Sex Geek

At lunch, I read an article in Bust magazine about the child-free movement. Then I left to spend the afternoon at the Spawn’s second birthday party. It made for an odd contrast, but one that actually makes quite a lot of sense.

I’m 28 years old. I’ve never wanted kids. Contrary to some of the ravenously anti-child folks who seem to populate the child-free movement, I don’t hate youngsters - I just don’t want them. I spent an enormous amount of time taking care of my three brothers before I left home; I babysat from age nine to age 16, sometimes as often as five nights a week. Nowadays, I hang out with my three young female cousins, currently age 8 to 15 (I call them the Blonde Posse), read stories to the Spawn (he’s getting very sharp about knowing when to turn pages), and roughhouse with my submissive’s 4-year-old daughter, whom I’ll call Princess Firefighter. I haven’t changed a diaper or put a kid to bed in a few years, but I’m game.

But as for having my own little Zanins? No thanks. I’m young enough to say "you never know," and I have friends who are hitting 40 and only now beginning to think they might like to procreate, so there’s no guarantee I’ll stay this way. But at this time, like for the past 28 years, I can’t foresee a future in which I will want to birth a bundle of joy. Much like with most people in my world, I love hanging out with ‘em, but that doesn’t mean I want to take care of one night and day for the next 20+ years of my life. Seems like a pretty reasonable choice, no?

The article, by Judy McGuire, reads, "Considering that the decision to squeeze out a living, breathing human being is a bigger deal than simply saying ‘no thanks,’ you’d think that the question wouldn’t be ‘Why aren’t you having children,’ but ‘Why are you?’ Yet we unfruitful types are the ones who have to defend our position, and no matter how sensible our reasoning may be - and not liking kids is a pretty sensible reason not to have them - we’re still treated like freaks."

I’m with her up until the "not liking kids" part. Indeed, childbearing is a huge decision, much like marriage, and it seems to me that "because everyone else is doing it" is an even stupider reason for doing either of those things than it is for wearing fad clothing or jumping off the proverbial bridge. And all the more crushingly stupid because parents are themselves the most likely source of both "No, you can’t wear lipstick just because your friends are doing it!" and, fifteen years later, "So when are you going to give us grandchildren? Mavis’ daughter just had twins!"

But disliking children? Certainly, not liking kids is a good reason not to have any, but why on earth would you not like kids? I can see not wanting to have them around in particular situations (at a grown-up film, a bar, a space in which you want to have explicit conversation about potentially disturbing topics, etc.); I can see not wanting to get into the messy stuff like feeding and diaper-changing of the very young, if you’re squeamish; I can see that some aspects of some children might be hard to handle, like excessive loudness or crying or brattiness. But these are, respectively, about appropriate context (there are lots of places I wouldn’t want to hang out with my parents, but it’s not because they’re adults!), garden-variety squeamishness, and the individual personality characteristics of specific children. Hardly grounds for generalizing about an entire group.

I can also see not finding kids to be particularly stimulating - if the only kind of interaction you enjoy with other human beings involves high-level intellectualism, for example, you may find a conversation with a five-year-old to be a bit tedious. To each their own. But I’d like to believe most of us are capable of interacting at different levels. I’m not one to actively seek out the company of children with any particular gusto, but I find their little minds quite fascinating when I do have the opportunity to hang out with them.

I was discussing this with one of the Lesbian Moms, E, this afternoon at the Spawn’s birthday shindig (while wearing a very fetching feathered party hat, natch), and she made the very intelligent point that she has a problem with anyone who dislikes an entire group of people based on a given characteristic. She said, "How can you say you don’t like kids? They’re just people. You haven’t met all of them!" I hadn’t quite thought of it in such terms before, but it makes a lot of sense. 

I think what creeps me out about the whole child-free movement twofold.

First, we have the idea of defining oneself by what one is not. Much like as a queer I don’t walk around labelling myself "non-straight," and as a vegetarian I’m not a "non-meat-eater," as a person who has thus far chosen to remain without offspring, I feel no particular need to take on the label of "child-free" or join a movement to protect my rights not to have kids. And much like I’ll tell people to fuck off if they direct homophobic slurs at me, or educate a clueless restaurant chef about what "vegetarian" means (no, iceberg lettuce and sliced tomato is not a meal; no, I don’t eat fish; how about we start with a can of chickpeas…), I have no problem correcting people who try to convince me that deep down I really want to pop out a mini-me.

It’s about making the choice that works best for me among all the choices available, not about feeling hatred or anger towards those who’ve made a different choice. It is truly amazing how many people see my choices as "just a phase" - and my only defense is, maybe they’re right, but I’ve been hot for women, disgusted by meat and uninterested in pregnancy for my entire life, which makes for a damned long phase. Maybe someday I’ll stop eating girls, start eating animals and develop an unfamiliar urge toward maternity, but I kinda doubt it. They can hold their breath if they want; it’s not really my problem. As usual, I will do as I damned well please.

The second piece of the child-free movement that makes me leery is the considerable proportion of it that really does seem founded in the intense hatred of children. According to the article, "The childfree (don’t call them childless!) movement is divided between those who don’t really mind breeders and their offspring, and those who rabidly loathe them and resent having to live in a world seemingly geared to accommodate them. The more militant antibreeders gather on such sites as LiveJournal’s Childfree Hardcore, and refer to parents as ‘moos’ and children as ’sprogs’ and ‘crotch droplets.’"

I dunno, but that just feels pathological to me. Not wanting to have one of your very own is one thing, but passionate hatred of all creatures small? Yikes. There’s something disturbing and unhealthy about the phenomenon. Anyone who wastes that much energy being hateful has gotta be pretty unhappy. I mean, don’t people have anything better to do than sit around hating each other?

Sure, I’ve had my share of annoying experiences where parents have let their children behave badly or have themselves behaved with an offensive degree of entitlement or lack of consideration. The article, for example, recalls an incident where a parent changed their baby’s stinky diaper on the dinner table at a fancy restaurant. OK, that’s just gross! But how is that the kid’s fault? That’s more like a totally-inconsiderate-parent problem than an evil-child problem. How is this different from an inconsiderate person butting in line at the grocery store or displaying boorish table manners?

Another piece of the article that bothers me is the following: "Even those who want children but haven’t yet had them know how quickly you lose friends once they start to breed; suddenly you and your best buds have nothing in common anymore."

Uh… OK, that’s a weird one. I guess if your friends are really one-dimensional or obsessive, maybe that could be the case. But if they’re able to retain a sense of perspective on life, why would the addition of a kid change their personalities? That hasn’t been my experience.

Certainly, once my high school friends all started to move into lives that bore a creepy resemblance to their parents’ (office job, car, house in the suburbs, dog, church wedding to unappealing guy, kid on the way) we stopped having much in common, but that was about changing circumstances demonstrating the extent to which their life values didn’t really match up with mine - not about them turning into slavering baby-worshipers.

Since then, I found queer family, and some of those queer family members have kids, and that doesn’t make them any less interesting. In fact there’s the added bonus that their kids tend to be interesting, too. Today, for example, I was treated to the Spawn’s joyful warble "Hooray for gay!!" while he was happily garbed in lederhosen and multiple bead necklaces. He loves to play with toy trucks, but he also loves to pretend they’re babies and nurse them to health after he involves them in head-on collisions. Wowie. What a guy. And Princess Firefighter has earned her nickname for a good reason - she apparently wishes to be both of those things when she grows up. Way to go, queer parents! It’s "free to be, you and me" in action.

Which, in the end, is kind of the point. The world has plenty of room to accommodate the child-free and the child-endowed, and plenty of room to have some kid-only spaces (or kid-and-parent-only), some kid-free spaces and some everyone-welcome spaces. Why should this be a source of conflict at all? If everyone would just chill out and accept the validity of all kinds of different child-related choices, we could stop bitching about each other and get back to enjoying the company of whomever we choose. In my own queer little world, that chosen company happens to include the Spawn, Princess Firefighter and the Blonde Posse, and even though I don’t plan to add my own offspring to the pile, I’m lucky to have these ones to hang out with.

Especially since someone else gets to change the diapers.

In the midst of my L Word marathon the other day, I saw the episode in which God-Des and She come and perform a live rendition of their kick-ass song "Lick It." I’ve got a copy of the song on a mix CD someone made for my roommate, and I’d noticed that the lyrics were suspiciously lesbian in nature. (God-Des describes herself as a "white dyke Jewish rapper from Wisconsin." Yee-haw!) But seeing a hot butch dyke and a curvy femme perform kinda jogged my memory, and got me thinking.

I know I’ve harped on the differences between queer sex and unqueer sex in this blog before, but I’m realizing there are even differences in the way queer women artists talk about sex in their songs. I’m totally not imagining this! It’s so fascinating!

Okay, so let’s take two examples of songs in which queer sex is discussed to a fair degree of explicitness. We can even compare and contrast with similar unqueer songs, just for fun.

For starters, here are some choice bits from the "Lick It" cunnilingus lesson (in order, but with intervening lyrics removed; full lyrics here.)

***

Spread out her lips before you kiss
You wanna make sure that you find the clit
Lick a little bit then move it all around
Lick it all over ’til you hear her make a sound

Then you know that you found a good spot
Tease it and touch it, but not a lot

Don’t be bland - better act creative
Be on top of your game and be innovative
Experiment a bit and change it up
Lick a little lower then put it in her butt

Then you can place a finger inside
Make sure that it’s wet and easy to glide
If she’s really wet, and your finger slides,
Try to put another one inside

Let your mouth do the talkin’ and your tongue do the walkin’
Work on your cardio, there is no stoppin’
Get through the pain if your jaw locks
You gotta be a soldier and don’t stop

Lick her and finger her at the same time
Feel around the G-spot seek and you shall find
Rup on that spot, lick on top
You got to be coordinated, show her what you got

Once you got that down, put your other hand around
I have to be blunt and not profound
Put your wet pinky finger in her asshole
You’re in three different places - it’s time to go

***

Okay. So here we have a very explicit lesson in carpet-munching. (Please note that although I’m not mortally offended to hear it or anything, I personally don’t like to use the word "pussy" - which I generally find to be both gross and inaccurate - but that’s a discussion for another day.) I think even here we can see some noticeable features that set this song apart from an unqueer take on the topic.

First of all, the song exists in the first place. And while I’m sure other people have written odes to cunnilingus, perhaps even full instruction manuals set to music, I’ve honestly never heard one done by a dude. It’s hard to forget the stalwart 20 Fingers tune from a few years back - also entitled "Lick It" (lyrics here) - with the ever-so-catchy refrain "You gotta lick it, before we kick it, you gotta get it soft and wet so we can kick it." But even there, in a song clearly produced from a rather sex-positive perspective, the most explicit lyrics are as follows:

***

Before you can stick and move
You gotta grin in the groove
You know men are dogs
So go bark up somebody else’s tree
Here boy come and get it

***

Not exactly instructional or precise, and more than a little rude to the provider of the carpet-munching efforts. Same problem with the Khia song "My Neck, My Back," which does an admirably insistent job on convincing the "nigga" in question to do the deed (lyrics here), but doesn’t say much about how the guy should go about doing it right. The closest it comes is:

***

First you gotta put your neck into it
Don’t stop, just do, do it
Then you roll your tongue, from the crack back to the front
then suck it off til I shake and cum nigga

***

Much like the 20 Fingers tune, it basically set up giving head as being a precursor to "real" sex (penetrative penis-vagina intercourse), and the Khia tune has the added bonus of a healthy dose of nasty competitiveness between women: "Hoes hatin’ niggas watchin’ me / (…) / Try me nigga I’ll make you see / them bitches aint got shit on me."

God-Des and She, on the other hand, have come up with a full-on how-to, and a pretty darned impressive one at that. And here’s the kicker. They take the time to explain from the get-go that lovemaking skills don’t come naturally; there’s no showing off, no setting up head as a form of foreplay, no meanness about anyone else’s desires or talents, and not even any of the typical hip-hop-style insistence at the rapper’s own studly skills.

***

There’s rules and regulations to pleasin’ a girl
Goin’ downtown could really rock her world
But you gotta make sure that you know what you’re doin’
There’s a map down there that you gotta start learnin’

***

And then, at the end of the song, having described in great detail how to do it right, they let prospective lickers off the hook if it doesn’t all turn out the way they want it to: "If your girl can’t come this way / I guess she’s not ready, come back another day."

I mean really. How much more perfect can a sex song get? It manages to be totally raunchy, fully instructional, and completely supportive of the eater and the eatee all at once, even in case of failure to produce/achieve orgasm. Wow. Depth, breadth and sensitivity… I dunno. I’ve never heard anything quite like it in standard heterocentric music.

Let’s take another example. More queer hip-hop: Scream Club’s song "And You Belong to Me," full lyrics here. Punk Planet describes Scream Club as "Arguably the next queer punk rock rap legends." While their site contains no bio information, they’re basically two young white chicks with huge blond mohawk/mullets, and if I remember correctly they’re from Boston.

"Belong" isn’t as much about explicit sex per se as it is about a relationship in which a lot of hot and interesting sex takes place, but nonetheless, it serves to make my point. Check out the lyric bits here:

***

I wake in the morning, take off your britches
Dress you like a French maid and watch you do the dishes
Girl, you look delicious, let me snap some pictures
Better yet lemme grab the video camera
You are professional, so far from an amateur
You know what you’re doin, you know what I like
And you know that talking dirty surely gets me excited

Like when I ask you who’s my bitch,
Baby girl I gots to know who I am fuckin with
Like do you need it, do you deserve it
Then get on your knees and prove that you worth it
Work it girl, like you makin a livin
Gotta make me believe you can take what I’m givin

We can get dressed up and go out to the movies
And I can pretend to be the feminine one
Get all dolled up in stocking hose with the runs
Cuz it’s more whorish, it’s more fun
Getting slutted out to the maximum
And you can be the greaser with the heart of gold
Give me your jacket when the weather gets cold
Take me out to dinner in the middle of the night
Waitress wanna know "are you feeling alright?"

Cuz you try to order, but you’re barely able
Cuz you’re feeling my handiwork underneath the table

***

Okay, so they’re playing with D/s, role play, public sex, butch/femme gender switching, voyeurism and a bunch more. Fun, ya?

I don’t know too many songs that really go quite so far in hetero-land - which isn’t to say they don’t exist, I just can’t call any to mind. Okay, so Justin Timberlake says "See these shackles, baby I’m your slave / I’ll let you whip me if I misbehave" in "Sexy Back" (lyrics here), which is pretty hot, except there’s no particular girl in mind. In fact he finishes up the song with a bit of competitive posturing against other men: "You mother fuckers watch how I attack / If that’s your girl you better watch your back / Cause she’ll burn it up for me and that’s a fact." Attack? Fighting over the ownership of a woman who can apparently be stolen? Sigh.

In the interests of comparison to the Scream Club song, I also checked out the lyrics to Bob Dylan’s "You Belong to Me" (here), which seem about some weirdly romantic and vaguely non-consensual form of ownership; same with the Kiss song "Tonight You Belong to Me" (here). Meh. Nothing sexy there.

I think part of it is that beyond the whole freaky sex thing, the Scream Club tune contains a whole lot of lyrics contextualizing the relationship in which it all takes place. Check it out (again, snipped for brevity):

***

If you ain’t on my mind I better check my pulse
I like the way we communicate as adults
But wrestle like we was a couple of kids
When I pin you on the ground and tickle your ribs
And you slap my face and I slap your booty

we stayed up late to talk about how great we are
As a couple we must be the perfect blend
Cuz we go together like multivitamins

In this crazy world we got each other

But if nothing else you got yourself
But somebody like you’s probly good for my health
My own personal private slice of heaven
Depend on me and I won’t leave you guessin’
No stressing, only minimal drama
One day soon I’ll introduce you to momma and dad
So I can show you off as the only thing that stands between me and lost
And all it cost was a nominal fee of due respect and honesty
Why would I ever wanna flee from this anomaly?

***

Honestly, the only het song I’ve ever heard that approaches this kind of relationship description is Depeche Mode’s "Somebody" (full lyrics here). And it’s Depeche Mode, fer crying out loud. ‘Nuff said.

***

Though my views may be wrong
They may even be perverted
She’ll hear me out
And won’t easily be converted
To my way of thinking
In fact she’ll often disagree
But at the end of it all
She will understand me

Someone who’ll help me see things
In a different light
All the things I detest
I will almost like
I don’t want to be tied
To anyone’s strings
I’m carefully trying to steer clear of those things

***

Wow! He wants a real person and a real relationship! Yummy. And sadly exceptional in most music.

I guess what I like about both God-Des & She’s and Scream Club’s tunes is that they place the idea of raunchy, explicit, adventurous, mutually pleasurable sex within the context of real relationships between real people, with respect and acceptance and effort understood as part of those relationships.

Is this specifically queer? Not necessarily. And while I’ve got a fairly decent range of musical knowledge and tastes, I’m hardly an expert in the field - doubtless some Rolling Stone CD reviewer could shoot my post full of holes by calling up a few dozen songs with lyrics that match these criteria from all over the orientation and gender spectrum. I’d love that!

But for the moment I’ll stick with my premise - there is a particularly queer take on sex and relationships that, while it may not be common to all queers, is certainly characteristic of a queer culture in which it’s presumed that hot sex and full equality between partners go hand in hand rather than being an afterthought at best.

Amazing what a good night’s sleep, some divine dark chocolate, and a whole whackload of The L Word season 3 can do for a gal’s mood. Seriously - a few episodes’ worth of obsessively ogling Moira/Max and it’s kinda hard to remember anything other than gah, is s/he ever fucking gorgeous. Wwwwoooowww. And the scene where Max fucks Billy (the most excellent, and beautifully well-named, Alan Cumming) on the Planet countertop? "I like kissing while I get fucked"?? My inner tranny-boy had a hard-on as big as a baby’s arm!

OK, OK, enough with the slavering, drooling admiration. It’s really not in my nature to get movie-star crushes, even less so to get TV-star crushes. Then again, it’s damned rare that someone like Daniela Sea turns up on the tube. It’s my dyke duty to support such strides in casting practices, no? It’s even worse that I already know how many degrees of separation I am away from her - I recently made the acquaintance of a charming Las Vegas lezz who’s friends with Sea’s girlfriend. Gawd, statistically speaking, we’ve practically slept together by now. I’m going to try not to think about that too much though, lest I turn into a stalker, if only in my own mind.

Anyway, I could go on (and on) but really, I should probably focus on the local genderbend scene.

When it comes to gentlemen de drag, I remain steadfastly loyal to the Mambo Drag Kings for their pioneering performance art. But in the last five years or so, they all went an’ grew up, leaving a noticeable void in their wake. Now, though - drum roll please - after years of the occasional cutie in a mustache, it would seem that our fine city is finally home to a new crop of kings.

It’s a little far in advance, but the buzz is already starting to build for the February 17 edition of Meow Mix, which will feature a studly lineup of dashing drag kings. Nat King Pole has a set of pipes to pop your eardrums, marvy mobster Mitch Mitcham will make you melt, and Gary Dickinson will rock your socks off. Gary, by the way, looks dang good in a ten-gallon hat - he went all cowboy on a few of us last weekend at a karaoke bar, and pulled off a stunning rendition of the classic Meatloaf tune Paradise By the Dashboard Lights with my pal Proud Mary, who wasn’t the least bit shy about hamming it up in the spotlight with him even though they’d just met. Yee-haw. Anyway, the details:

***

**KING SIZE AT MEOW MIX** FEB. 17
La Sala Rosa, 4848 boul. St-Laurent. 9pm, $10

On February 17, the drag kings of *KING SIZE* are taking over the MeowMix, in their first full-length feature Drag King show! This Drag-stravaganza will include: a Facial Hair Booth, a Drag King peep show, and for one lucky audience member, a chance at a Total Drag King Makeover!

*KING SIZE* is Montreal’s newest Drag King troupe, featuring: Nat King Pole, Gary Dickinson, Billy King, Johnny Cox, Bo Stallion, Mitch Mitcham, and their Queens! With emcee: De Anne Smith!

More info:
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/dragkingsmontreal/
http://www.mimproductions.org

***

In other performance art news, I got the most bizarre and hilarious premiere invitation in my inbox today. Lord knows who put me on the guest list, but I must say, when I saw an e-mail entitled "Lesbian Vampires of Sodom!!" - well, let’s just say it got my attention. Turns out there’s a très campy play launching next week. Just in time - had the premiere been one day later, I’d be off in sunny San Francisco again, but luckily I can make it.

(Sunny SF comes the first week of February, or rather, I come to it. Believe you me, there will be plenty to blog about - it’s amazing, there’s so damn much going on in that city for kinky queers that even though I picked completely random travel dates, my calendar is almost solidly booked with hot events, and I haven’t even reserved a B&B yet!)

Anyway, back to the lesbian sodomite vampires. Of course the first thing I did was call up my dear friend J and invite her to be my date. I was laughing so hard on the phone she actually asked, "Have you been drinking?" (Answer: does lemonade count? Sorry, I’m feeling square these days.) I have no idea if this here play is going to be any good, but its writer comes with good credits, so why not give it a shot? I’ll post once I’ve seen it, in case you’re the sort to wait on a recommendation!

The details:

***

With everything from voracious vampires to innocent ingenues, from virgin sacrifrices to chorus boys, Vampire Lesbians of Sodom is sure to give you something to get your blood pumping in the (un)dead of winter.

Vampire Lesbians of Sodom chases the bitter rivalry between a vampire and her victim-cum-vampire through the ages; from a botched virgin sacrifice in ancient Sodom, through the Roaring ’20s gossip-rag tug-o’-war between Hollywood superstar La Condesa and rising “it girl” Madeleine Astarté, to Las Vegas in the 1980s where down-on-her-luck La Condesa and headliner Astarté bury the hatchet and band together to quench their undying thirst for chaste ingenues.

Needless to say outrageous costumes, farcical twists, silly song-and-dance, and ribald hilarity abound. The New York Times compared Vampire Lesbians to The Rocky Horror Picture Show, calling it “contagious; [the] kind of campy show that transforms everything it touches [and] attracts audiences that could take over and finish the performance if the cast walked out,” adding, “Nothing escapes the demolition by laughter… The audience laughs at the first line and goes right on laughing at every line to the end.”

Info at http://mainlinetheatre.ca/vampirelesbians.htm

***

Speaking of San Francisco, my friend G (who lives there) sent me a note on behalf of his friend R (who also lives there), who’s running the most intriguing tour I’ve ever heard of. It would seem she’s a dyke of Indian origin, and she wants to bring queer women to India to explore the scene there. What a fucking cool idea! I imagine it’d cost more than I could afford, but the concept is amazing… certainly a lot better than showing up solo in India and yelling out "where are the lesbiaaaans?" in the airport.

The details:

***

Cardamom Affair - Tours to India for Queer Women, Nov 2007

Experience India with a small group of queer women, with your own Indian lesbian tour guide

India - palaces and pickles, monsoon and marigold, dung and dust, colors and corpses - is a cruel unrelenting place of ineffable sweetness. Much like life itself. Come and experience India with one of her daughters who calls Bay Area her home but India her country, her blood, her poetry, her love and her nightmare. Plan for an adventure of a lifetime. Call 510.763.1343 or email cardamomaffair@gmail.com for more information and reservation.

Key Features:
- Be part of a small queer women only group with an Indian lesbian guide.
- Meet and exchange view points with members of Lesbian Groups in India.
- Enjoy intricacies of Indian culture, art, architecture, food and spirituality.
- Shop the bazaars and fairs for traditional jewelry, textiles and crafts.
- Your own personal translator and body worker.
- Flexible tour lengths with additional travel options to suit your wishes.

***

And that’s all for today, folks. It’s 2:33 in the morning and I’ve watched an entire season of The L Word on my computer screen in the past 24 hours. I think my ass has been permanently reshaped to bear a disturbing resemblance to the contours of my desk chair. Which means it’s time for a hot shower in a candlelit bathroom with a nice little shot of white chocolate liqueur to warm my belly before bed, where I plan to fall asleep to pleasant dreams of sodomite vampire dykes, personal bodyworkers and heartbreakingly sexy TV-show butches and tranny boys. It might be freezing outside, but it’s sunny in San Francisco, hot in my shower and cozy in my bed. Just as I like it.

Every time it happens, about a half hour later, I feel this sense of regret.

All the things I could have, might have, should have done differently. The ways I could have reacted. The noise I should have made. The perfectly cutting words that could have come out of my mouth, if I had a list of perfect lines to pull out of my ass like they always do in the movies. Or the slow-motion, super-accurate punch I could have delivered, connecting oh-so-sweetly with the bone of his nose, the little crunch a brief bar of music to my angry ears, the blood a mark, a reminder of just how unwelcome his actions were. Preferably a lasting one.

The lights would have come on. The music would have swelled, and then gone silent just in time for me to deliver my line, or my ass-kicking karate move. The audience would have looked on, aghast, and then (depending on my mood) cheered for me, or pelted him with stones, or maybe both.

But often - maybe two-thirds of the time - when some Asshole man decides he’s going to impose his Asshole sexuality on me, my reaction is to walk away. No fuss, no muss, get me the hell outta here, and the hell away from him. Self-preservation, I suppose; expediency. Problem solved quick-time. If I’m not there, he can no longer cause me discomfort.

Occasionally, when walking away has been less immediately available to me, or when the latest Asshole’s manoeuvre has caused me to feel particularly threatened or angry, I’ve been known to raise my voice at him. Y’know, the simple kind of thing that never makes the good scripts: "Get the fuck away from me!" or "Don’t fucking touch me!" The stuff of by-the-book B-movies at best, not Oscar-winning dramas.

In tonight’s instalment of the ongoing (read: lifelong) saga of being a female-bodied person, the man playing Asshole chose to sit a few seats away from me in a movie theatre. (How à propos.)

Hearkening back to past episodes, there was a bit of foreshadowing: he was previously sitting in some other part of the theatre, and he waited until the lights were out and the film started before changing seats to sit closer to me in an otherwise empty row. This is exactly the kind of classic technique Assholes often go for: first, increase proximity to the intended victim. Cue the creepy music and the inner monologue. Hmmmm… strange man, alone, all of a sudden getting closer than necessary. Is there something wrong here? Maybe. Too early to tell.

The next move, as per the usual script: he starts looking over my way. Repeatedly. Of course by this point my attention is about 2/3 on the film and 1/3 on tracking whatever moves he’s making, without actually looking at him. Yay for good peripheral vision. I think it’s a survival skill.

Still, I’m a young woman who generally fits within North American standards of acceptable beauty; men look at me. One gets used to it. No need to assume this one’s an Asshole. But the spidey-senses are tingling, and I definitely pay attention to those. They are rarely wrong.

In short order, he skips la-de-da to the punch line. He starts to wiggle around in his seat. Once or twice, he might be getting comfortable. Constant motion? Not so much. I notice a slightly odd hand motion out of the corner of my eye. Okay, okay. Full assessment time.

(The following evaluation takes place over about 30 seconds.)

- Physical risk: He’s not going to try and physically assault me. There are too many people around, and if that’s what he had in mind, he would have sat closer; that’s what they usually do when they’re actually aiming for physical contact. No, this Asshole is a "wanna-watch" type. He wants to put on a show, not put the moves on me. In the worst-case scenario, though, he’s not that big and I’m currently not suffering from any sort of debilitating injury. In a pinch, with adrenaline to help, I could probably take him.

- Group dynamics: He’s alone; no buddies to egg him on. You definitely don’t want ‘em in groups. Then again, that depends on the kind of group. Groups of drunken Assholes, bad; groups of sober non-rowdy guys good, because they’re more likely to be disgusted by a lone buddy’s bad behaviour, or maybe it’s just that they want to be seen as the Big Hero or at the very least the Dissenting Gentleman when they call off the Asshole and apologize grandiosely on his behalf. In this particular case, though, the solo status is kind of a given; Assholes generally don’t attempt to put on this kind of show when their friends are around to watch. Their intention is to impress (?) an audience of one.

- Mental stability: Fully stable. This guy’s no slobbering idiot. He was discreet up until the wiggling - not a lurching mental-hospital escapee. He’s done this before, knows exactly what he’s up to, doesn’t seem particularly nervous.

The unknown factor in tonight’s episode is - cue more unsettling creepy music - when did the plot begin to hatch? Did he come to see a flick, spot me alone in the row, and decide on the spur of the moment that I was to play co-star in his non-consensual fantasy? Did he notice me at the box office, and decide then to pick the same film as me? Did he come to the movie theatre with the express purpose of jerking off a few seats away from a lone woman, and I happen to have been the first one he came across? I mean, was this a long-drawn-out premeditated masturbatory plan, or was it a jerk on a lark? Does it really matter? Not so much, in truth - but I always feel curious about such things. It’s an eternal question: when you’re an Asshole, how much time to you spend thinking about ways to be a bigger and better Asshole? And depending on that answer, how the hell do ya sleep at night? I mean really - what’s the mental process? But I digress.

- Context: Public, but quiet. This isn’t a metro (for once - metros do seem to be a favourite hunting ground for Assholes) or a bar or a city street, where some sort of outcry might feel appropriate. This is more like a library, where an outburst on my part would potentially annoy everyone. It’s already enough that I’m being annoyed; no need to inflict it on everyone else.

- Conclusion: He’s not going to stop wiggling until he either jizzes in his pants or gets my direct attention, or both, and I’m not so keen on either of those things happening. I’m also not so keen on creating a major disturbance - no particular reason, just not in the mood. Sometimes I’m keen to humiliate Assholes by loudly drawing a great deal of public attention to their bad behaviour (read: telling them off so that people a block away can hear; laughing at them, etc.). However, tonight, I just want to see the rest of this movie; I don’t intend to let some Asshole’s behaviour ruin my evening’s entertainment.

- Plan of action: 1. Don’t look at him. That’s very obviously what he wants, so that’s very obviously what I’m not going to give him. 2. Screw cap back onto bottle of juice. Put in purse. 3. Pick up purse, jacket, hat, scarf and popcorn. 4. Stand up, walk about ten rows up until I spot a row with someone sitting in it a few seats away. 5. Sit at the outside end of the row, so that he can’t follow me and sit near to me without climbing over either her or me first.

Post-mortem: Well, it worked. So fucking predictable - I could have told you the dénouement before the show even began. I settled into my seat. The movie continued. Three, two, one… Asshole gets up from his seat and exits the theatre. The End.

Now, here’s where the first twinges of regret started kicking in. They didn’t swell to full force until I was in the metro heading home, when I realized that I might actually have done the world a better turn by standing up and screaming out, "Put your fucking pecker back in your pants, you disgusting piece of shit!" Because then not only would Asshole have been humiliated, but the entire theatre would have seen an alternative example of how to deal with Assholes. A public service, if you will.

Alternately, I could have exited the theatre myself, flagged an employee, and asked them to call on one of those ubiquitous off-duty cops that hang around the AMC theatre. The cop could have arrested the guy, who would have been a sitting duck - if he left the theatre, I’d have gotten a clear view of his face; if he stayed inside, I could have pointed the cop directly to where he was sitting.

With the strategy I did adopt, I ended up seeing the rest of my film in peace… but the Asshole got away with his behaviour. No consequence aside from blue balls. And even then - who’s to say he didn’t walk out of the theatre only to walk right into another one and find another unsuspecting victim upon whom to impose his Asshole desires? In a sense, my lack of direct action may have contributed to creating a situation in which some other girl had to deal with the exact same problem I avoided. Fuck. Now that’s an unpleasant thought.

So that’s it, then? Some Asshole decides to whack off in my general direction, and somehow I wind up feeling guilty for not going Wonder Woman on his ass? Somehow I end up carrying the psychological weight of protecting womankind from him and his ilk? How the fuck does that make any sense?

I’m a smart enough gal to know it’s certainly not my fault that Assholes exist, and it’s even less my fault that they behave in ways that are hurtful to me and my fellow women. But for some reason, as an empowered feminist type, if I avoid Assholes instead of counter-attacking them (in a non-masturbatory fashion, needless to say), I end up feeling like I’m somehow contributing to maintaining the status quo of a world in which their behaviour remains unpunished. Y’know. If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem. If you’re not with us, you’re against us.

The fact that some random Asshole with his disgusting Asshole behaviour can send me into a spiral in which I end up feeling like I’m a poor excuse for a feminist for not stopping him, all logic be damned - now that’s a violation. Almost more so than his horrid wiggling was, and that of the countless other guys who’ve wiggled and leered and shuffled and touched and grabbed and held and pushed and torn and hit countless women in countless movie theatres and metro stations and restaurants and bars and kitchens and bedrooms. And unlike countless women, I’m one of the lucky ones who’s never been sexually assaulted or raped. I’ve just dealt with a whole lot of Assholes.

It kind of makes me want to hear the music swell, feel the bone crunch. On days like this, instead of frowing at slogans like the one I saw on a punk girl’s jacket a decade ago - DEAD MEN CAN’T RAPE - I kind of understand them. If I stop and think, I don’t condone them. But tonight I stopped and thought, and as a result some Asshole walked out of a movie theatre to go and inflict his fucking pecker on some other girl, some girl who wasn’t me and might not pick up her popcorn and change seats. Maybe he sat closer to her than he did to me. Maybe he found her in the fucking parking lot later on. Maybe he fucking hurt her instead of just - "just!" - sitting a few seats away and stroking his disgusting hard-on.

And that, I’ve gotta say, makes me want a lot more than the perfect fucking line or the smoothest karate move. It makes me want blood.

Gawd, I love teaching.

I’m writing from my mom’s laptop in Ottawa, where I led a workshop at Venus Envy this evening before coming to hang out with my brothers. It was my "intro to bisexuality" thing, which I always find fascinating because it brings me into contact with such an incredible range of people - this time, about 1/3 men and 2/3 women, including everything from a guy who defined himself as "more straight than gay" (and who wore a fetching shade of nail polish and was quite dutiful about neatly stacking all the books I brought along to pass around once they got to the end of the circle), to a married male/female BDSM couple figuring out their own bisexuality and how to arrange their relationship as a result, to a lesbian in a relationship with a bi woman who’d never been with a woman before, to a couple of student-activist types identifying primarily as queer, to a woman who’s consistently cheated on her male partners by having one-nighters with other women. And relatively speaking, this was a fairly homogenous group compared to others I’ve led.

I guess it’s just that the breadth of human sexual possibility remains inspiring to me, especially when it can bring together a wonderfully diverse group of people whose lives may otherwise never have had anything in common - except they’re all facing questions of identity, of relationship choices, of disclosure, of desire. The common factor is that if they’re coming to my workshop, they’ve been thinking about these things a great deal, and that in and of itself makes them interesting - regardless of what their own conclusions are. I always come out of these workshops feeling humbled and inspired and fortunate to be given the opportunity to see these cross-sections of humanity and get an up-close view of some very intimate pieces of their personal situations.

Just yesterday, I co-facilitated a workshop on negotiation skills for the Unholy Army (my leatherdyke tribe), along with two wonderful kinky women. It was a fascinating process to develop a workshop together with them, and a great experience to co-teach with two skilled presenters, all of us taking slightly different tacks on the material and combining our perceptions and areas of expertise to create a picture of all the options people have available when they’re trying to both figure out their own kinks and create satisfying kinky interactions with others. I came out, again, with the same feeling - privileged to be there, humility at the experience. Sometimes I think I get more out of teaching than the people who are technically on the receiving end.

On that note, I gotta go to bed. Happy weekend, warm blankets - life is good.

Doesn’t it suck when you have to put your politics into practice?

No, not all the time, I know. Sometimes it’s a no-brainer. For example, it’s really no hardship for me to walk the talk when it comes to queer politics, approaches to polyamory, vegetarianism, trans politics, anti-racist stuff, and so forth. But I recently got a message through my alt.com profile that’s got me hemming and hawing in a way that’s quite unfamiliar.

Let’s back up a bit so I can give a bit of context. I started dating (guys only, at the time) at the tender age of 11, and starting then I have pretty much consistently gravitated towards people at least five to ten years my senior, sometimes up to 30 years older than me. I’ve never sought them out; it just seemed that when I felt chemistry with someone, there was a strong chance they’d turn out to be a fair bit older.

As a teenager I frequently had the experience of engaging in some sort of conversation with a man, watching things turn pleasantly flirtatious, and possibly even start dating… and then, when he found out my age, watching him blanch and run in the other direction.

It used to royally piss me off. Don’t get me wrong; I understand some of them were probably concerned about statutory rape charges. I think there’s a lot of paranoia about that, considering how infrequently that sort of charge is laid (especially against white heterosexual couples). I also understand they may have been engaging with me under the assumption I was in my early twenties and were completely taken aback when they found out I was not quite (or just) out of high school. It probably threw off their self-perception. "Am I a pedophile?"

The answer, in my mind, was always no. No, you’re not a pedophile because you connect with someone who happens to be younger than you. It’s an age difference, not a pathology. Someone who cruises the playground at the local elementary school is a pedophile. Someone who has adult conversation with a younger adult (or a grown-up, past-puberty kind of teenager) is not a pedophile, especially if they didn’t know there was an age difference when the connection happened and didn’t seek that age difference out in the first place. Bullshit age-of-consent laws be damned - a 20-year-old who makes out with a 15-year-old is not a rapist, fer fuck’s sake, unless he’s a rapist plain and simple, in which case the age difference is definitely not the issue.

I have a strong suspicion of anyone, at any age, who seeks people out with a specific age criteria. How is someone’s age a predictor of their compatability with you? If you’re 50, who’s to say the available 35-to-60-year-olds in your vicinity will be interesting to you? And who’s to say a 70-year-old or a 25-year-old wouldn’t be? Same with a 20-year-old who won’t date an 18-year-old, or a 30-year-old. It just seems really silly to attach a number to the kind of person you feel you might connect with. Political convictions, values, maturity levels (which I firmly believe are unrelated, or only peripherally and occasionally related, to age), trustworthiness, respect, possibly life interests and goals, maybe certain standards of physical attraction (and I don’t believe those are hard and fast rules either, but I digress) - these things make sense to me as relationship criteria. But year of birth? Why would that make a difference?

I think for some people it’s about societal pressure. Not to point fingers categorically here, but I do also think that’s more of a factor in straight heterosexual relationships and relationship-seeking. When society has mapped out a path for you (high school, possibly college or university, career, marriage, house, kids, mid-life crisis, retirement, old age, death) and everyone around you for miles has pretty much followed it, it can be pretty hard to break out of the mindset that this is how things must proceed. In other words, if you’re 30 and you’re at the "career and marriage" stage of that path, clearly it makes no sense to get into a relationship with someone who’s at the "midlife crisis" stage or at the "starting college and thinking about possible careers" stage.

But of course, that only applies if you see your life in really concrete stages - whether you see it that way explicitly and consciously, or in ways that are unconscious and ingrained from the way you were raised. (Hence why I think the "set pathway model" holds less of an influence on queers; we’ve already had to re-evaluate what our romantic lives will look like compared to the norm.) If you make a break with that mindset and decide to live your life in the way that suits you best - which may end up looking a whole lot like the assumed model, but is just as likely to end up looking waaay different - then you open up all kinds of possibilities for connecting with people at all kinds of life stages, and for moving around in those life stages on your own terms, and creating your own. Needless to say, as the stubbornly independent sort, I like this option just fine.

In the past few years, the people I’ve been involved with have spanned a pretty decent age range, from 20 years older to 5 years younger. It’s all been perfectly in keeping with my politics; connections on the basis of shared attraction, of course, but at a deeper level, on the basis of shared values and life philosophies. Of particular interest to my political point is the 5-years-younger person, who is exceptionally intelligent and has really strong values that resonate very well with mine - proof positive that I’m not fetishizing older people, but rather that I really don’t care about age at all. Right?

But just a few days ago, I got a message in my alt.com account from a 19-year-old who’s interested in meeting up with me… and I blanched and ran in the other direction.

I feel like such a hypocrite!

OK, so I haven’t actually answered the e-mail yet. But I feel stumped. I could make up an excuse - they didn’t send a photo, they don’t totally fit the criteria laid out in my profile, I’m busy these days, I’m not really interested in getting involved with anyone new right now unless they completely blow my fucking mind, whatever. It would all be true.

But the deeper truth is, I know my reason for not wanting to engage in a conversation is the number attached to this person’s profile. 19 feels freaky to me. I barely ever dated teenagers when I was one, and now I’m pushing 30. This person is three years younger than my youngest sibling. They’re… just a kid! No?

Argh! Except that the whole reason I’m even thinking about this is because I’m at least somewhat interested. Not in any huge big way. I really, truly don’t have the energy to be getting into a new relationship right now. But I could totally have coffee with someone and torture them once or twice in the aim of mutual enjoyment. This person is articulate, respectful, and writes with no spelling mistakes. I’m impressed, considering some of the boneheaded and poorly written messages I get through alt.com.

So what does it mean that the number 19 is bothering me? Am I asking the stupid pedophile question just like those guys did years ago when I was pulling my 16-year-old seductress routine? And if so, shouldn’t the answer be a resounding "no," particularly since I really didn’t seek this person out? Of course, of course. Can I not think back to my own irritation when people let my own number get in the way of enjoying what was otherwise a good connection? Can I not remember the reason for my own politics - the alienation and frustration I felt when people became wilfully blind to who I was, even to who they already knew me to be, as soon as they heard what year I was born?

And yet… 19? Yikes. I just don’t know.

Maybe it’s the impersonal format of the Internet that’s the problem. Maybe if I met this person in a fetish club somewhere and we got to talking, I’d be completely unfazed to hear the number if the conversation was good enough. I’d like to think so.

I’d like to think a lot of things, but maybe I need to do some more actual thinking and figure this one out.

I have this terrible habit of leaving town for a few days and having tons of brilliant blog post ideas while I have no access to a computer, and then getting back and forgetting them all before I get the chance to write them. I swear, I found the cure for cancer in a hotel in some remote area of the Outaouais with no wireless access, and I forgot it just this afternoon on the way back.

That said, I do remember the way my friend J, who travelled with me and was the source of much fabulous conversation, defined dyke sex in comparison to pseudo-lesbian sex. It has to do with farting.

No, seriously. I know that sounds kinda gross, but she has a point. She was explaining how a lot of (though not all, of course) heterosexual women seem to have sex in ways that are basically about performing for the male gaze first and foremost. Even if that gaze is not actually there, it’s a sort of mode many will slip into during sex - a sort of "being on" where the main idea is to look good and convey the impression of enjoyment, with the true enjoyment coming from the experience of pleasing the actual or assumed watcher.

Dykes, on the other hand, actually fuck. J encapsulated the difference with, "A dyke will let out a fart during or after a good orgasm," if her digestive system is so inclined of course. And it doesn’t really matter if her hair gets messed up or her boobs fly all over the place - the emphasis is on pleasure.

Y’know, that would go a long way towards explaining why pseudo-lesbian porn is so incredibly boring and silly to actual lesbians, whereas the straight dudes just eat it up. I know, I know, I’ve made this point a dozen times over and sideways, but I guess it just drove it home in a new way. I mean, when do you ever see a porn star fart? Unless you’re buying really specialized stuff, of course.

It would also go a long way towards explaining how weird I’ve felt on the rare but memorable occasions when straight girls have hit on me. I’m always totally taken aback when someone starts the performance with me - casting me, by default, in the role of the male, or I guess male equivalent. It’s a type of flirting that leaves me completely confused. Like - well, it’s intriguing, in some oddly scientific way - but how exactly does she expect me to respond? Am I supposed to buy her drinks and make suggestive comments so she can giggle and blush, and eventually try to make out with her in her doorway so she can push me away and say, "Why don’t you call me sometime," the understanding being that I’ll have a hard-on straining in my pants, and that I’ll pursue her with wining and dining until she finally gives in and lies back on the bed missionary-style while I screw her without ever trying to find her clit?

I’ve watched the dance a million times, taken part in it even (in the "girl" role) when I was a lot younger and had just begun the journey of figuring out what this sexuality thing was all about. I have no part in it now. I know the steps but the whole performance is flawed, and inevitably leads to the same conclusions every time, where nobody is really satisfied, and then they all chalk it up to genetics. "Men are from Mars, women are from Venus." My ass. They just need to pick a new piece of music and try a different dance for once.

So of course the idea of entering it from a queer place, from the other side of the equation, is no more appealing. Flattering, perhaps; amusing, the way it’s amusing to play a role that’s completely opposite to your personality for fifteen minutes during theatre class. Erotic? Hardly. I might perhaps see it as intriguing from a political standpoint - usurping the power of the patriarchy or something - except that the political appeal of following in the footsteps of people I believe have got it all backwards is pretty darned limited.

So there it is. Clear as day. I want a woman who will get her hair messy, let her boobs fly all over the place, and fart like a motherfucker anytime she feels the need, whether she’s already had an orgasm (or twelve) or is on the way there. I like women who want to fuck, who fuck, and who enjoy fucking in all its messy glory, rather than women who try to convince me they’re enjoying themselves. Because really, where’s the fun in faking it until you make it? Why not just make it already?

How cool! I love a good debate. I started to respond to the comment left after my last post, but it ended up being so long it’s better off as its own new post. So check out the comment after "a trip down memory lane…" before reading any further.

***

On the point of censorship (dealt with in Lie #3), Farley’s article reads:

"Some liberal gay newspapers “censor” ads for the KKK, but still publish personal ads for readers looking for Black, or Latino or Asian sexual slaves. Racism seems to be more acceptable to them if it is eroticized. Somehow, if eroticized, the humiliation, sadism and torture of racism and anti Semitism become acceptable. Torture always has a sexual component to it. If a radical feminist were to challenge the same newspaper on the issue of sadomasochism, we’d be called “censors.” The whole issue of censorship is used to intimidate us and silence critical dialogue about sadomasochism."

I think if this particular point is going to be addressed in depth, which I didn’t really do in my original post, there are a few things that bear mentioning.

First of all, Farley is conflating things in ways that just don’t hold up. Sadomasochists don’t simply go around eroticizing racism and anti-Semitism. That conjures up images of SMers standing around and watching, say, a person of colour getting beat up on the street, and whacking off to it. That would be pretty heinous, and while I’m sure there may be a few twisted fucks in the world who actually do such things, they’re hardly the same thing as a leatherman who likes a bit of role-play while he’s getting a blow job.

Some aspects of BDSM - because kink if anything is more mind-bogglingly diverse than even I can imagine, and I have one helluva good imagination - involve the eroticizing of consensual power exchange, the emotional and physical charge that can occur when someone willingly gives up control or takes it in a sexual situation. Within that portion of BDSM practitioners, there is a tapestry of "flavours." Some people like to do power exchange in bed, with no trappings beyond sheets and skin. Some people like it with bondage or pain. Some people symbolize it with collars or rings or titles or behavioural protocol. Some people get in the mood by donning traditional "fetish gear," things like leather and latex. And some people like to dress up and do role-play.

Of the portion who like to do role play, once again there’s a further tapestry. Every imaginable power pairing can occur - from the cliché (teacher and student, daddy and boy, drill sergeant and recruit) to the silly (pirate wench and captain, cop and speeding driver), even to the inanimate (people who like to be treated as furniture). One rare sort of pairing involves role-play along racial lines. Such play doesn’t even have to happen along the actual racial lines of the players involved; it’s the erotic charge of the role play that makes the difference. And in one of the very rare pieces of writing I’ve found on the topic, the author states that in her experience, the number of people of colour who want to do racial role-play is vastly higher than that of white folks (she is a person of colour herself).

It’s not that I don’t understand how race play could be upsetting to some. Certainly it is. To be honest I’m not sure I’d be comfortable watching it take place - though in my years in the SM world I haven’t ever seen it happen so you never know. But to equate a tiny portion of consensual BDSM role-players with actual Nazis or slave-owning plantation operators is not only inaccurate, it’s dismissive of the very real, very non-consensual and very un-erotic suffering that the victims of racial oppression have actually endured.

On top of all this, there’s an underlying assumption that all BDSMers must be white and non-Jewish (and thus, of course, ignorant of racial politics), or if they’re Jewish or a person of colour, they must be somehow brainwashed or otherwise traitors to their own cause. This position, of course, devalues their choices in much the way this same brand of feminism devalues women’s choices to practice BDSM - profoundly disempowering and condescending. Luckily, groups like the Kinky Jews and Dark Connections - BDSM for People of Color - have come together to create community for themselves in addition to taking part in the wider BDSM world. (The latter’s history section is totally fascinating, by the way - well-written and thorough. Their links page too.)

Second, Farley has a very odd perception of racially specific personal ads. Of all the personal ads you see in your average paper, the number of racially specific ones in general (on both the "seeking" and "advertising" ends) far outnumbers the racially specific ones looking for sexual slaves - in fact in my many years of paper-reading I don’t think I’ve seen even one. Of course I have no data to support this, but I read the back pages every time I pick up a paper, especially in cities other than home - that must count for something? I get the sense she may be talking about one or two ads she saw once, rather than anything resembling a phenomenon - especially given how unusual race play is in general within the Scene.

Third, she’s doing a remarkably crude job of comparing an ad for a sex slave - which, presumably, would only be answered by someone who was interested in such a scenario - with an ad for the KKK, whose ads are likely to either outright encourage mass racial oppression or recruit people who want to encourage it, most certainly without the consent (let alone active interest) of any racial minorities. I doubt I need to explain the KKK is not a benevolent sex-positive organization, and that it inflicts a helluva lot of very non-consensual damage on people.

Fourth, and most specifically about censorship, she intimates that these papers would accuse radical feminists of censorship if they challenged them on sadomasochism. Conveniently, her statement is hypothetical for starters, and even then she doesn’t explain what she means by "to challenge." If a group of radical feminists wrote a respectful letter of disagreement to the editor, it would likely get published - I’ve seen lots of such letters on many sides of many thorny debates, SM included. Disagreement is kinda the point of the letters section in most papers, most of the time. If, on the other hand, they took the tactic of committing acts of property damage or defaming the paper - tactics that some radical feminists have used to make their points, sometimes most viciously against other feminists with different views - then it would likely be compared to censorship, and quite justifiably. (This happened not long ago in Montreal, when a fringe group of feminists defaced a bunch of posters advertising the international sex workers’ rights conference held here in May of 2005.)

So really, it all depends on how the question is approached. If she could actually point to a paper that refused to publish a dissenting view on SM on principle, this would be another conversation. (Unless of course it were a paper targeted at a BDSM community readership, in which case I think that choice is entirely up to them, unlike in a general-purpose community paper.)

Poor comparisons and hypotheticals aside, I’m all for critical dialogue as a general rule. The problem is that the vast majority of what I’ve read that calls itself "critical dialogue," when it comes to SM, comes from people who either misunderstand or misrepresent the basic idea of what SM actually is. It’s like trying to talk about ethical choices of clothing brands and manufacturers with someone who believes the very existence of clothing is oppressive, or talking about your relationship troubles with someone who has a hate-on for your partner. It doesn’t end up feeling like dialogue at all - more like the same old misunderstanding and prejudice we’ve heard a hundred times before.

Even the idea of "peaceful persuasion" is creepy - I mean, someone can phrase it as politely as they want, but if they think I’m a rapist, oppressor or potential murderer because of my consensual and mutually desired sexual practices, I’m not going to be very interested in hearing their peaceful persuasion. Much like I’m not interested in entertaining a friendly conversation with an evangelical Christian who’s going to try convincing me I shouldn’t be queer. Too bad, buddy - you’ve lost me before you’ve even begun your speech. The question is not up for debate.

If someone were able to start such a conversation with the message that they understand SM is one form of sexual practice among many, that they’ve genuinely taken the time to see what it’s about and see how many people do it in non-damaging ways, that they know that it’s not considered a mental illness anymore, that they understand the basic differences between SM and abuse, that they might not engage in the practice but that they respect others’ choices to do so, etc., that would be a good start. Even if they had some leftover misconceptions or questions, or places that made them uncomfortable - we’d still be off to a good start. Then we could enter into dialogue about the specifics of certain acts, the way some particular practices may be questionable, the way some people might be vulnerable to the less scrupulous people that hang out in the BDSM community (like in any community), or the politics of representation. And I’d be much more interested in hearing their criticisms.

Debating my right to exist and feel the desires I feel, and act on them in consensual and non-damaging ways with other people who feel the same way, is not going to get anyone very far with me because it devalues my side of the debate as part of the very premise of it, and possibly even devalues my right-minded ability to enter such a debate. I would never presume to tell anyone what they should or shouldn’t do in bed, no matter what their political convictions and turn-ons might be, as long as it’s consensual - and I don’t appreciate anyone trying to do such a thing to me. On the other hand, debating the ways a community is constructed, the codes of conduct we follow, the places we need to improve or change - now that’s a conversation I can get into. Unfortunately Farley doesn’t hold up her end of it.

A couple of days ago, on an international BDSM list I’m on, someone posted the link to a 1993 article entitled "Ten Lies About Sadomasochism" by Melissa Farley. It was such a textbook example of reactionary anti-sex feminism that I read the whole thing through and was completely fascinated. It’s a fairly quick read - I totally encourage you to go take a look. I’m going to unpack it here a bit but it’s long enough that I’m going to post only highlights. (This post is based on my on-list response, in case it sounds repetitive to anyone who’s on the DivaMidori list.) It is, by the way, focused on lesbian sadomasochism, which makes it particularly meaty in my little world.

It’s funny - when I find these things I consider them to be almost like buried treasure. Clearly I disagree point by point with what Farley and her brand of feminism have (perhaps more like "had") to say, but it’s such an intriguing glimpse into a sex-related thought process that’s so completely alien to me, I can’t help but enjoy the trip. Much like the book Against Sadomasochism, edited by Robin Linden et al. Classic!

These two texts are some of many, many examples I’ve seen of skewed thinking about S/M on the part of a person who clearly hasn’t actually taken the time to look past the "shocking" images and learn about the nuances of what’s really going on. This kind of thing used to bother me, but now it just kinda bores me - yeah yeah, another person getting all tied up in knots (or not, as the case may be!) about something they don’t really understand. Oh well. They can masturbate with a non-penetrative sex toy while listening to Helen Reddy, while I spell my name in needles on someone’s back and then ass-fuck them to the sound of loud multiple orgasms. To each their kinks. It’s unfortunate that they choose to be reactionary instead of
considering the deeper meanings of things, but it certainly doesn’t
make them right.

Since Farley makes it really easy by laying things out in a ten-point list of "lies," I’m going to give a few responses to the points. Do go and read the article, though, if you want to see the meat of her arguments, some of which I’ll include for context, but not all because of length.

For starters, some general criticism: the piece reads like a tabloid article. People addicted to SM! Murders only whispered about but not openly acknowledged! The goal of SM being total annihilation! All SM including verbal abuse, and all sexual power dynamics extending to the relationship outside play! Oy. Hardly the stuff of considered, clear-headed analysis, works cited list notwithstanding. Fun from a pulp-novel point of view, mind you.

1. Pain is pleasure; humiliation is enjoyable; bondage is liberation.

Part of the reason that we are vulnerable to this lie is that many of us were raised with religious notions that punishment is love and that suffering is redemption. We’ve learned to “consent” to subordination, even become culturally enthralled by it.

True; some of us have been deeply damaged by repressive religious notions. Interestingly those are often the same notions that say we’re not supposed to enjoy sex or be queer - but Farley doesn’t seem to be telling us we aren’t really queer, that lesbianism is just a reaction to religious oppression. Also interesting that this supposed cultural enthrallment with our own subordination is so all-powerful that it eclipses our power of choice… and even more so that it only explains the submissive/bottom side of things. It does take two to tango, after all - would the reverse of this argument be that dominants/tops have become culturally enthralled with control and empowerment? Isn’t it interesting that there seem to be two polar-opposite cultures at work here, simultaneously, one of which would seem to predicate an awful lot of power and choice, if you choose to look at SM one-dimensionally in the first place? Of course it isn’t that simple in real life… which is exactly the point.

2. Sadomasochism is love and trust, not domination and annihilation.

Sadomasochism has to do with annihilation. Contrary to the popular legend that sadomasochism expands one’s sexuality, I believe that it restricts and ultimately destroys one’s sexual being. Subordination, humiliation, and torture are all means of deliberately destroying the self.

Hee hee. Annihilation? My goodness. There must be an awful lot of us getting annihilated. Honestly, if I were interested in that, it’d be a lot faster to just take a gun to someone’s head - all this painstaking study of proper bondage technique and blood safety protocol would be pretty much a waste of time. Awww, and I was having so much fun! Not to mention all those awesome orgasms my destroyed sexual being seems to be capable of experiencing and providing. Maybe I’m just making those up.

Farley then goes on to quote an article about infamous Texas cult leader Koresh, about how he “entwined ’sex, violence, love and fear’” in order to control cult members. A rather hysterical comparison if you ask me - I have yet to encounter a BDSM cult, though I’d be intrigued if ever there was one. (Oooh! Crazy people with great accessories!) Unfortunately for Farley, though, BDSM is usually a lot more banal - it’s generally sought out by its participants and includes no brainwashing or kooky religious beliefs.

She also mentions (disgustedly) a 1990 article by Jan Brown entitled, “Sex, Lies and Penetration, a Butch Finally ‘Fesses Up,” where Brown writes: “Sex that is gentle, passive, egalitarian, does not move us. (…) We want to have the freedom to ignore ‘no’ or have our own ‘no’ ignored.”

Luckily I happen to have the article in its entirety because it’s included in Joan Nestle’s The Persistent Desire: A Femme-Butch Reader. The full article is not available online, unfortunately, so you’ll have to trust me when I say it’s basically a rant on the part of a sex-positive butch dyke former sex worker. She’s pretty much sick of all kinds of PC justifications for liking such things as penetration (it’s all about the nerve endings!), dildos (they’re a plastic tribute to our lesbian herstory!) and rough sex (we frame it with safewords and that’s why it’s hot!), and is trying to explain that really, we just like that shit because it’s deep-down hot all on its own. She is totally not advocating rape or nonconsent - she’s explaining that the desires running through sexual practice are not explainable in PC terms but must be understood for what they are. I love this quoting-out-of-context thing Farley’s doing. Notice Brown talks about the freedom to ignore "no," not the obligation to. Yeesh.

3. Sadomasochism is not racist and anti Semitic even though we “act” like slave owners and enslaved Africans, Nazis and persecuted Jews.

Farley describes a race-play scene she saw once (Nazi torturer, Jewish captive). Don’t get me wrong - I totally understand how this kind of thing might trigger some people to anger. Much like a rape scene in a movie might trigger a rape victim. But it’s that very charge that makes race play (and rape play for that matter) a major erotic thriller for some folks. The emphasis being on "some" - I’ve probably seen two or three such scenes in my entire life, so they’re hardly emblematic of the entire community. I’ve only even read one article on the topic, and it’s by Midori, who’s a queer Asian switch herself - hardly a spokesperson for the white male patriarchy.

But for those who go there, the whole point is that it’s risky emotional territory - not because the players are unaware of the risk, but because they are highly aware of it. I’d direct my real anger at the ignorant people who perpetuate racism in places outside their consensual fantasy life, not the ones who consensually and consciously explore the erotic power of race-related taboo in very specific and defined contexts.

Farley then goes on to say: If a radical feminist were to challenge (a) newspaper on the issue of sadomasochism, we’d be called “censors.” The whole issue of censorship is used to intimidate us and silence critical dialogue about sadomasochism.

Farley is taking a very odd view of censorship here. She seems to think all anti-SM sentiments are being blocked from expression. Um… proof to the contrary being the publication of her article, no? Cry me a river, honey - MacKinnon and Dworkin’s work, which you so dearly admire, was used as the basis for Canada’s customs laws, which Little Sisters queer bookstore in Vancouver has been battling for over a decade. Not to mention, just take a look at Canada’s laws… or the US’s recent FBI-approved clampdowns on SM porn and websites. It’s hardly the anti-SM dialogue that’s being squelched, even 14 years after this article was published!

4. Sadomasochism is consensual; no one gets hurt if they don’t want to get hurt. No one has died from sadomasochistic “scenes.”

Is it ever OK to consent to one’s own humiliation and victimization? I do not think so. Sadists pay lip service to consent, but ignore the power systems which create inequality and make meaningful consent impossible. In this culture we have no experience of equal power relationships.

Actually, it’s very much OK to consent to one’s own humiliation. I think the word "victimization" is not really the right one here because the word itself implies non-consent, but I do think it’s also OK to consent to one’s own torture. That OK-ness is the only thing that makes consent meaningful at all - the fact that we have the choice. If we’ve only got one choice, there’s no power in making it; it’s already being made for us, whether by the patriarchy or by feminism.

We don’t have to like all the choices in front of us, and if we think that some of them are being affected by lack of information or whatever, then we should provide as many alternative viewpoints as possible to make choices as meaningful as they can be. But the old feminist argument that there’s no such thing as empowered sexual choice in a sexist world is pretty defeatist and circular, all things considered - which is probably why it’s a lot less commonly heard these days. It’s no fun to have our ability to make sexual choices denied by the very community that’s supposed to be supporting our empowerment. Results in far fewer orgasms, too. I’m much more interested in feminism that takes a realistic look at the forces of society while also factoring in the realistic choices we each make to fulfil our desires.

Extreme violence sometimes occurs during sadomasochistic “play.” I have been informed of many instances where “safe” words were ignored during a sadomasochistic “scene.” I also know that women have died during sadomasochistic activities and that these deaths are only whispered about - they are not openly acknowledged.

Note the author stops short of naming names, providing case details and openly acknowledging any such deaths herself - hmmm, I wonder why? I’m sure some people ignore safewords, but that makes them abusers, not players. (Check out the differences between SM and abuse here if you’re interested in a really articulate breakdown.) Perhaps a few nutcases have even killed their bottoms, but then they’re criminals and possibly psychopaths, not SM players - no matter how they dress up. Those are the sorts of people who get ostracized by the kinky folks, and hopefully arrested; can’t say I’ve ever met one. But I highly doubt there’s a huge list of unsolved BDSM-related murders out there or the attendance at fetish balls would doubtless plummet.

5. Sadomasochism is only about sex. It doesn’t extend into the rest of the relationship.

Sadomasochism has everything to do with sexism, racism and class in the real world. It is very much related to internalized self-hatred.

That’s why we’re all enjoying ourselves so much…?

The sadistic sexual relationship sets the tone for the rest of the relationship.

Possibly, in instances of consensual D/s. Otherwise it’s abusive, and once again - abuse is not SM. (Key distinction: watch for the bottom’s orgasm, or failing that, their look of sheer bliss.)

Hitting someone is usually a sadistic act.

Wrong. Hitting someone (outside BDSM) is usually an angry act, not a sadistic one. Refer back to the article on SM vs abuse. Abuse is not nearly as much fun.

Assault and rape do occur in lesbian relationships - and they are normalized by the patterns laid down sexually.

Yes, assault does occur between women, and can indeed be supported by sexualized patterns. Once again, though: are they having fun? No? Probably abusive. Yes? Then what are we worried about?

6. Sadomasochistic pornography has no relationship to the sadomasochistic society we live in. “If it feels good, go with it.” “We create our own sexuality.”

We internalize sadomasochistic fantasies because it is the sexuality which has been shoved down our throats from the day we were born. As women we’re raised to be “bottoms:” lesbian “bottoms” tend to outnumber “tops” [sadists] by 10 to 1.

True - not in quite such a high ratio, but Trevor Jacques’ massive 1999 study on BDSM demographics (check the whole thing out here, it’s fucking fascinating!) indicates that women are statistically more likely to be bottoms, lesbian or otherwise. We could speculate on all kinds of reasons for this, and doubtless some of them are society-related. However, the existence of such stats still doesn’t explain lesbian tops, switches, het male bottoms, or gay male bottoms - clearly there are other options than bottoming, and presumably the bottoms are there because they want to be. There’s always a huge number of male bottoms too, to the point where it’s a common in-joke in the SM world that female tops get mobbed by male bottoms as soon as they walk into a dungeon. So, uh, what’s the point?

7. Lesbians “into sadomasochism” are feminists, devoted to women, and a women-only lesbian community. Lesbian pornography is “by women, for women.”

While lesbians who are “into sadomasochism” define themselves as lesbian, their sadomasochistic practices are bisexual. I have no political criticism of bisexuality - what I am criticizing is sadomasochist posturing as devoted lesbian members of the women’s community.

Wow. Now that’s a huge unsupported and unsupportable blanket statement about an entire community’s sexual practice. Last time I checked, there really were SM lesbians out there. SM bi girls too. Some are devoted members of the women’s community, some not.
Sure, it’s unfortunate that some people keep their bisexuality in
the closet, but they’re hardly restricted to the SM world - lots of
vanilla women define themselves as lesbians and still boink the
occasional dude. And if there’s no political criticism of bisexuality implied, why would its existence in the women’s community imply posturing or lack of devotion? Sure sounds like political criticism to me. Not to mention irrelevant to SM.

Pseudolesbian pornography, that is, pictures of women who are imitating lesbians’ sexual behavior, has been a favored element in straight male pornography since it was first published. It sells. Despite the fact that it is often advertised as being owned and distributed by and for women, “lesbian” pornography sells briskly to straight men.

Well, of course pseudolesbian porn would. I highly doubt the real stuff is nearly as interesting. The indie handicam stuff made by (hot) pierced and tattooed plus-size butch dykes in San Francisco has very little in common with the stuff you get on the late-night channel and doesn’t "sell briskly" to anyone; it costs $60 a video, gets stopped at the border more often than not, and is only available at independently run co-ops - which I dearly love and support as often
as I can with my hard-earned cash, but really. Real lesbian porn is
not exactly a massive moneymaking endeavour. But the main point
being: what does all this have to do with SM?

Bottoms are seen as “generic, interchangeable, and replaceable."  (Califia, 1992)

Now this is a quote out of context if ever I’ve seen one. I can’t seem to find the original article online in full either, but it’s reprinted in the book Leatherfolk: Radical Sex, People, Politics and Practice, edited by Mark Thompson, which I also luckily have on my shelf.

The article itself is about the ways in which tops and bottoms bitch about each other within the SM community and make life difficult for each other. A classic example of the way Califia directs his acidic criticism at those he loves best - in a book intended for a readership of SMers, not as an educational tool for outsiders. In fact he contextualizes the entire thing in the first few paragraphs by writing:

"The dialogue within our community about how S/M works on a day-to-day level and how we can form healthy identities as radical perverts has to grow beyond the elementary information we offer outsiders who are still having a hard time making a distinction between rape and an erotic spanking."

(And what sort of outsider do you think he’s talking about here, Ms. Farley?…)

In the paragraphs preceding the quote, Califia criticizes bottoms who objectify tops:

"I have yet to meet a top who didn’t feel they were frequently depersonalized and objectified by the people who cruise them. This is an odd sensation. You know that sombody wants you bad, but you’re not ure they know who the hell you are. (…) Some forms of masochism and fetishism are actually very sophisticated and complex forms of masturbation. Although the fantasy of a partner’s presence may be necessary to make the imagined situation arousing, that dominant has no more independent needs or feelings than a seven-inch high heel or a see-through plastic raincoat. (…) Autoerotic S/M is not inherently bad, immature, or oppressive. But it’s much easier to fulfill these fantasies by jerking off or hiring a professional than it is to persuade someone else to cooperate out of philanthropy."

Then, and only then, does he turn his criticism against tops: "It’s not just bottoms who treat their potential partners like things. Bottoms are even more likely to be seen as generic, interchangeable, and replaceable than tops. Dare I say that it would be healthy for tops to learn a little more respect and humility?"

And then he continues with other bitching: how the community doesn’t always make it easy for people who want to switch, for tops to learn how to structure a scene so it’s satisfying for them as tops, and so forth.

So… hardly an example of Califia telling the world that bottoms don’t matter. Crikey.

8. Since lesbians are superior to men, we can “play” with sadomasochism in a liberating way that heterosexuals can not.

I do not think that women are biologically superior to men. In fact, I see that notion as dangerous and reactionary. “Anatomy is destiny” is not exactly a feminist idea.

Thank goodness, there’s a bit of reason in here. At last, Farley and I agree on something!

Occasionally in the SM world there are people known as "female supremacists" who truly believe women are biologically superior to men. They tend to be hetero guys who eroticize this dynamic, and the hetero women that like such men. I have yet to meet a leatherdyke who thinks this way; outside certain specific kinds of hetero kink, this line of thinking is largely the province of essentialist feminist radicals from the ’70s, not of the modern leatherdyke. Just because we mugrunch doesn’t mean we manhate (even my non-bisexual sisters).

We delude ourselves if we think it is possible to “play” the rapist without becoming the rapist.

So there’s no difference between playing a role and becoming a
criminal? Gee, all those gun-toting film stars must have crazy long murder rap sheets then…

9. Reenacting abuse heals abuse. Sadomasochism heals emotional wounds from childhood sexual assault.

A greater percentage of women "into sadomasochism" have histories of childhood sexual assault, than those women who do not participate in sadomasochism.

Really? What study shows this? Why is it not in the works cited list?

I just checked out page 22 of Jacque’s survey data (here’s the link again), which covers this very point for this specific demographic. If you average out the first three categories of childhood abuse - physical, sexual and emotional - it would seem that 44% of his female survey respondents reported being abused, and 22% of the male respondents. Specifically, for women: 34.7% physically, 44.4% sexually and 53.6% emotionally. And for men: 16.8% physically, 16.8% sexually and 32% emotionally.

Now, I’m not a statistician and I’m not an abuse researcher, but here’s the data that came up in the first few Google pages when I searched for the words statistics, abuse, women and Canada:

- "1 in 3 females and 1 in 6 males in Canada experience some form of sexual abuse before the age of 18." (From the Safe Kids BC site, quoting the 1999 McCreary Adolescent Health Survey II)

- "Sexual abuse statistics vary between countries and reports, but are consistently alarming: One country’s research indicates that up to 36% of girls and 29% of boys have suffered child sexual abuse; another study reveals up to 46% of girls and 20% of boys have experienced sexual coercion (The 57th session of the UN Commission on Human Rights)." (From the statistics page of the Child Abuse Effects site.)

Basically, as Trevor himself has said at numerous presentations of this data (most recently, in my attendance at least, at the 9th International Bi Conference in Toronto last summer), this is pretty consistent with his data on BDSMers. At the very least, if there are percentage variations, they’re hardly enormous. In other words - we’re no more or less likely to have been abused as kids. So let’s get over this argument already!

Farley also engages in a twisted piece of psychological speculation about people’s motivations for SM that I’m not even going to try to unpack here because it’s so full of "may" and "might" and "does not seem" it might as well say nothing at all - and is utterly devoid of any real psychological data or even reference to psychological theory, even of the armchair variety.

Suffice it to say that a carefully constructed scene that allows someone to enter risky emotional territory can indeed be healing, but there are no guarantees, and most sane adults only engage in that sort of thing with a great deal of care and awareness of its risks. You’re highly unlikely to see someone at the local dungeon acting out their childhood abuse scenario to achieve psychological healing. I mean just for starters, it can be more than a little freaky for a top to be cast in the role of someone’s former abuser - you have to really trust your bottom if you’re going to enter that kind of scenario and come out the other end feeling good about it!

10. Sadomasochism is political dissent. It is progressive and even “transgressive” in that it breaks the rules of the dominant sexual ideology.

The posturing of sadists and masochists as “transgressive” can be confusing to those not familiar with feminist theory. By definition, the ultimate goal of feminism is to end sadomasochism.

Depends what kind of feminist theory you’re talking about - anyone who does know anything about feminist theory can tell you there are many many flavours of it! Try sex-positive feminism. It’s fun, and one of my personal favourites.

Our system is sadomasochistic to the core, how is celebrating it any kind of true rebellion? (Fritz, 1983). The political values of sadism are blatantly antifeminist, totalitarian and right-wing.

That’s why we have to fight censorship, risk losing custody of our kids and function at the edges of the law - because we’re right in keeping with the dominant system. Huh?

Sadomasochism is not a creative deviation from normal heterosexual behavior. It is the defining quality of the power relationship between women and men. Sadism is the logical extension of behavior that arises out of male power. (Wagner, 1982)

Which explains why all those lesbians and fags are doing it together, and why there are female tops? Wow, does this ever show a simplistic view of power relations.

We live in a misogynist world, and women have so little political power, that it’s easier to fantasize about absolute personal power than to politically organize for change. (Clarke, 1993).

Funny, the leatherdykes of my acquaintance are generally among the most politically active people I know. Much like a significant number of major feminist activists are lesbians (and historically have been too, perhaps even more so in the past than today). Maybe because when you’re a minority within a minority (or a minority within a minority within a minority in the case of leatherdykes) you understand just how much you’re fighting for?

Anyway - this article was published in 1993, so almost 15 years ago, near the tail end of the "sex wars" where this kind of rhetoric was common. Of course some people still feel this way, but in my experience at least it’s far less common now, thank goodness. Nonetheless… an interesting trip indeed!

Damn, but that was great! Whoever thought Geoffrey Rush could be so damn hot?!

Yes, I’m talking about the film Quills. Rarely have I encountered a film with such rich dialogue and such a delicious story. Of course I’m biased, but nonetheless… wow. So great. I must definitely put De Sade’s works, and his biography, at the top of my reading list for the month.

One particular line of dialogue stood out for me - when the Marquis de Sade is being locked in his cell without quills or ink or parchment to write with, and he is in an agonized frenzy about the situation. He yells out to the Abbé who has imprisoned him:

"Goddamn you, Abbé! Have you no true sense of my condition? Of its gravity? My writing is involuntary, like the beating of my heart - my constant erection!"

I think that line, for me, encapsulated the essence of De Sade, and of many other writers who’ve been persecuted for writing about "deviant" sexuality - Oscar Wilde, Radclyffe Hall, more. And while I certainly wouldn’t presume to elevate myself to ranks such as those, I’ve got to say that’s what it feels like to me too.

As to the erection analogy, well, it works, if you substitute the relevant parts. I don’t choose to think about sex as much as I do; I’ve just done so for as long as I can remember, since early childhood, a constant curiosity, an ever-present intellectual desire to explore, understand, connect, experience. It’s not a state of constant physical arousal, and it certainly isn’t a state of constant sexual activity, but it is a state of constant mindfulness of the sexual ramifications of life, or the life ramifications of sexuality. I can’t turn it off. Clearly I’m not trying hard, but I have yet to find a reason to.

The same state of near-constant involuntary "arousal" applies to writing. I remember one time I left the house and I didn’t have a notebook with me. I only realized this once I was already on the metro and on my way to some destination I couldn’t get out of going to. I don’t remember how long ago this happened - at least three or four years, maybe more. I don’t remember what time of year it was, or what was going on in my life at the time. But I distinctly remember the feeling of itching that started somewhere in my guts - the one I feel many times a day, and that leads me to the keyboard or the pen.

I opened my bag, dug through, figured out what had happened, and was immediately seized with a peculiar sort of panic. A feeling of… I don’t know… some combination of that awful spreading feeling you might get if you lost your grandmother’s wedding ring or accidentally killed a kitten, and the feeling of an oncoming pure base-level two-year-old uncontrollable tantrum, and the feeling of being on the verge of very adult hysterical tears.

Really, I’m not usually the super-emotional type. But the fact of spending even an hour without the means to write was enough to have me fighting down a panic attack. I scrambled. Was there a scrap of paper somewhere, a leftover envelope, a piece of sturdy Kleenex? Yes! There was! But I had no pen!

In the film, De Sade solves this problem by smashing a mirror and using a piece of it to cut open the tips of his fingers one by one, dip the shard into the blood, and write with that all over his clothes. I will admit I didn’t quite go that far sitting in the metro that day; I think I settled for quietly and urgently requesting a pen the moment I arrived at my destination.

But if I think about what it might be like to be locked in a cell for the indeterminate future… yes. Yes, I would open my veins and write. Not out of political conviction or to make a point or to one-up my captors. Because I don’t think I’d have a choice. It would be either that or go completely stark raving mad, and if that itself qualifies as madness, then the only thing standing between me and lunacy is a set of fortunate circumstances.