What’s Left of Summer

I love technology. I am totally addicted to my screens. I have a laptop, an android tablet, a Blackberry, a Kindle, an Xbox that functions for both movie streaming device and game console, three personal e-mail accounts that I use daily, and yet there are days when I long for the clatter of a typewriter. I don’t want e-mail. I want interoffice memos on crisp bond white paper. I want a freaking bottle of type and planten cleaner hidden away in my desk for crying out loud, and I had an ashtray and a pack of Lucky Strikes well within reach.

Hell back in the day, we had time for little amenities at work — like lunch. And on Friday, we’d head out to the bank to deposit out paychecks then to one of the restaurants with a full bar and have a couple of drinks before heading back to work to finish out the week.

I really don’t want to head back to the days of Reganomics, no spell check, and a very heated cold war. I don’t. But along with the progress came some major sacrifices too, and I wonder in the long run if we’ve really gained anything.

And maybe I’m actually remembering things as far better than they really were. Often, the Good Old Days just plain weren’t. 1,1,1-trichloroethane was flammable. Those Luckies were a major health risk, and frankly direct deposit is far easier than standing in line waiting for a teller who’s over worked and under paid.

And would stopping at my favorite brew pub be as special if I were still a little buzzed from that martini at lunch? I’m guessing not. So I started writing to bemoan the fact that we’ve lost a lot, and I’m making a damned good case that things are far better now. I’m right actually. Give me my ebooks and my MP3 player. I don’t need a set of drawing and cutting tools, and I sure the hell don’t miss the mess on my drawing board. Nope on second thought, I’d rather have today. After all, that’s when the best of times is.

Salacious Saturday

 

Interweave’s service this morning was very nice, and I’m glad I was able to be part of it. Just in case anyone is wondering Holmes (not sure if she’s okay being linked to) and I did have the discussion about which of us should lead whom. It didn’t quite come down to a coin toss. For anyone interested, the t-shirts that TDMT and I had on are available at the Matthew Shepard Foundation web site. One correction I have to make is that “Strange Fruit” was not written by Lady Day; she is the most famous singer of the song. It was written by Lewis Allan. No matter who wrote the song, TDMT’s rendition was bone chilling. As much as I love her cooking, given only one choice between hearing her sing and feasting on her food, I’ll let my stomach go hungry and nourish my soul.

My take away is that I think I need to put aside some differences and get active with Interweave again.

non-existant essence

sleek and cutting
snake flashs
cool heat
ignite limbs
temper sanity
with madness
retreat
return
touching
non-existent essence

Fuggi Regal Fantasima

 

There’s a wonderful refrain in  Auntie Mame: “You’ve got to live, live, live. Life’s a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death. ” I couldn’t agree more. A few years back when I began cleaning up the train wreck that I called my life, the phrase came to me and served as both a mantra and a goal. I still hold it with me. While I believe in the existence of an immortal soul, I know that I have this life. I must live it to the fullest of my capacities and capabilities, and I have to enjoy myself. The only sin is not living one’s life.

So, I’ve decided to do something I thought I didn’t want to do. I am going back in for the nipple piercing. I haven’t made up my mind if it will be today or later in the month, but it will happen. Yes, it hurts. Yes, the after care is a pain — for a while. Yes, my leather duster rode right against it to give me ecstatic pain. But damn, it looked kind of hot, and once it was healed enough, playing with it was a new sensation in pleasure. Funny, how I recall both aspects with some fondness.

Oh, and yes, I’ll be getting one of those nice leather arm bands too. I guess Jack has found himself and is smirking with revenge.

Fuggi Regal Fantasima

Tony DeBlase is the creator of the Leather Pride Flag. It was presented on May 28, 1989 at International Mr. Leather in Chicago, Il. The meaning of the components are left to individual interpretation. While the flag is used extensively in the gay community, it is not a flag depicting gender preference. One thing to note is that in the World of Kink, homo and bi-sexuality are generally accepted.

I’m saying all of this because I think I need a change in my personal vocabulary. Maybe it’s time to come out again — like self-identifying as a Pagan Leather Bear was somehow shrouding me in mystery, and my penchant for OUUCH was something people didn’t quite understand. To be sure, I am seeking a permanent guy in my life, but I want a sub not a boyfriend. Is there a difference? To me there’s not. It’s a matter of nomenclature at best. But perhaps on the psychological level it does matter more than I’ve previously thought. It could be that I’ve been confusing myself by placing external, societal standards on boyfriend that keep me from finding the sub.

Essentially, nothing’s changed. I still want what I’ve always wanted. I’m just calling the Lily Prince by the right title now. And I’m certain that he’ll understand and fully appreciate the whip on my calf.

Pax.

Freedom to Marry

 

Today began Freedom to Marry Week (http://www.freedomtomarry.org/) — an outgrowth of Freedom to Marry day (February 12). It may not be important to everyone, but to me and several of my Siblings of the Soul it’s an important time we come together to celebrate how far we’ve come instead of bemoaning how far there is yet to go. Yes, heterosexual couples are still allowed to get married in Las Vegas on a drunken whim and have it annulled three days later as, well, a drunken whim. We children of a less god, to borrow a phrase, are left “living in sin” in most parts of the country.

Both my religious and spiritual traditions will allow same sex marriage; I assume that the church to which I belong would have someone perform a same sex marriage ceremony as we have a banner about civil marriage on the front of the building. But it’s not the same. There 1100 rights and responsibilities given to the legally married that wouldn’t be given to us. My husband wouldn’t automatically be given say in my care, treatment, or burial method. I would not share in his Social Security benefits — at all. I work for a company that offers same sex domestic partner benefits, so he could sign up — but those benefits would be subject to taxes because he’s not legally my spouse, and he’s not entitled to use funds from my Health Savings Account. These are both IRS stipulations not from my employer. And should the Lily Prince be a military man, we can live in total secret, break it off, or he can leave the service — not winning choices in the least.

But we have come further than we were ten years ago. Marriage is recognized in Massachusetts. An appellate court in New York ruled that “valid out-of-state marriages of same-sex couples must be legally recognized in New York.” In New Jersey registered same sex partners are eligible for same sex domestic partner benefits regardless of where the employer is domiciled. Al Gore has championed the freedom to marry cause — gotta love liberal Southerners. These are all major wins.

I’m not some wide eyed, ingénue, Pollyanna by any means. We have far to go. If we never try, we’ll never get there. You know the platitudes about single steps and winning races. If we sit back bemoaning what we don’t have, we’ll only get more of the same. By celebrating our success, we energize ourselves to continue the push for equality — if not for ourselves, then for the generation coming after us. It’s important to be who we are, celebrate what we are, and work for equality for everyone. Civil Rights are to protect everyone, exclude no one, and ensure that if you’re sitting in the back of the bus, you chose that seat of your own accord.

Peace,

Farewell to Flesh

Carnival comes to a close at the stroke of Midnight. The time of revel that began at Epiphany becomes the time of penitence that typifies Lent. A time to give up things. Well, if you honestly believe that you need to repent and give up. Personally, I don’t. But then I have those Pagan ways about me.

It’s odd to note though that I best love the celebrations with some holy day or other after them. Halloween (Samhain) gives way to the Feast of All Saints, Carnival (specifically Mardi Gras) gives way to Ash Wednesday. I’ve given it some thought and think that it’s because the party gives way to the serious that attracts me. The γνωθι σεαυτόν sensibility woven into the celebration and the solemnity both tantalizes and scares me. Memento mori. I live whilst I can.

 Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler! And save a dance for me.

Whippin’ Boi

whip cracks echo in night
quickly like a snake bite
pain leaves pleasure
icy touch brings heat
dominate submission synergy
passion brings salvation
mercy master baptize me

What a Lady What a Night

It’s no secret that I’m one of those people who is living for the weekend. As I often do, I commenced my two days away from work by hitting my favorite third place after my cardio this afternoon. I sat on the stool, paired up a Tanq and tonic with a fish and chips and settled down. Soon, I was making headway with my meal; then a woman came up to the guys sitting down from me. They were there when I came in and talking, laughing, and buying beer — too hetero for my tastes, but I digress. I hadn’t noticed her in the place at all, but then why would I?

“ Can I have a sip of your beer,” she asked. The guy, apparently, gave it to her. She commenced telling that she wasn’t allowed to be in the bar. She’d left her dog tied up outside — after no being allowed to bring it inside. This was not a service animal, so the manager was making her leave. One of the bartenders came to ask if she’d been served. “I’m having a drink on the house,” she informed. “Make it a Harp.” She looked decent enough, and while I like the darker beers personally, Harp isn’t bad. She then told the guys that she’d called the police. They conversed with her in polite, but guarded, tones. “Isn’t she loose,” one of the guys asked. The woman went running outside — just in time to find the police pulling up. The bartender showed up Harp in hand, and looked totally befuzzled by the scene. He finally wandered off with the Harp — looking completely confused. Louisville’s finest, on the other hand, didn’t look too happy about standing in the cold for this woman’s nonsense. In fact the one in short sleeves looked almost angry. Who could blame him in twenty-six degree weather? 

“Do you think her line about a drink on the house would work for the rest of us,” I aksed. We laughed and talked whilst the drama played outside. Finally, she left with the dog. A few chuckles later, I was eating again. I heard them still talking about it. “I mean if it was race, or gender, or sexual orientation that they used to keep her out, I’d agree to calling the cops, but not because they wouldn’t let her in with a dog.” The “sexual orientation” grabbed my ears. This man had very casually defended me and mine without thinking about what he said. His buddies seemed in full agreement. Maybe the world has come far further than I think.