lark sparrow
Literotica Guru
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I came across this article a couple of years ago, and found it not only humorous, but thought-provoking. Original (and complete) transcript of lecture by Laura Antoniou: http://www.sexuality.org/latrans.html
Fantasies are not reality. I know, I know, I know. Except when they are. Except when you make them into reality. And fuck this. I didn't come out of years of fantasy rescuing myself from a toxic parent and guilt-tripping myself through anti-sex feminism, politically correct lesbianism, and socially programmed homosexual activism so that someone else could make my goddamn sex life into a slogan: Safe, Sane, and Consensual.
What does it mean? Assimilation, that's what. The politics of appeasement, the hope that, Gee, if we look and act just like everyone else, if we can only convince the dominant culture that we're really harmless and just like they are, except that where we put our dicks and clits and tongues, and what we like on our dicks and clits and tongues, why, we'll earn our civil rights, and everybody will live happily ever after, except for the boy-lovers, who give us all a bad name anyway.
Originally, Safe, Sane, and Consensual, hereafter referred to as SSC, came out of the mostly gay men's S/M movement, probably GMSMA, but I'm willing to hear about where else it came from. I've heard several different versions of who came up with our beloved slogan.
The first time I heard about it was in connection with the expansion of the National Leather Association in connection with a desire to create some sort of unified national network of leather persons. SSC was something everyone could stand behind. For a group of marginalized outcasts, it was supposed to be our rallying call.
A rallying call? Hello? Like Live Free Or Die? Remember The Alamo? Black Is Beautiful? Who Killed Karen Silkwood? Safe, Sane, Consensual.
Well, okay. It's as good as any, but why not Happy, Healthy, and Wise? Rational, Intelligent, and Sensitive? Open-minded, Empathic, and Cheerful? Willing, Hot, and Horny? I like that one. All these are laudable attitudes.
So some rallying cry; who's going to argue with it? I mean, what's more to the point? What social interaction should not be safe, sane, and consensual? Shouldn't all sex be like that? Shouldn't all relationships be like that?
But okay, it's just a slogan. Slogans don't mean shit. After all, what did Just Say No and Just Do It have to do with any kind of reality you understand?
Slogans give people something to chant, something to put on their banners, and something to distinguish the us from the them, and I guess SSC does beat Horny And Looking For Some Kinky Nookie Right Now; Are You A Top Or A Bottom, And What Are You Wearing?
But it's become so much more than a slogan. It's now a way of life. Every S/M organization has to include this little catchphrase into their statement of purpose, that is, if they ever get around to having one.
It has to be on every banner when they march. It has to be included in every titleholder's speech, in club banquets, on colors, and in newsletters. Every entrant into S/M, in one way or another, is assured ad nauseum that everything will be Safe, Sane, and Consensual.
The only activity we condone is SSC. Why, all good S/M is SSC. SSC is good. Isn't it good that we all practice S/M, that is, SSC?
I'm walking through a play party. I have black and red showing left and a bag of toys stashed behind the couch. There's this cutie I'd love to diddle, but right now she's getting tickled and a backrub.
Okay. I'll watch that scene over there. Two people are methodically going through their toy bag as he uses them one at a time on her. They chat.
Does she like this? Giggle. Oh, yes, she does. Smack. Isn't that nasty? Oh, you beast. Giggle, giggle.
Let's try this one; it's made out of an old mop head. More giggles.
Fighting off a yawn, how rude. I wander past two girls earnestly discussing their upcoming scene. I eavesdrop.
Red means to stop; yellow means slow down; blue means I want to talk to you about something; green means you should go faster and harder.
I don't tell them about fisting and piss and cocksucking. Why do I feel older than I really am? I don't want to tell them about muffled yelps and screams and the moment before the tears start to flow, the terrible moment when you know that just one more sharp pain and you will not be able to hold them back.
I do want to tell them, on the other hand. I want to tell them about watching someone's control slip away. Touching a crotch to find that there's pussy cream mixing with drops of panic piss, and about the redness of her face when the sobbing has become deep and regular.
I want to tell them about the pleas of the damned, the cries when someone doesn't know when it's going to stop or how when they want their mommy, or they want their master, or when want to surrender and fall to the ground and feel a boot at the back of their neck and grind away until they come and it's terrible.
But I smile, and I nod, and I pass on, and I don't even say a fucking thing.
There's a whipping going on, so I go watch that. Oh, yeah, this is better. Thwack, thwack, smack, smack. Heavy red marks. Muscles straining. Grunts.
And then the whip lands around the ribs, and I hear the bottom yell, "Wrap!" And the top bites her lip and tries to aim better next time. Someone in the back snorts in derision. I guess their bottom had better manners, or maybe their aim is perfect, and they never, ever wrap.
That happened to me once. I grabbed her by the hair, and I pulled her head back onto my shoulder, and I shoved the handle up against her throat.
"Don't you think I know that?" I asked her, knowing that in one second, if she gave me the wrong answer, I was going to set her free, rub her wrists, and go upstairs for a cup of coffee. "Do you think I'm not looking at you?" I asked, "Do you think I'm an idiot? Do you think I'm your fucking whip slave that you can use that tone of voice with me and alert me to what I am doing?"
She did the right thing, and I whipped her some more. But later on, I pushed the envelope very, very far with her. I used my knife. It took a while to get her into the proper place. It took me even longer to get back.
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What is happening to my sex? It's cold. It's passionless. And what's worse, it's dull. John Preston was right. S/M has become this nice, sweet alternative to heavy petting, and leaders of the S/M community wants to be us to be Elks or some other animal-named civics organization, gathering to sell each other expensive clothing and raffle tickets and congratulating each other on how nice we are.
This used to be about sex. The literature of my people is pornography. Filled with cries for mercy, drama enacted on people without prolonged negotiation. Partners engaged in a dance in the middle of a bonfire.
Now it's three-hundred-page manuals on how to make sure nothing bad will ever happen to you and twelve-page party rules that state that the utmost care must be taken to make sure that no one is frightened or offended, that no bodily fluids are spilled, and no cries shock the neighbors.
Nothing is safe. I have a new friend with an old problem. Engaged as a co-top in a scene, she was present when a well-trussed-up bottom had a seizure. There was nothing in what they were doing that was related to this event. It was one of those medical anomalies. Like a flash, the bottom was freed from bondage. 911 was called. There was knowledge of CPR. There was plenty of good, wise emergency care. The bottom got better, in fact, went home under his own power. They told them to check it out with a doctor, find out if there was a problem no one knew about. Everyone went to bed.
My friend, however, was very disturbed by this incident, as anyone would be. It's no joy to be present when somebody suddenly goes limp. But her initial reaction was that something had gone wrong with an S/M scene, and that someone had almost died on her. Suddenly, this awesome responsibility upon her as a top was revealed. She told this on ASB, as a matter of fact, alt.sex.bondage on the Internet, as a cautionary tale.
Bullshit. People have seizures. People faint. People have mysterious heart conditions that rear up and kill them at sixteen years of age. Do coaches then rise up and solemnly discuss about how all coaches should be heart specialists because of the great responsibilities of training potentially fragile athletes? No. They put the kid in shorts, and they put him out on the court.
If I'm driving my car and a friend in the passenger seat has a heart attack, am I at fault for not being a surgeon? For not having nitroglycerine on hand?
If I'm passionately screwing away at the advanced age of 97, and suddenly my entire brain explodes in one final orgasm that snuffs me out like a candle dipped in blood, will that sweet young thing beneath me be responsible for not knowing that that massive embolism was waiting for the right moment to end my lifelong perversity? Of course not. She has enough to worry about.
What goes on when people overfetishize safety is that they're relapsing in the old frame of mind that what we're doing is bad. It's dangerous. It's scary. It has the potential to get out of hand. That's why we surround ourselves with rules, and we make a slogan into a mantra. Why we police ourselves and each other with an obsession aimed at making our love life and play into the sanest, safest, most consensual drama ever enacted in a relationship.
Well, life ain't safe. I get up, and everyday I do things that place my body and life in danger. I take showers, and we all know how many people bash their brains out in the tub every year. I stand on rickety chairs to change light bulbs. I drive in New`York. I walk through dark Manhatten streets in a meat packing district in very queer clothing. I drink. I go to gyms, and I abuse my body, and then I sit in saunas. People die in them, you know. I eat meat. I eat sugar. I ride horses. I shovel snow, and I write, and I edit pornographic books under my real name in a conservative administration. I have joined the ACLU. If I wanted to, I could take up karate and I could go skiing. I could buy a motorcycle. This is all deadly stuff.
And life ain't sane, in case you haven't noticed. Any world where kids are born unwanted and people die from hunger, where tobacco is subsidized and artists are not, where one gender is dominant and one's skin tone, and where rapists get out on bail and pot smokers get thirty-year sentences, this is not a fucking sane world. So who gets to judge my relative sanity? Doctors? Lawyers? Or other perverts?
And as for consent, that is the real issue, isn't it? Except, surprise - It's just another shadow term, all substance and no real meaning. I can hear the whines now, "But it's bad to do these things without consent."
Well, no kidding. It's bad to subject medical experiments on people without consent, but I don't see the AMA adopting the slogan Healthy, Helpful, and Consensual.
All sex should be consenting, yet I've yet to see a dating service advertise as "fun, sexy, and consensual." The trouble is, S/Mers are allowing themselves to be defined by what we're not. We think, "Oh, so many people believe that we're all murderers and rapists, we have to explain why we're not." So a slogan for the gay civil rights movement should be Normal, Nonthreatening, and Not After Your Children?
What's worse is, the growth of that slogan into the labeling device it's become. Whenever someone is found to be unpopular or threatening, all it takes to get them out of the scene is to start a whispering campaign about how unsafe, insane, and nonconsensual they are.
Now, when the boys want that big old dyke and her bullwhip away from their sash parades, all they have to say is, "She's endangering people; it's unsafe," or, "She's not projecting a proper image for our community. That's insane." "The people watching have not given their permission to be shown this kind of behavior. That's nonconsensual."
And boom, they don't have to have no big old dyke with a whip leading their parade. They have good old SSC to rely on, and no one argues with that.
The fact is, I'm tired of being told what's okay for me. I'm tired of all the safe words. Sometimes I'm tired of safe words altogether. I don't want to negotiate everything to death. I want to be surprised or surprise someone. I want to be afraid, and I want to cause someone to piss in terror.
I want to have sweat and piss and cum and blood dripping, and not just because it's warm and late and the sex is nice. There are times when I want to walk into a room, grab that girl, slap her hard, and make her cry. I want to push her down and fuck her mind over twice as hard as her body. Sometimes I want to be that girl.
And the harder the SSC thing pushes at me, the harder I feel like pushing back. Passion, that's what I'm into. Passion and blood and honor. So powerful that it pounds through my veins and blinds me. So terrible I can't look away. Danger, dementia, denial.
I want to hear that panic. I want to scream, "No, please." And struggle through the haze of pain and pleasure and all the stuff that goes on between the moment that we touch eyes and the moment we both collapse and try to breathe and wonder how to break the silence.
My fantasies have never been safe ones. Don't fuck with me unless you understand that.
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You avoid getting enmeshed in unhealthy relationships with the, community by remembering that ultimately you are a full person by yourself, and really, what do you want from any group of people gathered together just because they have an interest in similar sexual activities?
You get to play with me by being witty, passionate, interested in me, and able to carry on a conversation. It helps if you're a woman. It also helps if you're open to mixed-gender space. It helps if you're a hopeless romantic or at least a realist and a very good fuck-buddy. It helps if you're a confident, ruthless, and passionate top or surrendering, brave, and a noble bottom.
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To surrender to agony, to refuse or reject comfort. One of the things that I found was that comforting, to me, has to be very brief or else it annoys me, cause I don't want pity for my agony. I want respect for it.
I want my top to look me in the eyes, as someone did recently, and say, "Good, good," (patting motion) and then turn away and deal with what they have to deal with.
Sometimes I want them to kick me in the ribs and say, "Come out and join us when you're presentable, slut," and leave it to me to put myself together because I'm a strong bottom.
That doesn't mean I don't comfort. God knows I'm a nice person - Well, sometimes - and when someone needs it, I want to be able to be there for them, but I think part of the wonder of some of the things that we do is that we are so strong that a top can be cruel and walk away, that a bottom can be strong and get up and put themselves together. That's romance, I mean, that is not the hearts-and-flowers romance, that's romance, from the guts.
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Well, as you might have guessed from some of the things I've said and what I've read tonight, I am not clean and sober. I have been, but I am not now, nor do I regret not being now.
On a personal level - and I'm not advocating this - On a personal level, I believe that the use of controlled substances is an adult choice.
I also believe that it is an informed choice. I will play with someone who drinks or does drugs, but I want to know what they're on, and that way I can decide what I'm going to do, and when I am drinking or on something not so legal, I tell the person I'm with and leave it up to them whether they choose to deal with me.
I make it clear at the onset of a relationship that I respect sobriety, and if a partner wants to play with me and does not want me to drink or use I will not. If they'd rather not hang out in a bar, I won't hang out in the bar with them or insist that they should.
But at the same time, I insist on respect for my insobriety, should I say. Sometimes I go to a space. It might be a bar, or it might be a friend's house sitting on the floor with the pillows watching MTV and going wow.
Where it fits in in the whole Safe-Sane-Consensual thing, I heard a rumor that someone tried to raise Safe, Sane, Consensual, and Sober as an additional option, and I was so horrified I pissed myself in terror and decided I would never go to one of their parties, and that's about the extent of the activism I'd do. Like I said, I respect sobriety, and I respect my right to be unsober. Not sober. Fucked up.
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I don't know how to turn it around either, except by being open, outrageous, and challenging it when I see it.
I've missed a couple of parties because I refused to sign the so-called party rules disclaimer thing at the door, because it requires that all entrants be safe, sane, consensual, and sober and fun and happy and clean and thrifty, reverent, right. Yeah, right. On my honor, I was somewhere we had to demonstrate how we would play with fire before we be allowed to play with fire.
And I used to go to parties where they had rules about no sexual touching, regardless of condoms, gloves, dental dams, whatever.
I suppose. Why don't we all play clothed? I'll bring my massage balls and we can rub them over each other's backs and listen to newage music - Excuse me - New Age, and we can all be lovely and fun together and sit on pillows and share our deepest, darkest secrets. Of course we'd have to get stoned first - Oops. That's a no-no.
Now I don't go to them anymore, and I told them why. And whenever someone I know has parties that are open to allowing people to express themselves in less-regimented ways, I make a habit of encouraging people to go, even if they're not going to play that way. Even if they don't like to watch.
They don't have to watch. Go to the next room. Have a good time. Eat some pate. Come back when they're finished. But just support the people who play hard. Because, come on. We need a space, too.
The people I learned from were not safe, sane, and consensual. The people who taught me first never even heard of Safe, Sane, and Consensual. The people who taught me how to top and put a whip in my hand didn't say, "Remember, ask permission." They said, "Find a bottom, and do these things. And the bottom will let you know whether you're doing it right."
And the bottom didn't say, "Wrap." The bottom said, "Yes, yes." Or the bottom said, "Please don't do that. I hate that, I hate that," and sometimes I listen. So, what do you do? You be out.
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As long as it's not a gimmick, I find boxing an exhilarating sport, and in fact, if anything shows the right of an adult human being to put their body in danger and to endanger someone else, boxing. Come on.
We revere people who get into a ring and try to gave each other concussions. Next to that, hitting them with a big deerskin flogger is nothing. It was one of the reasons why I made one of the characters in my book a boxer, even though he was an amateur boxer, just because I wanted to show that, you know, this person could do real damage. This person could hit you in the nose and make you fall down and pass out, and that's a scary top. I'd play with him.
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I am so amazed at the amount of time people spend talking about this stuff. Thinking about it, writing instead of doing it, probably. But oh, my God, I almost got turned off of sex.
On the other hand, I was jerking off compulsively every day. "Oh, my God, that sounds hot."
Lots of misinformation out there on the net, but of course, anyone can get net access, and the number of people who purport to be experts handing out advice is so sad.
Boy, have I gotten bad advice from the Net. There was a guy on alt.sex.oral who absolutely swore that heterosexuals never get AIDS. And I don't believe I'm hearing this. What year is it?
So I try not to get emotionally involved in the Net. It's sort of the same relationship that I have with the leather community. It's very nice. I am on the fringe. I'm never quite in, and I'm never quite out. I have access to it, but I don't take advantage of all of its benefits, and therefore I don't feel personally betrayed when it turns out to be a big mess.
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Ms. Antoniou's novels include The Marketplace, The Slave; The Trainer. Her personal web site is located at www.iron-rose.com/marketplace
Fantasies are not reality. I know, I know, I know. Except when they are. Except when you make them into reality. And fuck this. I didn't come out of years of fantasy rescuing myself from a toxic parent and guilt-tripping myself through anti-sex feminism, politically correct lesbianism, and socially programmed homosexual activism so that someone else could make my goddamn sex life into a slogan: Safe, Sane, and Consensual.
What does it mean? Assimilation, that's what. The politics of appeasement, the hope that, Gee, if we look and act just like everyone else, if we can only convince the dominant culture that we're really harmless and just like they are, except that where we put our dicks and clits and tongues, and what we like on our dicks and clits and tongues, why, we'll earn our civil rights, and everybody will live happily ever after, except for the boy-lovers, who give us all a bad name anyway.
Originally, Safe, Sane, and Consensual, hereafter referred to as SSC, came out of the mostly gay men's S/M movement, probably GMSMA, but I'm willing to hear about where else it came from. I've heard several different versions of who came up with our beloved slogan.
The first time I heard about it was in connection with the expansion of the National Leather Association in connection with a desire to create some sort of unified national network of leather persons. SSC was something everyone could stand behind. For a group of marginalized outcasts, it was supposed to be our rallying call.
A rallying call? Hello? Like Live Free Or Die? Remember The Alamo? Black Is Beautiful? Who Killed Karen Silkwood? Safe, Sane, Consensual.
Well, okay. It's as good as any, but why not Happy, Healthy, and Wise? Rational, Intelligent, and Sensitive? Open-minded, Empathic, and Cheerful? Willing, Hot, and Horny? I like that one. All these are laudable attitudes.
So some rallying cry; who's going to argue with it? I mean, what's more to the point? What social interaction should not be safe, sane, and consensual? Shouldn't all sex be like that? Shouldn't all relationships be like that?
But okay, it's just a slogan. Slogans don't mean shit. After all, what did Just Say No and Just Do It have to do with any kind of reality you understand?
Slogans give people something to chant, something to put on their banners, and something to distinguish the us from the them, and I guess SSC does beat Horny And Looking For Some Kinky Nookie Right Now; Are You A Top Or A Bottom, And What Are You Wearing?
But it's become so much more than a slogan. It's now a way of life. Every S/M organization has to include this little catchphrase into their statement of purpose, that is, if they ever get around to having one.
It has to be on every banner when they march. It has to be included in every titleholder's speech, in club banquets, on colors, and in newsletters. Every entrant into S/M, in one way or another, is assured ad nauseum that everything will be Safe, Sane, and Consensual.
The only activity we condone is SSC. Why, all good S/M is SSC. SSC is good. Isn't it good that we all practice S/M, that is, SSC?
I'm walking through a play party. I have black and red showing left and a bag of toys stashed behind the couch. There's this cutie I'd love to diddle, but right now she's getting tickled and a backrub.
Okay. I'll watch that scene over there. Two people are methodically going through their toy bag as he uses them one at a time on her. They chat.
Does she like this? Giggle. Oh, yes, she does. Smack. Isn't that nasty? Oh, you beast. Giggle, giggle.
Let's try this one; it's made out of an old mop head. More giggles.
Fighting off a yawn, how rude. I wander past two girls earnestly discussing their upcoming scene. I eavesdrop.
Red means to stop; yellow means slow down; blue means I want to talk to you about something; green means you should go faster and harder.
I don't tell them about fisting and piss and cocksucking. Why do I feel older than I really am? I don't want to tell them about muffled yelps and screams and the moment before the tears start to flow, the terrible moment when you know that just one more sharp pain and you will not be able to hold them back.
I do want to tell them, on the other hand. I want to tell them about watching someone's control slip away. Touching a crotch to find that there's pussy cream mixing with drops of panic piss, and about the redness of her face when the sobbing has become deep and regular.
I want to tell them about the pleas of the damned, the cries when someone doesn't know when it's going to stop or how when they want their mommy, or they want their master, or when want to surrender and fall to the ground and feel a boot at the back of their neck and grind away until they come and it's terrible.
But I smile, and I nod, and I pass on, and I don't even say a fucking thing.
There's a whipping going on, so I go watch that. Oh, yeah, this is better. Thwack, thwack, smack, smack. Heavy red marks. Muscles straining. Grunts.
And then the whip lands around the ribs, and I hear the bottom yell, "Wrap!" And the top bites her lip and tries to aim better next time. Someone in the back snorts in derision. I guess their bottom had better manners, or maybe their aim is perfect, and they never, ever wrap.
That happened to me once. I grabbed her by the hair, and I pulled her head back onto my shoulder, and I shoved the handle up against her throat.
"Don't you think I know that?" I asked her, knowing that in one second, if she gave me the wrong answer, I was going to set her free, rub her wrists, and go upstairs for a cup of coffee. "Do you think I'm not looking at you?" I asked, "Do you think I'm an idiot? Do you think I'm your fucking whip slave that you can use that tone of voice with me and alert me to what I am doing?"
She did the right thing, and I whipped her some more. But later on, I pushed the envelope very, very far with her. I used my knife. It took a while to get her into the proper place. It took me even longer to get back.
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What is happening to my sex? It's cold. It's passionless. And what's worse, it's dull. John Preston was right. S/M has become this nice, sweet alternative to heavy petting, and leaders of the S/M community wants to be us to be Elks or some other animal-named civics organization, gathering to sell each other expensive clothing and raffle tickets and congratulating each other on how nice we are.
This used to be about sex. The literature of my people is pornography. Filled with cries for mercy, drama enacted on people without prolonged negotiation. Partners engaged in a dance in the middle of a bonfire.
Now it's three-hundred-page manuals on how to make sure nothing bad will ever happen to you and twelve-page party rules that state that the utmost care must be taken to make sure that no one is frightened or offended, that no bodily fluids are spilled, and no cries shock the neighbors.
Nothing is safe. I have a new friend with an old problem. Engaged as a co-top in a scene, she was present when a well-trussed-up bottom had a seizure. There was nothing in what they were doing that was related to this event. It was one of those medical anomalies. Like a flash, the bottom was freed from bondage. 911 was called. There was knowledge of CPR. There was plenty of good, wise emergency care. The bottom got better, in fact, went home under his own power. They told them to check it out with a doctor, find out if there was a problem no one knew about. Everyone went to bed.
My friend, however, was very disturbed by this incident, as anyone would be. It's no joy to be present when somebody suddenly goes limp. But her initial reaction was that something had gone wrong with an S/M scene, and that someone had almost died on her. Suddenly, this awesome responsibility upon her as a top was revealed. She told this on ASB, as a matter of fact, alt.sex.bondage on the Internet, as a cautionary tale.
Bullshit. People have seizures. People faint. People have mysterious heart conditions that rear up and kill them at sixteen years of age. Do coaches then rise up and solemnly discuss about how all coaches should be heart specialists because of the great responsibilities of training potentially fragile athletes? No. They put the kid in shorts, and they put him out on the court.
If I'm driving my car and a friend in the passenger seat has a heart attack, am I at fault for not being a surgeon? For not having nitroglycerine on hand?
If I'm passionately screwing away at the advanced age of 97, and suddenly my entire brain explodes in one final orgasm that snuffs me out like a candle dipped in blood, will that sweet young thing beneath me be responsible for not knowing that that massive embolism was waiting for the right moment to end my lifelong perversity? Of course not. She has enough to worry about.
What goes on when people overfetishize safety is that they're relapsing in the old frame of mind that what we're doing is bad. It's dangerous. It's scary. It has the potential to get out of hand. That's why we surround ourselves with rules, and we make a slogan into a mantra. Why we police ourselves and each other with an obsession aimed at making our love life and play into the sanest, safest, most consensual drama ever enacted in a relationship.
Well, life ain't safe. I get up, and everyday I do things that place my body and life in danger. I take showers, and we all know how many people bash their brains out in the tub every year. I stand on rickety chairs to change light bulbs. I drive in New`York. I walk through dark Manhatten streets in a meat packing district in very queer clothing. I drink. I go to gyms, and I abuse my body, and then I sit in saunas. People die in them, you know. I eat meat. I eat sugar. I ride horses. I shovel snow, and I write, and I edit pornographic books under my real name in a conservative administration. I have joined the ACLU. If I wanted to, I could take up karate and I could go skiing. I could buy a motorcycle. This is all deadly stuff.
And life ain't sane, in case you haven't noticed. Any world where kids are born unwanted and people die from hunger, where tobacco is subsidized and artists are not, where one gender is dominant and one's skin tone, and where rapists get out on bail and pot smokers get thirty-year sentences, this is not a fucking sane world. So who gets to judge my relative sanity? Doctors? Lawyers? Or other perverts?
And as for consent, that is the real issue, isn't it? Except, surprise - It's just another shadow term, all substance and no real meaning. I can hear the whines now, "But it's bad to do these things without consent."
Well, no kidding. It's bad to subject medical experiments on people without consent, but I don't see the AMA adopting the slogan Healthy, Helpful, and Consensual.
All sex should be consenting, yet I've yet to see a dating service advertise as "fun, sexy, and consensual." The trouble is, S/Mers are allowing themselves to be defined by what we're not. We think, "Oh, so many people believe that we're all murderers and rapists, we have to explain why we're not." So a slogan for the gay civil rights movement should be Normal, Nonthreatening, and Not After Your Children?
What's worse is, the growth of that slogan into the labeling device it's become. Whenever someone is found to be unpopular or threatening, all it takes to get them out of the scene is to start a whispering campaign about how unsafe, insane, and nonconsensual they are.
Now, when the boys want that big old dyke and her bullwhip away from their sash parades, all they have to say is, "She's endangering people; it's unsafe," or, "She's not projecting a proper image for our community. That's insane." "The people watching have not given their permission to be shown this kind of behavior. That's nonconsensual."
And boom, they don't have to have no big old dyke with a whip leading their parade. They have good old SSC to rely on, and no one argues with that.
The fact is, I'm tired of being told what's okay for me. I'm tired of all the safe words. Sometimes I'm tired of safe words altogether. I don't want to negotiate everything to death. I want to be surprised or surprise someone. I want to be afraid, and I want to cause someone to piss in terror.
I want to have sweat and piss and cum and blood dripping, and not just because it's warm and late and the sex is nice. There are times when I want to walk into a room, grab that girl, slap her hard, and make her cry. I want to push her down and fuck her mind over twice as hard as her body. Sometimes I want to be that girl.
And the harder the SSC thing pushes at me, the harder I feel like pushing back. Passion, that's what I'm into. Passion and blood and honor. So powerful that it pounds through my veins and blinds me. So terrible I can't look away. Danger, dementia, denial.
I want to hear that panic. I want to scream, "No, please." And struggle through the haze of pain and pleasure and all the stuff that goes on between the moment that we touch eyes and the moment we both collapse and try to breathe and wonder how to break the silence.
My fantasies have never been safe ones. Don't fuck with me unless you understand that.
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You avoid getting enmeshed in unhealthy relationships with the, community by remembering that ultimately you are a full person by yourself, and really, what do you want from any group of people gathered together just because they have an interest in similar sexual activities?
You get to play with me by being witty, passionate, interested in me, and able to carry on a conversation. It helps if you're a woman. It also helps if you're open to mixed-gender space. It helps if you're a hopeless romantic or at least a realist and a very good fuck-buddy. It helps if you're a confident, ruthless, and passionate top or surrendering, brave, and a noble bottom.
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To surrender to agony, to refuse or reject comfort. One of the things that I found was that comforting, to me, has to be very brief or else it annoys me, cause I don't want pity for my agony. I want respect for it.
I want my top to look me in the eyes, as someone did recently, and say, "Good, good," (patting motion) and then turn away and deal with what they have to deal with.
Sometimes I want them to kick me in the ribs and say, "Come out and join us when you're presentable, slut," and leave it to me to put myself together because I'm a strong bottom.
That doesn't mean I don't comfort. God knows I'm a nice person - Well, sometimes - and when someone needs it, I want to be able to be there for them, but I think part of the wonder of some of the things that we do is that we are so strong that a top can be cruel and walk away, that a bottom can be strong and get up and put themselves together. That's romance, I mean, that is not the hearts-and-flowers romance, that's romance, from the guts.
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Well, as you might have guessed from some of the things I've said and what I've read tonight, I am not clean and sober. I have been, but I am not now, nor do I regret not being now.
On a personal level - and I'm not advocating this - On a personal level, I believe that the use of controlled substances is an adult choice.
I also believe that it is an informed choice. I will play with someone who drinks or does drugs, but I want to know what they're on, and that way I can decide what I'm going to do, and when I am drinking or on something not so legal, I tell the person I'm with and leave it up to them whether they choose to deal with me.
I make it clear at the onset of a relationship that I respect sobriety, and if a partner wants to play with me and does not want me to drink or use I will not. If they'd rather not hang out in a bar, I won't hang out in the bar with them or insist that they should.
But at the same time, I insist on respect for my insobriety, should I say. Sometimes I go to a space. It might be a bar, or it might be a friend's house sitting on the floor with the pillows watching MTV and going wow.
Where it fits in in the whole Safe-Sane-Consensual thing, I heard a rumor that someone tried to raise Safe, Sane, Consensual, and Sober as an additional option, and I was so horrified I pissed myself in terror and decided I would never go to one of their parties, and that's about the extent of the activism I'd do. Like I said, I respect sobriety, and I respect my right to be unsober. Not sober. Fucked up.
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I don't know how to turn it around either, except by being open, outrageous, and challenging it when I see it.
I've missed a couple of parties because I refused to sign the so-called party rules disclaimer thing at the door, because it requires that all entrants be safe, sane, consensual, and sober and fun and happy and clean and thrifty, reverent, right. Yeah, right. On my honor, I was somewhere we had to demonstrate how we would play with fire before we be allowed to play with fire.
And I used to go to parties where they had rules about no sexual touching, regardless of condoms, gloves, dental dams, whatever.
I suppose. Why don't we all play clothed? I'll bring my massage balls and we can rub them over each other's backs and listen to newage music - Excuse me - New Age, and we can all be lovely and fun together and sit on pillows and share our deepest, darkest secrets. Of course we'd have to get stoned first - Oops. That's a no-no.
Now I don't go to them anymore, and I told them why. And whenever someone I know has parties that are open to allowing people to express themselves in less-regimented ways, I make a habit of encouraging people to go, even if they're not going to play that way. Even if they don't like to watch.
They don't have to watch. Go to the next room. Have a good time. Eat some pate. Come back when they're finished. But just support the people who play hard. Because, come on. We need a space, too.
The people I learned from were not safe, sane, and consensual. The people who taught me first never even heard of Safe, Sane, and Consensual. The people who taught me how to top and put a whip in my hand didn't say, "Remember, ask permission." They said, "Find a bottom, and do these things. And the bottom will let you know whether you're doing it right."
And the bottom didn't say, "Wrap." The bottom said, "Yes, yes." Or the bottom said, "Please don't do that. I hate that, I hate that," and sometimes I listen. So, what do you do? You be out.
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As long as it's not a gimmick, I find boxing an exhilarating sport, and in fact, if anything shows the right of an adult human being to put their body in danger and to endanger someone else, boxing. Come on.
We revere people who get into a ring and try to gave each other concussions. Next to that, hitting them with a big deerskin flogger is nothing. It was one of the reasons why I made one of the characters in my book a boxer, even though he was an amateur boxer, just because I wanted to show that, you know, this person could do real damage. This person could hit you in the nose and make you fall down and pass out, and that's a scary top. I'd play with him.
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I am so amazed at the amount of time people spend talking about this stuff. Thinking about it, writing instead of doing it, probably. But oh, my God, I almost got turned off of sex.
On the other hand, I was jerking off compulsively every day. "Oh, my God, that sounds hot."
Lots of misinformation out there on the net, but of course, anyone can get net access, and the number of people who purport to be experts handing out advice is so sad.
Boy, have I gotten bad advice from the Net. There was a guy on alt.sex.oral who absolutely swore that heterosexuals never get AIDS. And I don't believe I'm hearing this. What year is it?
So I try not to get emotionally involved in the Net. It's sort of the same relationship that I have with the leather community. It's very nice. I am on the fringe. I'm never quite in, and I'm never quite out. I have access to it, but I don't take advantage of all of its benefits, and therefore I don't feel personally betrayed when it turns out to be a big mess.
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Ms. Antoniou's novels include The Marketplace, The Slave; The Trainer. Her personal web site is located at www.iron-rose.com/marketplace