Kink In Exile

I went to a reading on Thursday night from Best Sex Writing 2008. It’s an excellent collection of essays covering topics from circumcision to racial identity in human sexuality research. I am really impressed by the work that is being done in sexuality. We’ve come a long way since Freud. We’ve even come a long way since Foucault addressed the nature of identity thereby (in my opinion) creating the foundation for modern research in human sexuality.

As anyone who has ever written, in an academic fashion, about human sexuality can attest it is a fine balance between professional and boring; between sexy and lewd; and between mass market appeal and pop-psychology. It is a balance that I believe is very important to this field because I am not interested in writing sex for men in white lab coats. I am not interested in recording data in the annals of scientific journals. No, I want my work to be accessible and influential on an individual level. Foucault gave us the parameters in which to do our research. However, it is contemporary authors such as Carol Queen, Annie Sprinkle, and Dossie Easton who gave us sexual non-fiction that penetrates our own lives. They laid the foundation for a sex-positive culture, and for the acceptance of sex work. They addressed our own desires, and challenged our established notions of morality. This is not social science research in the tradition of Freud, it is a personal narrative steeped in the methods of women’s studies courses, and second wave consciousness-raising. As such, I would not call it science. Though there is some excellent scientific research being done on topics such as the physical phenomena of orgasm, the effects of circumcision, and spread of sexual transmitted diseases, the field of human sexuality emerges from an interdisciplinary curriculum and must broach the spectrum from biology to fine art.

A couple of days ago I was slightly drunk and planning the rest of my life with a friend over drinks in the Mission. It had been a toss-up as to whether, come Fall, I would be applying to graphic design programs or human sexuality/sociology programs. My reaction to the idea of putting off a graduate program in human sexuality demonstrated to my own satisfaction that this is what I want to do with my life. I don’t actually know what I would do with a master’s in human sexuality. I suspect I would get a PhD and sell my soul to academia. My mother did it, and her father before her – it’s a family tradition. Hell, in my family you sit at the kids table until they can call you doctor. “Could you pass the potatoes, Doctor.” It’s really interesting to work with sex in a non-sexual manner. It makes perfect sense to me, but it’s hard to explain to other people. Maybe I’m over saturated, after all sex isn’t just a fun thing I do late at night, it’s my work, my writing, and my art. To do that, and still be able to interact with society at large, requires some compartmentalization, but I think that’s a post onto itself.

I got poetry. I got pictures of penises. I got some very heartfelt sounding propositions and at least one statement of “bitch, you crazy.” I got advice from friends, along with a list of recommended interview questions.

All this is because I posted a craigslist ad looking for a houseboy. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for ages, and I think my own life is stable enough right now that I can bring in people that are dependent on my whim to some degree or another. My ad contained very little information about me, no physical description, and a request that I be spared pictures of penises. By and large I think this worked out well, though I have yet to make an actual decision, and have spent the last two hours sorting through email and trying to reply to as many as I could.

Anyone else care to share their houseboy experiences?

I was chatting with a co-worker of mine, and as girl talk goes we started talking about our personal lives and the men who are a part of them. This is the part where I start wondering if I am a space alien. You know that part where other women tell you what men have bought for them and you wonder if you are either doing something very wrong, not pretty enough, or from another planet. Don’t get me wrong, I love gifts–what girl doesn’t–but as a dating requirement?

My problem has never been with the giving or receiving of gifts. I enjoy giving gifts and I’m pretty sure that all of my favorite jewelry was either a gift or a family heirloom. My favorite toys are certainly my favorite because they carry a particular attachment to someone who gave them to me, or in some cases made them for me. No, no, my problem is with the expectation that this is an arrangement in which men get sex and women get stuff.

Women enjoy sex. Believe it or not, my payment for a hot scene is, in fact, a hot scene. Like every other person, I have likes and dislikes. There are plenty of things that I don’t think are hot that I do at work because I have bills to pay like everyone else. There are also plenty of things that I have driven through 400km of mountain roads with a chicken on my lap and no air conditioning in the fucking jungle to do on my day off. And being human, there are things I thought were gross till I did them and discovered they are in fact hot. But the bottom line is that when I go on a date I am looking for sexual gratification, not a new car.

Of course this is all well and good, but what about the gray areas?  What if I tell you to go out and buy me a toy that scares you, but is not quite a hard limit?  I don’t care what it is: maybe you’re into dressing up as a cat and you’ll come back with a spritzy bottle full of water, maybe you’ll come back with a knife or a cane or a bag of clothes pins.  The point isn’t I want stuff, the point is I want to know what you bring back.  What is that scary thing you really want done to you but wouldn’t admit to except that you really wanted to please me with this assignment.   Different right?  Or maybe it isn’t?  Maybe it’s just another way of saying “give me stuff.”  What do you think?

I just started working at the Lusty Lady–a unionized, worker owned, cooperative peepshow–and I have to say I love my union.  It’s not that working in a traditional sexwork setting was particularly bad for me, on the contrary I love my dungeon, but having things like weekly paychecks, and job security make this whole process so much more relaxing.  I like the way the Lusty works too…it doesn’t go off the hippie deep end; this is sexwork and we are here to make money after all.  But there is still a sense of empowerment and safety on stage–my limits, and the house rules will be respected or else, and I can back up my or else without putting my job on the line.

And btw ladies, the sexworker’s occupational health center not only has you covered for STD testing and the like, they also offer massages, acupuncture, and other natural health services.

I just got back from a Wet Spots show. I’m in love. I’m in love with this Canadian, bisexual, kinky musical duo, but I’m in love with San Francisco in general. There is something about sitting on my roof drinking chai and watching fog come in from all four directions while there is a spot of bright blue sky directly over my house that makes me think I’m doing the right thing with my life. But the show was excellent. A great mix of vaudeville, kink, speakeasy, and Canadian charm. Check them out, especially their kinky neighbors song.

And now question time:
How do you use titles in a scene if at all?  I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I’d like to see what y’all have to say.

Pornography for women?

Last night I watched some pornography with a few friends of mine. It was a video that I chose for its cover art, and it was produced by a company called Blue Production. Pornography by women, for women.

It was pretty, no question about that, but was it hot? No. It was well made, artistic, and creative, but it did not make me want to make a hasty excuse, and run home to spend some quality time with a vibrator. This is my problem with pornography for women: the idea that women don’t want to see explicit sex. That we want to see pretty makeup, and get off to long romantic scenes of sensual spankings. It assumes women don’t want sex; that we want the stuff surrounding sex and sometimes it’s just plain wrong. So from now on it’s stark lighting and low production values with a side of hot sex for me.

When you talk about sluts you talk about me…

I just have to say this. In the interest of putting a face to abstract concepts we feel so smug tossing around I really want to put this out there. When you talk about sluts, and whores you are talking about me. And I love that your definition of “slut” is uneducated and illiterate and you don’t think of me in that category. You don’t think of me in that category in the same way you don’t think that the guy in your office is like the other black people, or that your brother is as outrageous as the other queers.

You are talking about every woman who, like me, refuses to dislike sex in an effort to make you comfortable with her sexuality. This is not about my self-esteem or my educational background. Unless, of course, you think my self-esteem would suffer for sleeping with you.

This is about acknowledging that despite Victorian logic and 2nd wave feminist bullshit women enjoy sex. Furthermore, women have the capacity to make sexual choices that may surprise you. So please retire your moral high ground, which demonizes any woman who wants to sleep with you without first sending you to the ends of the earth on a whim.

Calico has a wonderful post on the Unofficial Client Rules, which I think should be required reading for anyone planning to see a professional dominatrix. I will, however, add one more:

Your sexworker is not your girlfriend and she probably doesn’t want to become such.

I was amazed recently when I started getting emails from people who found me through the site of the dungeon I occasionally work for asking me out on dates. I understand that because my work is sexual in nature the lines can be somewhat blurry from the outside. I assure you also that the lines are quite clear from the inside. Allow me to explain; when you pay me you do not, in most cases, pay me to beat you. I would do that on my own time if you asked nicely enough. Nor do you pay for the privilege of calling me ma’am which I would request of you if we played more than a couple of times anyway. What you pay for is the privilege of never knowing if I have a headache or am in a bad mood. You pay for not having to care that I only drink skim milk and take my coffee with cream and no sugar. You pay for me to pretend to enjoy administering a light spanking to naughty boys when I’d prefer to have a filthy little slut beg me to cane the hell out of him or her. You pay for the receptionist who called me three hours before my shift to tell me what color shoes you like so that by the time you meet me I look like your fantasy.

Perhaps most importantly you pay me for the privilege of not having to admit to yourself or the outside world that these dirty filthy things are what you want. You pay for not having to own your desires and that is something I would never allow to the people I love, fuck, and beat in my real life. I provide a service and a large part of that service is the assurance that when I see you and your wife at the park I will walk past without a second glance.

I’m sitting on a soft comfy couch in my brand new living room with its brand new teal wall.  This morning I woke up next to a sweet, brainy, sexy boy.  This afternoon I spent with a friend that, if all goes well, will be a new play partner soon.  I have dinner in the oven and another human being reading comic books two feet away.

So why do I feel angsty?  Pretty much since early adolescence I have felt some pressure to go out on Friday nights.  To prove that I am one of the cool kids, that I can get laid, that I don’t have to sit home alone.  Having never had to sit home alone, I can’t imagine where this pressure comes from.  Normally I value my alone time.  I like having time to sit and write, catch up on my blog reading, or try to decipher the quantum physics book my absent-minded professor gave me.  But it’s Friday night, and Friday nights are full of angst and drama that I’ve been carefully saving since highschool.  Never mind that I am setting up for a sex party tomorrow; tonight I can fret about never getting laid again because I spent my Friday night reading about quantum physics.

For the record, boys who talk about science make me wet.