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like geese overhead

It’s been a long time since I’ve written here. I’m halfway done with my master’s now, the long slow grind of graduate school which leaves me no time and very little energy for sexblogging. And in recent times I’ve made more RL kinky friends which has taken the edge off the need for online exhibition community. It’s just not as necessary to my happiness and well-being as it was some years ago.

Yet.

My partner K and I are pondering, wonderously, our fifth anniversary. I don’t say celebrating because we don’t–too jinxy, a la Dan Savage. We’re the type that poo-poos on Valentine’s Day. But thinking that we have known each other five years does give me pause– I am still amazed by her brilliance, sharp wit, and creative sadism and I hope we shall be together much longer yet.

And Saint and I have been seeing much more of each other. I could almost call him my boyfriend–it almost begins to resemble a real relationship, except without the trappings of commitment that come with such.  So la. We enjoy each others’ company still and I must be content with that.

We’ve been in this odd V for three years, K and I, Saint and I.  They are two completely different tops and I’m a different girl for each. But in the past few months they have grown a bit closer, and I’ve been surprised to find my two relationships have converged. Totally unexpected but once it happened, it seemed inevitable, the thing that we were always moving towards–they like each other, and they have at least one common interest in my body, in the noises I make in pain.

And in each other. All this time I never knew he had this other side: the sweet little boy with a soft voice, strong and obedient. K is thrilled, of course: now she has one of each kind, a girl and a boy! So we are all deep in scheming. What games should we play next? What horrible twisted things to enact? Indeed.

you, of the swagger and smile

Dear Office Crush,

Sometimes I think you notice me, sometimes I’m not sure. I mean, it doesn’t really matter–you are twenty years older than me and married. Older and married, and so bitter about your job that you wouldn’t notice a good thing if it fell right into your office.

But of course I notice you. It would be hard for anyone not to, you are  senior management and therefore accord interest. Not to mention that you are near-universally disliked for your habit of speaking bluntly and inappropriately—a quality that I find distasteful as well, but am somewhat amazed by. You get away with so much shit only God himself could put you in your place.

Of course I notice you, because you are powerful and look good in a suit, because you are middle-aged and suave and wear your butchness so naturally. You’re fond of mens’ dress socks, you whistle in the hallway,  you wear french-cuffed shirts under your formal suits.  You love the Red Sox–I’m sure you played softball in college. You brush the back of your neck with one hand when you’re waiting for something, a slow deliberate act from many years of practice.

No, I don’t think you notice me. Not like that, at least…which is for the best, since this crush is so inappropriate it barely deserves mention. And, like I mentioned, you are an asshole—though a charming one.

dare to eat a peach…

Some time ago, I read an essay by Susie Bright on aging bodies, where she spent some time at a nudist event/resort/something and made some notes on how people’s bodies look as they age. I found it inspiring, uplifting, and lately I’ve been thinking a great deal on the subject.

At my job, most of my coworkers are my parents’ age, but I also work with students, who are now noticeably younger than myself. At some point in the last year I crossed some line where I don’t relate well with teenagers, where I’m mildly surprised when I meet the incoming freshmen and realize I remember the year they were born. How as time passes I feel older and older.

It sounds funny to write this since I am, after all, only 25. And I look much younger (judging by the type of men who hit on me, and the servers who always always card me). But like anyone I am aging, and I’m sure that someday sooner than I think I’ll look up and realize I’m 40. I hope, when that day comes, that I feel myself to still be attractive, to be beautiful, and am comfortable in my skin.

“Hey, does the carpet match the…”

In a discussion over at Sugarbutch about femme hair, the topic of redheads came up. Someone else commented, in a way that I thought was very weird, that she thinks of her hair as “communally owned”–a phrase that, although explained later, seriously tweaked me out.

Because I know exactly what she means. I have this very curly, very thick, very red hair which attracts an almost ridiculous amount of attention. Colleen suggested that it may just be a quality of being female–the way that other people think they own your appearance, and take it upon themselves to comment in inappropriate or unnecessary ways. I still think there’s something more in the way people treat redheads, because we are a novelty. No matter how many people try to emulate with chemicals, by most estimates less than 5% of the American population are natural redheads. And like any novelty (pregnant women, people of unusual shape, people who are differently abled) people seem to think it’s okay to eschew commonly-accepted social boundaries in our presence.

Ever since I was a very small child, people have stared, told me how I should get my hair cut or styled, and often gone so far as to touch me without permission. I can remember being a very small girl walking with my parents, or sitting in a shopping cart, and strangers would reach out and touch my hair–even if they asked, which was rare, it made me feel violated, hurt, angry.

Like Colleen, it’s made me very uncomfortable being touched. Action Girl used to describe me as a “porcupine,” bristling, defensive. People who weren’t willing to keep their hands off were likely to get hit. I’ve relaxed some since then, but I’m still very sensitive to other people wanting to touch my hair and I truly dislike the “compliments.” I’m not talking about catcalls and rude comments [see subject line], I’m talking about normal people making conversation that I feel is inappropriate. No, I don’t want to be a model. No, I never have been one. No, I am not going to wear my hair down just because you think I should. No, I am not going to wear my hair up just because you think I should. Really, people, would you ask these things of a person with straight brown hair? Some of the compliments are genuine, but that doesn’t stop them from feeling intrusive.

At this point in my life I’ve managed to tune it out enough so that it doesn’t make me livid, just a little tired. But I still hate to go the hairdresser, which is unfortunate because I have difficult hair to cut and I believe that getting your hair cut is an important act of self-maintenance, and I don’t want to be one of those people who never cuts their hair because they think they’ll lose their identity if they do. Maybe because I have this feeling other people think it should be my identity– people who can’t remember my name or how they met me will at least remember my hair.

money and a room of her own

Give her another hundred years, I concluded, reading the last chapter—people’s noses and bare shoulders showed naked against a starry sky, for someone had twitched the curtain in the drawing–room—give her a room of her own and five hundred a year, let her speak her mind and leave out half that she now puts in, and she will write a better book one of these days. She will be a poet, I said…
-Virginia Woolf, “A Room of One’s Own”

Today I am home alone, cleaning the house. I’m not required to, I do it because I like a clean house—and this apartment is paid for with my own money, which I earn enough of because I have got an education (forgetting for a moment about the debt). These are things that I am profoundly grateful for: the weekend, the ability to read and write, a bank account in my own name, a place that is legally mine to live in.

But on a smaller level, in reflections which are insignificant compared to the above paragraph, sometimes I wish…I had my own bedroom. I love K. and I am glad that we have the freedom to live together, and that I am privileged to sleep in the same bed with her every single night. Someday in the future, though, I would like to have a bedroom that I don’t share with anyone. There are times when I miss relaxing by myself in my own space, with a cup of tea, a blanket and a notebook, and knowing I won’t be interrupted at all. That’s a luxury I grew to love in high school (since I shared a room with my sister until 9th grade, and again with other girls in college) and it’s a luxury I’m looking forward to having again. I’ll always have the space within my own mind to myself, but it’s nice to have a physical space as well.

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