Everything gets better.

As I may or may not have bothered to mention, I've started classes in nursing school.  Classroom prerequisites this year, two years of nursing classes and clinicals, and if all goes well, I'll be 28 when I become an Actual Real Nurse For Real.

The weirdest, and best, part of going back to school as an adult is how terrifying the professors aren't.  I always used to think of professors as bosses who wanted me to work and could fire me, or (much worse) parents who wanted me to be good and could punish me.  They're not.  They're working for me. I don't mean that in the sense of "you're working for me, so give me an A," but in the sense of "you're working for me, so give me the knowledge and skills I'm buying from you."  My Microbiology professor isn't an authority over me; he's someone who knows more about microbiology than me so I'm paying him to tell me about it.

I still need a good grade, of course; and I still have some anxiety about that.  But it's nothing like the anxiety I felt as a teenager.  It's a matter of "I'll learn the stuff and I'll tell them what I learned," not of facing judgement.  I wouldn't say that school is easier now--but it doesn't scare me.

---

Sex with Rowdy last night was amazing.  Amazing like a drug, amazing like the physicality of it didn't even matter any more--I was flying.  I slipped into a state where everything felt good.  He fucked me and it felt good; he kissed me and it felt good; he bit me and it felt good; he touched me and it felt good. I was moaning and squirming every time he did anything to me, and he did oh so many things.

We didn't have sex this good a year ago.  We had good sex, but it wasn't like this.  We didn't know each other's bodies and minds well enough.  It's the difference between driving a good car--and driving your good car, the one where you know exactly how tightly it takes every curve, exactly how it responds to every gram of force on the pedals.

Our sex just keeps getting better.

I was still flying when I fell asleep, his whole body wrapped around mine.

---

Yesterday, I went and got a cup of coffee between classes.  I asked the coffee lady for a medium drip coffee, she told me "that'll be a dollar thirty," I gave her a dollar thirty, and I took my coffee and went to class.

I know this sounds like a really, really pointless story.  But what struck me is how easy it all was. Specifically, how much easier it was.  Even such a minor transaction used to be fraught with weird anxiety for me--anxiety I would never admit to, because how can you admit something like "I have great difficulty with the social nuances of buying a cup of coffee"?

I didn't know what kind of coffee I was supposed to order, or how I was supposed to phrase the order. Should I call it "java" or "joe" to show I was a cool, experienced coffee drinker, or should I use precisely the name on the menu?  Were there certain drinks that only dorks ordered?  Would it be rude to act chummy with the coffee lady, or rude to not act chummy with her?  If I fumbled my change and she got impatient with me, did that mean she hated me?  Could I ever show my face again at the coffee stand if I made the coffee lady hate me?

These goofy-ass things tormented me when I was about eighteen.  It feels almost magical that they don't any more.  Not by figuring out all the secret social codes, but by figuring out that there aren't any secret codes, I became one of the cool, experienced coffee drinkers.

I can order coffee in total comfort now.  It's a wonderful feeling of power.  Eighteen-year-old me would never have believed it.

---

I'm taking Human Growth and Development right now.  The professor's in his late fifties or early sixties, and told us that in his experience, each stage of life is better than the last one.

So far, it's true.

I don't get bullied any more--I take for granted that I won't get bullied any more--but that's the least of it. As I've gotten older, gotten more established in my relationship, gotten more perspective on the world, gotten more comfortable in my body and my life, everything has gotten better.

The biggest secret we keep from young people is that being an adult is actually pretty freaking awesome.



Also, I can have pizza whenever I want.  I don't even like pizza that much though. We have secret adult foods that are better than pizza.

Two Silly Ideas.

Two ideas have been floating around in my head for a few months now, and I'm not sure if either of them is good. I'll probably do the first and I'm probably not taking the second seriously enough.

1. The Girl In The Closet.
I want Rowdy (or someone else I trust both as a person and a BDSM top) to shut me in a walk-in closet for 24 hours. Maybe a whole weekend. I'd get a jug of water (maybe a little food if it's a whole weekend) and reasonable allowances for potty breaks, and that's it.

Why: Partly as a kink thing, but mostly as a mental-clearing thing. In a weird way it almost feels like something I need, a reboot for the brain, a forced mediation. I'm a person consumed by my distractions--sex! blogs! food! electronics! hobbies! TvTropes!--and while I treasure most of those distractions, I also want to know what it's like to live without any distractions at all. It's something I would do independently, but I don't think I can force myself. So I'll get someone to force me.

Why not: It could just be a giant waste of time. I could become sufficiently physically or mentally uncomfortable that I only think about the discomfort. I'm also a little afraid that I'll beg out early and regret it, but I would not agree to an arrangement that didn't give me some way to safeword out.



2. Renouncing My Gender.
Maybe I should have said "the person in the closet." Because I'm not sure I'm a woman. I've got a female body and that doesn't bother me, but there's nothing else that convinces me I'm a woman. I'm thinking of officially declaring this and living (in kink/feminist circles, at least) as officially genderless.

Why: Not only am I not sure I'm a woman, I'm not even sure what evidence could convince me. I don't think I'm a man; I think I'm genderless, or other-gendered, or something. (Sometimes I don't understand how anybody knows what their gender is, but I take people's word that they do.) My gender is "person," and beyond that, I don't know how to define it. I don't feel manly or womanly in the least--I don't even know what "manly" or "womanly" are supposed to feel like.

Why not: I feel like I'm still taking this too lightly. I know that I'll still have to be a "woman" with family/work/school/etc. anyway. I'm only talking about myself here, but I feel weird announcing a "non-standard" gender, like I'm trying too hard to be "special" or something, like that time when I was a teenager and I typed in British spellings for a year. I don't want to alienate potential partners (or current/former partners!) who are attracted to women.

I also worry that maybe I'm overthinking it, maybe being comfortable in a female body is all it means to be a woman, and you don't have to feel like a super womanly lady girl person to be a woman.

I also worry that I'll totally lose my feminist "I'm a woman, and I think that..." cred.

For the time being, I'm still a woman. I'm sort of a "woman, but what the fuck is a woman anyway?", but I'm a woman. Right now. I'll keep you posted.

The pussy supply.

An open letter to the dudebros, brodudes, and I Tappa Kegga brothers of the world.

Dudes. Bros. You are facing a crisis of bromongous proportions. At a moment in history when you might have unprecedented access to that most valued commodity of the Bromantic Era--willing, accessible, uncomplicated poontang--your own brother bros are shooting you in the foot.

It works like this: you throw a party, with lots of booze and annoying music and you invite lots of ladies. Ladies whom you hope will be eager to get in bed with you and total freaks in the sack. That would be the optimal party, right? Tons and tons of uninhibited women who dress and act sexy, like sex, are good at sex, and don't think it means you have to get married or be all weird in the morning or anything.

And then the foot-shooting. It comes in two forms. The first is slut-shaming. When guys talk bad about women for sleeping with a lot of guys, they're signing away their chance of sleeping with those women themselves--and your chance as well. When a woman is laughed at or insulted for being a "slut," there's a very good chance she'll respond by having less casual sex, even if she likes the sex itself. Other women see this happening and don't let themselves have any casual sex in the first place. And when that happens, dudebros, everyone loses.

The second is rape. Some frathouses and other guy-thrown parties have such bad reputations that the "she should have known better" victim-blaming comes into play for any woman who even goes there. Imagine how many women aren't showing at up at all because of this. Imagine how many of the women who do show up won't go upstairs with you because of this.

And then again, imagine a party house where sexually free women were welcomed with open arms, where women were respected and felt safe, and where they were safe. Imagine how many sluts would show up to their parties, and how much sluttier they might get.

I appeal to you, dudebros, to think not of women's rights--that can be such an abstract concept--but of your own pussy supply. What you and your bros are doing right now is scaring all the pussy away. If you like pussy so much, treat pussy owners nicely, and you just might get a whole lot more of it.

Sincerely,
Holly Pervocracy




P.S. No guarantees. Sometimes you act like a decent human being and don't get laid. Your odds are better, but still, it happens. The only solace I can offer is that at least you were a decent human being. That's something, y'know?

My fake wedding fantasy.

Someday, I want to get pseudo-married. I've been dreaming of this for years (seriously). I have it all planned out. I'm a veritable pseudo-Bridezilla. Here's how it's going to go down:

For the ceremony, we're going to pseudo-elope. We're going to run away to Vegas for a long weekend, drink and gamble ourselves stupid, catch Penn & Teller and Zumanity (this isn't exactly part of the fantasy; it's just something I have to do if I'm in Vegas), and at about 3 AM we're going to stagger into the 24-hour Elvis quickie wedding place. And then we are not going to sign papers. We're just going to tell Reverend Presley that we'll pay him to go ahead and do up the whole ceremony, walk me down the aisle and stand us up at the altar and say the words, but not do anything legal.

It will be the happiest day of my life.

For the reception, we're going to do it formal and proper, sometime in my life when I have enough money to do it right. (So maybe not right after Vegas. Hell, maybe not with the same person. Doesn't really matter who my partner is for this as long as they're into it and understand my intent.) You know how people's first weddings are usually their most lavish and elaborate? That's what I want from my zeroth wedding. I'm going to pick colors and hire a planner for all those little details and rent out a banquet hall and get a caterer and a DJ and a photographer and invite all my friends and relatives and I am going to wear an absolutely ludicrous dress. We're going to have a gigantic formal party until late into the night and I'll obsess over every detail and it'll be an absolute blast.

Then comes the pseudo-wedding night. Oh baby. Here's one part we're not faking.

Although I'd like to do these things with someone I at least like, honestly, I don't care if we stay Together Forever or whatever. Maybe I'll do that someday with somebody, but that's a totally separate thing. And whether I ever make it legal with someone is probably going to have more to do with legal or financial practicality than with fairy-tale romance. But that doesn't mean I don't want to have that fairy-tale day every girl supposedly dreams of. I just want only that day.

I don't want a marriage. Just a wedding.

Too tired for a real post.

Sorry I've been quiet the last few days. The last week of work seems determined to see me out with a proper "YOU FUCKING BITCH I WANT SOME FUCKING VICODIN RIGHT NOW OR I'M GOING TO PUNCH YOU AND THEN SUE YOU." Work, sleep, wake up, wonder why I'm lying in the driveway, go inside to my bed, sleep, work.

Tomorrow is my last day. After that, I have no excuse not to write on-topic posts. But right now I've got a great excuse! So instead of a proper Pervocracy post, here's a scene from "The Zombie Cure."





It was a warm night after a cold rain, and in the beams of the floodlights, the ground was steaming. Gary Cantrell, twenty-nine, pale, lanky, sweating like a horse, crouched in the darkness and waited. A pump-action riot shotgun was slung over his shoulder. He didn't want to use it. But he was glad as hell to have it there. He reached back and touched it, silently comforted.

The trap was a crab-pot design in hurricane fence--a broad funnel going into the corral, a narrow gate coming out. Gary held one side of that gate. Shealyn, only a few feet away but nearly out of sight in the blackness, pulled on her leather gloves and took hold of the other side. "We're ready," she whispered under her breath, and Bee stepped out under the floodlights, into the maw of the trap.

"COME ON YOU ZOMBIE MOTHERFUCKERS," she bellowed. "WHO MOTHERFUCKING WANTS SOME?" Bravado. The words didn't matter anyway; all the zombies knew was the sound of a human voice. The dinner bell.

For too long there was no sound. Gary shifted his weight uncomfortably. He didn't like hearing the mindless groaning of the unholy dead. But God, it was better than nothing. He wished he could see the moon, or some stars. Except for the pool of light on Bee and the trap, the blackness was absolute.

"I'VE GOT SOME NICE JUICY MOTHERFUCKING BRAINS!" Bee yelled. Gary realized that she had been a good girl before, a quiet smiley girl who never really learned how to swear. But they were all pretending to be tough guys these days. Hell, every time he used that damn shotgun he acted like his ears didn't hurt and he didn't want to puke even a little bit. "HEY YOU MOTHERFUCKING ZOMBIES, YOU GONNA SHOW UP OR YOU GONNA FUCK YOUR MOTHERS ALL NIGHT?"

Then the sounds finally, finally came. But instead of the usual moans and shuffling footsteps, it was the quick pitter-pat of running feet. Human feet. And what ran into the light was not a shambling mound of rotten flesh. It was a woman. She was crying.

"My baby," the woman said. She was tall and still looked strong, but bone-thin and filthy. Gary had been in worse shape himself when he came to the Fortress. The woman ran up to Bee, nearly screamed "my baby," and collected herself. "My daughter. Ellen. She's six. We had a safe place. But she went out and she. They. ...She got bitten."

Without a second's hesitation, Bee hugged the woman. "You're safe here," she said. But Gary and Shealyn stayed where they were, silent, in the dark, with shells chambered. "We have a good place here. There's food, and beds, and a doctor will see you. It's going to be okay."

"But my baby."

"It's going to be okay," Bee said again, but hollowly.

"No, you don't understand," the woman said. "She's here."

Then Gary heard it. The familiar groaning, but quiet and higher pitched, coming from a smaller throat. The mindless shuffle of little feet. And into the light stumbled cute little Ellen. Her eyes lolled crazily in their sockets. Blood was smeared across her face and her teeth were bared like an animal's. She looked dully at her mother and Bee, looked right through them and held out her arms, grasping at them.

Bee and the woman ran to the back of the corral and Bee shoved the woman over the back fence, boosting her up and letting her fall on the ground outside. Then she turned to face the little girl. Slavering, the girl grabbed Bee's jacket, but Bee was already in a fighting stance. Without even changing her expression she braced herself and flipped the girl over her hip. Fifty pounds of tiny zombie hit the dirt with a very small thump. "Let's do this like usual, folks," Bee said, and that was the cue.

Gary and Shealyn slammed the gate shut and vaulted themselves into the corral. The zombie righted herself and snarled. Gary realized that her hair was still in pigtails, tied with little pink beads on the elastic. Bee made a little clicking sound, almost smiled, and they moved as a team. Shealyn grabbed the girl's right arm. Gary grabbed her left. Bee pulled her legs out from under her and the four of them went to the ground.

Little Ellen's head rolled crazily and she snapped and gnashed her teeth. She clawed and thrashed with the strength of the undead, the strength of a creature that knows no pain. It took everything Gary had, both hands and a knee and all the blind stupid courage he had in him, just to hold one of her arms as it became wild and clawed. If the fight went on she would literally tear herself apart.

With the practiced moves of a woman who had done it a hundred times and still not learned to swear properly, Bee released the girl's legs from her hands and in an instant trapped them again under her knees. She pulled a syringe from her back pocket, yanked the cap off with her teeth and spit it aside, and darted it into the girl's buttock, right through her pants. Bee jammed the plunger down fast and had the needle out before the girl's struggling could break it off. "Okay," she said when it was done, and the three of them released the zombie and ran for the fence. They were over it before the zombie could regain her feet.

Then it was just a matter of waiting. And of telling the mother that it was just a matter of waiting. The girl snarled and paced in the corral, clawing uselessly at the fencing. In a few minutes she slowed, then crumpled to the ground, seemingly asleep but for the lack of breathing.

It took a moment. Not seconds but minutes. Then the little girl's chest heaved, once. The mother put her hand to her mouth. Another long moment, thirty seconds, or twenty. Another breath. And then another. And then the girl's eyes were open, not blank and wild but bright and clear. Shakily, she sat up.

This was why they built the trap. This was why they left the safety of the Fortress to come out there every night and bait it with their own bodies. It was times like this, watching the little girl be a little girl again, watching her get up and walk, unsteady but alive and human, so beautifully human in her every movement, and run over to reach out to her mother through the fence. Her hands, now that they were no longer claws, were so tiny. Her mother grasped them and kissed them.

"Mommy?" little Ellen said. "Why are you crying, Mommy?"

Positive TV!

(In which the author makes a precipitous descent into pure hippiedom.)

Ozymandias left the following comment on my last post, and it really got me thinking:

I occasionally have daydreams of running a major TV network and creating a show called the Compliment Show.

The Compliment Show would impersonate one of those you-suck-fix-yourself shows-- the ones with the British nannies, or the your-fashion-sucks shows. They would film your life, your wardrobe, your kids, whatever, and then they would say:

"Your style is individual, yet attractive! Good job!"
"Your kids are perfectly normal for their ages. In fact, your daughter is very intelligent, and your son has such artistic skill. We're impressed."
"In general, you are a good person, and there is nothing at all wrong with you."

It would probably get cancelled very quickly.

I want to envision an entire Positive TV channel. Here's some of the shows I've come up with:


Political Collaboration Hour - Pundits from across the political spectrum discuss: which laws and candidates would benefit the country more, and how can we help more people be safer and happier? The host, whose catchphrase is "Now let's look for the common ground!" encourages the pundits to find the fundamental principles they agree on even if they believe in applying them in different ways.

Survivors - Each week, the teams must cooperate to complete an island-survival-themed challenge together. No one gets voted off, because it's important that the teams learn to work with the people they have, who are all useful in some way. At the end everyone is nicely compensated for appearing on the show. The entertainment comes from watching the lengths they have to go to and the ingenuity they apply in attacking the challenges.

Bob Loves Luisa - In this hilarious family sitcom, the husband and wife genuinely understand and want to work with each other. One of their children is very intelligent and the other is very creative, and Bob and Luisa encourage them both to do what they love! Dramatic conflict arises from temporary misunderstandings and outside challenges, and is resolved through open--but wacky--communication and teamwork! Also there is a goofy next-door neighbor.

Dirty Jobs - We'd just syndicate this. No editing required.

Nightly News Flash - Our intrepid news team reports in-depth on charity and relief projects, promising scientific research, and on the rapid spread of useful technology around the globe. There'd be special segments on dramatic rescue missions and promising young people, and exposés revealing which lawmakers are really making personal sacrifices to serve their country better.

America Does, In Fact, Have Talent - Performers demonstrate diverse skills in music, dance, comedy, magic, and other entertainment arts. Everyone who made it through the offscreen auditions is so good that the show really just exists as a venue to let people enjoy their talent. After each performance, three judges who are well-educated in theater and circus history briefly give the audience a perspective on the heritage of the art form being showcased, then discuss the ways the performer honored and diverged from tradition in their work.

Self-Esteem Makeover - People who want plastic surgery, extreme weight loss, or a total style makeover meet up with an elite team of clinical psychologists who teach them that who they are and what they do--and even the unique and human way they look right now--matters so much more. In the second half of the show, these people are taught how to eat a balanced and varied diet and engage in fun physical activities, then assisted in designing a makeup and wardrobe for themselves that fits well with their individual style.




I'm totally going to think of more when I'm at work. Add your own!




EDIT: Yep, here are some I thought of at work. There are lots of great ideas in the comments too!

This Land Is My Land - This travel show has a different host each week, as a native of the featured region gives our camera crew a tour of their homeland. Learn about their own society, history, cuisine, and landmarks from the perspective only a true insider can give! Hear moving stories of how the host's personal history and daily life tie into the unique culture of their region--first hand.

The Zombie Cure - In a world overrun by shambling, mindless monsters, a small group of human scientists holed away in a jury-rigged urban fortress have found a cure that restores the zombies back into sentient humans. This epic and darkly comic series follows them from their first successful experiment on a chained, perilously captured zombie in the fortress basement through the long hard road of un-zombifying the world. This week's episode where our heroes confront a snarling little girl zombie, then gently restrain her so she will have no injuries when she returns to consciousness, is guaranteed to thrill and chill you, then delight you when she wakes up with only minor bruises and gives her mommy a hug!

Real Teens Out Of Control - Tania is expelled under a "zero tolerance" policy for possession of the pepper spray she carries for self defense. Alberto is charged with disorderly conduct for taking part in a political protest. Franklin is thrown out of the prom for trying to attend in a dress. Juliet is sent to the district's special "behavioral problems" school for choosing to keep her pregnancy. Hear the thrilling true-life stories of teenagers who broke all the rules... and had a pretty good point, which they will articulately explain on camera as they go through the process of challenging the system.

Exhibition Game - In this old-school game show, contestants have to use both brains and brawn: one moment answering trivia questions, the next doing physical challenges. A contestant might find themselves improvising rock lyrics, then bungee-jumping off an actual rock! At the end of the game, everyone gets nice prizes and fancy vacations from the sponsors, because all of the contestants contributed to making the show entertaining, so they should all reap the rewards. Besides, seriously, how do you even score bungee-jumping? "Best falling technique?" Whatever.

Sesame Street: Adult Edition - Short, engagingly animated adult-level lessons on science, history, math, civics and language alternate with the Muppets' lovable antics and catchy songs. Don't act like you're too cool for this. You'd so watch it. You know it.

Beautiful Dream.

(Yes, I'm so tired I've been reduced to coming up with post material while asleep. Four shifts to go!)

I dreamed was walking down a busy street, and there was a woman standing by the curb yelling at people as they passed by. Horrible things. Insults of every kind--racial, size-based, sexist--anything about them that was anything, that distinguished them from a department store mannequin in any way, she would pick out and scream at them. People were cringing and shying away, kids started crying. I was horrified and upset.

I stopped just out of her earshot and called the police. "We know about her, ma'am," said the dispatcher, sounding tired. "We can't do anything about it. It's a First Amendment issue."

So I decided that I would stand next to her, and every time someone came by, tell them something good about themselves. I wasn't condescending; I put all of my love into it. As long as she stayed there, I did, screaming at strangers:

"YOU HAVE A BEAUTIFUL FAMILY!"
"I LOVE YOUR HAIR!"
"YOU LOOK SO CONFIDENT!"
"YOU ARE A UNIQUE HUMAN BEING FULL OF POTENTIAL!"
"THOSE ARE FREAKING AWESOME SIDEBURNS!"

I couldn't shut her up, but I could add my voice.

The visions.

I'm getting weird synesthetic visions almost every time I have sex now. I can't really explain it.

Last night, I was having sex with Rowdy, and I was seeing gold vines twining up a green background, forming shapes like an Oriental rug. I was still aware of the room in reality, and of Rowdy of course, but every time I closed my eyes the vines were there. This happens almost every time, with different imagery, always very fixed and abstract. I'll be fucking and I'll have the image of a series of purple hills rushing past, or of examining every facet of a blue gem. It's not really pleasant or unpleasant in itself, it doesn't interfere with my pleasure in sex, and it's not something I feel any voluntary control over. It's just a strange sort of waking dream.

I've always experienced sex as a sort of altered state, as something that took me out of this reality. But it's still odd that it's causing me to literally--and lately, reliably--hallucinate.

STuDly.

If our culture had any goddamn consistency, STIs, in a man at least, ought to be seen as a sign of virility. I mean, what better proof that you've at least had sex, and stereotypically that you're really getting around?


"You've got herpes? HIGH FIVE DUDE."

"Oh man, look at that guy, you just know he doesn't even carry HPV."

"Am I any good? Baby, I've got chlamydia and gonorrhea."

Buying deodorant etc.

Buying deodorant; or, how to drive yourself completely insane via the most trivial interactions of popular culture and feminist thought.

I am stinky! My hippie all-natural deodorant without those chemicals that my dad says cause Alzheimer's (scientific evidence is inconclusive) does not effectively unstinkify and I think people are noticing! As a girl I get treated bad if I'm not pretty and this smell is very not pretty! This is worth risking my health over! Time to buy some Alzheimer's deodorant!

Okay, I'm in the drugstore, I'm at the deodorant aisle, and... it's cut in half. Everything on the left is black and red and dark blue, and everything on the right is pink and purple and pale blue. I don't have to be told which one is for me, or why they've been divided visually this way and not by brand or antiperspirant/deodorant-only or gel/stick/spray.

I pick up some bottles and sniff them, and I can tell with my eyes closed, too. The left-side deodorants are all citrusy or spicy; the right-side ones are all flowery or powdery. (A couple of the left-side ones give me unexpected sense memories. Old Spice was like a goddamn cascade of ex-boyfriends in a bottle.) Maybe this makes some sense, because males and females do smell a little different, so maybe these are more complementary scents to our natural odors? Yeah, that's a stretch.

So the extremely First World Problem that faces me: if I buy a men's deodorant, will people notice that I smell like a man and think I'm weird? Can you get in trouble for being cross-deodorized? But if I buy a women's deodorant, aren't I just buying into the system? I think I like the men's deodorants more, but is it really the smells I like or is it the association with masculinity which is in turn associated with superiority? Oh fuck it, are there any neutral deodorants here?

There aren't.

In the end, I get Arm & Hammer deodorant, which I think is a men's brand--it's on the left--but is sort of middley, with an orange bottle and an air-freshener-y smell. (Also I have this vague idea that anything with Arm & Hammer in it must work extra well because baking soda is magical or something.) I think I can live with this.

Oh fuck, I just went to the website and the slogan on it is "All The Muscle A Man Needs." There's a picture of a veiny man's bicep too. It fooled me in the store, but no, I am definitely not invited to use this deodorant.

All I want to do is make my armpits less stinky, and I can't do it without negotiating gender in a million ridiculous ways.

Oogyboogykajoogyism.

I have a declaration to make. After being told by oh so many people what a feminist says, does, feels, looks like, believes, votes for, buys, boycotts, dates, fucks, and generally is, I have come to realize I am not a feminist. I am actually a follower of a hitherto unknown gender philosophy. As founder of this unknown philosophy, I claim the right of naming it, and I now identify as a follower of Oogyboogykajoogyism.

The fundamental tenet of Oogyboogykajoogyism is that all genders and sexualities deserve equal human rights. As an Oogyboogykajoogyist, I believe in equal opportunity in the workforce, in fairly shared childrearing and household duties, and in freedom of gender and sexual expression. Oogyboogykajoogyism is dedicated to fighting sexual violence and all forms of physical and emotional abuse, and is opposed to the degradation of any gender or sexuality in the public discourse.

Oogyboogykajoogyism also kinda has a thing about Cosmopolitan magazine.

And that's it. There's no other baggage. No one to tell me "oh, but you're not a real Oogyboogykajoogyist if you don't do this" or "since you're an Oogyboogykajoogist, I assume you do that." No one to backhand-compliment me that I'm sure not your typical Oogyboogykajoogyist. No one to tell me that I'm a bad Oogyboogykajoogyist and I'm doing it wrong. No one to write me off because I'm just another angry Oogyboogykajoogyist. As a totally novel philosophy, it has to be taken on its own terms.

I hope you will follow me through the exciting process of transforming this into an Oogyboogykajoogyist blog. I expect great things.



Come to think of it, while I'm at it, I'd like to redefine my gender as an oogyboogykajoogman. That should help even more.

(An oogyboogykajoogman has a female body, but only some of the other traits of a woman. Therefore, when one of them looks or behaves in an unfeminine way, they are not an imperfect woman, but a perfect oogyboogykajoogman.)

Fucking like an actuary.

To the Federal Aviation Administration, a human life is worth about $2.7 million. Oh my God, that's horrible, right? Well, you can dispute the amount, but the way the system works, there has to be an amount. In philosophical terms a human life may be worth infinity dollars, but when you're building an aircraft, you can't spend infinity dollars on safety features. Every design will let some people die, and you have to assign a specific number value to decide exactly where you draw the line between "this airplane is unsafe" and "no one can afford this airplane." If adding five-point harnesses to airline seats would save 10 lives and cost $30 million, then those 10 people are knowingly--and, although I wouldn't like to say this to the families, reasonably--sacrificed. They die not from cheapness but from compromise, from the understanding that if we want commercial air travel then we accept some deaths.

And this is why sometimes I have sex with strangers.

I'll admit right now, mea culpa, I haven't done the math. If I were really working this FAA-style I'd assign the benefit of gettin' some strange a dollar value, then multiply the odds of every possible adverse event by their assigned dollar values (1% chance of getting the herp x $500 worth of sadness caused by the herp = $5 Expected Herp Cost), and subtract costs from benefit to determine whether the sex breaks even. I haven't literally done this.

But I'm aware that there is math going on. The one thing I will not do is insist on a 0% risk. That's not sensible, reasonable, or possible. I won't even insist on the absolute minimum risk. Telling me "condoms have a failure rate" doesn't scare me--I know it; I'm neither ignorant nor in denial. I've simply estimated that it's still worth it.

So it's from the same philosophy, not a contradiction, that I won't fuck strangers without a condom. The Expected Herp Cost goes up too high, all the passengers on the plane die, and it's not worth my $2.7 million anymore. Taking calculated risks doesn't mean I'll take any risk.

A corollary of this approach is that not only should you avoid saying "I'll only have sex if it's infinitely safe," but you also need to not say "if I got the herp, that would be infinitely bad." You can't designate it as a moral failing or a sign that you're a disgusting or stupid person--you just happened to win the Virus Lottery, that's all. You're going to suffer some negative consequences, but you aren't going to be ruined. (I've noticed that some sex-positive circles are actually terribly judgey when it comes to the subjects of STDs and unwanted pregnancies, as if someone with these is not only shamefully irresponsible, but somehow an affront to sex-positivity itself. Sex couldn't possibly be positive and also sometimes harmful!) The fact that I don't have the herp means that I'm lucky, not that I've been doing everything right. And--whether you're a virgin or a streetwalker--you too. The amount of luck you needed might be different, but it was some. Nobody can say "I didn't need luck because I was smart."

And will I be steering this post in a circle if I point out that that's no excuse not to be smart?

My vagina is an airplane, and every time I take it up, I know that I might fall. I have a seatbelt, but I do not have wings. But I fly my vagina-plane anyway. Because it's worth it to see the world fall away beneath me, to break through the clouds, to tilt away toward the sun and soar.

Everything once.

This afternoon I taught myself to solder components to a circuit board. I didn't really have a specific project to do, just a soldering iron and a practice board and the feeling that it's one of those skills I really ought to have. And I had the funny feeling, fitting resistors and capacitors into the board, that this wasn't so different from learning to take a fist.

Er. It's not exactly the same. But there are far more feelings in common than you'd expect. The sensation of learning to use your muscles in a new way, the initial rush of "wow, this is easier than it looks" followed by the setting in of "no, there are tricky parts and I won't be an expert on my first day", and the unparalleled pleasure of gaining a new skill. (And overcoming fear; soldering is more frightening to me than fisting, because my spatial perception is so screwy that I have to focus very hard not to touch the iron to my skin, whereas my tactile perception in my vagina is quite fine indeed.)

I want to try everything once. Everything that isn't evil or dangerous, at least. Even if I weren't at all bisexual, I think I would still have to have sex with a girl once, just to have done it. And indeed I don't like buttsex, but nonetheless I'm glad I've gotten fucked up the ass a couple times. To never try something, to die without even knowing what it's like, seems horrifying to me. I once had the opportunity to eat mealworms and I turned it down, and I'm still kicking myself.

I'm only going to live so long. I want to live a lot. I want experiences broad and deep, but if I have to choose, I choose broad. I have, at age 25, lived in 13 cities or towns, held 9 jobs (not counting innumerable short-term gigs; these are only the multi-month formal employments, here), and, by now, fucked 27 people. I suppose you could see this as a sign of some disquiet in me, a sign that I haven't found what I'm looking for--but this is what I'm looking for. I don't want one simple life. Although, you know, maybe I could try that for a bit...

Pantheism.

I believe that God is the universe. Everything that exists is a manifestation of the divine--a divinity that may not be "good" or personally interested or even purposeful, but is beautiful. God is the atoms and God is the clouds in the pale-blue winter sky, God is mold in the drywall and God is IRS form 2290 (Heavy Highway Vehicle Use Tax Return), God is you and me and Kim Jong Il and Carrot Top.

I've been asked how this differs from atheism, and I'm not entirely sure. I don't believe in the divine violation of natural laws, although I do think we haven't (and maybe won't) discovered all natural laws. I don't believe that existence has a purpose, at least not one useful to humans. Maybe the only difference is that I see atheism as a philosophy without worship, and I worship the beauty of existence. (I tend to worship the pretty parts more, but hey, I've only got a human brain to work with here.) I love the world, I believe in the world, in a way that "I'm not religious" really doesn't cover.

My point is, when I gasp "oh God, oh God" during sex, I'm not kidding.

In Which Scientific Curiosity Is Stifled.

Hey Sprite, do you have a tampon?"
"Oh, of course, here's one."
"Thanks!  We're doing an experiment!  We figure that alcohol can absorb in by any mucous membrane, and the vagina is a mucous membrane, so we're going to soak the tampon in rum and stick it in me and see if I get drunk!  Also we're curious if it will hurt!"
"...Give me my tampon back."

Pink Square.

Rowdy had already fucked me and near-fisted me. I started playing with his new toy, a Hitachi Magic Wand, and since I was in a completely insatiable mood, decided to try out the G-spot attachment.

I guess it's no surprise that I came like a banshee. But the surprising thing tme was that I had a strange vision. Usually I'm not visual at all during sex; my eyes are closed or looking off into space, and I'm not having visual fantasies either. In this case, my eyes were closed, but as I was coming I saw, in stunning and unexpected detail, a pink square shape, with a smaller square open in the middle, like a picture frame. It was very distinct and I kept seeing it and thinking about it as I rode out the powerful orgasm.

I don't know what that meant. It was such a specific and vivid image, and seeing it gave the sex an unworldly dreamlike quality. It was bizarre, yet... strangely heavenly.

Self control.

Have you ever been hynotized? I was, once. It wasn't what I expected. It wasn't like being asleep or absent from my body or made into an automaton. It wasn't like the hypnotist said "take off your shirt" and my hands moved without me, or I felt compelled to do it.

It was like I was totally awake and in control of myself, and I freely decided that taking off my shirt was a thing I wanted to do.

Sometimes I have that same feeling during sex. I'm a totally rational and free mind, and if I so chose I could be totally stil and silent and unmoved. I just decide to thrash and clench and moan and scream, is all. To some small exent this is true--when my roommate is home I rediscover my volume control, and although I'm not exactly silent I do manage to hold in the more unholy howls. Although other times I want to be quiet and the best I can do is clasp a hand over my own screaming mouth. Like it's someone else's.

The strangest is when I have those hyper-orgasms, the ones that knock me flat so I can't move or speak right for a few minutes afterwards. During that time, when I'm crashed out quivering and babbling, I'm completely aware of myself and a little chagrined how ridiculous I'm acting. I could just decide to pull myself together at any moment... I never fully understand why I don't.

Altered states are like that, though. They always seem real and ordinary when you're in them; a person with schizophrenia or tripping on hallucinogens, or even just dreaming, doesn't experience just images but the knowledge that those images exist and make sense.

(Or maybe all of existence is like that. Right now, I have the sensation that everything I'm experiencing is real and sensible and I'm in control of myself--and that proves what, exactly?)

Maybe the line between "the devil is talking to me through the rats" and "oh god fuck me fuck me fuck me" is a whole lot finer than I'd like to believe.

I have this theory.

I don't know if it's because men are built generally larger on average, or they have more free space in their pelvis, or if it's just that they aren't socialized to affect daintiness in such matters, or what, but it seems like most guys who are into ass-play can take way bigger things up their asses than most women can.

Gray Rain.

I didn't go back home after work this morning. I clocked out at 7, drove only as far as Concord, and figured that since I had no particular schedule I'd hang out in Minuteman Park until the rush hour traffic lightened up a bit.

I was still in my scrubs and warmup jacket. It was cold out, but not bitter cold, with a light gray rain falling, enough to feel, not enough to soak. The trees were just starting to turn , still green with only shades and flashes of yellow and red. Old stone walls lined empty fields and dirt paths. I walked a little ways into the park, far enough that I couldn't see roads or another person, and sat on a weathered granite bounder. A squirrel perched on a nearby branch, chattering loudly, staring at me with a level fearless gaze and chirping again before running off on important squirrel business.

I sat and thought. Sometimes I didn't think. Sometimes I meant to think but just looked, just took in the chilly air and the wavering leaves of the trees.

I thought about the two halves of my life. ER and BDSM. They're both characterized by secrets, by powerful sensation and emotion, by the human body. When you deal with people's bodies you deal with their whole lives, and what you see is as funny and sad and strange as people are. And yet in another way, people always hold back. Seeing a person in great pain or great pleasure, seeing them naked literally and metaphorically, shows you things you wouldn't otherwise see--but not everything. There are things people know, things people are, that cannot be wrenched out, that sometimes cannot even be given.

There was a tree with big diamond-shaped leaves across the field from me, its leaves yellowing at the edges but still a brilliant green at their core.

I've written about transcendence before. It's understandably hard to put in words. The closest I get is along the lines of "There's something more than... nnnuh. Than, you know. There's more than this." There's something more to people than bodies, and that's why I am so comfortable with and so fascinated by those bodies. Bodies have parts, they have insides, they're possible to take apart just like any other object. People, less so.

Before I had any experience healthcare or BDSM, I loved gory horror movies. My degree is in film, and I wrote my thesis on trashy horror films, then later worked as set decorator and propmaster on one. As far as I know there isn't a tremendous correlation between kinky people and horror fans, which surprises me. Then again, I haven't watched that much horror lately. I still enjoy it, but when I can get myself tied up and tortured and feel my own body being treated like a piece of meat... I don't crave it. There's comparisons to be made between the ER and horror movies too but I feel wrong making them.

A large brown bird swooped between trees, only a few feet away but without a sound. From the silence, I think it was an owl staying up late. I looked for it in the tree but it had disappeared among the branches. High overhead, from a different tree, I heard the cry of a hawk. Little sparrows flitted around close to the ground.

When I have to take care of a dead person, I always find myself talking to them. Not in a big emotional dramatic way, not offering grief or blessings. But not in a cavalier joking way either. I just talk to them the way I talk to patients, calm and nicey-nice and narrating what I'm doing. "'Scuse me ma'am, I gotta reach across you here for a second, thanks." It's just a habit.

I started to walk back to my car. The rain was still falling gently, the air filled with the cool smell of wet grass.

Sex and BDSM are the restorative factors in my own life. They don't take strength; they give me the strength that I can carry out into difficult situations, or the joy that lets me really enjoy the rest of the world. Life is better with a kiss still lingering on your lips, or a bruise just below the neckline of your scrubs. Life is easier.

Sitting on a rock out in the rain doesn't make life easier, but sometimes it makes it make a little more sense.

Transgressing.

Sometimes I want to do thing that aren't safely psuedo-wrong, but WRONG wrong. Things that aren't just shocking to the squares but are actually kind of stupid. I want to fuck in public and it's somewhere we really could get caught. I want to get play-raped and it isn't so finely negotiated that I secretly know I'll be okay with everything he does. I want to get tied up and there aren't trauma shears in the room.

It's a fine line, because I genuinely DON'T want to be arrested or genuinely damaged or strangle in the ropes. I don't want to fall... but I do want to climb without a harness. Usually I err on the "harness" side of things, then, because in practical terms I value my quality of life more than I value having mega super fantastic sexual thrills. I'm not saying I plan to be genuinely unsafe. Only that it's hot.

When I posted the hatchet photo, some people pointed out that it's not a safe insertion toy. I defended it some, but you know what? It's not. It's not a rusty sawblade, but sticking a hatchet up your cooter really is stupider than using a freshly sterilized soft silicone toy intended for sex. It did hurt a bit, and I really could have damaged or infected my vagina. The wrongness-- the REAL wrongness, the part that wasn't 100% simulated and pre-negotiated--is what made it hot and memorable.

There's a delicate balance here, a middle point between playing like an insurance company representative and playing like a reckless idiot. But that's not unique to sex. I went bouldering yesterday. I climbed quite a bit more than my height up a big chunk of granite without any ropes, and if I'd slipped I had decent odds of breaking my ankle and nonzero odds of breaking my spine. Now, I wouldn't do this on Half Dome. I like my spine. But being up on that granite wall made me feel alive.

Sometimes kink really isn't Nerf, and that's okay. Or rather, it isn't okay, and God that's so hot.