Distractions

When I was in college, I was extremely active in extracurricular activities. Basically, I had two jobs. The main one was supposed to be getting all my school work done well and on time, but I spent a whole shitload of time leading student groups and writing a column for the school paper and performing in The Vagina Monologues and writing my blog and doing research assistantships and, you know, having a social life. I didn't sleep enough. My grades were pretty good, but they weren't stellar. I don't think I understood at the time what the opportunity costs were of these millions of activities.

Now I work at an awesome sex and BDSM shop. My boss is generous and clearly values me as an employee. My coworkers are great, and I've made lots of good friends here. I get to do buying for the store, and I spend lots of time working to make it better. I have agency and responsibility. As jobs go, it's pretty great.

But it's still retail. It's not my life's passion or magnum opus. It's a high energy service job with random lulls in between activity. While there are no customers in the store I can theoretically work on, say, this blog or my PhD applications or my insurance claims. However, I'll always have to drop whatever it is on a millisecond's notice if a customer walks in. This makes it hard to concentrate on outside projects during my work day, and I'm tired after my week of 40+ hours.

I understand now what it's like to do a job that takes up all your energy, one that distracts from any other job you might want to do. I only do laundry about every 3 or 4 months. My room is often messy. I mostly only read books on the subway, and I've been (very) slow at writing on here. It's been a long time since I performed or did anything which would let me call myself an activist. Do I cook or do the dishes? Nope.

I'm excited now, though, because I'm researching schools where I can get my PhD (in Cultural Studies or American Studies). The prospect of going into a rigorous program and getting to spend the bulk of my attention on something I'm passionate about, something I want to turn into a career, is now very appealing. I'm psyched to take hard classes with lots of reading, and to do big research projects on stuff that fascinates me.

At this point, I don't even want to do any extra curricular stuff. If I get to spend my work time on the work I actually want to do, my free time will actually be free. I'll get to rest, to have fun, and to recharge to keep my main work going. In undergraduate I was really just there to do the next thing and to learn about myself and do a lot of personal growth. The outside activity was good for that, but I wasn't ready for a career or a true work focus. Now I can hardly wait to get to do all those hours of work on something that excites and interests me.

Working full time at regular-joe jobs for a few years has given me that excitement. The relative boredom and energy drain of these jobs has indeed been a distraction, but it's helped me figure out what I want instead. For that, I'm extremely grateful.

Something New

I mentioned earlier that I was going in for an interview at a dungeon. That was, of course, a teasing hint since I haven't blogged about it since.

Well, I went in for my interview just over a week ago. I sat in a little room with simple but decadent furniture for about two hours waiting for the owner to see me. I ended up choosing a different, better dungeon, but the time before that first interview stands out in my memory.

I wish I could capture the feeling of walking up to a strange building, ringing a buzzer, and being let into a new work space for the first time. The dark rooms and BDSM instruments and even the smell of the place affected me like a client: intriguing, arousing. I was wide-eyed, taking it in. I want to put that feeling into a bottle and save it for later. There's nothing quite like the sense of total newness, of having no real idea of what I'm getting myself into.

It's the same feeling I had when I went for my audition at the strip club. It's a feeling of nervousness, yes, but mostly actual excitement over the mystery of it all. I think wanting to feel that is what drives me a lot of the time. It's a unique and pleasant kind of agitation. I like to be stimulated; I get bored with the everyday. I can only have that special sensation from truly novel, vaguely dangerous situations.

It feels really good to be back to that freshness. I know that being a domme will eventually become just a job. I'll learn from it and acclimate to it and it will change me, just as stripping has. I won't be able to imagine anymore what it was like to be me before I started.

That, though, is why I write. If nowhere else, I can find that feeling again on this page, on the internet for everyone to see. That's a pretty cool thing.

New Year

I'm a few days late but I hope I'm not a dollar short. Happy new year, everyone.

I had a quiet new year's eve. I've got a bad track record with new year's eve parties so I just stayed at home and rested. I've been horribly boring for the last two weeks; recovering from my bad luck (two) weeks took longer than I'd hoped. It got even worse after my last posting.

I had one helluva time getting home. My flight out of New York was delayed and so I missed my connection to SFO in Cleveland. I had to hop a flight to Los Angeles on standby and Continental booked me a flight from L.A. to San Francisco on Alaska Airlines. All should have been peachy keen.

Of course, I found out as soon as I arrived that LAX is hands down the WORST airport I've ever been to. The terminals there aren't connected at all. They've just got separate buildings for separate airlines. If you, for instance, arrive on a Continental flight and are leaving on Alaskan in 45 minutes, you have to go outside security, find a different terminal on the other side of a parking garage and a bunch of construction, get your boarding pass in the regular chek-in line, go back through security, and find your gate.

"Oh, that's an Alaskan flight, it's in Terminal 3. Or is it 2? No, it's 3, you just have to go across the parking lot."

"You mean, outside? Past security?"

*Withering L.A. stare.* "Yeah, outside. Just go across the parking lot."

Right.

Of course, it turns out that my Alaskan flight is actually operated by American Airlines, in Terminal 4. (My parents found this out online and called to tell me as I was trudging across a parking lot to Terminal 3.) This is a problem because I'm travelling with my bunny.

Continental Airlines is the only major airline to allow rabbits in the cabin, one of the only to allow them at all. I get to the check in counter for American Airlines 20 minutes before my (delayed) flight is supposed to take off, and they won't let me on with the rabbit. American doesn't even allow bunnies in the cargo hold. I guess they're worried they'll get loose and somehow bring down the plane by chewing wires. Forget Snakes on a Plane, it's Bunnies on a Plane.

So Continental Airlines had effectively stranded me in Los Angeles. There were no flights to SFO on any airline that allowed my pet. My father had to fly down to L.A., rent a car, spent the night with me in a hotel, and drive us back up the next day. Oh, and they had lost my bag. It had been "scanned" in Los Angeles, but had then disappeared. They did eventually get it to me about four days later, but at the time we'd had neither hide nor hair of it.

All in all I spent 22 hours in airports and then had to make the 6 hour drive back up to Oakland airport to return the car, then drive home. It was all great fun.

Turns out, too, that I had bronchitis. Fortunately, the doctor could see me on Christmas Eve and I got all kinds of medicines, but it took almost all ten days of antibiotics for me to feel better.

Of course, things are much better now, but it's amazing what that kind of stress can do. I definitely reached a breaking point in Los Angeles and after everything adding up in the last few weeks I didn't want to do anything for about two weeks after I got home. This is unheard of for me. I didn't get bored with staying at home and reading and watching TV until a couple of days ago.

I'm going to try and make the best of my last week in SF. I definitely need to get out of my house. I've managed to put in a couple of shifts at the peep show, which was lovely. It's such a positive atmosphere. I'm looking forward to finishing my thesis rough draft (I'll post some of it here!) and getting back to school. Hopefully it will be a good year.

Blow Jobs, Annihilation, and Growth

When I was younger, I was a blow job queen.

My first real boyfriend told me that I sucked his cock on our second date. I don't remember this, but I believe him. I can't actually remember when I started seeing or playing with his dick. I've played with it and other cocks so many times since then that the first time has blended in with the other memories.

He was uncircumcised. I remember that; I could tell. Often he wasn't completely hard by the time I started playing with him, so there would be some extra skin when I first put my mouth on him. I didn't know what I was doing at first, but I'd looked up on the internet what to do. I knew to avoid teeth, to use my lips, hands, and tongue. I learned to respond to his movements. I made him come in my mouth.

After we broke up, I didn't stay celibate for long. I had a good girlfriend who I lusted after but didn't think I could be with. She was too Christian and I was too timid.

So I blew her ex-boyfriend. It didn't occur to me then, but I know now that the only reason I had any chemistry with T was that I'd hung out with him and my friend together. We'd all cuddled on my bed, and my sexual tension with her had leaked into my interactions with him.

T kissed like a dead fish, all lips and no tongue. By the time we fooled around, I didn't especially like him, but I was bored and considered him a challenge. He was selfish in bed, wouldn't do anything at all for me except fumble in the general area of my clit with thick fingers. He said he'd go down on me if I got him off, which I found out a few weeks ago has still never happened for him with another person. He was also even more Christian than my friend, hated his own and others' sexuality, and was very politically conservative.

Every time he'd leave my house or drive me home, I'd feel like a whore. I might as well have been paid for what I did. There was very little physical gratification for me, just the vague eroticism of serving someone, the humiliation of feeling hated because I was giving away physical pleasure. It was masochistic.

I had a few similar flings during the next few years, between more serious relationships. Boys who'd call me when they wanted to get off, or who I'd call when I was alone at night. I'd feel this intense need to be touching someone, to be giving something, and I didn't know any other way to satisfy it than by finding a boy to blow. Some of my motivation was simple loneliness.

Mostly, though, it came from a need to feel annihilated. When I was feeling empty or in pain, I could hurt myself by finding someone who'd think less of me for having sex with him. I could stop feeling anything by being with a person who did not see or understand that I was a human with emotions. I was reduced to body parts, objectified, fucked. It was everything those old feminists talked about.

One day, after a few months of therapy and a decision that I didn't want to do it to myself anymore, I finally said no. A boy I'd blown was leading me back drunk from a fraternity party, and as we started to pass my dorm I said "Wait, I don't think I should do this. My shrink says I shouldn't have sex for a while."

He gave me a funny look and said goodnight, which is what I'd wanted. I wanted him to think I was crazy so it wouldn't hurt his feelings. It had worked. I ran off, almost giggling, to my room. Awkward though it was, I'd finally drawn the line and walked away when I wasn't actually into the guy or the sex.

I haven't had that kind of sex since then, the kind where I give up my humanity to have a physical connection with someone. I have casual sex, yes, but I do everything I can to make sure it's with someone who will see and value my humanity even while we're fucking. I can't always tell ahead of time whether this will be the case, but I can get a pretty good idea.

I'm glad I had the experience of objectified sex. It gave me something to contrast with what I wanted, to grow from. It allowed me to understand what it is that I don't want. I'm just as glad, though, to have moved past it into fulfilling sex with people I like. It's just so much more fun.

Tuesday Review: Wristcutters - A Love Story

I saw Wristcutters a couple of weeks ago, and I've been meaning to write about it. I figured what better time than on Tuesday, for my weekly review!

Wristcutters is a movie about people who have committed suicide. The premise is that when you kill yourself, you go to a world that's just like the real one but a just a little worse. Nobody can smile, there's not much to do, and everybody bears the scars of their suicides. When I heard the premise, I was excited for the film, and it definitely lives up to its concept.

They tell you in the title of the film that it's a love story, and I'd even go a step further to call it a romantic comedy. But it's a black comedy: the story wryly plays with the misfortune of suicidal people. Okay, maybe that sounds bad, but I think it brings a much-needed sense of humor to "offing," as they call it in the film. It seems like everyone I know is confessing to suicidal thoughts lately, so it was nice to see something that made light of a serious thing.

It was a classic film in a lot of ways: the main character, a wrist cutter named Zia, kills himself over a girl and then goes on a road trip to find her when he discovers that she's killed herself, too. He finds friends, romance, and adventure while he's looking for the girl. Classic bildungsroman travel film.

It's well done, though, with good acting and a great script. I definitely recommend this movie to anyone who likes a little heart warming with a dose of biting humor. I'll be adding it to my DVD collection soon.

Here's a trailer:

Blogging, Lack of Sleep, Six Feet Under

I've had trouble blogging the past few days. I think the biggest reason is that instead of sleeping I've been watching Six Feet Under, which I love, but I need my beauty rest to be able to string together any words that make sense.

I finally finished the series, which might mean I'll get some sleep tonight. Once I start watching a show I like, I just have to get all the way through it. Start to finish. I really recommend Six Feet Under to anyone; it's got some great commentary on the family and contemporary culture. I mean, it's made by HBO, I guess you have to expect quality.

The last few episodes of the show, though, were just horribly depressing. It's generally about death, but it's darkly hilarious and I usually enjoy it immensely. I think in finishing the series they felt like they had to bring it to a more serious place. It's put me in a down mood, along with my usual susceptibility to hormones and grumpiness. It's so funny how the lives of these imaginary characters can affect me in real life.

With my lowness, I've been at a little loss for what to write about here. Blogging is such a funny animal. There are actually plenty of things going on in my life right now that I could talk about, but I hesitate to put them here. Enough people read my ramblings now that I am too aware of my audience. I want to take risks with my writing, but I don't want to lay myself completely bare for all to see or step on. It's a fine line to walk, between honesty and needless vulnerability.

I've got a couple of big posts under construction, and after I get a real night or two of sleep I'll put them up. Right now, though, I need to lie down and have a good wank. Nothing better for a little cheer than good old-fashioned masturbation.

Boredom

I'm so bored.

I can feel my organs vibrating, when I'm just sitting here in my house, playing a video game. They don't want to sit still like this. If I gave into it, I'd be twitching here on the couch. My face is having trouble staying calm and blank. It wants to scowl.

I feel a bit trapped in this. It's the problem with being here, away from all the people who want something from me. When I'm at school, I have to be busy. They demand that I do things with them. I never have a moment to myself. It seems I like it that way.

Give me too long sitting alone, I get desperate. I can't interact socially because I feel myself forcing it, needing friends, losing confidence. When I need something to do, when I need people, it's like I can't force myself to be casual, calm, friendly. I'm too needy.

I need to smoke pot. It's the only way I can feel content to just sit.

Blogging

I'm not a once-a-day kind of blogger.

For me, writing comes when it comes. I get inspired, and then suddenly I've got to write a whole ton and I sit there scribbling or typing madly until the tiny madwoman in my brain tells me I'm done. And then maybe I publish some of that here.

That said, I would like to start posting more regularly. Writing is great fun and it would probably alleviate some of the boredom I get from just sitting there watching TV or reading a magazine or whatever in the small periods of time between activities.

I'm feeling ever so restless lately, and while I know it'll get better once I get back to dancing, I need more to occupy my mind.