If you are in Austin, come see Orgasm, Inc. next Wednesday! You have to reserve your ticket in advance at www.tugg.com/events/201
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Ramble about Wrongness
The previous post was hard for me. It was hard to formulate what was going on in my mind, and painful to write down.
I really hoped that publishing the story would help me dispel some of the lingering shame I feel. A lot of times, blogging has worked that way for me. I post something, and I feel free. It lightens me just to put it out there, and when people comment saying it resonates I feel almost celebratory with relief.
Instead, I've felt scared, naked, and hideously self conscious. I thought about taking it down. I'm pretty sure that would just make me feel worse. I don't want to hide. I don't want to feel that I have to hide. I believe I have nothing to be ashamed of, and I don't want to coddle my irrational feeling of shame.
I asked a friend to read it. "What did you think?" I asked. He said he couldn't tell if it was consensual. He wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a happy story or not. He was uncomfortable. I concluded the story must need editing. It should be clear--starkly clear--that my stepfather's actions were the cruelest kind of abuse: the kind that presents itself as love.
I sat down to edit the story tonight. I can't see where to add a line, a word, a paragraph that explains. I don't want to make that story an educational piece for those unfamiliar with the various dynamics of sexual abuse. I'm surprised to think I might need to.
I guess that's a good sign for my own healing. To me, at least, there's nothing ambiguous about a grownup man in a position of trust having sex with his teenage stepdaughter. It's destructive. It's wrong. But for those it's not so obvious to, here is a list of a few of the things Howard's charade of love cost me:
Having a father figure I could rely on
The opportunity to develop sexually on my own time line
Trust of, intimacy with, and respect for my mother
A sense of safety in my own home and bed
The ability to be honest with my peers
Access to mental health care (because revealing my situation would mean his arrest)
The ability to connect with others physically
The ability to feel sexual pleasure
I've won a great number of these back, through hard work and with the loving patience of friends. As I said in the original post, I don't generally feel the need to think or talk about this part of my history very often. For the most part, I've moved on.
For the most part. Because I clearly felt the need to write Red Tide. And I needed, just as much, to hear from friends and readers that they understood my story.
As a young girl, I took the shame and horror and fear of that experience and turned it in on myself. I felt shameful, disgusting, and tainted. I was hoping sharing the story would help dispel the last of those feelings. It hasn't so far, but I'm still hoping.
I really hoped that publishing the story would help me dispel some of the lingering shame I feel. A lot of times, blogging has worked that way for me. I post something, and I feel free. It lightens me just to put it out there, and when people comment saying it resonates I feel almost celebratory with relief.
Instead, I've felt scared, naked, and hideously self conscious. I thought about taking it down. I'm pretty sure that would just make me feel worse. I don't want to hide. I don't want to feel that I have to hide. I believe I have nothing to be ashamed of, and I don't want to coddle my irrational feeling of shame.
I asked a friend to read it. "What did you think?" I asked. He said he couldn't tell if it was consensual. He wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a happy story or not. He was uncomfortable. I concluded the story must need editing. It should be clear--starkly clear--that my stepfather's actions were the cruelest kind of abuse: the kind that presents itself as love.
I sat down to edit the story tonight. I can't see where to add a line, a word, a paragraph that explains. I don't want to make that story an educational piece for those unfamiliar with the various dynamics of sexual abuse. I'm surprised to think I might need to.
I guess that's a good sign for my own healing. To me, at least, there's nothing ambiguous about a grownup man in a position of trust having sex with his teenage stepdaughter. It's destructive. It's wrong. But for those it's not so obvious to, here is a list of a few of the things Howard's charade of love cost me:
Having a father figure I could rely on
The opportunity to develop sexually on my own time line
Trust of, intimacy with, and respect for my mother
A sense of safety in my own home and bed
The ability to be honest with my peers
Access to mental health care (because revealing my situation would mean his arrest)
The ability to connect with others physically
The ability to feel sexual pleasure
I've won a great number of these back, through hard work and with the loving patience of friends. As I said in the original post, I don't generally feel the need to think or talk about this part of my history very often. For the most part, I've moved on.
For the most part. Because I clearly felt the need to write Red Tide. And I needed, just as much, to hear from friends and readers that they understood my story.
As a young girl, I took the shame and horror and fear of that experience and turned it in on myself. I felt shameful, disgusting, and tainted. I was hoping sharing the story would help dispel the last of those feelings. It hasn't so far, but I'm still hoping.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Red Tide
Red tide is a common name for a phenomenon also known as an algal bloom, an event in which algae accumulate rapidly in the water column resulting in discoloration of the surface water. Toxicity varies.
I should post a warning. The following contains graphic scenes of …
Fuck it. Take your chances. This is non-fiction. The sensitive should abstain.
I should post a warning. The following contains graphic scenes of …
Fuck it. Take your chances. This is non-fiction. The sensitive should abstain.
------------------
Last week, I went to the urologist. That’s too much information already, isn’t it? Bear with me. It gets worse.
I went to the urologist for a vague complaint my doctor felt needed further investigation. I had my period, and cramps, and almost cancelled. The doctor was booked out a month in advance, though, and I thought I’d better just go and get it over with.
After handing in a urine sample, the nurse told me I needed to undress for a pelvic exam. “I have my period,” I told her and she shook her head with a motherly smile.
“The doctor doesn’t mind. He won’t be using a speculum. Just hop up on the table and it will be over in a jiff.”
“I have a tampon in,” I told her. I was embarrassed. Mortified, actually.
“You can just toss that out. I think I have some more here in this drawer.” She pulled out a monster sized Tampax with a triumphant flourish, laid an absorbent white paper cloth over the end of the table, and left me to it.
I pulled out my tampon and wrapped it in paper towels. Blood soaked through them instantly. I shoved the bundle deep into their trash can. There was a drop of blood on the floor. I did my best to wipe it up with a tissue. I got up on the table before pulling off my panties the rest of the way, and wadded them up behind me for security.
The doctor was knocking before I’d finished pulling the sheet over me. The nurse came in with him, standing over me comfortingly as I lay back and put my feet in the stirrups. The doctor’s gloved finger entered me easily and felt around. He pulled out less carefully than he’d entered, and it hurt my sore insides. I caught a glimpse of his bloody glove before he deftly turned it inside out and threw it away. Probably the whole exam took 30 seconds.
The nurse put out a box of baby wipes as she left the room. There was less mess than I’d feared, though the trash can held gaudy splotches of red. I got dressed. “Come back in two weeks to discuss your test results,” the doctor told me.
These details are not relevant: I drove to work only to find I’d soaked through the giant tampon and pad. I drove home again to change my pants. I spent the rest of the day in bed with cramps.
This one is: I’ve been dreading going back next week. I don’t want to see that man again.
-----------------
It came to me in the shower last night: The memory of my stepfather’s face, painted red with my menses.
I was 15. I can’t recall how it happened that my mother didn’t come along on our weekend trip to Cape Cod. Howard had arranged it somehow, engineered her disappointment and my delight. We'd daydreamed of going away together. I wanted losing my virginity to be special, not furtive. When we arrived at the converted mansion that was to be our hotel, we checked in as honeymooners.
We stashed our luggage in the antiques-filled room and headed out for an early dinner. When we got back to the room, with plans for massages and a movie and... that act... my period started, days early. It was even heavier then than it is now, and the cramps were unbearable. Advil didn’t touch it. Howard went to down to the bar and then out to a liquor store to find me Kaluha and a box of milk. He put his warm hands on my stomach and hummed songs for me until I was able to relax again. Was I happy to be there with him, I wonder? I can’t remember any feeling beyond the physical.
He'd been waiting for this night. For my finally being willing to let him inside me. I wanted him to do it, because he’d done it before. He talked about being gentle. He had theories about technique. And I wanted it done, so I wouldn’t have worry anymore about his satisfaction with our sexual encounters. In my mind, having sex meant I'd be freed from obligations. I wouldn’t have to handle that throbbing, purple-tipped protuberance that seemed to always need satisfaction. I wouldn’t have to look at it, or to feel its too-thin-skinned smoothness against my tongue. With intercourse he could hide it inside me, and take his pleasure while I closed my eyes and tried to smile.
Both of us thus eager, we waited for the Advil and Tylenol and alcohol to do their work. When I began to relax, Howard brought towels from the bathroom to put underneath me, and smoothly pulled down my underwear and red-sodden pad. I was propped on down pillows against a carved, Art Deco headboard. The musky smell of my blood was thick in my nose. Howard licked me. Looking up, lips grotesquely red, he told me he liked the way I tasted. “The towels,” I said. “The hotel-”.
“They’re used to it,” he told me, and went back to lapping against my clit. He pressed his little finger into me slowly. “Now I know why they call it a flow,” he said. "It looks like a river." He was smiling delightedly, face covered in gore.
He finally wiped his face and arranged his body over me. His first thrust slipped up against my belly. His second felt like he’d hit a wall inside me. The third, knife-like, penetrated. He held me tightly as he thrust. Our stomachs slid wetly, sticky with blood and his sweat.
Afterwards, wiped clean again, my wounded body bundled back into layers of padded underwear, Howard pulled my head onto his shoulder. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“Fine,” I told him. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want him touching me. I thought of the mound of bloody towels and washcloths on the bathroom floor.
“It’s normal, you know,” he told me, “For a girl to feel upset after her first time. Angry, even.” I felt disgust, for our bodies, for the act, and most of all for myself. I wanted to sleep in the other bed, despite the soiled sheets. I didn’t want to be weak. I didn’t want to cry and let him think this moment meant something.
“I’m not mad,” I said, and kissed his cheek.
---------------
The next day over breakfast the hotel gave us sad news. A red tide had come in, and it was not safe to swim. There were dead fish along the shore, and it smelled of rot. We walked through the village, every quaint New England building filled with tasteless tee shirts and sea shell art for sale. Howard bought me a pair of cheap sunglasses and we ate dinner at one of those old-fashioned seafood and steak places where there are never any surprises.
-----------------
All this came back to me in the shower, a composite flash of memory and the clear congruence of images: his red lips, the doctor’s bloodied glove. I hadn't told anyone about that trip. I hadn't thought of the disgust I felt, and how I sometimes feel it still.
I don’t live in the past. I’m not a victim or a cripple. I’ve paid my dues in therapy and bad relationships and tears. I’ve found my way to celebrate sexuality in myself and others. It’s just--every now and then--some moments creeps out of the past and demands to be seen again.
The doctor, though.... I don't think I'll be seeing him again. He can give me my diagnosis over the phone.
Last week, I went to the urologist. That’s too much information already, isn’t it? Bear with me. It gets worse.
I went to the urologist for a vague complaint my doctor felt needed further investigation. I had my period, and cramps, and almost cancelled. The doctor was booked out a month in advance, though, and I thought I’d better just go and get it over with.
After handing in a urine sample, the nurse told me I needed to undress for a pelvic exam. “I have my period,” I told her and she shook her head with a motherly smile.
“The doctor doesn’t mind. He won’t be using a speculum. Just hop up on the table and it will be over in a jiff.”
“I have a tampon in,” I told her. I was embarrassed. Mortified, actually.
“You can just toss that out. I think I have some more here in this drawer.” She pulled out a monster sized Tampax with a triumphant flourish, laid an absorbent white paper cloth over the end of the table, and left me to it.
I pulled out my tampon and wrapped it in paper towels. Blood soaked through them instantly. I shoved the bundle deep into their trash can. There was a drop of blood on the floor. I did my best to wipe it up with a tissue. I got up on the table before pulling off my panties the rest of the way, and wadded them up behind me for security.
The doctor was knocking before I’d finished pulling the sheet over me. The nurse came in with him, standing over me comfortingly as I lay back and put my feet in the stirrups. The doctor’s gloved finger entered me easily and felt around. He pulled out less carefully than he’d entered, and it hurt my sore insides. I caught a glimpse of his bloody glove before he deftly turned it inside out and threw it away. Probably the whole exam took 30 seconds.
The nurse put out a box of baby wipes as she left the room. There was less mess than I’d feared, though the trash can held gaudy splotches of red. I got dressed. “Come back in two weeks to discuss your test results,” the doctor told me.
These details are not relevant: I drove to work only to find I’d soaked through the giant tampon and pad. I drove home again to change my pants. I spent the rest of the day in bed with cramps.
This one is: I’ve been dreading going back next week. I don’t want to see that man again.
-----------------
It came to me in the shower last night: The memory of my stepfather’s face, painted red with my menses.
I was 15. I can’t recall how it happened that my mother didn’t come along on our weekend trip to Cape Cod. Howard had arranged it somehow, engineered her disappointment and my delight. We'd daydreamed of going away together. I wanted losing my virginity to be special, not furtive. When we arrived at the converted mansion that was to be our hotel, we checked in as honeymooners.
We stashed our luggage in the antiques-filled room and headed out for an early dinner. When we got back to the room, with plans for massages and a movie and... that act... my period started, days early. It was even heavier then than it is now, and the cramps were unbearable. Advil didn’t touch it. Howard went to down to the bar and then out to a liquor store to find me Kaluha and a box of milk. He put his warm hands on my stomach and hummed songs for me until I was able to relax again. Was I happy to be there with him, I wonder? I can’t remember any feeling beyond the physical.
He'd been waiting for this night. For my finally being willing to let him inside me. I wanted him to do it, because he’d done it before. He talked about being gentle. He had theories about technique. And I wanted it done, so I wouldn’t have worry anymore about his satisfaction with our sexual encounters. In my mind, having sex meant I'd be freed from obligations. I wouldn’t have to handle that throbbing, purple-tipped protuberance that seemed to always need satisfaction. I wouldn’t have to look at it, or to feel its too-thin-skinned smoothness against my tongue. With intercourse he could hide it inside me, and take his pleasure while I closed my eyes and tried to smile.
Both of us thus eager, we waited for the Advil and Tylenol and alcohol to do their work. When I began to relax, Howard brought towels from the bathroom to put underneath me, and smoothly pulled down my underwear and red-sodden pad. I was propped on down pillows against a carved, Art Deco headboard. The musky smell of my blood was thick in my nose. Howard licked me. Looking up, lips grotesquely red, he told me he liked the way I tasted. “The towels,” I said. “The hotel-”.
“They’re used to it,” he told me, and went back to lapping against my clit. He pressed his little finger into me slowly. “Now I know why they call it a flow,” he said. "It looks like a river." He was smiling delightedly, face covered in gore.
He finally wiped his face and arranged his body over me. His first thrust slipped up against my belly. His second felt like he’d hit a wall inside me. The third, knife-like, penetrated. He held me tightly as he thrust. Our stomachs slid wetly, sticky with blood and his sweat.
Afterwards, wiped clean again, my wounded body bundled back into layers of padded underwear, Howard pulled my head onto his shoulder. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“Fine,” I told him. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want him touching me. I thought of the mound of bloody towels and washcloths on the bathroom floor.
“It’s normal, you know,” he told me, “For a girl to feel upset after her first time. Angry, even.” I felt disgust, for our bodies, for the act, and most of all for myself. I wanted to sleep in the other bed, despite the soiled sheets. I didn’t want to be weak. I didn’t want to cry and let him think this moment meant something.
“I’m not mad,” I said, and kissed his cheek.
---------------
The next day over breakfast the hotel gave us sad news. A red tide had come in, and it was not safe to swim. There were dead fish along the shore, and it smelled of rot. We walked through the village, every quaint New England building filled with tasteless tee shirts and sea shell art for sale. Howard bought me a pair of cheap sunglasses and we ate dinner at one of those old-fashioned seafood and steak places where there are never any surprises.
-----------------
All this came back to me in the shower, a composite flash of memory and the clear congruence of images: his red lips, the doctor’s bloodied glove. I hadn't told anyone about that trip. I hadn't thought of the disgust I felt, and how I sometimes feel it still.
I don’t live in the past. I’m not a victim or a cripple. I’ve paid my dues in therapy and bad relationships and tears. I’ve found my way to celebrate sexuality in myself and others. It’s just--every now and then--some moments creeps out of the past and demands to be seen again.
The doctor, though.... I don't think I'll be seeing him again. He can give me my diagnosis over the phone.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
A Year of Sex
A long time ago my husband (then boyfriend) and I did a collaborative art project called A Year Of Bad Sex. It was an illustrated calendar: I created the stories and layout, G drew cartoon illustrations. Each month memorialized one of my mediocre early sexual encounters--until December, which celebrated Great Sex with him. For some reason, our photocopied creation wasn't a huge seller at the holiday craft fairs we offered it at.
Sometime I'll have to try and recount the embarrassing encounters chronicled in those single-panel sentences compiled for 1997. But today I'm here to recommend a much more arousing and in-depth year of sex - Mia Martina's A Year of Sex: tales from New York City's erotic underground.
The moment I heard about this book, I knew I had to read it. Real life tales of New York sex parties? Yes please! And not just vanilla swingers parties, either--kinky dungeon parties where real people live out my fantasies. Yup, that's a must-read.
The book was more than I bargained for. It's not just Mia's straightforward retelling of experiences that I can only imagine. She also falls deeply and beautifully in love. I found myself a little in love, too, with someone so willing to live life fully and then write it all down.
As part of her online book-tour, Mia has graciously allowed me to post an excerpt here.
We arrive at Carmen’s apartment building, and instead of taking the elevators, we walk through the lobby, turn a corner, and open an unmarked door. The door takes us out of the building to a lush garden courtyard. Wild, hairy plants, trees, and large planters of elephant ears resting among wooden benches greet us. Walking down the pathway, I am struck by a memory of playing hide and seek behind the floppy and slick green leaves of elephant ears in my back yard. Without fail, playing hide and seek would cause my panties to get wet from arousal. I feel my pussy swell and moisten.
The courtyard is fairly dark and secluded, with only a few small lamps lighting the walkway. We make our way to the edge, along a narrow pathway on the side of the building. A metal fence with looped barbed wire rises from a low concrete wall. Carmen sits on the edge of the wall. I place one leg on either side of her; my short skirt is pulled taut. We kiss, and I feel full of energy.
Carmen clutches my ass. “You ready for your spanking?” When I nod yes, Carmen takes my hands and places them on the fence. Holding my breast, she walks behind me and breathes hard against my sticky neck. She raises my skirt and with surprise remarks, “What kind of girl doesn’t wear panties?” I like her question—even though she already knows that I’m not wearing any knickers. She discovered this while stroking me under the table at dinner. But I like any questions that make me admit to being a slut, whore, or pervert.
She asks again, “What kind of girl doesn’t wear panties?”
“A slutty one.”
“That’s right. And what happens to slutty girls?
“They get punished.”
“Very good. Hold tight to the fence, try and keep your dirty mouth shut, and take your spanking like a good girl.”
Gripping the fence, I take her hits. The sound of each blow echoes around the courtyard. I wonder how many people can see us and how many people hear the sound of my ass being spanked. I like the idea of being caught and being called disgusting sinners. Better yet, I like the idea of someone lurking in the garden and joining us in silent masturbation.
Carmen’s words echo my thoughts. “Now the neighbors can see what a dirty whore you are. You like to tease people by showing them your bits when you cross and uncross your legs in public. Tonight, you’ll show them everything.”
From behind, Carmen reaches her hand around to my pussy and splays my lips with her fingers. Her touch tickles my skin. Carmen fondles my labia, mashing her fingers into my wetness. Keeping her fingers on my clit, she continues to spank me. After 50 swats, I want to squirm away and cry out. Carmen senses my need to scream and shoves her wet fingers into my mouth. I bite down. She slaps me and holds my mouth shut with her hand. She clutches me tight and spanks me hard. Then her fingers, hot from the spanking, reach for my pussy. Carmen taps her fingers against my clit and hugs her body against mine. Sweat collects around my jaw line, where our skin makes contact. As I come, she speaks in my ear, “What a good slut. My little pet. I adore you. You sweet dirty whore. You will forever be mine.”
The book is only $4.99 to download. Go get it - you won't regret it! http://ayearofsex.com
About Mia— Mia Martina began recounting her sex-party and open-relationship adventures in the podcast "I Want Your Sex" in March 2008. She recently relocated to Austin, Texas after 10 years in New York City. Mia is the co-founder and producer of BedPost Confessions, an Austin based monthly reading and performance series about sex and sexuality.
site: http://miaontop.com
book: http://ayearofsex.com
event: http://bedpostconfessions.com
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Suck. My. Cock.
If you trusted him with your secrets from afar, can you trust him with you body when you are finally up close? Just a little something while I work on more complete stories....
“I want you to Suck. My. Cock.”
I’m not really awake. His commanding voice penetrates my somnolence, but not enough to spur a reaction.
“Rosie. Wake up and Suck. My. Cock.” His voice is low, his tone even. I can sense his body behind me, tense with arousal. I need to wake up, I know.
His hand gripping my hair helps me. He’s lifting my head. “Right now,” he says with an air of menace. I feel sick with sleep. He’s pulling my hair painfully, forcing me further from my pillow. “Get under the covers.”
I crawl under the covers, eyes still closed, until I bump into his hip. He’s warm and smells of man and sex. My head drops on to his thigh. Before my next breath, I’m asleep again.
I’m startled awake the next instant by his hand on my neck. His voice is threatening growl. “Do I have to roll you over and fuck your throat? I can find a way to wake you up.”
Fear tingles in my chest. I’m finally awake. My mouth finds his cock, succulently half hard. It curls against the roof of my mouth, a perfect mouthful, and then, throbbing, grows.
I don’t know what he would or would not do to me. I’m thrilled by my fear, but not enough to test him.
----
Last night was heat and tenderness. We met with passion long postponed: fell in love with each other’s bodies as we had before with souls. We’d fucked hard and fast and then looked into each other’s eyes and started over again, slowly. Late into the night we’d dozed and woken, caressing and kissing and whispering love words.
Now, his cock hardening between my lips, I have no idea how much time has passed. The hotel room’s perfect darkness persists even after he’s thrown the covers off our bodies. Is it morning? Could it possibly still be night? It doesn’t matter. Sleep was never part of our plan.
He’s thrusting his hips and holding my head in place. I choke and gag and struggle to find his rhythm. I want to give an amazing blow job. I want to please. But there’s no room for that in the way he’s using me. I feel sparks of panic as I fight for breath.
“That’s my girl,” he rasps at me. “I’ve got you.” He lifts my head for a moment and I gasp a lungful of air. Then he shoves me down again, hard, and holds me there. “I’ve got you,” he repeats, comforting me as my air runs out. And lifts me again.
“I want you to Suck. My. Cock.”
I’m not really awake. His commanding voice penetrates my somnolence, but not enough to spur a reaction.
“Rosie. Wake up and Suck. My. Cock.” His voice is low, his tone even. I can sense his body behind me, tense with arousal. I need to wake up, I know.
His hand gripping my hair helps me. He’s lifting my head. “Right now,” he says with an air of menace. I feel sick with sleep. He’s pulling my hair painfully, forcing me further from my pillow. “Get under the covers.”
I crawl under the covers, eyes still closed, until I bump into his hip. He’s warm and smells of man and sex. My head drops on to his thigh. Before my next breath, I’m asleep again.
I’m startled awake the next instant by his hand on my neck. His voice is threatening growl. “Do I have to roll you over and fuck your throat? I can find a way to wake you up.”
Fear tingles in my chest. I’m finally awake. My mouth finds his cock, succulently half hard. It curls against the roof of my mouth, a perfect mouthful, and then, throbbing, grows.
I don’t know what he would or would not do to me. I’m thrilled by my fear, but not enough to test him.
----
Last night was heat and tenderness. We met with passion long postponed: fell in love with each other’s bodies as we had before with souls. We’d fucked hard and fast and then looked into each other’s eyes and started over again, slowly. Late into the night we’d dozed and woken, caressing and kissing and whispering love words.
Now, his cock hardening between my lips, I have no idea how much time has passed. The hotel room’s perfect darkness persists even after he’s thrown the covers off our bodies. Is it morning? Could it possibly still be night? It doesn’t matter. Sleep was never part of our plan.
He’s thrusting his hips and holding my head in place. I choke and gag and struggle to find his rhythm. I want to give an amazing blow job. I want to please. But there’s no room for that in the way he’s using me. I feel sparks of panic as I fight for breath.
“That’s my girl,” he rasps at me. “I’ve got you.” He lifts my head for a moment and I gasp a lungful of air. Then he shoves me down again, hard, and holds me there. “I’ve got you,” he repeats, comforting me as my air runs out. And lifts me again.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
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