Creatures Talk

Photo by RADskillZ Photography 2013

As I navigate perpetually, the adult and kinky world, I find it ever more interesting to come in and out of conversations with people who are looking for that “something” they cannot put words to. I understand this intimately, of course, as I’ve had my own years of no words for urges — and sometimes resistance to the words I do know.

I remember being young when sex was brand new and I had feelings and desires to please, but no understanding of how my own body worked really (I’m still learning). The emotional rollercoaster of trying new things and feeling afraid that I’d done something wrong the day after… Those were the rough and tumble Gen-X days where “no meant no”, before “yes meant yes” was even a thing, and honestly as long as no one was saying no, you just kept watching for signals, picking up on the language of the body in front of you, and asking questions… Well, I asked a lot of questions. I was repeatedly brushed off by some partner’s resistance, mumbling that I was weird for asking: “how does that feel?”, “can I bite harder?”, “Tell me about your fantasies?”, “What was sex with your last partner like?”… It just seemed natural to ask — I wanted to know and I wanted to please, I wanted to understand what actions felt like to other people. Vulnerably talking about sex has always been a turn-on. Talking about sex makes sex feel safer and more accessible to me.

The partners who were experimental were always my favorites. We would work out algorithms in bed, or construct science experiments to find out what might happen if… We would unfold our fantasies for hours with one another and surprise each other with an instruction video about “how to” that thing, or a new toy tossed on the bed, or… or… or. Mmmm.

The partners I’ve had who didn’t like to talk about sex triggered my own stuff, locked up in fear and shame. I had a hard time feeling turned on with those people, though I loved them, because I didn’t know what to expect and I didn’t know if I was ok to try. I constantly thought I was going to get in trouble for doing something wrong… No one was asking me what I wanted in those relationships either, so if what was happening didn’t work, frustrations would often abound when I tried to speak up and connect about it or shift the scene elsewhere. Explosions sometimes. Too often. For years I just tiptoed further and further into my own underground, suspending my pleasure in an effort to un-disruptively please. There were some who were half and half — eager to learn from me and play but withholding of their own inner worlds — desires I could never understand because the answer to what they wanted always just fell flat. So we would come up up empty handed in our ups and downs leading to fun-and-unfulfilled in the end.

Can I teach you how to talk and listen? Can I help you practice saying the words? If I could be your lover/sub/Dominant I think those might be my favorite games…

I want you to challenge me and my libido by getting into it with me when we’re together. Good, bad, ugly, divine — can we remain open in our primal elements near one another’s critiques and fantasies? Curiosity seems the most natural way to be. I want negotiation be the song which gets our hips shifting in time and both of us smiling.

I want to unlock your/our/my potential when we connect. I want sex and kink and all the things we intimately desire to be like a vacation or a road trip together. Your body is a map I am discovering with a missing key that together we construct, figuring out each easy-to-complex symbolic meaning. Let’s hunt paths to their natural conclusions or trace back origins, learn new ways of interpreting each idea and riff off into uncharted land… Through trust let’s conjure instinct, and just ’cause instinct let’s not abandon conversation.

I often cannot give an enthusiastic yes to your blunt sex question, but I can usually give a thoughtful and honest “let’s try”! I’ll let you know if it isn’t working, and you’ll probably know if it is. In our current world ruled by articulation via keyboard we’re losing attention to detail — scent shifting, facial spasms, breath patterns, energy flow, eye connection… If you hate what just happened, kindly tell me please. I have no desire for you to endure my experiment which was designed to try and turn you on in the first place. Let’s talk and listen in all the ways about what we’re doing. Let’s figure things out rather than fight about intentions in the face of failed experiments or miscommunication. Let’s utilize our primal instincts and check in. The instinct of good loving is animal, and creatures talk, after all.

Play On My Friends,
~ Karin

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.

Strangers

Karin Performing with Clothspins

Photo by Rachel Leah Blumenthal

I do not know where I am from. Scottish moors, French and Canadian soil, Mohawk territory, mutt lands from vague corners of the world nestled closely together, and sometimes not… Maine. That magical mystical place where whispering bugs and the voices of trees unfold every secret I needed to know growing up. Part California by genetics: one bone is arguing about the primordial taste of stone fruits, and keeps reusable cloth menstrual pads about. I am a Pagan Savant, invoked in childhood as I lay full body draped on top of Earth and long warm grasses in summer. I knew hugeness in my chest, felt private and quiet and giggled softly at the secrets between my fluttering feelings and the soil, heat kissing my back and neck, my first unicorn experience. I am from my Mother, and her Mother before, and Hers, mixed in are men and Others covered up by the lies of papered identity I’ll never really know better than. These Others I come direct line down from too. Mixed in are the stories of Father, which sculpt the sand of my shape into walls, boundaries of flesh for my blood to flow through and around. Rumors abound that connection to this archetypal animation are real, but I don’t believe in Fathers. (Somewhere a game of chess just ended in stalemate. Clapping won’t resuscitate…) It’s like Tug ‘o War ropes knotted at center but far from fairly played, or plastic cups tethered with string, vibrating nonsense for the distance and corners in between. The space between myself and any other body holds a certain tension until it breaks. With no other end reining me in, I begin the bittersweet sad/angry shuffle of moving on.

I don’t know where I am from — all these photographs in boxes, tongues spoken, lullabies remembered, movements copied, and stories conjured in the dark — but I know where I am going. Like the rising of the Sun on a perfect morning, I was created to connect with you; to embrace what you hand over; to hold hope in the form of listening. Each time the magnetic pull of our bodies cement with dilated pupil, curled lips, and quick thoughts tumbling around and over each other, I am the Sun in this room warming your Earth. Our offspring are ideas grown from the heat and intensity of electric arcing ways. One outstretched hand meets prick-painful half startling jolt with another. We both jump, yet it is the overjoying wash of adrenaline from pain that piques interest to begin with. It cannot be denied — though excited lubrication, intrigue, passion, and monstrous desire thrive, there too lies sadomasochistic thrill — the realistic expectation not forever to hang about. We will create voraciously for a time and then divide. Each divorce a different story; riding similar emotional lines. I’ve grown studied on the path of infliction and healing, licking wounds through armor impenetrable, finding power within failure time and time again.

You see, only in opposition do I find myself at all; where I am.

Staring at the fairy tale mirror of forever, two-dimensional and far less physical than my three-dimensional navigations could ever have been. Standing on my side of things, I am still alive. In me, Sun-grown weeds overtake sculpted trajectory. My feral wilds, thorns protecting sweeter berries, articulated assassination of the norm darkening me within, all this in service to my perfectly natural instincts cultivated from anywhere-nowhere-everywhere: I am flesh and blood, sticky and not like. What impotent words have you for the wholeness that I am — estranged, stranger, strange.

Play On My Friends,
~ Karin

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.

Sexual Economics

Criminalization of sex work isn’t hurting cis white non-disabled heterosexual men…

Lately I’ve had a lot of conversations about money with friends who work in the sex industry. Things aren’t good right now. The longtime marketplace for sex workers to meet clients, Backpage, shut its adult ad section down in January. Many workers are struggling with less money or are unable to find new clients, and I’ve even heard of people asking for discounts during this time of hardship, rather than offering to pay extra in solidarity… That’s pretty fucked up.

Let’s get this clear, sex workers losing a major advertisement and referral location isn’t hurting cis white non-disabled heterosexual men. It isn’t hurting people who already have a lot of disposable income. It isn’t hurting the people who pay for sexual services. It is hurting women, people of color, and LGBTQ people. It is hurting people with less choices for employment in our society, and people who choose sex work because they find it empowering to do so.

I doubt this situation is hurting sex traffickers that much, which was the reason cited for pressure on Backpage to shut its adult section down in the first place. It is harder for the FBI and other law officers to find traffickers now that everyone’s been pushed to find alternative spaces or gone further underground.

At the same time Backpage was shutting down, Fetlife was under attack by credit card companies. Fetlife owner John Baku ended up deleting a lot of content on Fetlife unannounced. He eventually decided to move forward, restoring some pages and re-upholding Fetlife’s mission — but without the support of credit card processors. A lot of individuals and communities within the worldwide kinky network lost photos, videos, entire groups disappeared, and structures of support that have been in place since the site’s inception were vaporized…

I don’t want to write this blog today. I don’t want to write this blog today because I’m having money problems myself (which is exactly why I’m thinking about this). I don’t want to write this blog because I’ve always wanted to get into Pro-Domme work and other various forms of sex work, and every time I have a hard time financially I think about starting on that road. I don’t want to write this blog about money and sex because money is depressing, and living a sexy life isn’t. Sexuality isn’t inherently depressing; playfulness, flirtation, intrigue, seduction, trying new things, being in the moment — all these things aren’t depressing and boring.

Money is depressing and boring.

Judgement about what consenting adults do with their time together is wrong.

People who refuse to embrace the differences they have with others, who opt instead to take choices away from people who aren’t like them are wrong — and I don’t know a better application of the word evil.

What if I sent you a photo of my body that you liked? Would you pay me for it?

What if I’m interested in a particular sex act that you’d like to engage with me in, and I was willing to do it for a fee? Would that hurt anyone?

What if it took me a lot of time and money to learn how to do that activity safely for your benefit? Is it my job to work toward your happiness without compensation?

What if I really want you to lick my boot and crawl around on the floor like a pig and as a reward I let you masturbate in front of me and pay me tribute for your appreciation? Should someone go to jail for that? [Bonus on this one: If so, whom?]

What if we meet up and you pay for my dinner and after dinner we have sex and after sex you buy me something expensive I’ve been desiring? Who the fuck doesn’t engage in that type of situation at some point in their life?

Does it matter if we’re married?

I’m not talking about coercion, underage sex, or the tangential extremes people constantly throw in the way of honest conversation about how sex and money are consensually related. I’m talking about the economy of sexual expression and desire, which our civilization refuses to legislate in a way that protects sex workers and minorities or contributes to the safety of our society’s collective sexual health. Women, people of color, LGBTQ people, people with less choices for employment in our society, and people who choose sex work for themselves because they find it empowering lose out every time. Our society as a whole loses out when we punish people for engaging in the sex of their choosing. I’ll point out that it’s not the ad execs using women’s bodies to sell cars and diamonds struggling to make ends meet, yet I know a lot of models and actors who get mistreated at work, and don’t eat much because of payscale… Do you think it’s a coincidence that white cis herosexual non-disabled men aren’t the ones making bank in the sex trade industry? They’re making bank in every other one, including jobs which use someone else’s sex to sell.

I don’t.

Repression is oppression.

The way our country legislates and criminalizes the sex industry highlights that.

Play On My Friends,
~ Karin

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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