Talking with Strangers

I played outside with friends and siblings throughout childhood and early adulthood and still prefer a lake or forest to my computer (though you wouldn’t know it, as I’m glued to this contraption most of the time). The number one rule we got taught was not to talk to strangers. Back then talking to strangers happened face to face, and that stranger could snatch you away, drug you, lure you into a van with candy, or somehow deceive you like the Devil into unholy marriage…

Concerning talking with strangers: Things. Have. Changed.

I have a profile on half a dozen dating or socializing websites these days. They’re all slightly different, and I use each of them for different purposes. Considering my proclivities outlined in this here blog, understand that I don’t always lead whips and needle points out… I consider who my audience is when I write a profile. I consider the type of people who are also attracted to that website, and what my agenda is for each particular space. I think about who on each site I might be compatible with, versus whose agenda or advances I want kept far far away… Is the site “friend” friendly, or am I in violation of expectations if I’m not looking for FWB, NSA, LTRs, anonymous sex, etc.? Is the site kink friendly? How many intolerantly religious or conservative people will hit on me, ignoring the fact that I mentioned my queer, kinky, fluid, non-binary trans, non-monogamous, liberal and socialist as fuck, neo drag and burlesque performing, sex-positive, anti-misogynistic, anti-racist, egalitarian stuff right up front? Is the demographic tweaked older or younger? Is the demographic tweaked along gendered assumptions concerning power dynamics or traditional roles? Do I think any of the people I meet on the site will become close friends, potential dates, research buddies, clients, the list goes on…

I am a character actor. My job in this lifetime has been to watch people and listen to people and figure out what makes them tick. I also am a person (read: creature). An autonomous individual carrying around my own feelings and fears and blind spots and questions and beliefs. But mostly I’m a person who wants to meet you like I climb a tree. I want to see you from across a field and be interested in your form and movements. I want that momentarily piqued interest to slowly become the desire to get closer and investigate. I want approaching you to be anything but disappointing — please don’t be rotten or surrounded by poison ivy… I want to put my hands on you, gingerly at first, and then full palm contact, sliding my arm around a branch, little by little giving you some of my weight. If it feels good and I can figure out how to do it, I want to crawl up your trunk, unpuzzling ways to get higher as we play this game of understanding our bodies together for the first time. When I’ve gotten to a place that feels good I want stillness and fresh air — to lie across your boughs perfectly balanced, only a little afraid that I’ll drop. The climb down will be thoughtful and new too. I won’t always be able to see where I’m going, but our solidly built connection heading up will help. And then a hug and a sigh — until next time I’m around, Tree, it was beautiful being with you.

It’s unfortunate that most people I meet online do not climb trees with any regularity.

There is instead, with these safe-to-talk-to-’cause-online strangers, a blundering certainty that I am existent only to be placed like a bow upon a bough. It is assumed I will stay put until faded, worn, and falling apart, until I am taken down. It seems believed, in these many circles, that tree creatures are to be cut apart or molded into a shape that fits the suburban street they are growing on — even though Tree was a seedling before most houses in this neighborhood came around. I don’t want your candy, your silver tongue’d promises, your vitriol for saying no, Troll. I want respect and solidity. Solidarity.

Every now and then with some sweet strangers I get to be Tree, feeling their creature climbing feelings, and bearing the weight of attention. I get to hold them in a naturally balanced and open place for just a moment before they get down. These are good message days…

How to talk to a stranger whose sense of touch is the plastic smoothness of a keyboard, not the rough and tumble ever changing texture of our barks? You cannot cut and paste the experience of a hiking trip or nighttime skinnydip. When we meet we have not seen it all, we have seen nothing! I like to be a creature meeting Tree, find me in a field or forest playing.

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.

Face

Photo by Jonathan Beckley

by Karin Webb

Have we forgotten this dance?

Years of understanding each other through online articles: stories about how fucked up this thing was, or how different that situation should’a been…

It’s hard not to wonder if when I see you whether or not I’ll stumble and fall, like those people the articles are about all did — and our friends agree how awful it was when stuff like that happened… What does that mean about possible future me?

Oxytocin can be harvested from the dilation of an eye’s pupil.

Can you dig that? By looking you squarely in the eye and smiling we can get high. I need you.

(But that’s inappropriate, and anyhow the back of my brain is addicted to another version of this game: how many people liked my last update?… I’ll just check it real quick now… now… now… … … … now.)

It’s easier than looking.

###

The shape of your mouth when it moves as if no one is watching (and I suspect no one has watched in awhile), is startling. It is an ode to inner conversations, conflicts, and held back feelings which run deep…

Your eyes, filling with everything, and silence all around clicking away, fingertips on screens, downturned heads, this room is filled with so many conversations not said out loud.

There are people here who aren’t present and can’t see the room we are in, will never regard this masterpiece of a quietly working you.

Hands filled with foot.

Your arms are real, your shape has dimension, you are full of strength and soft.

Love offers you up in silence,

A quiet moment of connection to another body.

Love, your body.

###

And I watch.

My pupils dilate.

Seeing and feeling you here,

Naked of screen,

Vulnerable dressed in flesh, meat and bones only,

No appendages, no other worldly conversations, no stimulation but “now” between your fingertips.

Your eyes, filling with everything, is a masterpiece I love more than anything.

I would sail the ocean and throw every electronic overboard to live here forever.

Watching you massage,

As you feel quietly,

In a room of people,

Where only I am watching.

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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