Dumb-Struck

Picture a stunning spring sunday afternoon. I’m sitting on my porch steps, bathed in sunlight, reading. Fragrance of hyacinth, warm chocolate, and rich earth from my flower beds wrap around me. I’ve waited all my life for this spring and here it is. Absolutely gorgeous. 


When I say ‘reading’ I mean that I’ve got my gaze fixed blankly on the book I hold. My eyes follow the words but my mind elsewhere. I’m waiting for a friend… a man. It takes effort not to fidget, not to glance up every few moments. Why did I bother with the book… every page turned is another page I’ll have to reread later. But I fool myself into thinking I’m focused. I’m studious. I’m not thinking about the man biking his way toward my house… yes, that’s right ‘these are not the droids you are looking for’.  

Minutes pass and I find myself absorbed by the novel after all. Engrossed enough that the whir of spoked wheels doesn’t register until he moves into my peripheral vision. Despite self talk about cool and suave, and their importance to the general scheme of things, the sight of him plasters what feels like the worlds biggest, dopiest, (dare I say shit eating?) grin across my face. The world, shrugging me off as the lost cause I am, fades into white noise. 

His answering grin. His hands loosely gripped and draped on handle bars. Dimples, he’s got dimples when he smiles… My IQ lets me know on its way out that its taking a vacation and I’ll have to get by on my own, thank you very much.

Down girl, down. 

Still grinning we say our hellos. I’m furiously waging the tail I don’t have. Miraculously, between the two of us, we get his bike stashed inside. Mow-Mow and Miss Kitty sniff him out the way I’d like too. I make introductions as I slip on my camel-pack, wondering as I do, “Where is Kafka… she’s usually the first to greet guests…” and off we go for an afternoon of hiking. 

Hours later we return… sweaty… blissful… delighted. He sits. We chat. Cats falling all over themselves for his attention. Again I think, “Where’s Kafka?”. He leaves. 

An hour or two later I realize I’m missing something. Not my mind, it returned once the crush induced high faded enough for rational thought. My cat. Where is my cat? 

I walk through the house calling, clicking, opening closets, checking the basement. Miss Kitty and Mow-Mow follow me from room to room, watching. Curious. I stop. I sit. No Kafka, no answering meow. Okay, when did I see her last? 

I start to blush furiously. 

I took her outside with me that morning. I remembered thinking, “don’t forget the cat”. I forgot the cat.  

The sun was setting. The light gloaming into night as I walked the neighborhood. “Kafka… here kitty, kitty, kitty.” Every moving bit of darkness my cat, only to find upon further examination; wishful thinking. I made the circuit once, twice, the third time I turned homeward. Despondent I tried to imagine my life without her. I neared home. A shadow detached itself from the bushes ahead of me. 

I held my breath, dared to hope. As I stepped onto the porch she belly crawled in, a feline marine hugging sand, ears laid back and silent. She slithered her way inside when I opened the door. Half her whiskers singed off but none the worse for her adventures, she fluffed her tail, looked at me disdainfully, and wandered off for water. 






Birth of the Kink Project

Almost a year ago I had the great privilege and honor of attending Desire, an all women’s leather event held in Palm Springs. At the time I was in service to one of the presenters invited to instruct. (The term ‘in service’ as I’m using it means I was submissive to, in a contracted relationship with, collared by, a Dominant. Take your pick. You might think of ‘service’ as being a bit like the kink/bdsm version of personal assistant). As an assistant I was able to stay at the resort. There were only rooms enough for presenters, assorted entourage, and staff; attendees had to book elsewhere. 

Desire wasn’t the first event I’d ever attended but in many ways it was the most meaningful. 

(An ‘event’ is a gathering of kinksters. Events take place all over the country, all over the world for that matter. In essence they are a celebration, a social affair. Often there are merchandise venders, bdsm educators/instructors… A warped version of a conference/convention if you will). 

It was there that the project made itself known. How could it not? The resort was fenced, enclosed. The rooms set up courtyard fashion; surrounding beautiful grounds complete with flowering plants, swimming pool, hot tub, and a nesting humming bird. Because the resort was privet, clothing was optional. There’s nothing quite like a hundred women wandering around in various levels of undress. There’s an openness about it that’s hard to define. The world and everything in it was energized, all possibilities had reality waiting to give substance, the air charged with something more then heat. 

High quality female presenters and instructors from around the nation, sharing a wealth of information and personal experience… I left knowing I wanted to share too. And while I didn’t know how, I did have a title… The Kink Project.   

Wax Works






The Universe is amazing. I no sooner hold out my plate and it’s filled, with the most remarkable things. Proof I aught to be very careful when asking for the things I think I want. Lucky for me the Universe comes through with the things I need, (all be it inextricably tangled within the things I requested, which makes for a twisted package if you know what I mean, the velvet brick of karma, the latest life lesson, so on and so forth… A package that doesn’t look anything like what ever it is I expected, without expecting anything at all).

Answers are trickier then the question for sure, mostly because the answer gets in the way of figuring out what the question is. I think it’s the most valid argument for taking time to ‘know thy Self’. Followed by realizing ‘I’ am nothing like I assume my Self to be, and likely never will be. No one and nothing is. I don’t feel like I’m making much sense but I’ll bear with me, perhaps you will too. I have a feeling it’ll make for a smoother ride in the long run.

I met a boarder/climber who was couch surfing at a friend’s house. Him: on his way between here and there, and going soon. Me: attempting to pinpoint here, let go of there, and getting nowhere fast. I invited him to serf my place for a time. As it turns out he’s the muse for this Kink Project project. Let’s hear it for Wax Play. Thanks Spidy.



        

 

Few things are as lonely…

… As a Courtesan in want of intimacy in his/her personal life.

Let me explain (if I can)… 
I use the term courtesan because there aren’t words that encapsulate the meaning I’m trying to impart when I describe individuals situated within the Sexual World/Culture/Discourse, who are of a particular mindset, and who are often materialistically rewarded in some way for their presence and participation in said world/culture/discourse: mistresses, burlesque dancers, dancers, escorts, prostitutes, erotica writers and artists, adult entertainers, sexual surrogates, sex therapists,  bdsm/kink presenters and instructors, sex/bdsm/kink business owners, photographers, models, publishers, producers, male or female doesn’t matter. These individuals are modern day incarnations of Courtesan-ship.
Successful Courtesans, the good ones, offer connection and intimacy to their clients/customers/patrons. It’s a service they offer, not a product. They are a conduit, as it were, to something… someplace… greater. In submitting to Passion they allow themselves to become vulnerable. They can be touched and touch in turn. Their work is a service to themselves and mankind. They withhold judgment and instead give compassion, understanding, and empathy.

I’ve been many things over the course of my life. I grew up fast, I moved out young… My friends recently told me the word for me, words rather, are rambunctious and uppity. Both true though I don’t think of myself as being either.
My mother and father struck a deal before I was born; he would name the boys and she the girls. I was his first born and was expected to have been a boy. Were it not for the XX he would have named me Intrepid. He went on to have other children but he never let me forget his disappointment at my particular gender (he never did name his sons intrepid). 
I am intrepid, much to my dismay. It’s as though I have some sort of spiritual wander-lust; an itch to search out the cliff edges of what it means to be human, and then push my Self off to see if I fly. 
I wanted to be everything as a child. I wanted to be a navy seal, an underwater welder, a dancer, an actress, a singer, a writer, a traveler, own and run a Bed & Breakfast, a foster parent, an artist, a marine biologist… If I could have had a super power it would have been the ability to know, understand, and speak all languages. As a young adult I continued to want to be everything and I followed my passions, as a result I’ve done and been a great many things in my thirty-some-odd-years. What and Who I am now has exceeded all my expectations in the most unexpected of ways.
Some people stretch the boundaries of humanity. They reside in the outer-fringes, beyond the pale. They change the world by ‘being the change they want to see in the world’. It’s not comfortable. Courtesans are the scientists, adventurers, artists, who work within the most authentic aspect of our existence, our sexuality.

To return to the topic sentence, ‘few things are as lonely as a Courtesan in want of intimacy in his/her personal life’… Sometimes the disparity between what is offered/given and what is afforded me in my personal life… tastes of ashes and self-pity, (cloyingly so on occasion). There are times I feel the society/culture I’ve been born into doesn’t comfortably provide for my existence. And yet I exist, and others like me exist, have existed throughout history. There’s nothing for it except to keep challenging the future, keep cliff diving, and most importantly keep learning how to communicate.  

Anyone seen my Kink?

Ugh… Kink burn out. It’s ironic that I should start The Kink Project in such a moment. The tale-tale sign of kink burn out: when I find a complete lack of motivation and passion where I know a deep burning curiosity and connection to normally reside. Lately I’ve been wondering if the Passion will return, and when it does, how will it have changed?

         Love, Passion, Desire, are states of being in my opinion. At times in full bloom, throwing bold colors and subtle scents sparkling into charged air. At times fleeing before the disillusionment, jaded-ness, work-ridden, stress-haunted, over-stimulated-into-necessary-numbness, of our daily grind.

         When Passion and Desire desert they’re rarely gone for good, the relationship can be renewed (provided there’s room for them),  when they’re good and ready they’ll return, but not the same as they were. They come home a little more grown up, refined, polished, rich with depth and meaning, sometimes unrecognizable as the Desire/Love/Passion, they were before. In their absence we grow and change too, the way we perceive and relate to/in the world gets altered.

         I’m questioning my life; which is to say I’m questioning my Kink. Like any relationship, in any life, there are moments of taking stock. An analysis of what’s worked, what hasn’t, weighing returns against the investment of time and resources, the pros, the cons, its functionality as part of my relationship/life… and so on.

         One of the central unresolved issues in evolutionary biology is why after three billion years of asexual reproduction, (a system that worked quite well if time is any judge); did sexual reproduction suddenly come to play? How, and why, does an organism or group of organisms change from asexual to sexual reproduction? Asexual reproduction offers no mess, no fuss, no confusion, no risk, just perfect, predictable little replicas. Could it be those asexual critters were tired of the same old-same old and wanted a little adventure? Who’s to know?

         So sexual reproduction…  Reproduction is a central (if not the soul) purpose of all organisms. I think it’s interesting that such a central issue is so often dismissed or repressed by the human animal.

         Our sexuality is the Elephant in the room. In every encounter, every exchange, it’s tiptoeing around the china as best it can. Most of us look to our culture and society to tell us how to behave in sex matters, we get socialized, we learn rules about how men and women are supposed to act and behave with one another. Most of them implicitly, rather than explicitly, taught, further adding to an already convoluted tangle.

         I argue that most of the time we’re being taught a bunch of nonsense that often messes us up more then helps us figure out how to acknowledge and handle our elephant (of what ever verity or persuasion it happens to be). All of us are preformatted and designed to grow and reproduce as best we can, and culture/society too often dictates how we go about doing so, (no mater how dysfunctional the system).

         We get wired and imprinted in our formative years, puberty especially can be tricky, and if we come from less than ideal circumstances (as most of us do), environments rich with violence, negligence, fear, anger, excessive control, or no control at all, our sexual drives can come out a little different. Apart from most other animals it’s not just physical reproduction that concern us, there’s also the reproduction of culture, beliefs, ideologies, language, and ideas, each of which brings it’s own complications that get hooked and bound into our sexuality. (It’s all reproduction of one sort or another after all).

         I’ve studied kink, lived kink, been kink for the majority of my existence; I’ve found that after all this time, after all I’ve learned and experienced, I’ve still got more questions then answers. I guess what I’m saying is it’s complicated, it’s awe-inspiring, it’s amazingly stunning. Welcome to The Kink Project.