to a scene of a mouse being squished to death is more than a little stomach-turning. But… I do poison the little fuckers when they try to invade my apartment. And I don’t feel the least bit guilty about that. Does that make me a hypocrite? I don’t think so. I can’t see how allowing rodents to infest my home helps prevent animal rights abuses. And the cruelty-free traps and such are hit and miss in their effectiveness. Mice are pests. They must die. Sorry, guys - my politics end where that little practicality starts.

I think the crux of the matter is that people’s gross-outs around crush videos, at least in the ridiculously overblown court cases Califia wrote about, are redolent with sexual repression, not with animal rights concerns - or worse, animal rights are used as a convenient excuse for sexual repression rather than coming from a sincere belief in the cause. What’s the big deal if a woman in polka-dot stilettos steps on a snail? Why should anyone be made a convicted felon for this? People’s righteousness seems to arise tenfold when someone involves sexual pleasure in the equation, and that, I have a big problem with. It blurs the issues and gets people’s priorities all screwed up by tugging on their hearstrings with the sheer "upsettingness" of sex-related images that appeal to a select few. In these legal cases, the tactics used for prosecution haven’t been about seriously considering the issues, but rather about reacting judgmentally to unusual imagery.

Baby seal clubbers are protected under the law. The meat industry is horrific. The SPCA is overflowing with abused and abandoned animals nobody cares about except a few dedicated volunteers. The environmental consequences of an over-consumeristic North American society have brought countless species to extinction, never mind the massive damage we do to wildlife habitats that in turn kill millions of creatures. Our society tolerates bullfights, dogfights, hunting licenses, McDonald’s hamburgers. And let’s not forget that we exploit human beings pretty darn badly too.

Once we have a completely cruelty-free society, then we can talk again about preventing the crush video producers from doing their work. Maybe at that point technological advances will have come up with ways to produce inexpensive snail figurines with green goo inside them, that make a satisfying crack when stepped on. Presto - cruelty-free jack-off material for the seriously twisted.

In the meantime, I’m very suspicious of any kind of rule or ban that’s not directly about protecting actual people from actual harm - or about reforming the massive industries that currently treat animals badly in astronomical numbers.

Crush fetishists can do their gross thing over there. I’ll do my own "gross" things over here, and mine won’t involve snails and rodents, but rather pain-slut bottom girls, butt-plugs, piercing needles and lead-filled punching gloves. I might not want to go to a crush fetishist’s parties, but I don’t want to run them out of town either. I feel strongly that if we engage too far in distancing ourselves from the weirder members of the pervy-sex world, we’re not doing ourselves any favours in the end. Lord knows enough people out there would have no problem putting a bullet through my head for being a queer, or jailing me for being a sadomasochist. These threats are real - if not so much in the happy little bubble of Montreal, Canada, at the very least in many other places in the world, including in the US. So who am I to accuse someone else of having the "wrong" kind of proclivities? Who are any of us to impose that kind of judgment?

Yeah, crush videos are pretty nasty. They don’t do it for me. I wouldn’t buy porn from a crush video dealer, or support the industry (tiny though it may be) in any way. But I can’t find it in myself to get excessively upset about them, either. In the grand scheme of things, so long as nobody’s hurting real people in a non-consensual way or taking excessive health risks, I don’t have much to say about it.

So back to the task at hand. Does anyone know where I can buy a hot pair of black-and-white polka-dot stilettos… preferably with no snail guts on the soles?

one sick fucker

Monday, March 27th, 2006

Last night, I watched Sick: The Life and Death of Bob Flanagan, Supermasochist along with the CinéKink crowd. It was really well done. One of the things that struck me, and several others in the audience, was just how human he really was. The short version, for those who don’t know of him, is that Bob had cystic fibrosis, which means his lungs were slowly filling with fluid throughout his life. Most CF sufferers apparently die quite young, in their teens or twenties, but Bob lived to I think 43. He was a hardcore masochist, partly because he was just a big ol’ perv, partly because it helped him manage his chronic pain. He turned his masochism into performance and installation art, with the help of his partner/dominant Sheree Rose, and became quite a recognized name in the contemporary art world for a few years. (He also starred in the Nine Inch Nails video for the boppy little ditty "Happiness in Slavery" - perhaps a small accomplishment compared to his own art, but pretty cool nonetheless.) Anyway, the film chronicles his life, and last night it inspired a really good discussion about masochism, relationships, illness, performance as activism, and all kinds of other stuff.

This in turn inspired me to go find a bit more information about Bob, and to post it here in case anyone’s interested. I’d very much like to read the book Sick if I can get my hands on it, too.

So, a few links…

A short bio and several months of Bob’s "Pain Journal": http://vv.arts.ucla.edu/terminals/flanagan/flanagan.html

Excerpts of Bob’s "The Book of Medicine": http://www.suspectthoughts.com/flanagan.html

Here’s one of the entries that I found particularly powerful…

"ability:
I have the ability to do a few things well. I can accept the good with the bad; I can be alone; I can commit to one person for life; I can do impressions of famous people and friends; I can draw and paint; I can endure long hours of bondage; I can establish close friendships; I can find lost objects; I can forgive and forget; I can fuck several times a day, everyday if given the chance; I can get along with most people; I’m good with my tongue; I can hang a fifteen pound weight from my balls; I can make people laugh; I can masturbate all day long if given the chance; I can select unimportant objects to throw or break during outbursts of temper; I can sing and play the guitar; I can spit up cups full of mucus; I can be slapped in the face repeatedly and get a hard-on from it; I can stick myself with needles; I can submit totally to someone I love; I can swallow foul tasting liquids if it’s for my health or if someone I love tells me to do it; I can take a lot of pain, especially from someone I love; I can walk up one, maybe two flights of stairs with only a moderate shortness of breath; I can write."

And Sheree Rose’s site cataloguing Bob’s work and more recent work she’s done inspired by him: http://www.shereerose.com/

Last fall, I gave a presentation on BDSM for a SAR class (Sexuality Attitudes Reassessment), which is generally attended by various sorts of professionals and students intending to become professionals within the helping fields - doctors, nurses, psychologists, teachers, etc. (There’s another one running in a few months - September 15 to 17 specifically. I don’t know if I’ll be asked to present again, but if you’re interested regardless, there should be information up at www.sexpressions.ca.) A couple of doctors from the States were there, who do work in the field of cancer recovery. We got into a conversation after the class, and I remember telling them that some people use SM as a way of managing, or perhaps recontextualizing, the experience of pain. They were really interested, but at the time I had no idea where to send them for information on this particular aspect of BDSM. I’ll have to dig out their business cards and drop them a line to recommend the film.

Anyway, I know it sounds silly, but although I never encountered Bob Flanagan and only vaguely knew about his work at the time he was doing it, I can’t help but feel we’ve lost someone brilliant, and feel it pretty personally. He managed to put such a human face on his illness and on his masochism, and approach it all with such sincerity and grace. As we discussed last night, I’m not sure that his sort of work is the best way of doing education or activism - but he never said he wanted to be an educator or an activist, and I don’t think it’s fair to place that sort of expectation on him, especially not posthumously. Just because someone represents What It Is That We Do, that doesn’t necessarily make them responsible for doing it from an activist standpoint. Bob Flanagan was just a guy managing his shit as best he could, and he did so with amazing humour and insight. And of course regardless of what I think of the activist angle, he sure did get people thinking.

So does it make sense to feel the loss of someone I never knew personally, and whose work I didn’t see when it was making waves? I dunno. I just feel sad, all of a sudden, to know that he’s gone. It feels like we still need him to stir shit up, and nobody’s truly come up to take his place. As representations of BDSM are being yanked off the Internet by worried artists, thanks to Barbara Nitke and the National Coalition for Sexual Freedom’s recent unsuccessful challenge to the (American) constitutionality of Internet censorship (read about it on the site’s home page under the heading "Communications Decency Act"), and as the FBI states that it’s top priority to target representations of BDSM at the border (read a thorough article here), I’m starting to feel like we - the States in particular, but the world at large too - could use another Bob Flanagan to make some waves.

Bob has been gone for eleven years now, but I just met him last night. And now, I feel like I’ve lost someone who’s linked to me by the ties of community, and who in an alternate reality of time and circumstance, could maybe even have been a friend.

scrub away your shame

Sunday, March 26th, 2006

I just came across the weirdest ad campaign I’ve ever seen. It’s for Axe brand shower scrub. They’ve created a fictional group called the Order of the Serpentine, whose motto is "Clean Body, Clean Conscience." Their whole campaign is based around the idea of the "Questionable Hook-Up," which they define as follows:

It’s any romantic encounter that leaves you humiliated. A romp in the park that leaves you feeling like you shouldn’t have done the something – or someone – you did. The morning-after sensation of waking up in the double-jointed arms of a retired go-go dancer, and hoping your friends don’t find out. Further examples:

-         Your friends caught you getting dirty with the dormitory’s cleaning woman.

-         A woman tied you to the bed while you were wearing a bunny suit.

-         You were tongue-wrestled by a retired exotic dancer.

-         Her cat was watching.

-         Your mom/dad/brother/math tutor walked in.

-         Two older ladies secretly videotaped you giving them foot massages.

-         A female wrestler manhandled you, took photos of you and put them on the Internet.

-         You were intoxicated by her cheap perfume and woke up in a Mexican jail.

Wow. So that list basically reads: you should be ashamed if you have had sex in a semi-public place, have had sex with someone of lower class or economic standing than yourself, if you practice role-play and bondage, if you sleep with a sex worker or former sex worker (they seem particularly fixated on the idea of them being "retired," which means what? all used up?!), if you like to provide submissive service, if you like older women, or if you like strong women.

Yes, the list also includes the uncomfortable experiences of having someone walk in on you and having a lover deceive you in a way that gets you in some sort of trouble. OK, fair enough. But the bulk of it seems to be an ostensibly tongue-in-cheek list of the ways in which hookups outside - what? marriage? traditional football-captain-with-sorority-sister pairings? man-on-top bedroom-only unpaid sex within a committed relationship? - are dirty. Literally dirty.

So is this really tongue-in-cheek, or is it a really clear and telling example of how corporations tap into the most salient insecurities in the masses’ psyche, and try to turn a profit from that?

That’s not all. The site has a place where you can enter your name and describe your questionable hook-up, and then rate how ashamed you feel on a brightly-coloured meter. Then their system will calculate how many "ritual scrubbings" you need to rid yourself of this shame. According to my research, "Bob" needs 14 ritual scrubbings to rid himself of his tryst with his older sister’s 200-pound best friend. (Apparently fat women are on the list of shameful partners, too.)

And then there’s the place where, if you want to "join the brotherhood," you must "share your shame to shed it" - in other words, describe your questionable hookup using various symbols that appear on the "Hook-Up Wheel" - a party hat, a pair of stilettos, a battery, a pair of handcuffs and so forth. Then the site constructs a story for you, and once you’ve contributed your own story, you get to read the "confessions" of other recent "recruits." Then you have the, ahem, questionable privilege of providing your e-mail and postal address so the company can send you a "free" sample of your orange scrubby stuff. You know, so that you can be clean again.

I know I just wrote about religion and sex a few posts back, but even compared to Jesus butt-plugs and Virgin Mary dildos, this has got to be the clearest pop-culture example I’ve ever seen of Foucault’s idea of the confessional, and of how the process of (sexual) confession is itself tied up with pleasure and power. In History of Sexuality, Volume 1, he writes:

"Perhaps this production of truth (i.e. the confession), intimidated though it was by the scientific model, multiplied, intensified, and even created its own intrinsic pleasures. It is often said that we have been incapable of imagining any new pleasures. We have at least invented a different kind of pleasure: pleasure in the truth of pleasure, the pleasure of knowing that truth, of discovering and exposing it, the fascination of seeing it and telling it, of captivating and capturing others by it, of confiding it in secret, of luring it out in the open - the specific pleasure of the true discourse on pleasure."

It’s hard to see this little product-selling website as doing anything but tap into that exact need, that eternal desire North Americans seem to have to confess their sexual "sins" to a higher power of some sort - shrink, doctor, talk-show host, God… Now we have the confessional website too, with its unnamed judges waiting to prescribe how much orange shower scrub you need to cleanse your soul. From Hail Marys to this - somehow the progression makes perfect sense.

Agh. I’m torn. I totally get that the shower-scrub company is not really and truly trying to start a new religious cult. In fact, this campaign could very well be the company’s ironic and satirical comment on North American society’s relationship with shame and sexuality, and with religious beliefs and practices as a way to "wash away" the hypocrisy of their indulgences. On the other hand, they could be using humour as a thin veil for some very sharp fears, without quite dulling their edge - playing on potential customers’ very real shames in a slimy bid to sell more product. It’s hard to tell where they’re coming from, and in some ways I think it’s a bit of both.

All I know is that, both in words and images, their humour (or satire?) is based on holding up various sorts of women and various sorts of male behaviour with those women as being shameful and dirty. Sex workers, women who are economically or socially "inferior", women who are physically or psychologically strong and powerful, women who indulge in power play or fetish-oriented sex. You know - women who threaten men’s power. Women who are exciting for their forbiddenness, and for their ability to tap into men’s darker desires and show them things about themselves they may not want to face in daylight. Women you don’t bring home to mother. The whores, versus the virgins you actually marry. Women you dally with downtown on a Saturday night before going to church the next morning.

This is exactly the kind of division that classical feminism decries - the idea that women are a mutually exclusive either/or: good girls or bad girls, for sex or for family. It’s the kind of division that sets us up to be objects on either side of the (heterosexual) coin - never full persons with complex minds, lives, sexualities and powers of our own, always embodying some patriarchal fantasy or another, wether it’s a fantasy of respectability or a fantasy of adventure. The division doesn’t do justice to real women, but in the end, it doesn’t do justice to real men either - it traps them just as much in a set of rigid roles, albeit in positions of relatively greater power.

Sex, shame, the objectification of women, the reification of power differentials and of male insecurity, the process of confession, and witty product marketing. It’s quite a potent and problematic combination. The approach of the Axe brand shower scrub company is just a bit too silly for me to feel actively offended - but somehow I’m not laughing either.

happily unreasonable… and unreasonably happy

Thursday, March 23rd, 2006

Sociological research has always fascinated me. When I was a teenager, I used to clip or remember magazine articles that supported my points of view - which were many and vocal even fifteen years ago! - and use them to back up whatever my latest argument was. "But Dad, a study from Johns Hopkins says that eating chocolate is good for you!" (Well, that one’s true. Maybe it wasn’t Johns Hopkins, but it was an equally credible source. But I digress.)

When I took my Feminism and Research Methods course in undergrad, though, I learned to be a lot more suspicious of research in general, or at the very least to approach it with more of a critical perspective instead of a sponge-like, "if they write it it must be true" sort of view.

So when I read articles like the recent one on slate.com, entitled "Desperate Feminist Wives: Why Wanting Equality Makes Women Unhappy," my eyebrows instantly head for my hairline.

Now, part of the problem here is the rather sensationalistic title that does a poor job of conveying the nuance of the article itself. But part of the problem is that the authors of the sociological study the article refers to have put quite a slant on their findings. The short version: two sociologists carried out a huge study of married women and rated their happiness levels, and then correlated those happiness levels with how "progressive" or "traditional" the women’s values were. Apparently the most progressive women are the least happy.

According to the article, "The study’s authors, W. Bradford Wilcox and Steven Nock, speculate that fault-finding on the part of wives makes it hard for men to do the emotional work that stabilizes marriages."

Needless to say, that statement alone makes me wonder just what sort of viewpoint they took and what decisions they made before they even carried out the study. A few other things are equally problematic, and raise a number of critical questions for me - I don’t want to copy out the entire article here, so by all means do go and read it (it’s a quick read) if you want to make your own opinions.

First of all, the idea of happiness is pretty nebulous. Anytime you have a study in which people are relied upon to report their own feelings and opinions, you have the advantage of hearing personal narrative, but the disadvantage of relying exclusively upon their statements to build your conclusions, as opposed to having any sort of "objectively" (as far as objectivity exists) verifiable data. What this means is that the data is necessarily questionable.

If you get a bunch of traditionally-minded women to tell you whether or not they’re happy in their marriages, it’s entirely possible that many will say "yes" and mean it wholeheartedly. But it’s equally possible that some will feel they should be happy, because their traditional values tell them they should be, and so they may answer yes despite a nagging feeling of dissatisfaction, or their growing Valium habit, or their certainty that darling hubby is boinking his secretary. It’s about endeavouring to measure up to what they think they should feel, rather than acknowledging what they do feel.

It’s also possible that some of them may say yes to a researcher even if privately they’re well aware they feel otherwise - it’s a known phenomenon for research subjects to provide the answers they think the researchers want to hear.

And how, exactly, is happiness defined, anyway? Here’s another thought: what if a bunch of women in this survey respond "yes" to happiness because they grew up being taught that they should expect x, y and z out of life, and now they have it? For dreamers and forward-thinkers and other sorts of progressives, being told "expect x, y and z" is motivation to think, "Nuh-uh, I want much more than that," whereas for someone traditionally-minded, those values might be taken for granted and internalized. I don’t mean to insult or devalue these women’s opinions, and if they truly do feel happy in their situations, more power to them. But I can’t help thinking there might be at least some percentage in there who simply never grew to expect anything else, so their definition of happiness is perhaps simpler and narrower than the way a progressive might define theirs. You know - if happiness is defined as "marrying a husband who provides for me and having two wonderful children," and that’s what you get, then great. But if happiness is defined as "marrying someone who inspires me, feeds my soul, and grows as a person with me for a lifetime, with an amazing sex life, a beautiful home, travel and adventure, living up to our political ideals and changing the world, oh and having a great career and happy kids too, and publishing my novel on the side," then perhaps it’s easier to feel dissatisfied even if you end up with the x, y and z that would make your traditionalist neighbour feel quite pleased.

That’s no cause for coming up with weird conclusions about how being progressive makes you miserable, as though being progressive were something one should avoid for the sake of good mental health. As the article says, "A progressive-minded woman doesn’t just have higher expectations; she’s more likely to pay attention to every setback, and see her husband’s failure to listen at dinner as evidence of larger inequity."

Yes, but from there to concluding that progressive women "worry endlessly over choices," as though all feminist wives were neurotic nitpickers who clock their husbands’ listening time and count how many times they do the dishes, or who agonize at every turn - "Do I take the kids to soccer or go to the business meeting? If I buy Pizza Pockets for dinner, does that make me a bad wife? If I make gourmet, am I being a pushover?" - it seems like quite the leap. I mistrust the language at play here, and the evident assumptions that progressive means unnecessarily critical. The underlying message seems to be that there’s something silly about women who have high expectations, as though those expectations were to blame for their dissatisfaction. Seems like another way of "blaming the victim" - you know, like saying it’s the women’s fault for being grumpy about things instead of the world’s fault for not changing fast enough.

Now let’s go a step further and question the premise of the study. If the study specifically looked at people who are married, in my mind that right there will bias the results. Or at least give an incomplete picture of what’s actually going on among women in society. Feminists have been criticizing the institution of marriage for generations now, and as a result, new forms of relationship have become much more common.

In fact, I did some research of my own on last summer for a discussion with a friend from San Francisco with whom I love to have ridiculously geeky e-mail conversations about all kinds of sexuality-related stuff. (I knew I was gonna use this one day!) It’s obviously not data that can be compared easily to the stuff used in the study, if for nothing else than the study was done in the States and I got data about Canada. But for the purposes of discussion, it’s interesting nonetheless. I spent several hours poring through the Stats Canada site and the Quebec population statistics site, and came up with the following…

In Canada, the crude marriage rate per 1,000 population was 4.7 in 2002 – apparently unchanged from 2001, which was a record low. The Canadian population in 2004 was 31,946,316, and of that, 15,540,151 were married, which works out to just shy of 49%. As for Quebec, the population in 2003 was 7,487,200, and of that, 59.2% are married. But the numbers are a little misleading in the provincial case – in Quebec, 17.1% of people are in what they refer to as “union libre,” which generally means common-law marriage, and in this province all you have to do is live together for 6 months and you’re considered common-law (unless you pretend to be roommates on your taxes). So “real” marriage is actually only at 42.2%. Also, in Quebec at least, the younger people are, the less likely they are to marry at all – for people aged 20-24, 86% of men and 81% of women who are “en couple” (i.e. partnered) opt for common-law, whereas when you get up to people who are aged 65 to 69, that drops to 8% and 6%. In other words, if it weren’t for the government’s decision that six months of sharing an apartment is tantamount to marriage, a huge percentage of young people wouldn’t be married by anyone’s definition, including their own.

How is that all relevant here? Well, basically, it looks like the US-based sociological study in question looked at women’s happiness within the institution that’s the least likely to appeal to progressive women, and used that data to come to conclusions about progressive women rather than to come to conclusions about the institution. What I’m getting at is that more and more women - quite possibly progressive ones, though likely some more traditional ones too - are opting not to get married at all, but to find their happiness in other forms of relationships. So if you take marriage, i.e. one of the less appealing options for women of a progressive mindset, and look to see how the ones who’ve gone for it anyway are doing, of course it makes sense that they may not feel entirely happy with things.

I wonder how different the study’s results would have been if its scope had been widened to include women within relationships in general, rather than specifically married ones. I also wonder - though of course once again, this really doesn’t fit in with the US model - how different the study would have been if it included queer couples. If you persist in looking at marriage as though it exclusively applied to two-gender couples, that leaves out a not insignificant portion of the population whose marriages by definition don’t fit into the model of gendered relationships that this sort of study attempts to investigate. How would the data be different if it included people who fell outside the "traditional" male-female pairing? Would progressives be happier there? I can only wonder.

It seems to me that the idea of a single relationship model being sufficient to satisfy the vast diversity of people out there in the world is ludicrous in the first place. To me, this study only serves to confirm that idea, rather than to make any more deeply valuable commentary on the correlates between marriage, feminism and happiness on a larger scale. I personally find it very inspiring to see people coming up with new forms of relationship everywhere I turn - inventing their families, loves and lives from scratch based on what fits best for them, rather than trying to fit those families, loves and lives into a pre-established framework. I’d like to think these people are some of the happiest of all - not because of success in emulating an existing model, but for the very reason that they’re exploring new grounds and doing things that work for them.

George Bernard Shaw once said, "The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable man persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore, all progress depends on the unreasonable man." Switch the hes and mans to shes and womans, and this seems to apply quite perfectly to the situation at hand.

However challenging it may be, I hope to keep trying to adapt the world to myself. And I hate to break it to the sociologists, but that eternal process of trying makes me so fucking happy it’s almost decadent. One might almost call it unreasonable.

Dan, Simone and Judith

Wednesday, March 22nd, 2006

You know, the problem with this blog thing is that when I’m highly stimulated to write, it’s generally because there’s lots of interesting stuff going on, and when there’s lots of interesting stuff going on, there’s not much time for writing about it. Hm. Must chew on how to resolve that one.

Anyway, in the meantime, I wanted to post a quick link to today’s Dan Savage column. I don’t always like what he has to say; while I’m totally down with the straightforward approach to talking about sex, and shrink-talk in sex columns often just makes me want to hurl, Mr. Savage occasionally ventures too far into the realm of the bitchy to be appealing to me. But he can also be darn sharp. This particular column is really great, particularly the very last bit, in which he asserts, quite neatly, that "the religious right hates heterosexuality as much as it hates homosexuality," and encourages a "straight rights" movement to emerge. I know he’s being at least somewhat tongue in cheek, but honestly, it’s a pretty good idea! I don’t think it’s nearly as relevant north of the border at this time (and believe me I hope it never becomes that way) but our neighbours to the south could use the rallying point.

On a totally unrelated note, did you know that Concordia University’s venerable Simone de Beauvoir Institute, a.k.a. the Women’s Studies Department’s digs, used to be a lesbian bar? I knew this little factoid already, but only recently have I been informed of what to read if I want to get more information on it. I’m assuming the neon lights, suspended cieling, grotty carpet and putrid couches are more recent additions to the décor, of course. Although the thought of a hot 1950s butch-femme couple making out on the very couch upon which I first read Julia Kristeva might well have gotten me through a class or two, had I known at the time I was studying there. Anyway, I may end up digging around to find the historical articles by Line Chamberland so that I can summarize for y’all.

Oh yes, and on another unrelated note (is this a theme?), did you know that Judith Halberstam, a.k.a. Jack, a.k.a. the author of the hilarious comment about the DILDO party in Bitch Magazine which I mentioned a few posts back, will be lecturing here in Montreal in a couple of weeks? How hot is that? Not only that, but she’ll be talking about our local heroes, the Lezzies on X. Fuck yeah. I was there at the Lezzies’ first concert ever - they performed at a Meow Mix. The second I recognized the lyrics to my all-time favourite Melissa Etheridge song, "Like the Way I Do," wafting out over the crowd in a very fucked-up and sexy-sounding electronic blur layered over a crushing beat, I couldn’t tell if I was having a spontaneous hallucination or truly hearing something that amazingly sharp. I remember going up to the stage between sets and yelling at the lead singer, "WHERE CAN I GET YOUR CD? YOU GUYS ROCK!" and the answer was a rather sheepish, "UM, WE DON’T HAVE ONE YET!" Of course that was a long time ago, and they have since opened for big-name bands and become rather a sensation. But I still have a copy of their first disc, which was produced in small enough numbers that the art was individually done by hand. Anyway. So a kick-ass butch dyke/drag king/brilliant academic such as Halberstam doing a scholarly analysis of a kick-ass local dyke band… and me having the very exciting honour of interviewing her for Dykes on Mikes (it’ll air on CKUT during the show on Monday, April 10)… cream, jeans, you fill in the rest.

Here’s the info for anyone interested in attending. See ya there.

"Queer Covers: Big Mama Thornton, Lesbians on Ecstasy and the Recycling of Political Culture"
A Lecture by Judith Halberstam, USC, English and Gender Studies
Thursday, April 6th, 6pm, Leacock 132, McGill University (855 Sherbrooke West)
Organized by QPIRG McGill and Queer McGill
Abstract
In this paper I want to explore the meaning of the "cover version" in relation to two very different queer cultural performances. In the first example, I consider the life and career of the very masculine and very tough blues singer, Big Mama Thornton, and I look at the process by which Elvis Presley records a song first popularized by Big Mama Thornton but turns it into a hit. While the history of Elvis has often been told as the history of cultural theft and in terms of the absorption of Black cultural influence into white cultural production, only rarely is this process described in terms of the "straight" absorption of "queer" cultural influence. Thornton, in her mode of dress, her affect, her phrasing and her bluesy performance can easily be categorized as queer, and her effect upon Elvis, his masculinity, his way of dancing, his singing, has yet to be assessed. In my second example, I turn to the Montreal based Lesbians on Ecstasy, a band who have turned the cover version into a sensibility as well as a mode of politicization. I want to use Big Mama Thornton and LOE to examine the relations between "lesbian" identity,  in-authenticity, imitation and performance.

%#!&* and CinéKink - March

Monday, March 20th, 2006

I am so fucking pissed right now it’s not funny. I just spent an hour writing a brilliant piece (you’ll just have to take my word for it I guess) and my %#!&*ing Internet decided, at the very second when I hit "post," that it would be a good time to lose its connection. For about five seconds. Which means I lost the whole %#!&*ing thing! Argh! I suppose that’ll teach me to copy my posts into Word documents before I commit them to the vagaries of Internet reliability. When this sort of thing happens, I want to percussive-maintenance my PC into tiny little pieces, which of course won’t help the situation. Arrggh! It’s not fair!

OK. Enough ranting. I will post the following announcement and then go, I dunno, kick my fridge or something.

Hope to see you this Sunday!

***

The CinéKink film and discussion series aims to be
challenging and stimulating to all - from staunchly
vanilla to total SM newbie to seasoned kinkster! Every
last Sunday of the month, we screen an SM-related
film. Each screening is followed by a one-hour
discussion facilitated by Andrea Zanin and Jacqueline
St-Urbain.

People of all backgrounds, genders and persuasions are
welcome. Come for the cheap flicks, stay for the
quality conversation! Bring a friend, bring your mom,
bring your lover. Don’t forget your curiosity, your
opinions and your open mind.

Where? Café Blue Monday, 4424 Wellington, Verdun.
Metro De L’Église. Street parking available. Note: The
café will be serving food until 7:00. From 6 to 7, all
perishables are 50% off. The special is very popular
so it is advised that you arrive by 5:30 or 6 if you
want to make sure to get a meal or snack!

When? Sunday, March 26. Doors open at 6:30 p.m.,
screening starts at 7:00. There will be a short break
followed by a discussion for up to 90 minutes.

How much? We ask for a $5 contribution to cover the
costs of space rental, equipment and movie
acquisition. This is a not-for-profit event.

What? “Sick: The Life and Death of Bob Flanagan,
Supermasochist”
Directed by Kirby Dick, 1997

Film synopsis: This film is a documentary about writer
and performance artist Bob Flanagan, who was renowned
for his sadomasochistic performances until his death
from cystic fibrosis in his early 40s.

Excerpt of film review from moviepie.com: Let’s start
out by getting a few things right out in the open
before we go any further. The subject of this
documentary is Bob Flanagan, a "super-masochist"
performance artist. Bob likes his mistress to punish
him by, oh, doing things like shoving a tennis-ball
sized orb up his ass, or threading needles through his
chest skin. One of his more famous art pieces was a
series of photos called the Wall of Pain, that were
close-ups of his facial contortions as he got spanked
(or was it whipped?) from behind. And yes, there is an
infamous scene in this film that shows Bob nailing his
penis to a 2 x 4 piece of wood. Still interested?
Alright, then!

The catch of the film Sick: The Life & Death of Bob
Flanagan, Supermasochist is that (per the title) Bob
is dying. Flanagan has cystic fibrosis—a disease that
causes the afflicted’s lungs to repeatedly and
relentlessly fill with fluid, causing the person to
drown slowly. Most people with the disease apparently
to live only to their teens or 20s, but Bob beat the
odds, surviving to 42. Director Kirby Dick’s film
follows the last few years of Bob’s life. It’s almost
like this documentary is Bob Flanagan’s ultimate
performance piece.

personals, but not up close

Sunday, March 19th, 2006

I put a profile up on alt.com a few weeks ago. If you’re not familiar with the site, basically it’s a personals site for people who are interested in the kinkier side of things.

I will admit that my expectations weren’t high. I pretty much did it as an experiment, just to see what might come my way. Online personals are generally not high on my list of good ways to meet people. I know of several different couples who have met online and fallen in love, so I’m not saying it never works. What I am saying is that I think you often have to sift through a ton of people who aren’t compatible for the possibility of a few potential matches.

If you simply hang out with like-minded friends or get out there and do things you enjoy, you’ve sort of pre-filtered the kind of people you’ll be encountering to at least some extent. And if you meet someone in person, you can pretty much tell from your chemistry whether or not you’re interested in pursuing something, at least most of the time in my experience. But online, you’ve got these strange little advertisements to deal with - snippets of personalities, photos, and ten-line descriptions of people’s preferences. I don’t know about you, but I have a much harder time figuring out if there’s chemistry or not when I’m looking at a snapshot and reading a checklist. I’m much more interested in flesh-and-blood people right in front of me than in someone’s dolled-up version of a personal resumé designed to put their best face forward.

So I made my alt profile pretty blunt. I told people not to bother sending me photos of their cocks and tits - that eliminates at least half the site’s members right off the bat. I wrote down that I’m actually not looking for anything at all right now, but that if they sent me a note that piques my interest you never know. I wrote that I’m already madly in love with someone, so anyone who contacts me should be poly-minded. I deliberately said very little about my kink interests. For me, if the energy is right, I’m a very experimental girl, and if it’s not, nothing’s gonna happen. So I don’t see how knowing whether I prefer whips to paddles or hot wax to needle play is really all that relevant (especially since the answer is "all of the above and much more, depending"). I explained that for someone to interest me, they need to engage my mind first. It reads like the profile of a cynic, really, or at least someone who doesn’t suffer fools easily. In short: it makes me sound like a hard-ass. Maybe even mildly bitchy.

Needless to say, I wasn’t expecting that to be particularly appealing to hundreds of horny kinksters cruising the ads.

But y’know, I’ve been pleasantly surprised at the results. So far, most of the people who have contacted me have been pretty articulate and sincere. Despite the fact that I checked off my interests as being in women, trans people and same-sex couples, quite a few single men have sent me messages. But they’ve mostly been quite respectful and unassuming. I’ve received several offers of foot worship, two from domestic servants (one in Spain - lovely idea but a bit far to travel for a pedicure or to get the laundry done), one from a dominant man somewhere in Kentucky who wants to explore the other side a bit (except that he looks way too much like one of my uncles and that’s just creepy). Very interesting. I’ve received notes from a few trans women, all of them very sweet but so far none of them really up my alley. (Where are the trans men and the dykes? Not on alt, it would seem…)

Most interestingly, I’ve gotten quite a few little notes from people who aren’t actually interested in meeting me, but who just wanted to say it was refreshing to see a profile that wasn’t all about "I want to be your dirty slut while you pound my dripping hole" or whatever. Definitely not what I expected!

That being said, I also haven’t come across anyone I think is going to be my next soulmate. I don’t think it’s fair to expect a computer server in California to match me up with the person of my dreams, so I highly doubt such a person would ever magically appear in my inbox anyway - but so far, at least, no miracles to report.

I wouldn’t quite call myself an alt.com convert yet, nor have I fundamentally changed my opinions on the personals. I can’t help it; real life is just much more appealing than the one here on my screen. But perhaps I’m beginning to see a glimmer of why some people like to meet this way. If you cut through the bullshit, apparently there are real people underneath the snapshots and checklists. Whaddaya know! It’s not perfect, but maybe it’s got more potential than I’ve been giving it credit for!

definition of a sex geek

Friday, March 17th, 2006

I’m trying to finish up a book edit due tomorrow, and my brain needed a 3:45 a.m. break. So I thought, gee, I wonder if there are any other sex geeks out there. And guess what? There are!

Hold that thought. First, maybe I should give a bit of background.

Sometime last year, I was hanging out with a couple of poly friends of mine. For some reason, there seems to be a disproportionate number of geeks in the poly community. I mean, Linux-loving laptop-toting code-crunching Star Trek-watching long-haired quinoa-munching big-word-using geeks.

I am not one of them. Except for the big word part. OK, and I like quinoa.

So here we were, conversing about the nature of geekdom. The central question was: how does one define a geek? Was it the traditional geekeriffic range of interests? We determined that no, not necessarily. Well then, what? My friend W, insightful and delightful gentleman that he is, proclaimed that a geek could be defined as anyone who took their interest in a given (presumably intellectual) field or subject matter to some degree of obsession. "You know," he said that fateful day, "Like you, Andrea! You’re, like, a sex geek!"

In one fell swoop, all those years of feeling left out - incurably nerdy and yet not the least bit interested in the tech-and-Trek combo, and with the libido of a football team to complicate things just for fun - just melted away. I was in the club! I was a certifiable geek! I mean, certified geek. Of a rather odd variety, I suppose, but a geek nonetheless. You should have seen the grin spread over my face. I took the precious gift of geekdom, wrapped it in cotton and tenderly placed it in the corner of my mind for future reference (or was that reverence?).

It’s true, mind you. He wasn’t just being kind to me, poor little marginalized ungeek that I was. I just never thought of that particular twist on the term before. But I think I qualify. If ever you find a board that certifies this kind of thing, please do let me know. In the meantime, my reasoning looks something like this: I have an enormous library of sexuality-related books, most of them read (by me!), many of them scholarly; I’ve been studying sexuality in various academic capacities for a good ten years (oh god, that makes me feel old), and if the plans for an MA and PhD work out, I’ll be at it for at least another ten; I’ve been doing sexuality-related community work for about seven years now; I’ve been writing about sexuality here and there all my life (and in the past few years, actually getting published more and more often); the bulk of my vacation time in the past five years has been spent at sexuality conferences all over North America; and I’ve been teaching sexuality workshops for two or three years now myself. A couple of years back, I got frustrated with trying to fit all this disparate experience into one CV, so I decided to create a "sex CV" - which is now five pages long in 8-pt type (more than double the length of my professional one). And to top it all off, I have an honest-to-goodness book fetish. I mean, books about sexuality make me randy, and not only while I’m reading them. I just have to smell them. Yes, I am serious. Plus, I wear glasses! That counts for something, no?

When I made the terrifying leap into the world of freelancing last fall, I was surprised and gratified to see that a lot of the work that started to come my way was not only in my existing professional capacity as a writer and translator, but also in the realm of my sexuality work. People started hiring me to teach and write about sex. And it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it’s a lot more fun to get paid to teach a group of people how to properly swing a flogger or provide active listening services to queer students than it is to translate someone’s financial reports. It’s even more fun when I get to hybridify my two loves, and get paid to write, translate and edit material about sexuality. Sweet!

To help my budding business along, I decided that business cards were in order. But rather than just print up a card about my language services, I figured I might as well have a card for the miscellaneous pile of sexuality-related work I do as well. What to write on it?

You guessed it. Now I am a card-carrying sex geek. My pal W got a good laugh when I gave him my shiny new bright-red business card, with "Sex Geek" in bold type under my name, complete with a picture of a stack of sexuality books artfully posed with a flogger, a wrist restraint and a pair of glasses, and topped off with a stiletto heel. (It’s nice to have talented friends who do photography and graphic design!) Of course I told W it was all his fault.

So there’s the story. I also recently purchased the domain name sexgeek.ca, and am working to create a site there (with the help, of course, of T, my wonderful life-partner-cum-tech-support-provider). I will post more news when it’s ready!

Anyway, tonight I decided to check out the territory and see if there are any other sex geeks out there. I kept my search to the first five pages of Google, though I know there are probably lots more that I haven’t come across this way.

In fact the pickings were surprisingly slim. Well, maybe not. Anytime you do a search with the word "sex," you are bound to get a slew of pr0n sites, and this was no exception. But I also found a few other cool things:

http://www.sex-geek.com/sex-geek.html - this is a well-written and seemingly quite popular site written by a happily married (to a man), 51-year-old former lesbian separatist and former erotic massage provider somewhere in California. Interesting reflections on aging, though at 51 she hardly qualifies as "old" in my books.

http://www.darlingbri.co.uk/sexgeek.htm - this is a site by a UK-based sex geek who also seems to be the standard kind of techno-geek. Seems to also be a dyke, or at least write for a dyke magazine.

http://postmodernsexgeek.blogspot.com/ - This chickie seems really cool. She does podcasts and everything, and writes articulate rants about the state of the sexual union in the US of A. Nice!

I also discovered that Seska, an acquaintance of mine, linked to this here blog in one of her own recent blog posts. How cool! She’s a very funky girl, rather sex geeky herself, and darn cute too. Check her out at www.seska4lovers.com if you want to have a look-see.

Anyway, I think it’s cool that there are others out there, and I’m sure there are many more even if they don’t use the specific term. I don’t feel quite so freakish when I see this!

I truly have no idea where this sex geek thing is going for me. Am I taking the first few steps to building a sex-geek empire? Will I take over the world, or just teach a few workshops here and there? Will I be on Oprah one day (ha!) or stay in the shadows of relative obscurity? Will I publish a book someday, maybe several, or simply write a half-decent blog for a few months?

Who the hell knows. Maybe a few years from now, there will be a big box of bright-red business cards in my recycling bin. Maybe I’ll be educating the masses in a tenure-track position at some funky university somewhere with four magazine columns and a yearly speaking circuit, with a very harried service submissive to take care of administration work and rub my poor tired feet after a long day at the "office."

All I can say is that if things keep going the way they have been, it’ll be a fun ride, no matter where it ends up!

bubbling and rippling

Thursday, March 16th, 2006

Just got home from an Edgy Women cabaret. It was a very interesting show - a bit choppy (not sure why they didn’t have an MC), but the performances were pretty darn cool. The hottie girl with the bubble butt and the hula hoop was definitely a big hit with me (and with the embarrassingly loud gang of dykes I was sitting with). My on-and-off tango teacher, Mary Ann Lacey, did a really neat performance piece about tango and solitude - and hey, any performance that features great jazz singing, funky tango, trilingual monologues and many pairs of very sexy shoes is fine with me.

But I think my favourite piece of the evening was the first one we saw - a film by a woman named Jenn Goodwin. I wish I had written down the title. It was a short documentary about a local dancer named Elizabeth Langley, who apparently founded Concordia U’s contemporary dance department and has been teaching dance for 50 years. She is now 70 years old, and she still dances. And we’re not talking a little shuffle with fuzzy slippers and a walker. This lady dances! Wearing nothing but her underwear and a leather jacket, or perhaps a black dress out from which her boobs seem determined to spill. And damn, she is hot! I mean, no joke, this girl has a kick-ass bod and an attitude to match. And she can move like nobody’s business - y’know, all that weird contemporary-dance shaking and jerking and leaping around, the kind that looks totally random except that it can’t possibly be random or they’d end up with whiplash. The kind that gets people’s muscles toned so that every move they make is a ripple, and even just standing still they look like a panther about to pounce. Yeah. At 70, Elizabeth Langley has still got that thing goin’ on in spades.

No offense to bubble butt girl - she was excellent. But the septagenarian stole the show tonight, in my books. We need more old ladies like that. And Elizabeth Langley, if ever you read this - you can ripple my panther anytime.