Layers

It seems to me fall and early winter have more memories than any other time of year. I can feel them around me today: the past shellacked into clear layers that get only slightly murkier as they recede in time. Today and last night so many of them are crowding around; I suppose the first night I sleep with the windows basically closed and the heat on is such a visceral feeling that things that happen in association with it sink in.

Climbing out of bed happens in stages; it's a sensory experience, coming up out of the warm womb of the covers and into the cooler embrace of the room's; stepping outside is the same again but more, a transition from almost-chilly to the slap of cold and goosebumpy prickles on my arms.

It's dark out earlier and later, and the air carries sound differently. The angle of the sun is greater so there are long, long shadows for so much of the morning. They always slant past my windows instead of in through them. The birdsong stands out as a strong textural element in the air.

That's not what I wanted to write about. I wanted to write that I am queen of ambivalence.

I remember first becoming sharply aware of the difference between ambivalence and words such as 'uncertain' or 'indifferent' on a sunny day at my permaculture course; a friend was talking about how he was ambivalent about a girl-- he both really wanted her and he really didn't. He lived at the extremes without inhabiting the middle ground in between.

I also live at the extremes. I am certain about every contradictory thing at once. I want things that are certainly at odds with each other, and I want them at the same time. This may be merely human, a desire to pick and choose my consequences, but in me it may go a little further.

I find myself gravitating towards situations that are inherently contradictory in nature, or if they are not innately so I will find a way to inject ambivalence into them. When presented with something that is clear and sure, I will often run in the other direction.

I was going to talk about the particular situations I find myself in right now; I was going to write them down in plain English and see if they felt just as heartbreaking here as they do to me from the inside. I was going to say, 'see, this is what I go after, and I have so many options for surety and safety and comfort and I choose to tear myself apart'.

I'm not going to do that now. Something fell apart in my head when I was describing fall; all those years and this, too, will one day be a footnote in my history and so no matter how much I care about it now any entry would just be another slew of words that I may never revisit.

Ambivalence? Maybe I'll allow myself to lapse, just briefly, into apathy. I'll drink tea and nurse my cold and the world will still be there when I come back to it.

Beating People Up

So I've had reason to think about what I've to; tongue-in-cheek called "play: the grown-up kind" quite a bit lately. Specifically I'm talking about kink, BDSM, deviant shit, perversion, hurting and being hurt for pleasure and fulfillment-- whatever you'd like to call it.

First, it's something I do, and it's something I am. There are a significant number of fuzzy lines around what the particulars are, especially when I'm writing to as diverse an audience as you; this particular thing may be inside the definitional line for some, and that same thing outside for others. That's not important to these thoughts. It's indisputably true that I'm kinky; I derive real actual pleasure from hurting people. That pleasure is unmixed when I'm hurting someone who I like, who wants to be hurt, and who is going to be long-term undamaged in a mutually agreed-upon definition of the term from it. That pleasure occurs from both mental and physical pain, and from fear and apprehension. It is considerably complicated and always counterbalanced by nonconsensual situations but it does remain in those situations as an undercurrent of which I am sometimes only aware after the fact. I also derive fulfillment and peace from having such things done to me by people I trust who are acting in ways sensitive to my responses.

I take the whole thing very seriously. When Kynnin and I broke up I moved in with Tillie, who is an educator around kink and also many people's kinky fairy godmother. I absorbed a number of ground rules before I even began to explore my tastes in that regard. With a sexual relationship I expect a certain amount of give-and-take, of self-advocacy, of each-stands-up-for-themselves if need be. When I'm topping I assume responsibility for my bottom's entire well-being as much as I can determine it as well as for my own consistent ability as a caretaker. With sex you're playing with fire, no doubt about that, but with kink you're in many cases actively setting off high explosives.

None of this is to say a bottom has no responsibilities. Communication is key in every interaction, especially in heavy-duty emotional and physical button-pushing things like this. When I bottom, though, I so easily go beyond the ability to give clear and comprehensible verbal instructions that language may not even exist for me anymore. There is a whole nonverbal realm a top needs to not only be aware of but to be able to read in order to be effective without damaging and without overstepping and making the whole experience actually unpleasant. Some of this can be covered by negotiations beforehand, but not even close to all of it can be. That reading requires absolute focus for me, and that focus is part of the pleasure of a structured kink scene. A person's body is a verty complicated instrument to play, and many -- not all, maybe not most -- of these scenes are about exploring the tolerances of that instrument without breaking it.

I find that with sex the stakes are lower. There is less chance of damage, spontaneous explosion, or even boredom. It's easier to communicate during sex: a little more here, a little harder there, turn this way, I want you to say that. Yesterday I was reminded that I don't like to make gross generalisations and I have just made one there-- it's not always true, and with some activities in particular I tend to focus quite intensely indeed. Still, I don't have that same sense of owning the situation, of responsibility, that I do for my bottoms.

When I'm topping, I feel a sense almost of ownership and also of great tenderness. This person-- my whole world for the moment --is my child, toy, lover, my precious thing. In those moments there is no ambiguity and if ever there's a question every protective hackle I have is raised instantly. It's fair to say this is one of the most viscerally emotional connections I have with people; it's primal and immediate, it pushes all of the buttons that make me feel human. There may be irony in that to some.

Certainly in afterthought, only after having written this and thought about it from the point of view of someone who doesn't swing this way, it may be strange to be protective of someone I myself am hurting; it may seem ridiculous or beside the point to be intensely concerned with their well-being and, yes, enjoyment.

All that said, it may be surprising that I don't fall in love with my bottoms as a general rule. I fall in love with my lovers all the time, and especially at first in a sexual relationship the sex is decidedly less intense than a kink scene would be both emotionally and physically. I feel love, awe, and adulation freely for my tops; those feelings spill out freely in scene, and I will not scene with someone who is unworthy of those feelings even just for a short time. I can walk away from topping, though-- blood sugar is stabilized, cuddling given if necessary, a follow-up call or two arranged if it was intense enough or if it's new enough to seem to require it (and I do like follow-up calls; my world is interconnected) --but then I can go back to my life, perhaps with pleasant anticipation of the next time 'round, but without feeling emotionally sticky.

Having said what I want to say, it's time for me to go do homework. What are your thoughts?