The Other Side of Expectation

I found myself in the middle of a wonderful moment the other night. It was simple enough, I was eating dinner with a couple friends in my bedroom. I was dressed comfortably for the cool weather, and relaxed on my bed as we ate. We were in my bedroom because I have just moved to a new apartment and don’t have any furniture for the living room yet, and our kitchen is too small for a table… One of my friends was collared with a dog collar around their neck and topless, wearing only a rope harness I had tied onto their body earlier. They were eating out of a dog dish with no hands at the foot of my bed and grinning ear to ear while chatting about this and that between mouthfuls… This charming pup/boy had cooked dinner and served my guest and I: a wonderful and tasty vegan dinner paired with wine. They were collared and harnessed because they are my pup/boy, and it was the least I could do in appreciation of their service and care for the evening. (Well, I suppose I also beat them up a bit as well — just enough to get them giggling and smiling and merrily on their way to the kitchen…)

My other guest was stripped completely naked and kneeling properly on a blanket on the floor by my side. Beautiful posture, quiet demeanor, and holding a small tea saucer and chopsticks in his hands. His eyes were big practically unblinking saucers throughout our meal, experiencing the moment he was in wholly, and taking small bites of the food I placed on his dish from my own plate. His attention was studied and careful, eating when I ate, drinking when I drank, and gracefully taking the whole experience in. This guest of mine had just cleaned my bathroom while dinner was being made. Earlier in the evening I had brought him to his first proper sex positive/kinky/queer/feminist sex store… If his eyes were dark saucers of pupil now during this meal, you can imagine how the soft brown of his irises had disappeared in that environment earlier. Under my instruction he had bought a new toy he was curious about trying out. I am holding the gift in my home until he has learned enough about pleasing me to earn his reward…

In the middle of our simple dinner I thought to myself, “Oh this, this is my life — this is my life and I am so very happy and grateful for it”.

Is this blog meant to brag about my situation? No, but I do want to talk about that feeling. I experience this particular shade of gratefulness not infrequently in the midst of nontraditional happenings. It creeps up on me during sex and fetish parties while trussed up in bizarre predicaments, or watching a room full of people vulnerable, raw, and connecting deeply. I get it performing onstage with talented politically adept fellow actors who are telling their stories and raising fists against the ghosts and injuries of their pasts. This feeling washes over me on perfectly temperate days sitting in the sun deep in nature away from other humans, and it comes to me when I’m lost in writing or my art making process. This feeling tastes like contentment infused with excitement, there are hints of sensuous power at the edges of it’s balanced and grounded finish. The feeling is a restful animal, turned on, full, knowing all is right with the world.

How did I find myself here in this beautiful moment surrounded by good food, a happy pup, and turned on houseboy? In short, I got here because I made it happen. The more detailed answer is through years of hard work examining my own issues and trying out different paths towards pleasure. I got here by fighting for my own identity to be acknowledged — first by myself, and then by others around me. I got here by studying sexuality and human behavior, by making mistakes along the way, and acknowledging the depths to which I self-repress. Like most people I sometimes release my needs sideways, which is a problem I’ve consciously kept examining and challenging, and committed to work towards a more and more direct path to pleasure — my own and others’. I’ve zig-zagged through relationships which did not suit me finding a million reasons to better learn “no”, I’ve learned to stand my ground about gender, sexual identity, non-monogamous heart longings, kink-over-sex limitations (my healthy preferences)… I’ve had to accept myself first against deep fears that I will be abandoned or slandered by those who don’t understand my wants and needs in effort to be happy. I’ve battled guilt about advocating for my desires, and I’ve come to the other side stronger and more fully realized after each ending.

Along the way I’ve met more and more friends who understand me layers down deeply. Friends who see me and who value my voice as I celebrate and thrill at the creatures they are too. I’ve met people who have given me permission to be wholly myself, who’ve demanded I say what I mean rather than what I think anyone listening expects to hear. I have learned to better love from these imps and faeries as they’ve allowed me. I’ve started to dare showing up in spaces I was afraid were not mine to inhabit (though I’ve fantasized for decades about being welcomed in them), and I’ve felt my jaw drop in awe at the beauty there which I’ve spent years missing out on, by way of fear, self worth traps, and denial.

This is what it’s like to live outside the comfort of dominant society. There are gifts glittering in the trees and campfires of our queer Elders who reside on the outer edges of normativity. I’ve found new breath in dirty drafty bars smelling of stale tobacco, leather, cheap beer, and human musk. There are concrete rooms draped in cloth and furnished with benches, wooden rigs, and outfitted with toys of every imagined use, which hold onto the sweaty stench of lust while nightly showcasing mad desires and the everyday stunt people who conquer knives, needles, whip lashings, feather ticklers, gruff melting words to the ear, bootprint bruises, chains for hitting or bondage, seduction via a potent mix of jealousy/shame/compersion/voyeurism released during a bull’s intentional thrusts, and in dark corners you can find instances of heartbreaking love coursing through the body of a kneeling silent creature holding onto the well known leg of their Master…

From the years of puberty on we are taught to see some “thing” that we want, and conquer it with a quick fuck, a ring, relational rules tempered by selfishness and leading frequently to lies. I am grateful to be sitting in a room with people who make my heart sing. I am thankful to have scattered across the country playmates of varied genders and relationship styles who are as happy to have me in their bed as they are to simply take tea and catch up, or choreograph an evening of humiliation and pain, or submit to my will, or mold me, putty that I am, between their own fingers for a night… I like this adult life of eyes which sparkle, pupils that dilate wide in awe and anticipation of what comes next in our scene, of building trust through clear and open communication of our fantasies, our desire, boundaries, always ruled within the constitution of presentness, consent, respect, and earned trust.

We are a tradition of animals who have told ourselves “no” enough times to understand what we are capable of, and not starting in until we are ready to jump. We are improv performers gifted at exiting gracefully from our scenes when we are ready for an end. We are bodies full of scars and pleasure points hidden sometimes from even ourselves, scouring each other’s maps for adventurous answers to common problems. We are simple. We are ridiculous. We are educated in the dangers we employ, and oathed to take responsibility for inevitable downfalls, for our mistakes and unforeseen consequences. We find happiness in silly places — and goddamn if that in itself isn’t some kind of satisfyingly sexy win.

If  you didn’t know it, this is a love letter. Thank you to the scores of friends who have guided and helped shape my journey, to the hands pleasuring my way on each new adventurous day, and to the future teachers and students of my body, my heart, and my mind. That I can experience and articulate my joy is in service to every single one of you. May my findings be permission for others to wonder what might be if they seeked out a new kind of happiness, one that looks like a private fantasy but exists somewhere safely and consensually close by, a fantasy shared by other architects and creators of desire.

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

Please support my work on Patreon. For one time donations click here: Support the Artist 
~Thank you.

Feeding the Monster

My room at the residency. Beautiful. I’m excited to work with herbs and words…

I’m at an artist residency for a couple weeks and it’s been an amazing opportunity to really see how much I struggle with my process, with my own artistry, and with a feeling that I even have a right to exist among artists.

I’ve been tincturing and making herbal smoking blends, cooking and nurturing my body. I’ve been experimenting with ideas, and keeping up with a couple long term art projects I mind daily. I’ve been considering ritual and the theater. I’ve been spreading out around a house full of others hard at work, and I’ve been writing, processing, and enjoying the thoughts of the people I’m sharing this space with. I’ve been struggling with my image. Struggling with my body — a month on Testosterone and I can’t put my finger on whether my physical ups and downs are a cycle predominantly related to T, or if it’s just because every week I’m in a new location which is inherently disruptive to my body anyhow. My writing and my art has felt disrupted this week too. I’ve been feeling stuck, but that’s part and parcel of the tension building which is artistic process… I wait and work when I can and listen to the things I need and try to give them to myself. This morning I had a breakthrough revelation of so many conversations coming together in my head. It felt great.

My Reishi Tincture start! The beautiful fungus that you must carve like wood.

I’m turning my solo show, NO SHAME, from a 30 minute event into a 75 minute one. There’s a lot I want to say that I haven’t touched on, and so much has changed since I started writing it year ago. There are newfound pleasures to throw at my audience, and an evolution of thought and personal journey I want to bring to the stage. I want! I’m a little overwhelmed by all that I want.

I want this. I deserve this. I want this. I deserve this… The mantra one must chant to get anything done when your work involves making yourself queasy from personal exposure.

I was reading somewhere recently that transpeople tend to have very high thresholds of pain. I wonder if this is because living with a constant repression of self within society builds that tolerance, or if it’s a brain type thing, or maybe just a purely speculative remark I’m thinking too much about…

Some version of the following will probably end up in my show:

###

I’m not a fucking freak. I’m just disinterested in sex that doesn’t pleasure me.

I hold a deeply rooted fear that every time I feel pleasure I am alienating the universe. In part, I’m the artist I am because of this very internalized stress. My pleasure, as female, as gender variant, as kinky, and as queer is fecund to my society — it’s clearly illustrated on every billboard and microbrewery label: my ass is for selling, and not by me.

I’d better wise up and look a certain way if I’m gonna get paid to sit pretty in an office somewhere. I should really understand the value of make-up and push-up bras if I’m going to get a job I’m overqualified and underpaid to loathe every second at. I should smile when people say “smile, hon”, because me smiling matches that picture of the model drinking Pepsi Cola they saw earlier, and that makes them more comfortable in the office. Smiling women and soda: yes we’re a commodity, stockable, and part of the courtesy cart just this side of the water cooler. Chattel. Don’t look at my nipples, but please do twist my teets until your coffee is the color which brings you the most pleasure and least stress in this cardboard environment — I bet cardboard is the color you like your coffee too.

One’s daily “grind” is the realist thing we actually build, think about it. How many hours do you invest in that job you like… um… the paycheck from? So please, while at the office definitely comfort the fuck out of yourself — even if that means discomforting me in the process. I am under you.

Under your rank, under your thumb in moments of emotional sadism, under your wing (when you desire the lens of altruism selling your brand), under your pay scale most definitely, under your desk in fantasies… Under you in every way you wish from here to next Tuesday. I see you.

This is why I’m unhireable except to other sluts and dykes, and those of you wanting a ticket to the menstruating testosterone-taking freak show! And I’m happy to have it that way. This work is hard, I’m still underpaid, but I’m proud of what I make.

So now beautiful audience, this show isn’t going to get all open, wet, passionate, and unbridled because your expectation of entertainment is that it’s fun and easy — we’ve got some skills to learn! Here in the temple we call theater I think it’s important to feed the monster. Approach slowly, respectfully, and listen hard to what it wants… Let’s get this bitch warm, shall we?

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature

Please support my work on Patreon. For one time donations click here: Support the Artist 
~Thank you.

It’s About to Rain

It’s about to rain and I am leaving my house soon. Thunder is cracking. The heat and humidity has been terrible and a storm will pass through to wipe it all away. Reset the air. Reset our attitudes. Reset for the next swell of inflammatory summer. I am beginning my writing too late. I’ve been putting it off, feeling my own stress build — but that’s what happens when you live in a van crossing the country in a driver’s seat instead of staying on top of your email. I’m excited to be caught walking in the wet (abnormal for this cat but true). I’m scratching at the door. Let me out of here!

I want the wet to decompress in. I want the wet to soggy down my thoughts and haze, hanging humid in my brain about what next: City or country? Domlife or stage haunt? Garden and tincture or weld and glassblow? Why not all the aboves? How? Am I keeping up with my daytime disciplines or do I need to be doing more each day to find my foothold, to get ahead? I’m thirsty. I want the wet to cool me, calm me, center my body and mind. I want the wet to be, like, graphically wet. Natural lubrication from the sky over my clothes and body making things slippery smooth, and I’ll have no choice but to feel everything differently because of it. The wet slows me down even as it unglues me. Wet, as it hangs around undry, argues that we are Taking. Our. Time.

Everyone is arguing the vocabulary of identity in this heat, as if a standard could ever exist… The point of identity is intimacy. The words I whisper to you about me. My words, mine. In the big picture yes, they shouldn’t say that in front of those people, because everyone knows better these days, but what does this mean now that we’ve embraced that thing over there, and where do we put all those ideas from yesterday? On and on and on forever because as organisms cursed with the glory of life we must do the most beautiful-terrible thing constantly all the time: grow.

I, for one, am happy that we won the term “Queer” back, and that “they/them” is in vogue these days (I’ve been waiting patiently for that one for a couple of decades now), yet it seems they’re taking “Bi” away in exchange. I’ve been Bi, and even if it’s not what I use now, I don’t like the new fangled words more than that one. I think it’s fine, and unfairly villainized, and everyone knows what it means even though the echo of “two” turns a tad sour in our mouths when we taste for Gender. But that’s not what it really is trying to say. Yes? Still though, off and away she goes. I hope my made-up identity, “Sexual”, catches on one day. I know there’s a question mark containing eyebrow arch from an Ace or Ace ally in the room (written with love).

Words are imperfect.

Our attachments to them are not just by dictionary, but in association. We each associate variably.

I love the word “Cunt” because it feels so fucking good in my mouth… just like a cunt does. And “Dyke”. It’s mine. My identity. You can’t wrestle it away from me.

What are the symbols for Queer now? What pictorial phraseology do we use to wink at Stealth Queers and Passing Trans and Kinksters in a picture of “Friday at the office” before going out to haunt the night dressed in shades of inappropriate and “oh my”? Does it matter anymore? Has it all been commodified and commercialized and spread too thin to recognize? Now that we ask one another for pronouns, and get all the consents, what’s the point of a flag or a tapdance on the men’s bathroom floor? Where are our cheats and naughty, perverted, under the radar confessions flown in public now? How do we signal the quiet queering of our spaces? Or is outing it all without a legally backed oppressor in sight what we’ve been building towards? Will there be no Queer one day? Will we laugh or cry on that humid afternoon? (See, one can get all romantic and sappy about the shitty but hardcore past without being a TERF about it. Fucking wankers.)

And the rain. Slowing. Me. Down.

Even though 1s and 0s seem to make the Earth spin faster on its axis, when we get together after typing lustful confessions and someone lumbering through town to the other one’s sty, we still have to face one another. Cold water. Eye to eye. Breath and breath. Heartbeats, nerves, smiles, knee jerks, clumsy fumblings, mismatched desires, unequal libedo, and under it all a glorious sense of “am I really doing this right now?!”. Yes! The short answer. That perversion is still real. You are doing it.

So breathe. Don’t sweat the small stuff. We haven’t forgotten how to communicate completely, we’ve just been pressured to move too fast.

What do you want to know about me? I want you to ask. We can fight about politics if you scene me roundly into a second date… But for now, slow down. Let’s be wet. Wet and cool and away from the swell of inflammatory summer.

It’s raining now, I’m stepping out.

Play On My Friends,
~ Creature (Crea)

If you like my blog, please check out my Patreon Page and support me. For one time donations click here: Support the Artist

~Thank you.

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