Storytime Sunday: The Red Light District

Rachel apparently has threesomes all the time.

This is not a happy memory, you guys. It's humiliating and degrading and full of bad feels and I wish it never happened. However, I hope this doesn't detract from the humor in its absurdity.

It was 2003. I was 20. I was perpetually miserable what with the constant pain and hopelessness and all. Dad thought a trip to Europe would be fun and might cheer me up. So it was just me and him, father and *retch*, well, you know.

First stop was Paris. My legs were fucking killing me from all the walking and I was burning through 3-4 battery packs a day for my spinal cord stimulator. At least the Louvre was pretty awesome and Moulin Rouge was entertaining. And the food was good. Dad was cringeworthy, though. Try as he might, he can't shake certain "ugly American" stereotypes like JUST TALKING LOUDER and being atrocious with pronunciation to the point of no one being able to understand him (even in London, natch).

I guess it was alright. I can see how it could have been a lot of fun if I wasn't in constant pain (and away from my as needed medical weed).

Next stop: Amsterdam! No more need to worry about a weed shortage there. One of the first things we did once we got checked into the hotel was go to a coffee shop. I got a couple grams of this crystalline white widow type shit. My dad got a couple of grams of just about the weakest brown bammer I've smoked, because apparently that was marijuana to him (poor bastard). It certainly eased my leg pain and made me generally happy.

The next morning I got all stoned and we went to the Anne Frank house. That was... far out. I mostly spent my day with relaxed legs and a pleasant buzz while we checked out various attractions, only in moderate pain.

That night, well, we were in Amsterdam. So dad was going to take me to the red light district. If I wanted to, but I didn't see saying no as an option. He might think there's something wrong with me, I thought. I was supposed to want that. I even convinced myself I wanted that. "Okay."

We almost got mugged on the way there. That was fun.

Window shopping was interesting. There was a very wide assortment of... goods on display. A lot didn't conform to mainstream standards of beauty but seemed to be doing plenty good business. #BodyPositiveProstitution But window shopping was hard. I felt ashamed and embarrassed looking at these girls. Still, I liked them and kept looking.

I saw two beautiful women standing in one window. I thought maybe a threesome might cure my inability to perform. They were both smokin' hot, after all.

So I went inside and got my pants off, still clutching my SCS controller. One girl laid down on her back and the other pressed against me from behind. I set the controller down on the bed, about at the limit of its reach from the cord attaching it to my ass. I slipped on a condom and in I went.

It was meh. And stressful - a lot of pressure to perform. But it just wasn't doing it for me. I didn't want to be inside a vagina, I wanted a strap-on to be inside my vagina. I wanted to go down on these girls. These were the only things I knew to get off on. But I tried. I pumped and thrust with my SCS controller flopping around on the bed, tugged by my ass. It started to peel off and the stimulation sensation started to pulsate and waver, further distracting me.

They started to get impatient. How fucking long was this going to take, they wondered. So... I pretended to orgasm. Yes, it's sad and pathetic and they clearly talked about and mocked me in another language (Dutch?) as I took the condom off and put my pants back on, rubbing the adhesive strip on my ass to stick the controller wire back down.

I stepped outside. I had to put on a smile and pretend to be delighted. "How was it?" "Awesome!" Meanwhile, inside I was curled into a ball of shame.

We went back to the hotel room and I smoked pot. I then lay there in bed, numb. I wanted to cry. But I couldn't. Eventually, after a couple hours, I finally slept.

Years later, in college, this threesome would become "a thing." Like, in Never Have I Ever, people would call me out for "never have I ever had a threesome in Europe." Because I would brag about it. Because I was supposed to brag about something like that. I'd smile and laugh, but inside I was hurting.

In hindsight, it makes perfect sense. Of course I don't like PIV. I want my vag fucked by a strap-on, not my penis inside someone. I only ever got off to fantasies of being a woman. I eventually, a decade later, came once from PIV, imagining myself as a futanari. I felt guilty about that.

So that's your bloghostess' story about her first threesome.

Operational Exhaustion

You've seen pictures of the most beautiful glacial lake in the most beautiful valley you can imagine. No, more beautiful than your imagination was capable of. You've talked to people who have been there and they've said the experience changed them forever. So you decide to go. You make the choice to buy and gather up supplies, pack it all up, and strap it to your back. And you go.

The hike is easy enough at first and you're excited to go. There are minor annoyances - you get a rock in your shoe, you get some mosquito bites - but you know it's oh so worth it. Your excitement builds as you climb into the crisp mountain air. You see stunning waterfalls that take your breath away.

But the annoyances keep coming. You get blisters on your feet and every step starts to hurt. You get more and more mosquito bites. Then you encounter a rattlesnake. You get past it, but it reminds you that people warned you about dangers along the way - mountain lions and spiders and bears. You knew about those, but it didn't really register. Now you worry that every step into the unknown could be your last.

Your backpack seems to get heavier and heavier. The sights and smells are incredible, but it's getting harder and harder to take each step. You have to stop and take a break. You have to tend to your blisters and put on bug spray. You have to catch your breath and eat a good meal. You can't keep hiking non-stop.

That's where I feel I am right now. I need to take a breather. Not a long one, just this weekend, but I'm exhausted. All the little irritations have accumulated, all the exertion has gotten to be too much.

So fuck it. I'm not bothering with makeup, I'm not bothering to look good, I'm not trying to pass, and I'm not interacting with people in real life, I'm not practicing my voice. I need to sit by the side of the trail and catch my breath.

I can still see the beautiful sights where I sit, smell the smells, hear the sounds. I can still play with my boobs. I still got called ma'am while wearing a T-shirt, shorts, no bra, and no makeup. But I need a breather from time to time.

The "sir"s, the looks, the goddamn shaving, the straining my voice, the personal care, they're all little things, but they build up. I just need time to de-stress.

At times like this, I wonder why I inflicted the journey on myself. I wonder why I decided to strap that backpack on and do this climb. And here's where the analogy fails. I was miserable and despairing before I took this journey. As much work as it is, it's less terrible than sitting stagnant, denying who I am, and dying with terrible regret. I have to take this journey. That lake is where I belong and I can't be whole until I reach it.

I just get exhausted sometimes.

In Defense of Slurs

Nigger. Faggot. Tranny. Kike. Gook. Slant. Chink. Jap. Wog. Sand nigger.

These words have power, terrible power. That power needs to be respected and appreciated for what it is. Sanitizing it with censorship (viz. "The N-word") downplays the impact they have. Saying "someone called me a t****y" lightens the experience and denies the full power it has over me. No, if that happened, you bet your ass I'd say "someone called me a tranny," because that's what they fucking called me. That accurately conveys the experience of being called that.

Racist-ass teabaggers don't call Obama "an N-word," they call him a nigger. Sanitizing it lets them off the hook. It denies the full force of it. A lot of people think of my friend as "a gay man," but some consider him a faggot - not "a f****t." Again, sanitizing lets them off the hook. You don't feel the impact when you read that. It becomes dry and detached and loses all emotion. If I say "someone called my friend a nigger," you'd better feel the emotional impact of that word. It had better make you mad. If it doesn't, I'm not accurately communicating the experience.

Think of it like this. I could dance around it and be like, "you know that word, that slur, that's used against people like me? Someone used that word." You'll figure it out. But it's purely logical. You go through your vocabulary and look it up in your internal dictionary. You don't have the jarring effect of actually reading the word. When it's thrust on you like that, you can't help but be affected. Which you should be. The slurs have real effect; removing that denies their seriousness.

I'm not endorsing using these words against people. What I am saying is that mentioning these words, and quoting them, should not be off-limits. Policing discourse like that treats us all like children who don't understand how language works and must be insulated from others' experiences. It cuts off the ability to convey the experience of hearing them, reducing it to a dry, emotionless denotation. It negates the seriousness of people thinking in those terms. I don't think people consider me "a t****y," I think they consider me a dirty fucking tranny. See the difference?

The obvious objection would be that a censored word is still identifiable, so it should make no difference. But if it makes no difference, why are you censoring it in the first place? By censoring it you acknowledge that it has power, you just don't want that to be able to be communicated. You're shutting down discourse, not protecting people from having slurs hurled at them.

So, slurs. Let's have them. Let's not use them against people, but when they are used against people, let's not sanitize it. When people think that way, let's not sanitize their scumminess. Let's be honest.

Mommy Issues

A question came up recently, about something I considered a moot point. But maybe it isn't so moot. The answer seems fairly obvious, at least to my rational mind, but my feels taunt me with doubts. 

This is the question: Do I come out to my mother?

This would be through a proxy, naturally. Either my father or brother. My rational thinking and all my feels are on the same page about doing it directly: I'm never speaking to her again. Well, there is a tiny part of me that wants to directly tell her off about how she interfered with my discovery of myself. Tell her off about a lot of things, actually.

I have a lot of history with my mother. Most people do, but by history I mean history. She has many guises, she's had many more, and I have dramatic history with all of them.

Sex Drive, Orgasms, and Playing on Nightmare Difficulty

Everyone loves the Orgasm Game. You win, you get an orgasm. Usually it's one or two player, though it can be however damn many you can cram into a bed. It's a great game, but there are two snags: not everyone plays on the same difficulty, and not everyone gets the same prize.

My Whole Goddamn Life Story (or: What the Fuck is Your Damage, Sis?), Part 4

I've told anecdotes, but never really explained me: who am I, what's my context, what's my damage? So here's my whole goddamn life story. I've broken it into four parts, about 1,500 words each, for ease of reading and referencing. Part 4: ages 30-32. (Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)

Though I stabilized, and with medication the night terrors went away and my startle reflex subsided (something that had been overactive since high school), I still had an abundance of existential despair. It became most of what I talked about with my doctor. She had me draw up a list: "What I Want In Life." What would satisfy me? I broke it up into parts, realistic and impossible, desires and wishlists. Under the "totally unrealistic desires" section, it read: "I want to be a lesbian." My doctor picked that one out, she could see how it pained me when I talked about it. We spent months discussing it. I slowly began to admit to myself that I had "transsexual ideation." as I called it. But I wouldn't say I was trans, nuh-uh, it was just ideation.

My Whole Goddamn Life Story (or: What the Fuck is Your Damage, Sis?), Part 3

I've told anecdotes, but never really explained me: who am I, what's my context, what's my damage? So here's my whole goddamn life story. I've broken it into four parts, about 1,500 words each, for ease of reading and referencing. Part 3: ages 23-29. (Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 4)

I was able to resume my life. Well, except I couldn't ever fly a plane now. So I reverted to astrophysics. I got into a place called Whitman College and started there that January, at age 23. I was a model student at first, except my C++ class (fuck that class). I made friends, more friends than I'd ever had in my entire life. I had jobs for once, as a physics tutor and astronomy lab assistant. It was wonderful.