On a first note there are some nice photos uploaded on Flickr of me in a fishnet body suit. The filmmaker needed a prostitute scene and I obliged. These are outtakes from the filming - more for his enjoyment, I think. Regardless, I'm amazed at how nice I look in them. (Just ask if you don't have access to view them.)
This one is now the image for my profile on FetLife, a bdsm website to which I was introduced by a kind stranger.
This kind stranger has got me all in knots. I realize more and more that I am a lover of words and ideas. Not because I fear the realities of faces and touching, but a phrase - even with translation gaps or quickly typed with slight mistakes - can make me weak in the eyes and knees. Intelligence is a word often used in my profile postings for bdsm hook-ups. Imagination - crucial. Yes, while the physical attraction to someone is key, there are still random chances within a face-to-face meeting for so many things to be thrown off: pheromones, the rollercoaster curves of hormones, a bad day, a good day. External factors can distort any first date to the point that one isn't interested in furthering the occasion. With letters and sentences, stories and explanations, there can be more substantial interaction created as a foundation upon which to test the randomness of standing next to each other.
Sure, words in email exchanges are never like actual conversation, for they lack endearing pauses, accents, finger fidgets, bad breath, nervous ticks, deep stares, stutters, intonation, or gaps filled with swears. I get to type out my replies to [his] phrases, with prolonged stares out the window between ideas, thesaurus at my fingertips for braver more bold words, and re-reading for spelling mistakes and re-phrasing. In essence, they are the perfect words I'd like to say. And, [his] replies (sometimes noted) can be quick in delivery, tripped over repeated letters - or can be well-developed poems in response to my thoughts. It's not real in the sense of actual or live, but the things that are said are truer than confession. Regardless how much time I spend crafting my thought, it is still my unique idea or understanding of something; and late at night after wine and whiskey, they, too, are rushed with typos, speeding to get out into the open in a burst of disregard for composure or restraint.
Dreams are built on words. Fantasies are born. Imagination is fueled. And, I've had email conversations and fallen in love with just the letters. I remember Harley, who was interested in bdsm and had dreams of his own, and together over a month we developed our own land and roads and hotel room in which I'd succumb to his brutal aggression. This was all dashed away once he felt compelled to tell his wife and she woke me up one morning calling me on the phone to tell me it was over, he'd told her everything. On the one hand, I was relieved because it was deep and powerful to dream like that and I was grateful that they'd go to counseling and that he later told me she'd expressed interest in exploring his needs. On the other hand, I loved the stories we'd concocted and was ready for the kiss in real life. To say, I've been living in words for most of my life with the absolute knowledge of their power, weakness, unreality, and potential. At this point, I'm aware of my vulnerability to their charm and, now, can find fanciful use in their availability, can wrap myself up in them while keeping a leg out for temperature and grounding.
So, missing something and wanting something, I went back to throwing words out there. A poem on CL, updating my OKC, checking and interacting on ALT and AFF. It was over on OKC where he sent me a message again. We figured out that he'd sent something earlier last year when he was in Amsterdam, right before I went off to Geneva. It was instigated by my comments on submissiveness, perhaps. He's now in Switzerland again which gives me ample space to swoon and dream and let my imagination run wild about liaisons in the mountains, crawling on all fours across a floor, looking up into his eyes (that I only half visualize through photos and half make up in my own mind), spankings that leave me giddy as I have been with the TV Producer or the Economist Beekeeper. Yes, there's a twang of wistfulness, a longing for realization, a need to see in real life, but there's no reason why this can't happen - and there's no reason to let it stop me from enjoying the exchange of banter and wit, or being swept up in romantic writing and rediscoveries.
I think too much. Of course, we all do, those of us who read this blog and read things out in the world. Since the Charlie Brown episode I've been thinking about the new change in my emotions. Since going on a date with a lame ass I've been thinking about how I love thinking. He tried to explain to me how movies aimed at women ("chick flicks") all dealt with women needing to do something to attain this ever-unreachable happiness, and that when he'd asked his guy friends if they were happy, they all said they didn't think about it. I asked him if, in essence, he meant they went to work, picked up their kids from school, came home, ate, watched tv, had sex, without ever a thought to whether they were happy and he said yes. As if it was a good thing. To put it into context, he's been divorced for 2 years and she left him. (Not to discredit him entirely, he thinks women can dress and be whoever they want and do whatever they want, have abortions if they want to - despite opposition from their partners, talks to his teenage kids about contraception, and loves Obama. We also laughed a ton on our first date, and he barely kissed me at the end. We laughed again on our second date, with a bit more debating than before though, and kissed me longer. But seriously, for those who know me - put out or get out. No sex on the second date? What's the point?)
Anyway, all I can say is that it's seasonal and a salad mix of possible reasons. Holidays, too much time to contemplate, too little sunlight, no sincere out-of-town travel, the 6th anniversary of my abortion, too many papers, too little time, too much time, no bdsm, no regular and satisfying sex, an unstable schedule of getting up late and going to bed late, looking at less than five months of school left (three now). All these things summed up by Charlie Brown - poor kid, gets blamed for everything, good grief.
When Mr. OKC (temporary place-holder nickname for now) started our conversation off the OKC site, he dropped a bomb of remembrance. From "Lola" to "Lolita" to "lil'girl." From "What kind of job are you looking for in Geneva? I do hope the stars will be auspiciously aligned. As much altruism as self interest in the wish" to "I am a mean bastard (no contradiction with being a nice human being, in case)" to "I could use a personal assistant, too. But it is just a tease." He's very astute at manipulating words and mind capture. Perhaps with or without knowing, he also sparked memories inside me that set me off racing.
I followed his link to FetLife. If it's any indication, both Mistress Matisse and Graydancer are there. It's a cerebral ALT, where ALT has become like a tweekers' and lamers' magnet. Basically, if you can't get play over on AFF come to ALT because apparently men there think any chick will fuck, and instead of just fucking AFF-style, she'll let you tie her up, gag her, and come all over her face. Or, as one guy keeps emailing me about: and let you poop on her face. I'm all for anyone's kink or fetish, but I'm not all for repeated contacts on the same inquiry or the sell-out of the site. If you think I want to over-discuss our mutual interests or a play scene (or "date" whatever one wants to call it), then you're a moron. And, it's not like FetLife is some big rainbow of problem-solving loveliness. I doubt I'll meet anyone off it in Paris. Maybe nothing will come from it. But it did give me a boost of rejoice and placement.
Part of the confusion of grad school is that, no matter what age, you're thrown back into a petri dish of social reconfiguration in close quarters. I'm not sure it relates the same way to new job atmospheres (it probably does). There's something strange about daily meetings of 30 people who are all type A personalities competing to either have their say or distance themselves from what everyone says. I definitely lost some of my confidence when I first started the program. Somehow regained it over summer - perhaps by having an incredible lover, a fabulous friend, a wonderful flatmate, and summer sun. Or, hell, maybe it was just purely being distanced from the damn petri dish. Following, now I'm in an eight-month-long group project with 4 people, one of who is American and a military brat and an insecure 25-year-old. And, for the life of me, I can't help but absorb this energy and internalize it and reflect it. We feed off each other and we get along best in the group. It's sick, and it's destroying my sense of self, my confidence, my balls. Of course, I don't blame her. I'm the captain of my ship and I need to fight off my own internal and external pirates.
Wandering around FetLife and exchanging discussions with Mr. OKC sent me off into exploration of a part of myself I'd detached. I had to. I took my submissive side and put her in a drawer filled with lilac pouches and soft, babygirl undies. I kept the paddles out and let the TV Producer play percussion on me. I asked Tall Tom to play my Daddy. I got on my knees for the Italian. So, while I have had to tune the microscope to school endeavors, I had to block out other hungers. And, in doing so, in not finding the correct outlet for this deep part of me, I started to lose a pure essence of myself. In designing a profile for this site, I got to walk down memory lane and got to think again about my curiosities, my desires, the reason I became a sub, the path to developing my subness, the partners I've had in play and relationships, and felt such an immense high in letting myself dream and feel these things. And, while I'm not a switch, I told Mr. OKC about topping from the bottom with recent lovers. Where some kinksters look down on that, he replied, "Perro que no camina, no encuentra hueso." While not having that switch inside me, I do have my own master and sub living together. It's nicer to have a master who is not my mind, but for the meantime, I can be my own inspiration, remind myself of my own inner ability to control my actions and demand myself to be better and forgive myself for mistakes. These are things I have been missing. The balance. The yin and yang. The words and the dreams. The racing pulse reminder that I am a total natural sub who is thrilled by ideas and actions.
I'm not going to psychoanalyze this. (I'll leave that to D to do ;) But we all need validation and caring and inspiration. I just got separated from my own voice that provides that to me. It's nice to feel closer to whole again. It's lovely to drift on sweet words and feel shot like a rocket from my own imagination.
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