Being a feminist kinkster

A thought occurred to me the other day:

But if it's my sexual agency, my power - isn't it mine to give away if I want?

If, as per feminism, I am an agent of my own free will, if I own my own agency, if I have the power to make choices for myself, why can't I sometimes choose - CHOOSE - to give that power away to someone else?


As has probably now been made quite clear, I identify as a feminist.  I firmly believe that I am the equal of anyone on the planet - not the same, but equal - that I am fully capable of making my own choices, that no one has the right to take those choices away from me.  I believe that I am a person, too - and that we are all people, even the ones I don't like.


What's probably painfully obvious is that I also identify as kinky.  And while as a switch, there are definitely times when I want to be giving out the beatings, more often than not I want to be on the receiving end.  (And sometimes, I just want to go to sleep oh god just let me sleep.)  (Who am I kidding, most times I want to sleep.  Mmm, sleep.)

And I've spent a lot of time, well, anguishing over these two parts of my identity and trying to bring them in to alignment with the whole of me.  It's not an easy fit for me.  Being less than anyone doesn't go down easy.  This entry is the result of a lot of reading, and a fair number of years of thinking distilled.

I see no signs of being finished with the whole "cohesive identity" thing yet; I fully expect that to take a lifetime.  And there's a lot to unpack, I think, with kink and the intersection with the culture I live in.  (Note to self:  write about kink intersectionality at some point.)

But, my will, my power, my agency, belong to me - inasmuch as they can belong to anyone raised in the miasma of the patriarchy.  I may not own every aspect of it, and I may not understand owning it completely.  I may not even fully know how far that agency goes. After all, I was raised under the memo that I don't own that, that I am subject to someone else's will.  But even if that ownership is a work in progress, I am choosing - there's that word again - to act as if it isn't.  To own, in totality, what I have, and to act as if I do completely own my own agency.

So therefore, if the choices are mine, why can't I give them away?

But, and this is a big but, the important part is that I am in fact choosing.  It is, incontrovertably, my choice to give away my agency, or part of it, to Jay.  Sometimes.  Under certain circumstances.  Where I am completely involved and invested in negotiating what those circumstances are, and just what choices I'm giving up.

There's a huge, vast difference for me in choosing to give away  my choices, my power, and having them taken away from me.  Having my choices taken away from me, my freedom as a person taken away, happens every day, in big ways and small - from court rulings and laws enacted that take away from my bodily autonomy and limit my access to reproductive healthcare, to the person on the street who says "Oh honey you really shouldn't wear that".  It's a kind of theft; it's a violation.

But it's a different feeling and experience than voluntarily giving up a choice, or a group of choices, or a fair number of choices.  It's different when it's a conscious choice.  Regardless of what informs or motivates that choice.

So.  If it's mine - and I have to function as and believe that it is - why can't I give it away?

What if I say I'm not like the others?

First, the doctor-bullshit update:

Shoulder MRI? Completely normal. So I say to the doctor, "So if it's normal, why does it hurt?" His answer? "I don't know. Do you want to do PT, or see the guy in the office who specializes in shoulders and is in fact giving a lecture on shoulders at a conference at this very minute?" I opted for the shoulder guy, and spared a minute to wonder why the receptionist didn't book me with him in the first place - considering I told her I needed to have my shoulder checked out!

Other stuff: I went to the new doctor, and holy god, my blood pressure and pulse were normal. That hasn't happened at the doctor's office for years. She sat, listened to everything, asked some questions my other doctor didn't bother to ask, poked and prodded, and is having me set up for a CT scan. She is much more willing to work with me to find an answer - but, was honest enough to tell me that nothing in medicine is 100%. I looked at her, and said "Yeah, but I'd settle for like, 75 or so", and she laughed and said "I'll bet we can at least do that."

So I feel better about that. Still hurt, still feel like crap, but, progress has been made.

This weekend, I'm going to a bachelorette party and the wedding - the party being the one I mentioned the scrapbook was requested. I still don't do overly emotional stuff, so I am opting to stop at the liquor store and bring my friend a very nice bottle of something alcoholic. I figure it's still in line with the bachelorette party theme, but does not make me want to vomit to think about it. And, I know it won't be unappreciated. I talked with Rabbit, who is one of the bridesmaids, and she agrees that a bottle of booze would not come amiss - being as how our mutual friend s well aware of how I view things like "scrapbooking" and "special memories" and "girly shit", and also happens to share my taste in beverages.

I don't like bachelorette parties anyway. Well, not ones with OMG PENIS PENIS PENIS LET'S DO RIDICULOUS THINGS IN PUBLIC PENIS PENIS PIE themes, anyway. Honestly, for mine, I am content to get together a bunch of my friends, of all genders, and go out to a bar and drink. That's it. Not a club, no games, nothing. Or maybe, go to a casino, drink, and gamble. That's it. Like, we don't need to giggle over the fact that I'm going to have sex; we're not sixteen and I've had it before. Nor do we really need to make fools of ourselves in public. It is really just unnecessary.

Also, why the hell is it that whenever I find a pair of jeans I adore, they promptly discontinue them? Like, my Gap boot-cut button-flys? Discontinued. My Venezia Supremes? Discontinued. Swear to god, they wait until I buy it, then stop it. Hate that.

Other than that, Jay's coming over tonight, which is nice, so he can keep me warm. I am enjoying the fact that the nights have been chilly again. Very much so.

No, no it is not.

This journal isn't controversial enough, so I figured I could get this little confession out here:

I refuse to support breast cancer research.

Go ahead and read that again if you need to; it's okay. Because there's got to be someone out there thinking She's not really serious, is she? Oh, I assure you, I am.

I do not support breast cancer research.

Now, any other charity, pretty much, I could come out in every day life and be like, "Nah man, I don't donate to that", and it'd be relatively okay. But breast cancer is the biggest sacred cow I have seen lately. I have people in my office who literally say things like "It's ALLLLL about the pink!" in dead seriousness and me, I just can't connect with that. It's like if you're a woman, which means you may or may not have tits, you should be donating every single spare cent and minute to THE CAUSE. In some circles, some places, there is seriously that expectation.

It's not that I don't know the effects of breast cancer - my aunt had it. Cancer has happened in my family, up to and including breast cancer. Cancer sucks it. I would be down with finding a cure (or cures, as it might very well be) to cancer in its various forms.

But really, I, myself, am so, so sick of being bombarded with pink ribbons and pink t-shirts and pink walks and pink this and pink stamps (okay, they're not pink, but you know what I mean) and just PINK PINK PINK.

Okay, I don't even LIKE pink as a color on it's own, okay?

And the thing of it is, the thing of it is, there are so many other things that need supporting and researching. Like AIDS. Or kids, I like kids. I think literacy is a good cause, as are a number of environmental efforts.

And it's not like I'm against science, hello. Or even against research, or breast cancer research in specific. I just don't feel that my dollars need to go to it. There's a whole lot of money that already goes to it, money that I am not entirely sure is actually spent on cancer research, and I would rather support things like my alma mater and AIDS research and alternative power research and Planned Parenthood and buy Christmas gifts for kids in care and things like that.

Also, I don't care if your dollars or minutes or whatever go towards supporting breast cancer research. That's cool, yo, it's all yours to do with as you wish. Mine just won't be joining yours.

Ah, that feels much better. I still won't advertise the fact around the office, but it was nice to advertise it somewhere.

On the nature of deals

I've been addicted to PostSecret for some time now; even bought a couple of the books. It's something between voyeurism and bonding with the rest of the human race.

There's a secret posted this week, and a reply - since they are only posted for one week, for posterity's sake, I'll record the text of both here, but if you see this before June 10th, I encourage you to head over to PostSecret and check them out:

Secret: I don't like BJ's. I hate how they assume all guys want one. Or even prefer them.

The text is pasted on an x-ray image of a girl with braces giving a guy a blowjob.

Email: Good to know, because I'm tired of giving them.

At first it was just the email that made me irritated and sad, and then once I sat and thought about it for a while, the postcard made me sad too.

The email got to me for a couple of reasons, mostly because the initial reading made the person come off as a selfish bint who was tired of doing something for someone else's pleasure. Yup, most guys I've met like blowjobs; Jay being one of them. But he likes them, and I KNOW that he likes them, so because of that, I like giving them to him (also, I would like giving them to him even if he didn't like them so much, because I <3 penis, but that's an entirely other story). Granted, I don't give him a blowjob every night or anything like that, but the Man's penis is in my mouth on a regular basis, okay? And there are times when I'm not particularly interested in giving a blowjob, but unless I have a serious objection, I will, for at least a little while, because I know it gives him a lot of pleasure. This was even before we decided that he got to be in charge. I just like doing nice things for people I happen to like, okay? It just really irritated me because there are people out there who are missing the entire point of sex. It becomes not about pleasures, but about duty. It becomes this negative thing to be avoided, and they are seriously missing out. Secondly, the email made me sad because I know there are guys out there who are just as selfish and demand blowjobs all the time. I am not talking about within a D/s context (and even then, I would say that demanding blowjobs all the time, while well within the rights of a Master, would be kind of assholish, but maybe that's just me), I am talking the guy who shoves a girl into his groin on every date, and doesn't do anything for her. Even for someone like me, who likes giving blowjobs, that would get real old, real quick. So I can understand being sick of giving blowjobs, and that is sad, that something sexual has become so not-pleasurable. The postcard makes me sad too because I think I would cry if I were with a partner who didn't take into account my preferences when it came to sex (okay, that's a lie; I'd dump they ass). And because there's a whole lot of young women out there who think that all guys want is blowjobs. And this person is either not communicating what they want, or when they do, their partner doesn't believe them because there have been a whole bunch of other guys who have persuaded her of the opposite (and she's not smart enough to realize that everyone is different and adjust for that). It's just... well, everyone is missing the point of the deal. You're both supposed to get pleasure. Not just one person. And it's supposed to be reciprocal and mutual. You should take into account what the other person likes, what you like, and compromise if necessary. And it's supposed to be enjoyable, goddammit, not some onerous chore that you have to get through so that you can get other benefits from the relationship.

Even BDSM. Nobody does that because they don't like it, I think. And there are certainly things that aren't fun, per se, and perhaps even a bit of a chore. But, it's negotiated, and I'd argue that everyone involved gets pleasure out of it.

People are just really fucked up when it comes to sex sometimes (and hey, even I have some of my own hang-ups), and it really gets to me.

Who says you can't go home?

In other news, I am an uncultured git, as I have never been to the opera.

But I feel awesome because my sister went, said she saw something in German, and I guessed Die Fledermaus and I was right.

So I was reading over on kaya's blog about TPE relationships and what does and does not constitute one and meltdowns, etc. and so on. (PS, I feel like I'm joining a club. "Hey look! I'm blogging about kaya's blog!" That club.) Someone anonymously (don't they always?) made a comment that said, more or less, that, well, you can always just pick up and walk out, so clearly, your relationship is a sham and there is no such thing as TPE.

I might be exaggerating the sham part, but the packing up and leaving part was in there. For about three seconds I sat there and looked at it, bugged, until I figured out that, well, no wonder it bugs me, 'cause it ain't true.

Now, bear in mind, I'm talking about consensual relationships, okay? No one is being abused or otherwise mistreated. And the other caveat I have is that I am not just talking about physically leaving. That's easy to do.

But it is not always an option to leave a relationship, and I know this, because I damn well tried. Twice (I'm stubborn). I lived without him, I did other things, I saw other people, and told myself over and over that I wasn't going back and it sucked. ass. The goal was definitely for it to be more like sucking balls, and I miserably failed.

So this time around, walking out and leaving the relationship is not an option. And rather than feeling trapped or caged in, I feel... well, confident. I have decreed that this relationship is going to work, therefore, it will, whether it likes it or not. For those of you who have not yet run across my will in cases like this, well... you know, I can't even come up with a good metaphor, so you are stuck just taking me at face value. Leaving isn't an option, so the only one left is making it work.

Clearly, that depends on the people in the relationship. If it weren't Jay, hell, I might very well be able to leave. In fact, I've done THAT before, too. It also rests on the assumption that neither He nor I will magically overnight radically change our personalities. But even if he suddenly went off the deep end (because clearly, it could never happen to me, as the less sane one in the relationship), I still couldn't leave. Just wouldn't work. Leaving would only make the situation worse - for the both of us.

So yup, you can always physically walk out. That doesn't make it leaving, because it's a lot more than your body involved in the leaving.

An organized mind

It's interesting to me, how people evaluate relationships.

Jay and I were sitting on my couch, messing with my wireless card (for which he found a workaround today). During the course of the conversation, it comes up that he considers me the most important person in his life.

I couldn't decide whether I felt warm-and-fuzzy or wicked confused and uneasy. The former, because who doesn't want to hear things like that? The latter because, well, I wasn't sure if I could say the same.

I've been turning it over in my head for the past day, and I still haven't come to a conclusion. I just don't rank people in terms of "importance". If you asked me who the most important people in my life were, I'd naturally list Jay, but I'd list my mom and dad, my little sister, my grandma, Elizabeth, a few others. But there is no one person on that list that I would say is "most important". They are all important for me, for very different and unique reasons.

That seems to be the problem: I don't have a single standard that I measure people by in my life. Everyone has their own niche. Sure, I have wide groups of people - family, close family, close friends, acquaintances, co-workers, whatever - but I don't have a list, from one to whatever, of people ranked by how well they do x or personify y.

Jay is amazingly important to me, and I would do things for him that I would do for no one else. But that doesn't make him more (or less) important than my grandma, who had a very strong hand in raising me, or Elizabeth, who is the sister I didn't have growing up, or anyone else in my life.

Being the most important person in his life is a lovely sentiment, and I'm honored (and a little frightened) to be there. But I just can't say the same. It doesn't make sense with the way I organize my world.

Everything about you

You know, I don't know how I feel about this whole "honesty" thing.

"I wouldn't mind moving back in with you," he says, as we are cuddled in bed, more or less meaning "I would like to move in with you as soon as is possible".

I freeze; he notices. My upbringing is telling me "Divert! Divert! Divert!" I really shouldn't tell him what I'm thinking. That'll scare him away. It's easier to lie and say something else, or change the subject entirely. I am two hairsbreadths away from completely losing. my. shit.

"I don't know how I feel about that," I reply.

The crux of the problem is this: living together severely smacks of "Relationship!", and I am so not even close to ready with that. I like things as they are right now with Jay - few expectations, needs getting met, open communication, and private space for myself during the week. However, I do miss him during the week, and wouldn't mind more time with him.

To give myself more time to organize these thoughts in a manner that is not offensive, I ask him why.

"Sex." He's only half-joking.

"Seriously though. I like spending time with you. I like being with you. I like falling asleep next to you at night and waking up with you in the morning. I like when you cook for me, I like when we talk, and I really do love the sex. And it would avoid instances of you texting me things like 'WHY AREN'T YOU FUCKING ME RIGHT NOW' in the future."

(N.B., I did in fact text him that at some point last week. I believe I was at work. It was a bad situation. I wished I weren't at work, and that wherever I was, so was he.)

"Yeah, I get that. But I don't know if I'm ready to live together again. It seems like every time we do that, it ends up bad."

He looks at me curiously, and I amend.

"Maybe it's not so much the living together, as the whole 'relationship' thing. Because living together definitely says 'relationship', with a capital 'R'. That's scary, in a bad way."

I can't look at him as I say this; my face is half-buried in his chest, my body curled up tight. He strokes my hair and waits.

"It just seems like every time we're in a Relationship, I wind up angry and hating you, for whatever reason. And right now I like you. A lot. And consistently - like, even when we argued the other week, I still liked you. I don't remember the last time that's happened." In other words, I used to listen to "I Hate Everything About You" by Three Days Grace a whole fuckton.

"Okay. I love you," he says.

I hate when he does that. Okay, no I don't, but goddammit, being honest is scary. Then again, it would be a lot worse if he didn't always take it well. And return the favor. Goddammit. It's nice to be heard, and get my needs met, and all of those other things, but it sure puts my heart rate into the stratosphere to do it. And the best (or worst) part of it is, the bastard knows that it does, every single time. And he's okay with that. And he's patient enough to wait.

Ugh, maybe I do hate him.