Some Sort of Alive


My step sways to the left as I edge Delancey Street. My palm raises to the sky as if I was begging for forgiveness but truly, “Taxi!” I mumble the address, withdrawn into myself, could have been anywhere. Jittery fingers are blasting poorly typed confessions into my smart phone.

Dark inner lips — high pitched squeals —  rounded eyes — arched back– rolling breasts

flashes into my mind.

I briskly hand the driver his 20%.

Lock the door. Brush my teeth. His breath is so melodic when he sleeps. Clothes fall off. My patch is unruly but I am too twisted to care.  I curve my spine around him and it begins in no time.

He. He becomes my meat. Vegetarian and famished. His body is plentiful. Gnawing on forearms, bulky.  Storing muscle for my teeth, sharp as winter, my growls are begs, I want to consume him.

My thighs sting from self-afflicted scratches. I learned earlier that evening that dancing is so much better when there is infliction. Guess I’m a sucker for over-stimulation. Heart racing in my mouthfuls. Okay. Yes. I am alive.

He’s two fingers in, thumb thumping clit, my wetness starts to pour. Okay. Yes. I am alive.

I grab onto his. Glad he doesn’t stop. Take more of him into my mouth, this time I don’t bite. Things are crecendoing but I still get bored. I jerk my head to his thigh and bite him again.

He pushes my head away and pins me down tight.

It is mostly good. We are mostly there. In that moment. Thoughtless but impulsive. The ends to each others urges. That’s what makes it good. That’s the “secret”– Cosmopolitan Feature Story:

  • Be the only ones in the room.
  • Don’t Filter.
  • Primal but intimate.

In the shower the next morning we counted the tattoos my jaw gave him. “I haven’t been out that late in months– a year?” I say as I scrub him down. “I feet immortal and carnivorous when I’m breathing in Manhattan’s night. Can I drop the V word? I think that everything will click again when I get that freedom on the regular dosage. Some sort of alive.”

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Book Review: The Witch of Portobello


portobello

I picked up this book because I like portobello mushrooms and witches. Turns out this book isn’t about either one of these things. Despite this, I really enjoyed this book!

First thing is first, this isn’t a fiction or fantasy book. It isn’t trying to be a fiction or fantasy book. So, insulting it for not being these things isn’t fair. There are a lot of bad reviews for this book on this website and I think that’s why. This book isn’t really a novel. It also isn’t a Biology textbook or a historical account of the Civil War. It is pointless to be angry at it for not being these other things. I suggest entering this book with an open mind.

This book IS a discourse about returning to pagan roots.

This might be confusing because there are characters and there is a plot, however, these aspects are just aesthetics so the reader can be engaged in the discourse. Also, this book is “preachy” because elaborating on paganism is the entire point of the book. Religion and spirituality are mentioned in every scene not because the author is uncreative but because that’s what this book is about! It is best to understand this book as an emotional and exciting essay instead of a fantasy book about witches.

I could easily rate this book three stars, but I’m ignoring the Epilogue and giving it a four. The story was building up the idea that human’s spiritual intellect isn’t sharp enough to really know what is going on out there. And that awful things happen even if you have a feeling everything will turn out alright. AND I love that dark cynical point of view that is sprinkled throughout this book. But when you get to the Epilogue and it turns that on its face, well, I think that as intentional, but for me it was extremely agitating. Look, from chapter one, you know something really awful is going to happen to the MC. You don’t forget because it is repeated throughout the narrative. It is only a couple of sentences but it is the only clue to negativity in this entire book, the rest is VERY optimistic and positive.

When reading this book I thought, ‘If there really is a Blessed Mother then why do such horrific things happen to her children?’ But this question isn’t even touched upon! If the author has a different philosophical perspective, then ok, but make your argument. Totally ignoring legitimate concerns really weakens the thesis.

Paganism is a big deep world but this elementary introduction was perfect for me because I’m really elementary with this kind of stuff. Paganism wasn’t sold to me, but in a lot of ways that was just the vessel. The MC rejected Christianity and went to back to her roots and found Paganism. This reject and replace — this independence — that she has is powerful and resonated with me.

I’m a sexual fluid kinky lesboqueer.


Me: I’m a sexual fluid kinky lesboqueer.

You: Da fuck?

My sexuality is: label-my-sexual-orientation-and-I-will-mangle-that-label. It is safe to just say sexually fluid though that is description is so vague and overused that it is basically meaningless. That’s why I add suffixes to my sexual-fluid label.

Icon for Wikimedia project´s LGBT portal (Port...

Sexual fluid, like gender fluid, means however I feel in one moment doesn’t define my entire self. How aroused I am by submission, bdsm, masochism, trans* individuals, cis individuals, phallus genitals, vaginal genitals, anal sex, vaginal sex, age play, etc is not a static experience. Even an evaluation of my sexual history will only give someone a glimpse of my sexual preferences because it is not filled with experiences that match the ideal. The ideal would be to have a girlfriend and have gay sex. Maybe even a lesbian triad. However, those aren’t my experiences — my experiences are mostly straight.

I have a boyfriend that I am in love with. And some of my best sex has been with him. This, plus similar experiences, proves that I am not a lesbian. Despite this, I feel like part of me is missing without that lesbian relationship that is in my ideal. This incompleteness in my relationship is what opens me up to polyamoury.

Image of S/M sexuality

Kink is technically the sexual attraction to anything other then vaginal sex. But that definition reeks of homophobia and misogyny. When I say kink I am talking about sexual attraction to anything to other then sex with genitals. For me that’s bondage and restraint, sadism and masochism, dominance and submission, age play and pet play, and all the other tropes. For a long time I defined my sexual orientation purely in terms of kink. The gender and sex of my partner wasn’t important as much as their role as a Top. Since I started switching and being more grey in my power role that’s no longer true. But kink is still a large part of the way I relate to the sexual world.

Lesboqueer is a cute nickname I just made up. I’m sure other people have thought of it as well but it just came to me. Alternatives to lesboqueer would be: pansexual, homoflexible, or lesbian (alternatively: i’m a lesbian just a really bad lesbian). I have used all these descriptors as well.

Pansexual is way more preferable to bisexual. Bisexual would be dumbing down my sexuality too much. However, even pansexual isn’t a complete truth. I am sexually attracted to genders that are not in the gender binary however I am not equally attracted to all genders, I am unsure if I am attracted to all genders, and

My sexuality is: Any excuse to use the genderqueer seahorse icon.

gender does play a large part in my sexual orientation. I am far too interested in women for me to earnestly call myself pansexual.

The issue I have with homoflexible or lesbian is that it defines my gender as female. This is something I’m increasingly distancing from. Especially in my own cognition. In my mind I don’t want to box my own gender. Let it be free at least there.

Lesboqueer is basically a way for me to call myself a lesbian and genderqueer at the same time. But having a prefix of sexual fluid means I’m not really a lesbian all the time. And that’s how I solved the logic problem of my sexual orientation. Check, mate!

Quitting The NYC Kink Scene


I only lasted eight months in the kink scene before I called it quits, two years ago. I mean, I have gone out a couple of times since, and kept in contact with my close friends, and like I occasionally lurk fetlife.com (the kink social network. Yeah we have our own. ) but that’s far from active. And I didn’t replace the scene with something new, I am back to my roots, to my true self… which is introversion. For me, it wasn’t the bdsm that was the experiment, it was being social four times a week.

I joined the scene because I was in a secret M/s polyamorous relationship for three years and couldn’t handle the loneliness that comes with such a huge secret. Though my vanilla (non-kink, like Muggles) friends were rebels, I still felt too weird to be relatable. But when I joined the scene I surpassed my need to be accepted for bdsm and poly. I found acceptance in my sex-positive feminism, trans* gender fluidity, and homosexuality too.

free love idealism

tl;dr: the nyc kink scene killed my free love idealism and im still bitter, basically

I had complete acceptance and support and love and attention. It gave me a special elation that I don’t expect to find again. I was infatuated, more so with the entire kink scene than anyone in particular. I would proudly say that I was dating the kink scene, that I was the kink scene’s lover, that everyone was beautiful and nothing can go wrong — until reality hit.

I left the scene because . . .

(A) The conversations bored me. If you aren’t in the scene, then maybe conversations about orgies, being cut open, being a sex slave, and starting porn work might seem endlessly exciting. Well, sorry, but these conversations actually aren’t that great. At some point I think, what about the rest of the world. There are only so many conversations on what it means to be a sub one person can take. These conversations made me closed off from meeting new people and more interested in learning the real meaty stuff from the friends I already made.

(B) I realized I willingly invited a rapist into my apartment to have sex with me without even knowing his name. Two years ago, when I quit, there was a major outing happening on Fetlife over community rapists. I entirely support this movement however Fetlife’s admins and moderators do not. There is still a conflict going on between Fetlife and the NYC kink scene over the outings. In one of the outings this particular kinkster was mentioned multiple times and I became rightfully horrified. Even if he never came over, I still would of been disturbed. I learned in these outing that there are many abusers that float around the scene. Realizing this sorta ruined my free-love idealism.

(C) Heartbreak. I have had the same conflicts come up multiple times in my different relations leading to some serious hurt feelings. Though I call it heartbreak, I am not just talking about my ex-romantic relationships. I am talking about other partners and friends as well. There are some really unhealthy habits in the nyc kink culture. People try to have as many partners as possible, often retiring their old partners when they find something new and shiny. Besides being a gross thing to do to someone, this is dangerous behaviors. Hard limits are frequently forgotten and real connections are forced, leading to some really awful scenes. The binge-eating on scene partners comes from a complete  misunderstanding over what polyamoury really means (loving multiple people). The scene degrades this word to excuse their hook up culture with a pretentious-intellectual name. And fuck it hurts.

im a quitter

im a quitter

(D) I’m a quitter. I didn’t like the kink scene so I quit it. For a while this made perfect sense but recently I’m realizing how awful that actually was. The community doesn’t just existIt is a group-made institution that is frequently shifting and growing with the contributions of many different leaders. There is nothing about my personality that screams ‘leader’ however I didn’t even try to fix the holes that I saw in the scene. I was hurt by them and I left. This is where I was wrong. I can’t expect a community to change to my ideals if I don’t put them on the table. At this point I’m so removed from the kink scene that even writing this article is intrusive. I think sometimes of going back and being louder about my qualms. But if I stay a quitter forever then at least I hope I inspire someone else to either help the nyc kink community or whatever community that they belong to.

 

The Purple People Eaters, Writing Horror, Mental Illness, and Being Queer


Desideri, The Purple People Eaters, en~kay.ma~sa~ki

The antagonist of The Purple People Eaters.

The first draft of my novel, The Purple People Eaters, was completed a year ago today. The novel is about a paranormal alternative universe where a lolita siren becomes a famous pop star that captures America’s libido. The books stars a hard-working Brooklynite who quits her job to find allies and form a revolution against the very horny and morally corrupt society that the siren’s curse created.  I’m currently in the middle of the second-draft.

Since the novel’s birth, I have created a number of additional dark fantasies that all make me really wonder about my own sanity. Why is everything I create something to be ashamed of? Why can’t I write something that I can share with my family? Why is everything not just sexual but extremely dark and corrupt? What would it be like to write a happy story?

Like most of these blog posts, I wold be lying if I had any answer to the questions I propose. At times, I love my writing and I love my darkness. I love myself for my darkness. I protrude coal-black truths in my thoughts and in my writing and I would really enjoy creating a community where these metaphors and these morbidities are discussed openly. This is one of the motivations to complete and publish my work.

But when these writings go out, I am going to get so much flak. Hell, I have some legal issues with even getting pieces out there in the first place, so much so that I will commercialize my work to an extent. For example, I am in the process of bumping the age of my siren to eighteen. This is because I don’t want to get arrested or banned from Amazon/Smashwords. But even with those changes, my book will still be very dark. Someone will accuse me for being mentally ill and when that happens I can’t even disagree. I am mentally ill. I do have social anxiety, panic attacks, and chronic depression (Yeah, I am super fun). This does create the way I see the world and thus the art I create. But that doesn’t mean I am an example for every mentally ill person.

Besides a horror-writer, I am also a queer person. Though I have been very close with many straight people where this isn’t the case, there have been

Desideri, The Purple People Eaters, en~kay.ma~sa~ki

Horror-erotica. Because erotica writing just wasn’t socially awkward enough!

times where I have been backed in a questioning corner for being queer by straight “allies”.  When I have been out to them, then I instantly become this giant example of how queer people are. How “bisexual” people are. (Dumbing down your identity 101) How kinky people are. How polyamorous people are.  How genderqueer people are. And I instantly become the pinnacle queer person and everything I say or do stems from that. Even though  I am one of millions, and we all have our own backgrounds and point of views– even though we are complex multidimensional human beings. We become flattened to queerness. A one size fit all package.

And the frustrating guilt I feel for affirming any stereotype! I am particularly concerned with being polyamorous and “bisexual” and affirming the ideas that all bisexuals are promiscuous and indecisive. But though I’m concerned over this, I am not interested in the slightest to force myself in a relationship structure that I am uncomfortable with just because I’m concerned with what straight people think. I am going to be me, not an example for straight people.

So I’m going to come full circle with my book. I have a lot of guilt with my morbid writing but I also really enjoy it. Not only do I find it fun, but it is like therapy. In exploring my imagination, I find others that connect with it. Should I stop doing what I enjoy because others might think I’m mentally ill? When they find out that I actually AM mentally ill and judge me for it, should I stop doing what I enjoy then?  Writing is akin to breathing. I’m not going to stop breathing because I’m going to offend someone.

I’m not really hurting anyone here. There are destructive elements to my novel however they are impossible to replicate because they are layered with fantasy and horror. And these destructive elements are also sociopolitical commentaries about empathetic intelligence, equality, care and compassion, and community forming. These are not themes of a book that shouldn’t be written or published. These are themes I should– that I will be proud and confident about.

I enjoy being queer. At times my traditional background makes it difficult, but in moments of true queer expression, I am more honest with my strengths, beauties, and intricacies. The stuff I love. 

The secret to horror writing is to apply these same self-assured attitudes.  

Desideri, The Purple People Eaters, en~kay.ma~sa~ki

^O^!

Female Chauvinist Pigs: A Review and Deconstruction of Whorephobia and Transphobia


Female Chauvinist Pigs

Female Chauvinist Pigs (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

Ariel Levy’s Female Chauvinist Pigs was incorrectly recommended to me because the queer chapter was supposed to resonate with me. Um…. that chapter did nothing but fill me with abhorrent rage. When I spoke to the previous reader, they were surprised with the way I read it. So I re-read it again, and this time I felt like spitting in the book. So, no that queer chapter didn’t resonate with me. But okay, let me say something positive before I get too deep into that.

Despite the advert homophobia, transphobia, and whorephobia, there *is* something of merit to this book. It deconstructs enthusiastic sex-positivity feminism, pro-sex work feminism, AND commercialized feminism, all areas that need a hard eye. As a sex-positive pro-sex work feminist, it is really easy for me to be really open and enthusiastic about any element of a (wo)men expressing their sexuality, either personally or commercially. This book’s main idea is to be wary of this.

It reminds us that a man-centered, materialistic, commercial and very sexual feminism is very easy to sell and buying into it can lead to poor education, self-esteem issues, and issues with our consent and self-expression. Raunchiness is only one type of sexuality, but it is the one that is being packaged and bought in mass leaving minimal room for personal growth and individuality.

On the other hand, sex isn’t this monogamous pleasurable romantic experience all the time. For example, turning some tricks for money isn’t inherently oppressive because sex means more things that making love, basically. But I do agree with her point in saying that sex workers are *workers* and aren’t the sexual role models for our private life. At times the overbearing idealization of sex workers forces some women to replicate porn stars and strippers in their actual non-fantastical lives, leading to a male-centered idea of sex, the complete opposite of “sexual revolution”.

But anyway, let’s get back to the queer chapter. The author discredits genderqueer and transmen experiences by making massive generalizations about lesbians and transpeople. Basically, the author writes that the motivation between mastectomies, masculine pro-nouns, and transitioning away from one’s assigned gender (female) is internalized misogyny. This blanket statement is extraordinarily problematic and dangerous for readers who are not familiar with transpeople, and especially genderqueer people— the author straight up says that the only way to be a real boy is to go “all the way” with the transition. She also interviews transphobic lesbians and asks them about their opinion on trans* people as supporting evidence— let’s repeat that. This straight cis-feminist, a group that has historically eliminated trans* people from their community, interviews lesbians, another group that has historically eliminated trans* people from their community, about whether trans* people are ~real~ or not.

*head desk*

I mean, okay, her point is that misogyny is pervasive and is in queer communities, and I would agree with that. I would agree that queerness isn’t a safety net to be oppressive and queer people have been given too much slack in the civil rights world. But like, the couple of interviews with random NY/SF misogynistic lesbians she met and one queer magazine editor / “community leader” isn’t exactly fact-finding. If she didn’t have time to do this chapter right she should have just cut it.

Also, what’s up with her insulting queer people for being non-monogamous. Since queer people have been exiled from traditionalism, they have created their own relationship structures that go beyond the monogamous fairy tale idea of sex and love that the author is trying to push so badly.

Yeah, this book has some interesting points but honestly I would just read the Conclusion and Afterword in the library and then pick up something else.

 

 

 

A Love Letter


Dear JR:

In the coming down of yoga, I realized some things. I have known my love for you is a cleaner and more enjoyable love for a while now. I have even mistaken my lack of fanaticism for loving you less. Preferably, but less. But in my meditations, when my heart expands to post-orgasm girth, without your touch or even presence, with gigantism inspired by thought alone, I realize that I love you more than I have loved anyone before. You are my favorite part of my life. You make me happiest. You make me most inspired. You ground humanity into me and elevate me to idealism — you allow me to feel infinite, to feel galactic, like an asteroid floating in the outer space of the human experience and human possibilities. You are my everything — and I don’t mean that in the spineless way I have used the phrase in the past. You don’t define my present or future– only I define those things. You know this, but I don’t even see the future, though when I almost pulled the trigger on us recently, I realized that my relationship with you spreads further forward then I can expect, and those realizations surprised me. Because, I see yesterday, rolling in Washington Sq. Park’s grass, saxophone oozing the blues in the background, and your other partner laughing with us– our bliss, our exchange of honesty. I see today, though it was digitally contained, there was still the sending of love notes, anxiety notes, motivational notes, phallic jokes, and geeky banter. I see a language not based on traditional dialect but reinvented in my tongue and in yours. Our spit and molars roll around the vowels, and then we whisper devious promises. We blush but we are in love. I think it is pure. Each time I confess love with someone new, the word reinvents itself. And this time the poems in my ear are lullabies. And I curl into your chest, your pet, your mouse, I squeak into your collarbone, trace it with my meek tongue that can never flirt with you with the rigor of my pen, I look into your icy eyes, and I know that in that cliché hearts-beating-out-the-same-Beatles-song way, that really should make me throw up– but I know, that this moment in my life is beautiful, because I’m sharing it with you. You are sharing it with me.

And that’s why yoga is a really weird experience for me.