1000: Even deeper than I thought I’d go

I began blogging on FetLife (a kinky social media site) close to three years ago. Today I reached the milestone of my 1000th post there (many of which began crossing over to this blog about a year ago). That’s the context you need to have the post make sense.  Carry on. 


When I first started writing on Fet, it was in the wake of heartbreak and renewed hope. When my writings first started getting noticed on fet, it was in the wake of even more heartbreak and lost hope.

The more I exposed my pain and vulnerability, the more tenderly I was received. It was a light in a dark tunnel, and I followed it through.

But there came a time when I realized I was perhaps exposing too much. I don’t exactly recall how I came to this conclusion – but, it was (at first) a suggestion made by someone else.

That someone turned out not to be compatible for friendship, but nonetheless – their suggestion remained present in my mind. I was able, eventually, to recognize there were some unfortunate consequences to my oversharing, but they ran deeper than the ones I’d been warned about.

I’m not having a good day.

In fact, I’ve not had a good couple of days.

Relax: I can handle it. It’s okay for me to have bad days. But, it’s been a while since I’ve felt so low. I am experiencing emotional doomsday feelings where my mind travels to the worst places, and drag up memories of the most helpless moments of my life. I am also experiencing physical manifestations of the anxiety that has been dragged upward – the choke-sobbing fits and the acidic ache in my chest and knotted pains in my belly that won’t seem to pass.

I feel, at any moment, like I could give in to the bubbling emotions just beneath the surface and go into a full blown anxiety attack. And for teetering moments at that edge, I almost want to do it – if only so I can let it all out and find myself in a state of dulled emotional capacity on the other side.

Though it has been some time since I’ve been in this state, it is one with which I am familiar. Reverse back a few years, and this is a shadow of what I used to experience on a near weekly, if not daily, basis.

I know what this is.

I also know why it’s here. Not just the obvious catalyst for its arrival, nor even the underlying essential motivations, but deeper down to the fathoms of my existential being, – the stuff I think most people don’t access on a regular basis – I do. I’ve got my number.

1,000 posts ago I’d have shared those details. I’d have given you, the anonymous reader, all of the data: the catalyst, the motivations. I might have, by the end of the essay, drawn a line toward my existential conclusion.

And the reason I’d have done that? I’d have painted you a word-picture of my pitiful state for the purpose of gaining your tender support. It’s a form of manipulation, but not in a nefarious way. After all, writing and story-telling of any kind is a form of emotional manipulation.

So yes, I’d have explained the who, what, when, where, and why of my despair and swam in the soothing elixir of your concern.

It’s what I needed then. But, over time, I became dependent on it. It became a crutch without which my emotional limp would heal but never reach maximum strength.

Now, 1000 posts later, you’re not so anonymous. I know who many of you are on some level.

I also have, for perhaps the first time in my life, an understanding of who I am independent of my relationship to anybody else, (including family, friends, lovers, husbands, stepchildren, or colleagues).

I exist as a person on my own. The people in my life closest to me that inspire love and affection provide an enrichment that I’d never want to take for granted, nor mistake for the emotional equivalence of oxygen.

What’s this got to do with my bad day?

Well, that’s just it. It’s my bad day. I know why it’s here and what caused it, and I’m well aware that it will be fleeting.

So, while I feel the urge to tell you all about it – to dive into the details of the why and how I’m feeling the way I feel – I also now know that the resulting concerned feedback does not help to achieve my purpose.

I just want to share. I just want to to share my truth. I want to illuminate that even one with a charmed life can sometimes struggle – not for the purpose of eliciting your pity, but in an attempt to narrow the chasms that sometimes separate us.

We all suffer, in varying degrees and for different reasons – but we all suffer.

I don’t want to feel separated from humanity. My current (and admittedly temporary) state of despair should not serve to isolate me when, in fact, it has so much potential (and history) of doing the exact opposite.

I want to tell you that you’re not alone, because – in doing so – I remind myself that I am not either.

Angry White Woman

I’m angry.

I’m angry, and it’s not just because recent events have exposed my complacency with an imbalanced system because I was under the impression that “things will get better.”

I mean, that makes me angry. It makes me angry to have been so wrong. It means I was believing lies and avoiding truths.

There was a time when I was actively avoiding truths. I wasn’t pretending they didn’t exist, I was just putting on the blinders so I wouldn’t have to see them. I knew they were there.

Like those videos with the animals and the Sarah McLachlan song. I couldn’t watch them without crying and feeling completely heartbroken. So I’d mute the TV, go off to get a drink, or change the channel. I knew that my not watching wasn’t automatically saving all those animals from hardships. I knew that shit was still happening. All I was doing was trying to avoid the additional hardship of feeling helpless to do anything about it (other than send money).

Last year, I started doing a little more. It was either the #BlackLivesMatter movement or the Orlando Pulse shooting that woke me up a little and helped me realize that my blinders were a disservice to my convictions and the causes I believe in. They were making me complacent, and in some ways complicit.

Now, I’m no big social media star. My voice doesn’t have much range in the grand scheme of things, but it has some range.

So I started writing. It’s what I can do. Possibly not the very least, but pretty close to down there.

Then the Flaming Yam* became our national main course. I got really angry because it was pretty much proof that the reality I thought I existed in – the “things will get better” reality – was way off base.

I was so wrong. So wrong.

I tore off the blinders. I started to see, not just where the injustices play out in the media and in the lives of people I’ve never met, but even in my own family and in my own (in)actions.

I struggled hard last week – coming off the high of that incredible show of civil discourse in the March that exponentially eclipsed Captain Tangerine’s inauguration – I struggled with the heavy levels of criticism that came, not from those who oppose everything we stand for, but from within the community of my allies.

It was that feeling again. That uncomfortable feeling, but without the Sarah McLachlan song as a signal it was coming. Why? Because, in a way, they were right.

In every way, they were right.

Now, in reality – in my reality – I’d done as much for the BLM and LGBTQ causes as I did for the Women’s March.

I blogged about them. Again, pretty close to the least I could do. I didn’t show up in person for any of them, to put my physical whiteness on the line for the causes I believe in. I just blogged, under my pseudonym from the safety of my suburban home.

The difference, though, was my intention. If I hadn’t had to work that day, I had planned to go to the Women’s March in Los Angeles.

I had the intention of doing more.

So the criticism, while difficult to face – was right on the money.

For those who follow me on twitter, or who intersect with me on Facebook, you’ve likely seen a change. I’m a little more vocal now and there are a lot more political messages coming out along with the cute pictures of cats doing funny things.

But, I’m also done doing the very least I can do. Earlier this week, I rolled my window down and thanked a homeless man who rushed needlessly to move some things out of the way when I was driving past him. Before? I might have waved and smiled. I took a moment and viewed him as a person and not an extra in the story of my life. (That’s the writer in me that believes every piece of dialogue in a well-written story serves to inform the plot or move it forward, rather than the simple gesture of a hand wave that would have been forgotten by the next scene.)

I’ve RSVP’d and am planning to attend local marches and protests being organized to protest on behalf of a number of causes that don’t personally affect me. I am not black. I have great health insurance. I’m not at great risk of having an unwanted pregnancy. I have the right to marry because I’d choose someone that our oppressors wouldn’t find objectionable (polyamory notwithstanding). I’m pretty darned heterosexual, and as a widow, I’m given a bit more of a free pass for being an unmarried woman without children in this society.

I’ve gotten involved with my local Indivisible chapter and am planning to take a day off from work next week to join a group or citizens in a local visit to my republican representative in congress – a man who won by less than 2% of the vote in my district.

I’m reading a lot more, I’m fact checking a lot more, and I’m allowing myself exposure voices I care about who might not have the nicest things to say about me based on the way that I look.

As a fellow blogger wrote, “they don’t know what’s in my heart.” They don’t know that I identify culturally more along the lines of Latino than Caucasian. They don’t know my first language was Spanish and my parents were immigrants from Latin America, and great grandparents were from Syria and Egypt. They don’t know this by the way I look.

But for how long have they endured living a life where they are under constant scrutiny and prejudice for the way that they look? For how long have I benefited socially from the paleness of my skin and the blue of my eyes?

Maybe it’s time I walk a little in those ill-fitting shoes.

I’m “leaning in” to my discomfort.

I want to thank the people in my life who listened to me as struggled with this over the past week. I didn’t come to this conclusion right away. I had to do some soul searching and a whole lot of listening before I figured out why their truth was so hurtful, even though I knew it was true.

But mostly, I want to thank this woman for posting this video on facebook. This is the one that helped me come to terms with my discomfort. I hope you’ll watch it. I hope you’ll listen.

And I hope you’ll join me in doing a whole lot more than the very least we can do.

(Flaming Yam* taken from a comment someone left on a blog. I can’t take credit for it, but holy shit it gave me a good laugh this morning.)

I’m in the top third!

Top 100 Sex Bloggers 2016

I made it to the top third!  There’s me, right there, at number 27 of 2016’s Top 100 Sex Bloggers! Clicky that little badge there and it takes you to the list.

And that’s with the majority of the posts during the nomination and reviewing period being tainted by the election.  I’m so pleased, and honored, and tickled!

Now I’m excited to go check out the other bloggers on this list!

Emergency kittens, orgasms, and Firefly in the wake of an unsettling election

Originally posted for my Fetlife audience; but lightly modified for a broader audience.


The cycle of writing topics on FetLife generally works as such: a thing happens. There is a divisiveness in opinion on said thing. Lots of posts start flying back and forth with heavy, anger-laden commentary within them, and inevitably, some people who grow weary of the fighting say something like “Can we get back to the kink?”

Then, this last time, that very request became cause for further divisiveness.

This entire election has been emotionally draining. Just a few weeks ago I even wrote about how difficult it was to find my “smut” in light of all the ickiness I felt about the national narrative on women.

Through it all, I never stopped being kinky.

I might have been less inspired to write about it; but there was still rope, spanking, hard fucking, throat grabbing, and cocksucking going on in my life.

I even masturbated to orgasm the night of the election, but I had trouble doing it. See, it was after 3am. I needed to get some sleep. I know that orgasms make me sleepy.

I literally justified an orgasm to myself.

Since the election, I’ve been more vocal on facebook and a lot more engaging with conservative family members has been happening. Those of my fetfriends who intersect with me on facebook have seen what’s happening there.

It’s exhausting.

And last night I reached a point where I needed to shut it down. I watched television shows, funny youtube videos, and browsed cat-related subreddits. I also ate a pizza and had some cookies.

And then, I felt like writing something; but I didn’t want it to be serious. I wanted to write something sexy. Or funny OR ANYTHNG BUT SERIOUS.

And similarly to that November 9th orgasm, I had to justify it to myself.

But, really, I don’t. I won’t speak for everybody, but I am a multidimensional person. Fetlife (and this blog) isn’t a place where I only express one part of myself (the kinky part); but the only place where I can express ALL of myself. That means sometimes my posts are thoughtful and introspective, and sometimes they’re sexy and drool-inducing, and sometimes they’re just plain ol’ attempts at humor.

I’m all of those things. Thoughtful, sexy, funny. I’m all of those things all the time, even when I don’t particularly feel one in the moment.

I keep remembering when Lorne Michaels of SNL asked Rudy Giuliani after 9/11 “Can we be funny?” and the then-mayor of New York responded, “Why start now?”

This world is far from perfect. I’m going to do my best to shed light on some of its imperfections and work to make them better; but at the same time, I can’t allow myself to become hyperfocused on just those ugly parts of life. There is beauty, and laughter, and passion, and love in my life as well.

So whenever I need to take a break and look at EmergencyKittens on twitter or take a smut break or go masturbate ’cause it helps me relax…

I’m gonna. And you can, too.

Bathtub Drabble

When a challenge is presented, one either elects to accept or reject it. Should one accept said challenge, one should fulfill said objective to the best of her ability.

Which brings me to this point, crafting one hundred words via text while in a hot, bubble filled tub as suggested by he whose suggestions are accepted with similar reverence as the above referenced challenges.

I recall a time in the not terribly distant past in which another challenge presented itself within the confines of this very same tub.

I have twelve words to convey that underwater blowjobs are indeed possible.

More November Dribbles and Drabbles

My Sally Field Moment: Or “Holy Shit, I’ve been nominated!”

I was really excited when I reached my 100th follower on this blog some time around its one-year anniversary. It’s somewhere around 130 now.  Over on FetLife, where all this got started, I have a lot of interaction in comments and likes, but here the stats are pretty moderate.  Once in a while something I post here will take off (I think because it gets posted to a facebook group) like when I write about poly stuff, or post one of my social justice rants.

But usually it’s pretty quiet ’round these parts.

So when I started noticing an uptick in my visitor stats and clicked through to one of the referrer links, I was shocked and delighted to see that Mrs. Fever had included my blog in her nominations for consideration as one of the top 100 Sex Blogs through Molly’s Daily Kiss’ annual contest.

I felt a little bit like this guy:


Earlier today I was drafting a post trying to convey how much I love that video, and at the same time how wistful I am that I rarely have reactions like that over things.  Over experiences?  Totally…like when my partner agreed to dress up like a scary clown and fuck me.

I might potentially have a similar reaction if someone were to, oh…I don’t know…send me a surprise high-quality anal hook.

Just sayin’.

Anyway, I’m thrilled, and grateful that anybody reads this blog at all.  For someone like Mrs. Fever, (who, by the way has previously been selected as one of the Top 100 Sex Bloggers), to show that kind of favor toward me is really….well, gratifying.

And seeing this little wordpress.com site listed up with all those other …you know, blogs with dedicated URLs makes me feel a little bit like the hometown gal who just showed up to her first big-city party.

Thanks, y’all 🙂

-phi

 

 

 

Moments and Context: Part Writing Exercise. Part Smut.

 


A moment without context:

She felt the palm of his hand flatten against the back of her neck as his fingers, entwined in her still-damp hair, grabbed hold and pulled her back. Within seconds, she was on her hands and knees with her face pressed into the cushion – his strong grip holding her down with one hand while the other quietly unfastened his belt.

The same moment with physical context:

She reached forward to touch his face, but once their eyes locked, the heel of her palm met with his chest instead. Cautiously but with intent, she pressed forward until he fell back into the sofa behind him. Her body, as though magnetically connected to his, followed him down in practiced choreography, positioning herself in a kneeling straddle over his lap.

In this position her lips, angled above his, hungered to taste him. She gave in to the hunger, gently at first – leaning down for a kiss. Her hunger grew ravenous, and her kisses deeper and more demanding. His hands caressed their way past her thighs, around her hips, and began their slow, practiced rise up up her back.

She felt the palm of his hand flatten against the back of her neck as his fingers, entwined in her still-damp hair, grabbed hold and pulled her back. Within seconds, she was on her hands and knees with her face pressed into the cushion – his strong grip holding her down with one hand while the other quietly unfastened his belt.

The same moment with emotional context:

He owned her. There they stood, having just parted from a quiet embrace when she looked at this man and a kaleidoscope of passionate memories circulated in her mind’s eye. The memories filled her with raw lust and desire and she felt an instinct to connect with him take control.

She reached forward to touch his face, but once their eyes locked, the palm of her hand met with his chest instead. Cautiously but with intent, she pressed forward until he allowed himself to fall back into the sofa behind him. Not until he’d acquiesced to her advance did she allow the instinct to take full control of her actions. Her body, as though magnetically connected to his, followed him down in practiced choreography, positioning herself in a kneeling straddle on top of him.

In this position her lips, angled above his, hungered to taste him. She gave in to the hunger, gently at first – leaning down for a kiss. Her hunger grew ravenous, and her kisses deeper and more demanding. She, so far gone into her primal state of lust and want, didn’t notice his hands caressing their way past her thighs, around her hips, and begin their slow, practiced rise up up her back.

She became aware again of their juxtaposed roles just as the palm of his hand flattened against the back of her neck and his fingers, entwined in her still-damp hair, grabbed hold and pulled her back. Within seconds, she was on her hands and knees with her face pressed into the cushion – his strong grip holding her down with one hand while the other quietly unfastened his belt.