“Oh just shut up, you’re only sixteen,” I told the girl with the tear-streaked face and the puke-stained shirt, “you don’t need to blubber on…I FUCKING KNOW what you took. You call it MDMA or Molly, but twenty plus years ago we called it X or ecstacy, now GET UP, you can’t spend forever in the goddamn toilet. Are you gonna go home like nothing happened or are we making an emergency room run?”
1997, the year I turned twenty years old. I sit here now and it’s hard to believe 1997 was eighteen years ago, because when this song (and others like it) plays, it feels like I’m STILL that college co-ed. Then I look in a mirror and it’s Hello, sagging breasts, there’s the grey hair I need to touch up with the dye that I pretend isn’t dye, and goddamn it, there’s the chin beard all the older women in my mother’s family grow. But my chin beard is not the point of this post. No, the point is I can’t get into the music of today. My four year old niece loves Taylor Swift, Katy Perry, and her favorite song, Rude, is by One Hit Wonder band, Magic, all of whom make me cringe. Because I’m still listening to Bush, Apocalyptica, The Rasmus, Seether (and when I say Seether, I mean I REALLY love the stuff they did when they were called Saron Gas), Rammstein, HIM (and when I say HIM, I mean the Finnish band fronted by Ville Valo, not the lord god almighty), Nirvana (yeah, I know, Kurt shot himself, but the CD of Nevermind that I bought a million years ago is still good), the Foo Fighters (fronted by Dave Grohl of Nirvana). Dave Matthews (John Mayer and Coldplay sound just like him, but they never credit him). I mean, I joined the modern world and I have an iPad…but the soundtrack of my youth is blaring from the speakers of that iPad. My sister says, “did you hear the new song from Fall Out boy?” And I look at her like she has four heads because Why the blue fuck do I wanna hear Fall Out boy, when I’m very happy blasting Smells Like Teen Spirit…shit, maybe if I play it loud enough, Kurt will rise from his holy grave and come back to make music again. You don’t know.
Day Two: Describe who you might reveal your Little side to and how. Do you allow your Little side to emerge only in the context of a scene or in a role or throughout your daily life? Do you reveal your Little side to play partners, family, friends or only in the context of a relationship?
I’m pretty open with others in the BDSM community about my Middle self, the part of me that is a perpetual 15 year old, and that’s partly because the BDSM community is (or at least it SHOULD BE) a place of honesty, and it’s also because I’m actively seeking a partner…and I wanna be with someone who knows my kinks and is OK with them. So my Tumblr profile says I’m a Lolita, when I make a profile for a BDSM dating site, I put that I’m a Lolita seeking a Daddy.
My youngest sister has a vague idea that I’m submissive, but I don’t talk in great detail with her about BDSM. My other sister is in a Taken in Hand relationship with her husband and I consider taken in Hand to be BDSM that pretends it’s not BDSM, but whatever. I don’t discuss BDSM or sex or anything in that vein, with my parents.
Day One: Does your submission – either what you practice or what you strive for – have a label? Do you view your submission as Taken in Hand, domestic discipline, top/bottom, dominant/submissive, master/slave, owner/pet, or some other description or combination? If you do not use a label, why?
Well I’m female and I’m heterosexual, that’s first and foremost, so I’m seeking a male partner in any and all of my romantic relationships. I’m a submissive, but that term submissive encompasses so many things within BDSDM, that it’s not enough, so I don’t leave it at that when defining myself. I mean, it’s certainly different to be a sub than to be a Domme, and please be advised that I do NOT switch, I’m only a bottom. I’d say “to narrow it down” I’m a Little, but even that doesn’t really narrow it down, because there’s all kinds of Littles, as I’ve come to find out from going to munches and play parties. There’s ABDL-types, there are those who identiry as toddler or preschool aged, or as five or six or around that age range. Then there’s me, I’m what I call a Middle (although I prefer the term Lolita), and if you’ve read the novel Lolita or seen the film by the same title, you might have somewhat of an idea what a Middle is. When I’m in Middle space (and yes, Middle space is a thing, if Little space is a thing, then Middle space is one too) I’m kind of a perpetual fifteen year old. I love to play my music loud (and it’s 90’s music, the same stuff I was listening to when I really WAS 15), I love fashion, clothes, makeup, my hair, smoking cigarettes and hoping none of the “adults” in my life find out, spending way too much money at lunch with my friends when I only have so much money & that’s got to last me the week (and I have to buy cigarettes, get my nails done, and various other expenses, all because I budget like a teenager), swearing when I don’t get my way, lusting after older men because they’re gorgeous, having a stack of magazines as high as my hip in a corner of my room (and I’m gonna read them, I swear, I won’t just leave them there till kingdom come like my mother thinks I will), wondering if that’s a zit on my chin…you get the idea.
I’m presently single, but ideally, I want to be owned/adopted by a strong, loving Daddy Dom. I don’t want to adult…things like balancing the checkbook, mowing the lawn, planning elaborate vacations, remembering where my passport is at any given moment, do not appeal to me. And I freely admit that these things do not appeal to me. I need spankings (maintenance spankings, therapy spankings, sexy spankings), I’m enough of a masochist to be into the flogger, the crop, and YES, even the cane. Breathplay excites me, as does anal penetration. But knifeplay and fireplay scare the shit out of me and I don’t consent to those. What I want isn’t 100% S & M, but it’s not all D/s either. I don’t think it should have to fit neatly into any one category.
Any college town, USA. Saturday night. Party at the frat house. Lots of beer, bottles of Jagermeister floating around, and of course one of the high-level frat brothers is in charge of supplying the roofies (not that any of the female guests are to KNOW if and when they’ve been plied with said roofies). Maybe there’s a few “distinguished alumni” who show up at this shindig to relive their so-called glory days.
The music is so goddamn loud it can be heard from outer space, it’s ALWAYS gangsta rap (why do white boys in frat houses think they’re so gangsta?) . By the time the girls start to arrive, the guys are not drunk YET, but they’re not quite sober either. They’ve all definitely had a few, they each have this idea that they’ere gonna get lucky.
The girls start to arrive & it’s clear they’ve put effort into their hair, wardrobe, and makeup. They came to see and be seen, they wanna be known for being cute. They’re also young and inexperienced…they don’t yet know the math of booze and body weight and how much does it take to knock you on your ass. They also don’t know the guys are spiking their drinks with roofies. And somewhere in between the late Biggie Smalls’ Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems and I Like It When You Call Me Big Pappa, one of those cute girls disintegrates into a crumpled heap on a couch or the floor. Yeah, beer + jager + roofies = passed the fuck out. Maybe it’s the girl who never parties & was dragged to this kegger by her roomate. Maybe it’s the girl who is ALWAYS bombed, the one they call the campus lush. Doesn’t really matter, does it.
The cute girl who disintegrated into the heap on the couch or the floor is carried into a bedroom and plopped onto a bed. She needs to sleep it off. And if she gets to sleep alone, I’ll eat my hat, I’ll personally go on a tour of every college in the US and apologize to frat boys the country over for writing this, because this is the story of what happens when she doesn’t get to sleep it off in peace alone. No, this is a darker tale.
This is about what happens when one (or more) of the frat brothers decides to be intimate with the passed out girl. Only there’s nothing intimate about a grunting asshole on top of, next to, behind, and inside of, a sleeping woman. It’s disgusting rather than intimate, what with her not consenting and him not wanting to be with someone who can consent.
After, the whole frat finds out…that’s just what a frat brother does, he tells the whole goddamn house when he penetrates something. If the poor, unsuspecting woman doesn’t wake up during his intrusion of her body, then she finds out on campus as the rumor spreads, and that’s a horrible way to find out you’ve been violated.
Worse, though, than finding out she’s been violated, is finding out that it happened inside a house FULL of people, and none of them did anything. Some of them even blame her, they say things like “But you drank so much that night,” as though once you ingest a certain amount of alcohol, you’re signalling a willingness to be violated, or they tell her, “You wore that low-cut thing with the short skirt, what did you expect?” as if she was supposed to wear a nun’s habit to a party in order to not be violated.
The whole thing leaves her mad as all hell. She stops wearing the low-cut things with the short skirts, and starts wearing jeans & loose-fitting T-shirts so nobody can see what her figure looks like. She even stops wearing makeup. She still goes to the frat house on party night, but she doesn’t go in…No, she stands outside the frat house and screams that the frat boys are rapists and when the rent-a-cop from campus security tells her to move along, she says she’s just there to warn other women not to go in there. The RA (resident advisor) at her dorm suggests she get some type of counseling, and she tells the RA to fuck off…then she goes to the next frat party, stands outside, and screams again. Counseling is not an option for her…counseling is for crazy people and she’s not crazy.
She gets mace, pepper spray, and a taser (and YES, the taser is illegal, as in it’s illegal for a private citizen, a non-law enforcement personnel to have it) but she insists she needs these things to defend herself while walking on campus in case anyone attempts to attack her. She cuts her hair really short, and between that and her outfits these days, she’s sometimes mistaken for a man, but she doesn’t care. She takes courses in women’s studies, goes to “take back the night” rallies.
Meanwhile, the frat brother who violated her that night goes on living as if it didn’t happen. His brothers high-five him and say he’s a “player”, the morning after. There are parties at the frat house the next weekend and every other weekend after that, and the brothers take turns getting lucky with various cute girls who disintegrate into heaps on floors or couches due to the combination of beer, jager, and roofies. They never understand why some girls who used to be really cute turn into what they consider to be crazy bitches, cutting their hair & wearing those awful baggy clothes…they’re only happy the ones who turn into crazy bitches don’t come to the parties because nobody wants to bang a crazy bitch. No matter how much jager a frat brother drinks, he wouldn’t bang one of those crazy bitches. Of course, some of the girls disappear altogether, they just disappear from campus as though they never existed. Not that the frat brothers notice, they’re too busy partying.
The scary thing is that the frat brothers graduate. I don’t know how they have time to go to class, they’re always partying, drinking, and/or hungover from what they did the night before, but every one of those assholes graduates somehow. They get degrees in finance, graphic design, biology, or whatever, is that they can get away with it, that they can do whatever they want to the cute girls who pass out, and no one will find out. And that makes them dangerous people.
Loss is a certainty in life. Don’t shake your head no at me because no matter who or where you are, you WILL lose things. It will be mildly annoying when you misplace your car keys or your phone, or you lose ANOTHER cigarette lighter (I’ve lost millions of those myself). It gets complicated when you start to lose people. For example, I lost my maternal grandmother (cancer that started in her breasts, ate her from the inside until it got her liver, and that was the end of her) when I was almost 10, and I miss her every day. I lost my maternal grandfather when I was in my early twenties (he lived long enough to be blind, senile, and incontinent) and because he was a pedophile who terrorized me most of my life, I’m only sorry I didn’t kill him myself (dying in his sleep was too good for him. See, complicated.
I’m also losing my vision. Yeah, I said it. Conditions like nearsightedness, kerataconus (that’s where my corneas are irregularly shaped and light doesn’t get into my eye properly, causing me to see blurry) and the ever-so-much-fun night blindness, have me making the print bigger on my laptop, cursing the tiny print in the morning paper, and terrified of having to walk ANYWHERE (even three blocks from the subway to the house) after dark. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not Ray Charles blind, if you wave your hand in front of my face, I WILL see it. It’s just that the loss of my vision is an ongoing process (one that causes the loss of my phone, cigarette lighter, wallet, and other stuff, at times) that is as difficult to bear as the loss of my grandmother.
Has it REALLY been fifteen years????????? Sometimes it feels like just yesterday I was that 23 year old girl lying on the futon in your apartment, and other days it’s like you’re someone I knew a lifetime ago. You were the first real relationship of my adult life, even though I never told you that. Before you, it was hook-ups in college campus rec rooms or worse yet, back rooms at bars. you were the first man to actually pick me up at my house like a gentleman, and I never appreciated you for that. The first night we went to bed, I, knowing sex was going to happen, made you stop at a liquor store on the way to your place. I had to get drunk to fuck you…god, what the hell did you think of me for that, I can’t even begin to wonder. Must’ve been a clue that I had, ummmmmmmm, a drinking problem, although at the time, I wasn’t ready to admit that to myself or anyone else. But it wasn’t you, it wasn’t that I had to get drunk to fuck YOU, it was that I had to get drunk to fuck in general. Another thing I never told you about myself (and there were many, I withheld so many important things about myself from you) is that I’d been sexually abused as a child, and at the time I was with you, I was keeping the secret of that, from EVERYONE, I was pushing it down, doing anything, including drink like a fish, to not think about it. Drunk was the only way I could have sex back then. I must’ve been an awful partner, just lying there like a dead thing under you, you didn’t deserve that…you didn’t deserve a partner who withholds big, important things about herself.
Anyway, it was three years ago that I got sober…twelve step meetings, a belief in a higher power (yeah, I’m not the atheist you remember), meditation, the whole bit. Part of getting sober is cleaning up the wreckage of the past. I know you may not remember me or our brief time together, but I remember having been a bad partner to you. I kept secrets from you because I didn’t trust you, but you never said or did anything to deserve any mistrust…it was all me & my own bullshit, and for that I owe you an amends. You don’t have to forgive me or contact me, just know that I’m working towards being a better person.
I did something I haven’t done in years…
I set foot inside a bar.
This is a big deal because I’m sober & bars are where people (at least here in the States) go to drink. No, I didn’t break my sobriety…my sister wanted to karaoke with some people we met at an outdoor showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show & I wasn’t going to leave her alone with a bunch of people she doesn’t really know.
So I tagged along to karaoke night at The Three Jolly Pigeons, which I remember from my drinking days as an old man bar. Sure enough, when we walked in, first thing we saw was a group of older men who appeared to have been affixed on their barstools since the Reagan administration (and they smelled awful). We headed to the back, where the karaoke machine was set up.
Back there was wall to wall hipsters…
grown men who had spent considerable effort artfully ripping the knees of their jeans & scuffing their expensive shoes, do as to look authentically downtrodden, & their women beside them in edgy haircuts & clothes they made themselves because they “reject crass consumerism”,
all of them paying for their craft beers with money from their trust funds.
Being in a bar as a sober woman, I realized some things. Like,
-Men who’ve been marinating in whiskey & their own sweat for what seems like ever are not very attractive
-no one is any good at karaoke
-at 2 am when the place closes & everyone else is staggering out & saying “I hope I make it home”, I’m walking confidently in heels, knowing I will get home without any unwanted incident.
Eurovision, I mean. I know, this clip is from 2007 (and features Apocalyptica, one of my all-time favorite bands), but from the look of it, Eurovision appears to be part ballet, part circus (complete with fire throwers), and part kick ass live music show, all on one stage, simultaneously. How all of that is choreographed so it comes off smoothly, I will never know (somewhere there’s a stage director guzzling scotch and going, “If anything goes wrong or looks like shit, I’m ruined in this buisness”, I just know there is) but it looks cooler than anything I’ve seen on American TV (and that includes HBO’s The Sopranos, Boardwalk Empire, and True Blood). I’m rambling, I know…Anyway, my point is we here in the States NEED something like Eurovision, something cool and exciting to watch. Please, we have more TV channels (what with cable, direct TV, and satellite) than we know what to do with, and there really isn’t anything innovative or exciting on. So please, whoever is the mastermind behind this Eurovision, what’s say you come over here (don’t worry, you don’t have to set up shop in North Dakota, you can totally stay in New York City or Los Angeles or Seattle if you’re into that) and give us our version of Eurovision. We need it so desperately.