Ever get annoyed? Ever feel like someone needs to be told where the dog died? Or handed a crowbar and a tub of Elbow Grease to help them pry their head out of their arse? Congratulations--you've come to the right place.

And when I'm not commenting on the latest thing to piss me off, I'm trying to figure out my own twisted life. Because, hey, I'm like that.

On a gentler note: for anyone dealing with depression, anxiety, and other assorted bullshit: You are NOT alone.

And if you're looking for a laugh, search on the key word "fuckery." It's just my little thing (as the bishop said to the actress).

Thursday, September 30, 2010

Queen of the Banned!

Greetings, oh, my blurking darlings, and happy Banned Books Week!

As you know, your beloved Empress is a librarian.

Yep, a LIBRARIAN. Cast aside all of your hideously awful stereotypes of librarians... those of the uptight, baggy-clothed, tight-arsed (well, yeah, my arse IS tight, but I digress) bun-wearing, sexually repressed fascists of the Miss Pinch and Marian-the-Librarian mold. No, my cherished minions, librarians are none of the above. We ARE a quirky, odd bunch... a bit like witches (if you are a fan of Terry Pratchett, and if you are not, FOR SHAME!!!!!!!! *shakes finger* Go read a fuckin' book, you ignorant savage!). Anyhoo... Hey, it's nearly 10:30 p.m., I've been here for 12 hours, been through the Read Out (and read twice!), been to the doctor's, have successfully prevented myself from ceasing to breathe because of anaphylaxis, and I'm gettin' a little punchy. DEAL WITH IT.

Back to Librarians and Discworld witches... We are a quirky lot, those of us who are librarians in the "blood and bone," to borrow Sir Terry's phrase. Some of us meek and sweet, some of us outgoing and outrageous, every one of us to the last a rabble-rousing rebel when intellectual freedom is challenged.

Don't believe me? Well... let's take a peekieboo at Banned Books Week. Wanna know where the list stems from? (Of course you do!) See, the American Library Association has a form. If a cretinous moron with the mind of a failed parachute decides that a book needs to be kept from the hands of other humans, they attempt to force the book's removal from the shelves of a library OR be removed from a school's curriculum. Roughly 90% of the books on the Banned and Challenged list (this is not an official stat; this is a stat gained from a professional stat-compiler's eye for estimation) stem from school curriculum protests.

Yeah.

Busybody fuckin' parents trying to make rules for everybody's kids instead of just their own, so many of them "good Christians." Ignorant fuckin' cunts the lot of 'em. (Yeah, I just dropped the c-bomb. Dunt like it? TOUGH SHIT! Whaddya gonna do? CENSOR ME? This is an Over-18 Blog--PISS OFF!)* It makes me angry (not that you could tell). A book is a book. It's a collection of words and ideas. That's it.

Well, not really. See, I'm a true blue book geek. I go beyond bibliophile and into the area of bibliotaph.** I LOVE books. I read voraciously, usually with five going at once, and reread great books many times. I have travelled to England JUST to meet an author for the third time (yep, Terry Pratchett) because his books were so damn good. I have stood and wept in a bookstore upon discovering the death of a beloved author (Robert A. Heinlein, and I still want to know to whom he left his best bed). I have spent years involved in the debate over the authorship of Shakespeare because of my love for those works and my belief that a middle class glover's son from Stratford in the 16th century COULD NOT HAVE POSSIBLY written those works (and as a working class Boston Irish kid who came of age in the 80's, raised by a single mother who taught her from birth that if I could read, I could do ANYTHING; strict Catholic education in a time when public education was in the toilet; surrounded by the highest concentration of higher learning institutions in the world, EXCELLENT public libraries, television, access to newspapers, magazines, and later, interlibrary loan and the internet, there is a reason I am able to write about what-fucking-ever I choose to research thoroughly and can do so convincingly; Shakspur of Stratford DID NOT HAVE these things in England of the 1500's. There was no such a bloody thing as a "free press"--there were four of the damn things in the country, and all licensed by the Crown. Wanna know what happened to you if you published something unapproved? Google "Isle of Dogs." Go ahead. We'll wait... Yeah. Sorry, folks--reason and rationality don't allow the Stratford story to stand on no legs; yet again, I digress). Words... words are my weapons, in love and war, in all things... Words and the ability to use them effectively are POWER.

The greatest power any human being can possess.

As a Librarian, I am a defender and protector of the written word. A preservationist of knowledge. A guardian of the Right to Read. Sounds a bit silly? Not really. Not when you consider that every year, people try to stop other people from books they find offensive. Upsetting. Disturbing.

Now, "offensive" is a pretty subjective term. There are a lot of things I find incredibly offensive--most sitcoms, for instance, I find so fucking insipid, stupid, and badly written that I'd like to find the asshole who greenlighted them and run the fucker over and leave him/her to bleed in the ditch because I feel they are degrading the collective intelligence of the world. Ditto for reality TV (plus the fact that the writers--and the fucking shows are scripted, so grow up and grow a brain, it's just like professional wrestling--aren't paid union rates so they're getting fucked with a spiked stick)--it's the lowest form of entertainment. Garbage that feeds on the love of misery and watching others suffer and make asses of themselves. Makes me sick.

So how do I protest? I practice the ONLY ACCEPTABLE FORM OF CENSORSHIP IN A DEMOCRACY: I DO NOT WATCH.

That's it, kids.

We live in a democracy. (Well, not really, but the illusion still exists to a point.) In a capitalist republic, the ONLY ACCEPTABLE FORM OF CENSORSHIP is LACK OF SPONSORSHIP. Translation: You don't like it, DON'T FUCKING BUY IT, STUPID. You really want to fuck 'em, DON'T BUY THE PRODUCTS OF THEIR SPONSORS.

That's it, kids. That's the only way to do it. Boycott. And if you're the only one, maybe you're the one who needs to pry your head out of your arse. Or, maybe you're right, but hey, no one agrees. Or is ready to wake up. (Example: I've been trying to get people to read Revolt in 2100 for years now, and few people have taken me up on it. Read it. After the 2 Bush presidential thefts, see if a shiver or three doesn't run up your spines. Do a google on "The Family" and see how many high-level politicians--and this is why you will NEVER get a vote out of me, Hilary Clinton--belong to an organization that wants to convert the world to conservative Xtianity... yeah, kids, I'll pass.) Either way, you can only make the decision for yourself and your children under the age of 18.

So today, my library sponsored its first ever Read Out. What's a Read Out? It's a gathering of folks reading excerpts from banned and challenged books.

It was joyful. Really, really joyful. We didn't have a whole heck of a lot of people, but it was lovely. Intimate. Like a storytelling circle... all that was missing was the fire in the middle.

See, first and foremost, I consider myself a storyteller. When I was seriously in theatre and directing and acting, that was what I was doing. Telling stories. Interpretting stories. It was this philosophy that got me accepted into the MFA program at the Actor's Studio (I never went; no way I could ever live in NYC; I'd kill people). Now that I've moved into comedy (well, back into comedy--I was always a comic actor), I know that I'm more of a storyteller than a gag-man,*** so I'm probably going to go for staging a one-woman show rather than just the open mic gigging. It's about the set-up and the build, not about the rim shot. That approach just doesn't work for me... the one-liners, the jokes, the gags. Anyway, there is a joy in storytelling. My happiest memories of family are of storytelling (and I don't include my father's stories in here. *shudder* There are just some things you SHOULD NOT KNOW about your parents). Ditto for acting school--as magnificent a teacher as Kristin Linklater is (and she is, hells, yes, she is), my favorite memories from her Shakespearean Acting class are the times she'd gather us all about and tell us stories from her days in New York and London.

There is a magic there... the gathering, the sharing... the knowing that you are a now a part of the story, a part of the history. You become connected to those other human beings and they to you because you have shared something fundamentally primordial, one of the essential things that make us human. Today, in the Atrium lit by the warm glow of the reading lamps while the winds from the latest tropical storm howled about the building, we gathered together in a circle and shared stories. Some of them awful... In the Spirit of Crazy Horse, about the American Indian Movement and the death of Anna May Pictou, read by a transgendered woman just coming out... The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison, one of the most horrifying, heart-breaking novels I have ever read, read by an aging African American woman who lived through civil rights, taught in some of the poorest rural schools, and knows too well the damage the 11-year-old child of that story suffers... I Like Guys by David Sedaris, read by a young man in a wheelchair who had fought to get the book Naked (along with other banned books) reinstated in his rural high school...

And then there were the moments of joy. Jabberwocky. I was quoting along the entire time under my breath, grinning. Hills Like White Elephants. I've never read ol' Papa Hemingway, but I just may give the old fucker a chance. The Chocolate War, read by the author's son. The Song of Solomon, read by a lovely, lovely writer friend who came over just to read.

I read twice. Our Harry Potter reader had to cancel, so I jumped in with a bit from Deathly Hallows. I chose the part of the book that, the first time I read it, caused me to shut the book, clutch it to my chest, and sob like a broken child for the loss of the character. (The chapter is "Malfoy Manor"--I know at least one reader has not read it yet, so no spoilers.) And, yeah, I cried this time, too. The second reading (sounds like church, dunnit? Libraries ARE sacred places--they are temples to the written word) was from The Lord of the Rings. No surprises there, eh?

Lord of the Rings is the book that changed my life. I'm a writer because of Professor Tolkien and the nightmares that the Black Riders gave me. My first ever fantasy novel began as a result of one of those nightmares--"black riders on milk horses." It was a piece of piss (Gods, I love that phrase... thank you, FuckWad, it's the one thing you really gave me) as all first efforts are, but it put my feet on the road. I read The Hobbit when I was eight--checked it out of the public library and took it away to that torture chamber called summer camp. While the other evil little bitches napped, I got lost in Middle Earth. When I found out there was more, I had to have it. Of course, back then, there were no electronic catalogs in the Somerville Public Library. I didn't know that The Trilogy was upstairs in the adult section. So, it was another three years before I got a chance to read it. I was enrolled in an afterschool activity (fuck that, it was group therapy and I hated it--wankfest of bullshit. The only useful thing to come out of it was reading the book What's Happening to Me which prepared me thoroughly for puberty and masturbation) and wanted out. There were five meetings left, and my mother came home with a yellow bag from Lauriat's Bookstore. In that bag was a boxed set of four novels--The Hobbit, The Fellowship of the Ring, The Two Towers, and The Return of the King. I remember the box... it was gold foil with bosses from The Silmarillon on it.

Now, my Mum is a clever lady (as daft as she's getting now). She knew the only way to really bribe me was to waft a book under my nose because if asked to sell my soul, money would never budge me, but offer me a book I was salivating to read and couldn't find... oh, I would gladly surrender my soul for the book. And the bitch bribed me. I endured the intellectual wankfest for the five more sessions just to get my hands on those books. And I got 'em.

Bliss. Heaven. The world... the world opened up. I have read The Trilogy at least once a year, every year, since 1979. Do the math. You could drop my fat arse down in Middle Earth, and I could find my way anywhere with a compass. I wouldn't need a map; I memorized that one years ago. The movies... I still have a case of the ass with the films, but I also respect the hell out of Jackson, Boyens & Walsh for their incredible achievement in adapting them. I couldn't have done it--I revere the books too much. Visually... I wept during the first film because for the first time in so many years, I was seeing Middle Earth unfold before me, and it was as I had dreamt it... green, beautiful, heaven... home. They even redeemed a character I had hated forever--Boromir. If the extended version had been released, Sean Bean would've gotten the Oscar nod, not Sir Ian. He brought that character to life, and for the first time ever, I saw the Captain of the White Tower and knew why he was beloved of his men and his brother, the true Numenorean. (However, I will never forgive them for cutting out the brains and balls of Faramir. SHAME!) I have friends who would shag Sean Bean in a blink; me, I'd need him in Boromir gear. Then... well, even a whip and a chair wouldn't save him from being ravished. Yeah.

But I digress. Again.

My childhood best friend and I bonded over that book; we passed the novels back and forth. As a wedding gift, I found a set of them with the identical covers (mine had long since disintegrated) for her. I own the Red Book of Westmarch version, as well as the omnibus trade paper edition which has been recovered and taped (and needs a good regluing)--that was the one I read from today.

I chose two bits: "The Choices of Master Samwise," where Sam thinks Frodo has been killed by Shelob and must take up the quest by himself, and the final parting when Frodo tells Sam that while he has saved the Shire, he is far too damaged to remain. I ended with Gandalf's words: "Go in peace. I will not say, 'do not weep,' for not all tears are an evil."

And, yeah, I was tearing up at that. In this time of war, it hit home a little hard. See, as a child of a Vietnam vet (and the ex-girlfriend of a couple of them, as well as an ex-wife of a section 8), I'm from the generation that paid for that war. The emotional price of wounded parents, lovers, brothers, friends... wounded nation, from a generation that never knew a time when we could unequivocably believe in our nation. And now... now, we're fighting an even dirtier, more disgusting war than Vietnam ever dreamed of being, and good people are paying the highest price:

"It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, lose them, to save them, so that others may keep them."

Shit, I'm crying again. So this is my little way of saving what I love the most--the written word. I am a Librarian. And because I love them so much and so dearly, because I know what the written word has done for me--how it has shaped me, the worlds books have opened for me that I would never, ever have known... because I am a better person for the gift of the writers whose words I have devoured again and again... because I was taught to love and respect those words, and that I had a gift that I had to use for good purpose... I am a Librarian. I will do my utmost to make sure you get the books you need and the books you want. And I will FIGHT LIKE HELL to make sure you get access to them.

Coda: If you would like to know just how fierce librarians really are, there are two really great concrete examples.

The first is in the introduction to one of Michael Moore's books, I think, Dude, Where's My Country. In it, Mike dedicates and thanks librarians because it was librarians who first picked up his book and promoted it. Love him or hate him, he's made sure that people know the other side of the propaganda (and yeah, I know, he pushes propaganda of his own).

The other book is This Book is Overdue! How Librarians and Cybrarians Can Save Us All. I haven't read the whole book (haven't had time), BUT... Marilyn Johnson has written a fabulous account of life in the trenches. You know the Patriot Act? Know who first really challenged the Constitutionality of it? Yep. Librarians. She busts apart the stereotype and lays it down with humor and respect. Good read. I recommend it! ISBN 9780061431609, available everywhere, including via interlibrary loan (if your librarian hasn't checked it out for her/himself).

OK, kids, it's nearing midnight, and this witch needs to visit the beach before taking off on her broomstick for NYC--gonna see Jim Jefferies tomorrow night!!!!!!--and then Nova Scotia.

Keep the faith--keep reading.

Much love,
Your Empress




*Guess who I'm going to see tomorrow night! ;-)
** Book hoarder. I'm OK with it.
***Yeah, I know, not gender correct, but I hate the intellectual Naziism of political correctness.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

*slams head on the desk*

For all of you with delicate dispositions, fuck off because I'm going to cuss a blue streak...

CUNT AND A HALF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I JUST LOST SHITLOADS OF TEXT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

FUCKING GOOGLE BLOGGER BASTARDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OK, I feel better. You can open your eyes now.

Adult Toy Story - Part 1, A Librarian Walks into an Adult Toy Store...

Disclaimer: Because I never know who's reading this (and because I wouldn't want to discourage any potential lovers, play partners, or fuck knows, boyfriends, etc.)... If you deal with me honestly and up front with no bullshit, what passes between us is private--no names, no details except, perhaps, for a, "Sacre merde, WHAT A NIGHT! HE WAS AWESOME!" and a blissed out smile for a couple of days. Or daze, in my case. HOWEVER... if you behave as this MORON has, you're fair game and will be given an appropriate nickname to protect your guilty arse because, hey, I don't want to get sued. Now that we understand each other... read on...


OK, so Tuesday's post was a waste of time. Yep, I got played BIG TIME by He Who Be Henceforth Known as Captain StrapOn from Salem. (If there are any women on Plenty of Fish in the North Shore/Greater Boston area reading this, ping me, and I'll tell you his profile name so you can avoid him. I would really hate for anyone else to achieve the level of sexual frustration I am feeling right now.) So, rather than spend my day deep in depression and wanting to just kill myself and everyone in the general area (hey, why should I suffer alone? Besides, if I offed myself today, I would miss seeing Jim Jefferies live next week AND I'd miss the semi-annual pilgrimage to Nova Scotia, complete with Duck Therapy and the most breathtaking scenery on the planet), I'm writing about it. Hopefully someone out there will learn from my mistakes, and we'll all have a good fucking laugh.

At whose expense? Well, partially at mine (which is OK--I laugh at myself constantly) and partially at him. Hey, I've got pics of his dick--there's a reason he was wanting this. Reminds me... gotta dig out my Callahan's omnibus. Or is it the first Mary's Place novel? Not sure; doesn't matter--I have both of 'em. If you're not familiar with the author Spider Robinson, pick up any of the first three Callahan's books (Callahan's Cross-time Saloon, Time Traveler's Strictly Cash [there's an essay in there that turned me on to Robert A. Heinlein *bows down* the Great God of Science Fiction], and Callahan's Secret; they're also published in omnibus form which is well-worth the investment). The two Lady Sally's books are awesome (Lady Slings the Booze and Callahan's Lady); I wish he'd written a third. ANYWAY... the reason I need to dig out my Spider Robinson is because there's a song in there that his narrator performs about laughing at yourself--there's a line in there about stepping on your own dick (which, as you read on, you will understand why it's so damn funny and appropriate to this story).

And I just remembered... it's in the second Mary's Place book, Callahan's Legacy. OK. Bother. Haven't been able to find that in a dog's age. Ah, well... Alibris, here I come.

ANYWAY... On with the fucking story.


Or the non-fucking story, as the case turns out to be.

So... I ping this guy on Plenty of Fish. He's cute, sounds interesting, fairly local, and isn't looking for anything too serious. Perfect for my state of mind. He responds. We email back and forth via the site, both of us definitely looking for a happy Saturday night (especially after my Friday night fell through, but that's another story).

And then... we go to text messages.

Within an hour, we've gone from wanting to be cuddling and kissing to him wanting to be fucked in the ass with a strap-on.

And me without any equipment!

So we make plans to meet later in the evening, as he is working and I have to go and visit my poor ailing mum in the nursing home (she has since come home, thanks for asking). I decide to take a little shopping trip to Amazing Superstore.

Now, I get a kick out of Amazing. I like how it's a "discreet" store--looks like a shack just off the Rt. 93 ramp on the Somerville/Medford border (although the one in Danvers is bigger and nicer; ain't that always the way? ;-). Parking lot fairly full, so you know you're not alone in your perversions, and unlike the other sex shop in Somerville, it's clean and doesn't smell like an uncleaned privy. *shudder* I mean, just because you're going for interesting sex doesn't mean you're unsanitary. I park and go strolling in, hoping to find the perfect toy for my little first-timer (or so he claimed to be; who the fuck knows?).

Now, if you ask a woman about anal sex and she's honest, she's either going to rave about it or run away screaming. Those who rave have had it done to them correctly; those who scream and run have not. I have had both experiences. Let me tell you... there are some times when bigger ain't better.

Once upon a time, boys and girls, I was married. My ex was hung like a small pony. This is not a boast--it had its good points and its bad. On the upside, he was hung like a small pony--9" x 3", cut, and when he remembered the foreplay, it was a big slice of heaven.

When he DIDN'T remember the foreplay... Yeah. And I will say this right here and right now: I would rather 5 or 6" and an hour of great foreplay to 10" and none. Major point for those of average length/girth: they try a bit harder.

The story of how I lost that particular cherry makes for a great bedtime story; it will NOT be shared here. You want to hear that story, you've got to sleep with me. Let's just say that the first time was a #fail; the second time, he had a coach and was a major #win and left me addicted for life. Even the woefully thick and inept EdWad couldn't kill my love of it, although he came close. "Just relax!" "GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY ASS, YOU IDIOT!" Not a happy way to wake up, trust me. Jesus, I should have run that stupid cunt over. The Beast would have made short work of him. I miss that car. OK, back to the story...

The one thing you want with anal sex is a LOT of foreplay. As many a homophobic male will declare, "THAT'S AN OUTTIE, NOT AN INNIE!" (This is reported from experience, dear reader--I have had three exes make this declaration in some form or another.) For a truly wonderful experience, you need a lot of patience and a lot of lube. It also helps if the recipient has bathed recently (or at least cleaned themselves VERY well--there are some places where I draw the line, and I ain't rimming a man with an unwashed arse. Sorry, fellas, but that's a hard, fast rule). The other thing that can help is an enema. I don't recommend additives--alcohol especially is to be avoided, although it is a fascinating way to get drunk--just simple warm water, preferably administered via an old fashioned bag (the bulb syringes can be a bit harsh and a bit of a shock on the system), and a decent interval of privacy for the recipient to evacuate and clean up. If you're doing a bit of a dom scene with it, well... that's for another post, another time.

So anyway, here I am in the adult toy store with the prospect of popping a guy's cherry arse. I was definitely excited; SERIOUSLY excited. But I was also concerned. I mean, taking someone's cherry is a big responsibility, and honestly, I wanted him to enjoy it. Fuck that, I wanted him to love it and beg for more. So I knew I had to make careful and considered choices.

I opted not to go for the enema syringe with the butt-plug shaped nozzle. I mean, it was VERY tempting (the prep part of it alone would be thoroughly enjoyable), but not on a first date. Then there was the lube... *sigh* Always such a personal choice. I mean, flavored is VERY tempting when dealing with the asshole, but there are potential health issues from yeast infections because there's sugar in the damn stuff, and the rectum and colon are just hotbeds of bacterial activity. And then there's the issue of silicon-based versus the other stuff (sorry, brain is drying at the mo)... I opted for the classic Elbow Grease. Hey, if it's good enough for gay guys, it's definitely good enough for Captain StrapOn.

And then... then there was the question of the instrument of defloweration. I wanted the experience to be good. I wanted it to be satisfying. I wanted the little bitch to be begging for more. (Hey, HE used the term first--came right out and texted he wanted me to make him my bitch, feminization and all.) The thing is, when you're dealing with a virgin asshole, you don't want to cause any damage. I didn't want him bleeding afterwards; that would be discourteous and, quite frankly, inelegant, as well as inconsiderate on my part. So I really had to consider carefully exactly what I wanted to shove up his ass for his maiden voyage.

Now, you'd think a wall covered in dildos and dick-shaped vibrators would offer all the choice a woman needed, and had I not been on such a tight budget, it would have. I mean, a couple of the porn star models were incredibly tempting and impressive. It took me a good half an hour to finally decide on the double-header: it was the right girth, there were a lot of options on insertable length, and hey, I could get off on it, too. Everybody wins!

And I almost forgot the condoms! This is a REALLY, REALLY important bit when you're doing ass play, kids, with toys: ALWAYS USE A CONDOM OVER THE TOY.

Why? Well, I'll tell ya... it's not such a big deal with a solid dildo with a proper grip on it (ditto with a butt plug--they're designed NOT to slip all the way in); however, with anything that isn't solid--good example, a vibrating egg (and if you want a really VIVID description of what can go wrong with a vibrating egg, hit You Tube, search for Jim Jefferies OR Jim Jeffries, and watch the Minty's 2007 clip. Jim's "I Am the Egg Man" bit is in there, a rougher version of the performance in "I Swear to God" [but the best one yet is on the extras of "Contraband"--the audience sing-along version; better than a night at Rocky Horror, kids]. It is painfully funny, and a good illustration of why sometimes, a condom is your best friend. Yep, I managed to slip a Jim Jefferies reference in here--you KNEW I'd find a way. One week from tonight... :-) Anyway, good reasons to use a condom over a toy for assplay is a) ease of clean up (seriously, who likes shit on their toys? And getting the stink out of latex, jelly or even silicon is damn difficult); and b) safety, plain and simple. Once something goes in your ass, it shouldn't go any place else because there're just too damn many infections--not even venereal type--that can be spread to other places. Your ass is your body's sewer system, and while it might be a fun place to play, you want to leave what you find there.

Be told, be safe. Listen to your Empress--she knows of what she speaks and is trying to save you pain, children. End of lecture. (I am not the discoverer of this information, BTW--I have read this info in several places over the years, the best being the book The Loving Dominant by a lovely gent named Mentor. I met him many years ago when trying to get out of a severely abusive relationship, and he and his sub, Libby, saved my sanity and my life. Whether you're seriously into the scene or just looking to spice up your sex life, FIND A COPY OF HIS BOOK AND READ IT. His DIY bondage stuff is fucking amazing. Reminds me... gotta find my copy. Gotta start building up my kit again.)

So... our story tonight ends with me standing at the counter of the Amazing Superstore in Somerville, paying for my double-headed dick, Elbow Grease, and small pack of Trojans, and being told--with a grimace and the aside, "I'm sure I don't have to tell you this BUT" from the hippy-cute clerk: "Toys are not returnable, ma'am." At which point, I had a comedy flashback to--yep, you guessed it, Mr. Jefferies again--doing a perfect Outraged Middle Class Consumer, "Will you look at that? Bought that an hour ago, took it home, fucked it, and now... that cunt's broken!" Seriously, that routine will never allow me to look at sex toys the same way again. I broke up, right there, and the two guys behind the counter looked at me a little funny, and I told them that they had to see the bit. It would make their job so much more enjoyable.

And then... off to the nursing home to visit my ailing mum.

In our next episode... In Which The Empress and Captain StrapOn First Meet.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Premature Blogulation

Well, I spoke too soon. Ex is not an ex. Good thing he didn't make it into the open mic material last night... Talk about cutting yourself off. (And no one but he and I knows why that line would be funnier than hell. And anyone intelligent and dirty enough to interpret it.)

Mood has lifted. That bothers me--how much sex affects my mood. I once had a friend say to me, "If I knew all it would take to get you to act human was to get you laid, I would have done it myself." (Mind you, he introduced me to my ex-husband for exactly that purposed--the two of them had shared digs back in the crazier parts of the 70's and had shared a hell of a lot more. He's the reason I have an issue with dating anyone more than 15 years younger than I am--having someone put an arm around your fiance, look at you while you're lying there naked [and we won't mention what else] and say, "Get 'em young and raise 'em right, eh, buddy?" makes you think twice about repeating history.)

But it HAS lifted, and without the application of external chemicals (although it is time for meds. Joy, joy... thyroid and anti-depressants make my day go forward...). Of course, the prospect of achieving a long-held fantasy tonight has a lot to do with it. Although why I'm still in the office talking to the blog and procrastinating rather than racing home, showering and prepping beats the fuck out of me.

Probably because my ability to trust is not extensive. But there's something going on with this guy... I have been so depressed at the thought of not seeing him again. I mean, the last two... no big deal. Rugby Boy was hot, hung and KINKY... shit, WHAT A STORY that night's going to make (probably not part of the stand-up--it's more like a novel episode for the Kinsale Chronicles). Ditto for Mr. Teacher (I will never be able to order a sex on the beach again with a straight face... just the thought of that night has me chortling... And I was afraid certain types of sex would be awkward after surgery... YES!) OK, I'll stop gloating about that one. I felt a little regret when it became clear they were full of shit about wanting to get together again, but it was a twinge... just a "Yeah, OK, whatev, your loss, dumbass."

This guy has gotten under my skin. Not good.

Wish I could make up my mind about love. Wish there wasn't such ambivalence. Part of me... part of me longs for partnership. Part of me hasn't got the patience to deal with my own shit, never mind someone else's.

But I like him. I actually like him. Feel like I've known him forever. Despite the fact we've been sexting each other mercilessly, the two times we've been together have been lovely--seriously lovely. Nothing spectacular--nothing over-rated chick flicks are made of--just lovely in the ordinary, comfortable sense.

Scares the livin' fuck out of me. Which is probably why I went moderately psycho and over-reacted when I didn't get an instant reply on Saturday night. *sigh* Damn PMDD. And then no reply when I called him to apologize and say that I hoped I'd misjudged him. If I hadn't hit his number by accident on the stupid touchscreen (I love my little 'droid, but it's as cranky as R2-friggin-D2) instead of my mom's boss (same prefix on their telephone number, so don't give me any shit) tonight wouldn't be happening.

OK, I am NOT going to get sentimental... I am not going to believe that Fate had a hand because this is my fucked-up comic tragedy of a life, and my luck in love SUCKS. Probably going to find out he's got a 3" dick erect and is addicted to meth and has herpes.

Which reminds me of a funny story... I have a really strict rule about not allowing exes in my life once it's over and done with, and I have all my money and stuff back (or made the dirty arsed rat fucker come through on his promises which is why Edwad was allowed to stick around until he'd done the brakes on The Beast. I lost a baby, he did my fuckin' brakes, the worthless cunt). Anyway, the only one I ever made an exception for was Irish Joe because he was my first love, and Jesus Christ and the Nailbanger Five, was I STOOOOOOPID.

Anyway, Irish Joe was making the pitch for us to get back together for the umpteenth time, and I was saying no for the umpteenth time. We'd tried it once, it hadn't worked, he'd SUCKED in bed, and I'd realized what a total loser he was, especially since he'd lost his looks and had taken too many shots to the head.
Truth.
So we're talking, and somehow got on the subject of Jews, and having dated several Jewish guys (and been married to one) and had a damn good experience with them in bed, without thinking, I said, "Mmmmmm... I do love to keep kosher."
To which his response was dead silence.
"What?" I said.
"What the fuck is THAT supposed to mean?"
Well, I really put my foot in it. "The best lovers I've ever had were Jewish guys." (This was before my long spate of Brit boys. Oooooohhhhhh, the Brit Boys... mmmmmmm... yeah. I'll take an English Banger any day. [And yes, I know the contradiction there, but the pun is so worth it.] Despite the fact that if I take a step towards a man with an English accent, my friends are going to jump me with baseball bats.)
Well, Irish Joe had a fucking fit. Mind you, he was a bigoted little bogtrotter (I can use that one; I'm a member of the tribe, and thank you, Eugene O'Neill for teaching me that one). He hated everyone and had a slur for everyone. Remind me to tell you the one about the n-bomb sometime. Irish Joe is good for stories.
ANYWAY... He explodes with, "HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT TO ME?!? I went down on ya, I tried ta make ya happy, and you like JEWS better?"
And then I put the other foot in. "Well, it wasn't meant to be a criticism, Joe. Aside from the fact they're really attentive, they're also pretty well-hung--"
At which point, he humiliated himself by saying, "I guess four inches ain't good enough for ya."

I am VERY proud to report that I did not burst out braying with laughter at that statement. Fuck knows, I wanted to. It took every ounce of self control--and thank the Gods we were on the phone because face-to-face, I wouldn't have been able to control myself. I would have been on the floor, howling. Four inches isn't enough for ANY woman, not if she's being honest, at least not if she's built like me.

I'm TALL and long. I can't have my yearly gynecological exam done by my regular doctor because my canal is deep and they don't have the long speculum in the GP's office. So while I may not know how big my cunt is (thank you, Jim Jefferies, for that image... I never knew what the pinky finger thing meant, but I agree that it's cruel, and your response is priceless), I do know that it's deep. And Irish Joe's pitiful four inches were not enough. Well, the man they were attached to was woefully inadequate--stupid, narrow-minded, devoutly Catholic, Boston Irish to the point of being handicapped, a thug, and just not a decent human being. Oh, and being six inches short that I am didn't help, either, as those were the days I wore heels.

Yes, I'm distracting myself. And now... now, I am going to commit a blatant act of faith and go home and get ready for this date. Because it's going to happen.

Right?
Right?
*deep breath*
Right.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Sluts & Studs - The Other Side

Anyone who's talked to me lately has heard that I've finally bitten the bullet and started doing stand-up after years of dreaming about it.
Yep, The Empress has returned to the stage, and this time, she ain't spoutin' Shakespeare. Be afraid. Be VERY afraid.
I'm the first person to admit that I need a good swift kick in the arse sometimes to get the fuck out of my own way. The past year has been a fresh slice of hell in so many ways; in others, it's been amazing. Aside from a lot of hard work on my issues (/end pity party), the final inspiration--that "good swift kick in the arse"--came from seeing a stand-up show on HBO, and since seeing "I Swear to God," I've managed to turn more than a few people on to Jim Jefferies.
I'll post later in the week about his comedy and why you should check him out (especially those of us feeling the unfilled void left by the loss of George Carlin, that glorious, cranky old fuck). This post is about me (hey, it's my blog, fuck off if you don't like it) and my shit.
See, I don't find Jim's stuff offensive, or even particularly revolutionary. What I dig about it is that he's saying the same kind of crazy shit that I do--the same stuff I've been writing for a long time. If you've read One Flew Out of the Broom Closet, you know that I'm the Empress of Rage--so utterly fucking fed up with stupidity and idiocy that I don't allow myself a gun because there'd be a trail of corpses every time I'd get behind the wheel of the Blue Bomber, most of them in Cambridge. Obviously, it's not THE SAME, but it's in the same vein--reflections on the foibles and follies of our own lives and the stupidity of the world. Oh, yeah, and the utter lack of concern about offending anyone, including (and especially) family and exes.
Allow me to throw a quote at you:
"They are the abstract and brief chronicle of our time. 'Twere better to have a bad epitaph than ill repute in their mouth whilst you live."
Now, Hambone is talking about The Players--the traveling troupe of actors that arrive in Elsinore, temporarily lift his depression, and allow him to expose the guilt of his mother-fucking uncle. I've always used this quote to make it clear to anyone and everyone that my life is fair game for my art--good and bad--and that's the price of being a part of my life. I actually told the most recent ex that the relationship would not appear in the act, but once it was over, it was all fair game. Needless to say, the adventures of the past week--the meeting at the beach, the adventures in the sex shop, the shopping trip... yeah. It's going to make for a GREAT story. *insert evil laugh here*
Let this be a lesson to the gents in the audience: DO NOT be a cunt taunter. Women are far more vicious than men about sexual frustration.
I don't believe that guys don't realize that cock blocking goes both ways. For fuck's sake, do you think we don't want sex? You can deny us, too. (Case in point: this past weekend. *growl* It should be illegal to promise a woman her ultimate fantasy, go through all the work of assembling the gear, and wuss out. )
So, in response to the phrase "prick tease," I am introducing the phrase "cunt taunter" to the lexicon. It doesn't have the same flow, but it's the best I've been able to come up with, and I've been trying to find a female version of this for 25+ years.
Yeah, I'm old.

http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/c110c75202/sluts-vs-studs

To go on... and the reason I invoke the title of one of Jim's regular bits as the title of this blog post... In his act, Jim Jefferies declares that, "It's easy to be a slut; it's hard to be a stud." (And as a Boston, I love how "hard" comes out as "hahhhd" in the Australian accent. Warms the cockles of my heart.) The bit goes on about the fact that he's been in the business too long to enjoy "nice girls," and how nice girls are shit in bed and why. All of it, honestly, truthful.
(There's a sadness in his face during this bit in "I Swear to God," a sadness that breaks my fucking heart. Probably because I know exactly how he feels from the other side. Another reason I am so seriously up about this guy--he's a fucking amazing storyteller. Funny, profane and brutally, viciously honest. At the end of both of his DVDs, I wanted to comfort him and fuck his brains out. Now that's talent!)
He also makes a lot of cracks in interviews and as a part of his act about his own promiscuity and encounters with STDs ("I may be the only man on the planet to high five a doctor after being told he had cancer.")
It doesn't detract from his sex appeal. Seriously--I'd do him in a second, and I have incredibly high standards (it's the laugh- and intelligence factor. Show me a man who can make me think AND laugh... insta-aphrodisiac).
Well, I'm going to disagree with Jim. Not on physical grounds--he's right there. It IS harder for a guy to be a stud in the sense of fucking a lot of women and fucking them well. In the physical sense, it IS easier for a woman to slut around. There's no guarantee of quality--you just have to be there and make the holes available. A little enthusiasm and good lubrication doesn't hurt, either.
Where it's harder for a woman to be a slut--in the conventional sense of having a lot of sexual partners and enjoying it--is in the price she pays in self esteem. Never mind the exposure to disease, the risk of violence and abuse, and the risk of losing fertility. The price you pay is in self esteem because honestly, men are fucking hypocrites.
Women are bitches--absolutely. Judgemental, evil, catty cunts, the lot of us. (Something else I have in common with Mr. J.--I do love that good, old fashioned Anglo-Saxon cuss.) Men, however, are even worse. Prissy, stupid and judgemental. Gods forbid you show a little enthusiasm in the bedroom (living room, kitchen, backseat, movie theatre...). Gods forbid you enjoy giving him pleasure because if you do, you instantly cease to be a "nice girl" and become a "dirty slut" in his eyes, and there's no love in the term.
I stopped dating "my own" (i.e. Boston Irish bogtrotters) because of this--because I couldn't relax and be myself with them. I stopped a lot of things for a long time because I was so fucking sick of being judged.
I'm tired, kids. Sick and fucking tired of hypocrisy. Tired of men who want the world and when they realize they could get it--or at least a goodly part of it--they run away because, hey, you can't be real.
I hid my profile on POF yesterday because after this weekend, I just don't have the heart for it. I'm done. Done with being honest and getting lied to and fucked around. As I held my baby cousin yesterday, it was all I could do not to weep because I know it's something I'm never going to have. Somewhere, somehow, that opportunity's been lost. There's a new guy who's flirting with me, but I really don't have any hope for it. He's a "nice guy"--and nice guys can't handle sluts.
And yeah, I embrace the label. I LIKE sex. Sod that, I LOVE sex. Sex is the happiest thing on the planet, the only time I forget how utterly stupid and hopeless life is. It's the only time I'm NOT pissed off at the world. And I like all kinds of sex (except the lesbian version. Sorry, girls, does NOTHING for me, and yes, I experimented when I was younger and made sure)--vanilla, rough, BD/SM, kinky, whatever! And I've never understood why anyone would judge someone for their sexual practices or preferences (except for pedophilia and beastiality--leave the kids and pets out of it, you scumbags). Whatever passes between two consenting adults passes between those two consenting adults. I don't understand the shame factor.
Because, honestly, I don't have any when I'm with a partner. I don't. If it doesn't feel good, I make adjustments until it does, or we try something else. Problem solved. Somehow, I missed out on the shame thing, probably because I educated myself about sex all those years ago and avoided all the Catholic bullshit. All these years later, the only regret I have is that I didn't have more of it (and that I ever allowed EdWad to suck me into his vortex of soul-sucking horror. Thank the merciful Gods for antidepressants).
And I'm willing to accept that there's something missing from my moral makeup. I don't have a problem with that assessment. There's nothing missing from my ethical makeup, and that's what really matters. I accept that if I play, there's a price to pay, and it's up to me to be sure that the price is minimal. I accept responsibility for myself and my actions--no excuses, no bullshit.
I also accept that I probably never will get married, probably never will have a family unless it's by accident or by some grace, there actually is a man out there who can accept me. It hurts... Christ on a crutch, it rips the heart out of my chest to think I'll never hold my own child and look up into the eyes of my partner and see the wonder and pride and love there for the miracle we've created together. There's always a chance, but I'm not holding my breath. I have my work and my art. Who knows? I may make a success of this writing and comedy shit. You can't have everything in this world.
I wish I had something profound or at least funny to end with, but this isn't a particularly funny post.
Time to sign off and get my shit together--dialysis run coming up and then off to open mic. Tequila, take me away.

Friday, September 10, 2010

Oh, it's THAT anniversary again

Tomorrow is September 11. It's been nine years since the idiots flew the planes in the WTC and Pentagon and the passengers took the plane down in the field in PA.
We're still at war in Afghanistan. Bin Laden may or may not be dead. Iraq is a mess, there are more civilians dead than we'll ever know, and a lot of rich people have gotten richer while a lot of soldiers have either died or been maimed beyond healing.
There's a major controversy going on over an Islamic community center being built a few blocks from Ground Zero. It's a non-issue that's been made into a media circus. And leave us not forget the idiot in Florida who was going to burn the Qu'ran.
I'm done.
I don't care about 9/11 any more. It was AWFUL--it was horrible. I will never forget that day, no matter how much I try. However, the aftermath--how this country has conducted itself since that horrific morning--has left me disgusted and ashamed.
Instead of learning from it, we've used it as an excuse to hate. As a reason to persecute, to pursue enemies real and imagined, enemies we created, without taking responsibility for our actions.
If you'd really like to "honor" the day tomorrow, forget moments of silence, forget rhetoric, forget all of the official bullshit. Instead, if you see a firefighter, cop, EMT or other emergency services personnel, say, "Thank you."
That's it. Thank them for putting their lives on the line every day for the rest of us. I feel for the people who died in the towers--the workers there who were just doing a job--and the people in the airplanes who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I feel for their families. But all the bullshit--and that's all it is, folks, it's bullshit--won't bring those people back.
Honor the lost by appreciating the living. Respect their sacrifice, not by carrying on the cycle of hatred, but by living mindfully.
And not buying the bullshit.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

OK, diarrhea of the brain tonight...

OK, it's after fucking midnight and I'm still here.
WHY?!?!?!
OK, I still have some coffee left. And it's trenta #3 for the day. (Thank you, Starbucks, oh, my pimp of caffeine, my pusher extraordinaire, for creating a larger size of iced coffee. If I ever needed proof of the existence of a benevolent force in the universe, it is the existence of the trenta.)
So why am I sitting here in the office, long after the library has closed, blogging yet again?
Well, my mood is back on the shift.
Hooray.
Shit.
Argh.
OK, it's an upswing. That's a good thing. I'm just dreading the downswing. Because there will be one.
I'm not sure quite why my soul is feeling lighter. It might because I've had conversations with three people today who just made me feel better about myself. Compassion and kindness go a loooooong fucking way these days with me.
It could have been the trip to the beach last night. Standing in the surf, breathing, watching the stars, and weeping... yeah, that helps a bit.
Shit, forgot to charge the sodding MP3 player. Half a mo... OK, Zune is connected and recharging. Caught a whiff of my clove cigs, too. I think I need a smoke when I leave. (Yeah, I know, bad Riz--gimme a break here. My stress level is through the sodding roof. Besides, it's better than weed. THAT'S at home. :-) No driving stoned for me.) I love the damn Zune player, but it's like my 'Droid--sometimes, it makes me feel a bit stupid. Well, more than a bit.
Have I mentioned how scary these upswings are? I'm afraid of the high--the feeling that everything is going to be all right. Because it never is.
I know. Don't think that way. Think positive. Believe it's all going to get better and maybe this time it will! I'm supposed to be on my way to Nova Scotia (actually, I'm supposed to be crashing at Ferd & Laura's & getting up at oh-dark-stupid to drive to Halifax) right now; October will come soon enough. And the first weekend of October is NYC and then... then Halifax.
Trying to psych myself up to get through this weekend. Ebay isn't cooperating, the bastards, so getting all that crap up on there ain't happening. Bugger. NEED THAT MONEY, and honestly, just want the shit out of the house because none of the stuff I'm selling clothing-wise fits anymore--with the exception of the pleather slut dress (oh, it's KILLING ME to sell that! KILLING ME! Would rock my socks to be able to send a pic of me in it to FuckWad just to burn his arse, but I know that selling it will burn him even more. And it's never going to fit--it's made for someone a few inches shorter in the torso. STILL SUCKS!) everything is TOO BIG.
Never thought I'd be writing those words: the clothes I'm selling are all too big. *insert huge grin here* I am slowly leaving my Fat Chick days behind. It's really amazing. So a perfect leather jacket, worn once (on the second trip to England and could barely button it) now floats on me; the pink trench coat that I couldn't button when I bought it... floating; the gorgeous velvet-trimmed suit... too big! Business dress with the tags still on it... four sizes too big. YES!!!!!
Shit, I just forgot something. Again. Argh.
Starting to let go of the Discworld memorabilia. Finally. Hopefully, there will be no shitstorm from the ex or his minions. Mind you, I could handle giving someone a good smacking right now. Verbally, at least.
Dreading tomorrow. DREADING tomorrow. Even though I am taking the day off of work. Somehow, sitting down with a team of therapists, doctors and a social worker to discuss Mum just does not appeal to me. I want her out of that blasted nursing home--the place is too depressing for words (and yes, I feel guilty for skipping out on her tonight, but I had intended to be productive. Note, I said "intended").
Hopefully will get to the gym tomorrow. REALLY want to workout. If I don't, I really have to set up the Wii and use the Sports package. Maybe try the boxing bit... or finally play Green Day Rock Band. Still need to get a drum kit.
Shit, just remembered what I forgot... party tomorrow night. Which means will need to pick up tequila. Ahhhhh, tequila... and limes. Mustn't forget the limes.
Yeah, definitely diarrhea of the brain tonight.
Trying to process everything that needs to get done... ebay, ebay, ebay... the 'zine... funky sock monkeys for etsy... the house, Christ, gotta clear at least the kitchen this weekend. *slams head on the desk* Visit Mum (if I'm not bringing her home)... something else had to get done... Sleep. Sleep might be good.
Laundry. Argh. At least four loads, dammit. Ah, well...
FUCK! JUST REMEMBERED! The Banned Books Week Banner! SHIT!
Sod it. Will do it Monday. Along with monthly reports and processing the bills. It's the weekend. It's officially Friday. And I need to get my arse home and into bed.
G'night, interwebs.

Well, I asked for it...

I'm forever asking the benevolent Gods/spirits/cosmic awareness/collective unconsciousness/whatever the fuck is out there IF indeed there is anything out there besides my own warped perceptions, for a sign that I'm going in the right direction.

Well, this morning on the way to work, there was a car in front of me with a bumper sticker reading:
Born Again Voodooist.

I shit you not.

And I was sitting at the light behind this car, waiting for a break in the traffic to take a left, a mid-size builder's truck went by with the legend, "Gamache Remodeling."

Now, for those of you unfamiliar with Voodoo/Hoodoo/etc., Henri Gamache was the author of several texts considered essential in the rootwork canon.

And, the third sign (because, hey, everything comes in threes if it means anything, right?) was waiting in my email inbox: the monthly newsletter from the Lucky Mojo Company. Lucky Mojo is run by Catherine Yronwode, and if I ever go out to Cali, it will be to visit this shop.

I've been wondering about the whole spiritual reawakening thing. A friend going through something similar has reassured me that yes, indeed, I am going through it and to accept it.

Sometimes, however, even I need to be whacked over the head.

I forgot about it until a few minutes ago. No surprises there... I'm a bit dim these days. Too much to remember. And too much to think about.

It's getting close to the witching hour and I'm still in the damn office. Don't ask me why. Although I do like this place after hours. It's quiet. It's safe.

But now... now, it's time to go home.

G'night, folks.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

So... is it worth it?

This is the question that's been plaguing me for the past two days.

After a really intense August, the inevitable crash hit. I mean, three major break-throughs in a month PLUS intense, immense stress PLUS incredible sex EQUALS major comedown eventually.

I'm still trying to piece it all together and figure out WTF is going on.

Artistically, I feel like my fucking brain is going to explode. Seriously. I have filled three quarters of a notebook with bits for the stand-up schtick. I have at least four art projects on the hop right now, the rewrite of the novel is percolating, the manga script has been passed on for my edits, I've open mic'd twice, and I don't know what the fuck else is going on.

Throw in Banned Books Week... the potential Archive class... the proposed film project for the SRAC board... oh, yeah, Mum in the hospital and having to coordinate her care and completely excavate that monstrosity of a house...

I feel a bit overwhelmed.

Just a bit.

Well, more than a bit.

Oh, and there's those breakthroughs...

It was with serious hesitation that I went back to therapy in June. I feel like I've done enough personal navel-gazing to last a fucking life time (yes, I know, I'm dropping the f-bomb quite a bit. I will draw you a graph someday that will assist all of you in measuring my stress level by the number of times I use "fuck" or one of its myriad forms in a given breath). I know what has happened in my life--first memories witnessing Mum being beaten, all the violence of living four years in the Projects, joy of having a drunk for a father, abandonment, physical abuse as a teenager, two rapes, abusive marriage, anxiety disorder, PMDD, PSTD, abusive relationships, abusive friendships, codependency, and all that other happy horseshit. I know what I've been through, I accepted my responsibility for healing, chucked the assholes out of my life, and yadda yadda yadda.

And then well, I tried to die last February. Yeah. That was a bit intense. I mean, I can mainly lay the blame on the PMDD and say that the upped dosage of anti-anxiety meds and the emergency Xanax has fixed the problem, but I'd be lying through my teeth. You only get that low when life has kicked you too many times and the pain gets too bad.

So let's talk about suicide.

Seriously.

I won't claim to be an expert on the subject--not in the multiple-degreed, psycho-babbling professional witness type of expert--but I do know a bit about it. I always find it annoying when someone asks how a suicide could be so selfish as to take their own life. *shakes head* I guess I should be glad that the person has never known so much pain that the very idea of living is agony. Because that's what drives a human being to check out--incredible, horrific, soul-deep agony that makes the effort of drawing breath hell.

I won't even excuse myself for duplicating the word "agony"--it's the only accurate word I have in English (and I don't really know any other language).

I've been to that edge. Almost gone over a few times. Scared the living shit out of myself in February because I didn't call anyone. I didn't warn anyone. I just decided to check out. No debate with myself about method this time, either, which is rare. I usually stop to consider what will be the best approach, although I pretty well know in the end it's going to be the old slice & dice along the arteries in my wrists.

Couldn't talk about it then, why I tried to leave. I can now. See, I've been saying for a while that I was looking for a "real" relationship--y'know, love, romance, commitment, family, all that happy crappy you're supposed to have. The thing that so many of my friends have. The thing I really have never had.

I was seeing someone then--he'd just moved for a job, but we were going to try to make it work. I knew in my heart I was making the wrong decision; I knew I should have just fucked him one last time and let him go, no bullshit, no promises. I didn't. I tried to convince myself to make it work.

Of course, it didn't. Everything went pear-shaped--I got clingy and stupid, he got more distant and scared. And the sexual revelations came.

Sex is terrifying for me because it's not. I love it. I love almost every aspect of it, every crazy brand of it, from sweet old fashioned vanilla lovemaking to down and dirty kinky fucking. I LOVE IT. About the only things I have completely eschewed are scatological involvement (ewwwwwwwwwww), pedophilia (I don't count crushing on a 23-year-old as pedophilia, although it comes close), and beastiality. I mean, I DO have limits here. What makes it difficult is the conditioning I'm fighting against. Twelve years of Catholic school. The most sexually fucking repressed society that is yet OBSESSED with it. And for me... as long as it's consenting, I don't care. There is a part of me that craves a companion; there is another part of me that wants no chains. I want to live for myself and me now.

And far too many judgmental men in my past. Worse, far too many judgmental women claiming to be friends who were threatened by my openness and couldn't accept that someone so free was also so utterly, completely ethical.

I am so tired of all of this. I am tired of looking for a partner who can just accept me and be a part of my life without having to own me or crush my spirit. I've met one man in my entire life who was capable of that; he's married to someone else. I envy her, but I would never attempt to disrupt or corrupt what they have. I love him--to do something so selfish would not be an act of love.

This is ethics--nothing to do with "morals" or "morality"--those are bastard words for idiot children afraid of facing their own reality. Ethics... I can live with the reality of my sexuality and my worldview so long as I conduct myself ethically. So long as no one is deliberately injured by my actions.

I realize that there are many who will look at me and think that there is something missing in my make-up--some essential moral fiber that is required. Maybe there is. Or maybe... maybe I never wanted to be fettered by convention. Maybe this is just who I am and who I am meant to be...

I am trying to re-embrace myself. For the first time in years, I felt the shaman moving in me, felt my soul awake and alive. For the first time since I allowed another human being to destroy my self-confidence and permitted her narrow-minded self-censureship to break my spirit, I took the stage, and godsdammit, I TOOK THAT STAGE. I felt alive for the first time in over a decade, talking too fast, nervous as an anal virgin facing a 9" cock (and I speak from experience on that one)... and my Gods, it was amazing! Doesn't matter that I bombed the second time--performing is like sex--sometimes it's FUCKING AMAZING, and sometimes... sometimes you suck.

I can feel the "normal" elements in my life trying to hold me down. There's always been envy there--always been people afraid of what they sense in front of them, envious... scared because it's not in their realm of experience. And then there are the friends worried for me... who know how stretched I am at the moment, and who are afraid of moods like the one that hit the other night and has been persisting. The friends who have had to pick me up too many times after a crash.

I'm trying. Gods, I am trying to hold on right now. I'm scared. I'm not 22 and starting over after a bad marriage; I'm 42 and trying to put my life back together after dropping the ball and carrying on for others for too long. My body is slowly healing, the weight falling away slow and steady; I just have to find a way to mend my soul.

My heart... I don't know if my heart will ever mend. I've accepted that marriage and family probably will not happen. I just don't think there's any man out there who can accept who I am and love me as is, nevermind live with me on a regular basis. It's painful--like a pulsing wound in my heart--but there's no help or hope for it. I cannot change who I am. I cannot remake myself to make someone else happy. I've been trying to do that for too long.

I'm terrified because I'm not scared. Because there is a calm, inner part of me that knows I am doing the right thing. I am walking the road less traveled like I always have.

I am who I am. For better or worse, I'm Riz.