I was interviewed by Associated Press writer Daniela Flores for her article “Are You Hot Enough?”. It’s on NJ.com, and it may go national. I’ve now been told that the article was also mentioned on Tom Leykis’ talk show, and there’ll be more interviews.

Wow. Go figure.

Anywho, here’s the article, and here’s the original blog posting.

PS- GO TO ISISKALI.COM FOR NEW ARTICLES!

PPS- Yahoo News also carried it. Holy crap.

PPS to the 2nd power- Yeah, it’s on USA Today. I think it went national.

Isiskali.com is going live soon. If you have bookmarks, start a-changin’ them.

There won’t be any more updates here I’m not killing it, though, because there are a good number of incoming links. If you happen to have one, please update. Thanks!

I’ve realized lately that it’s completely possible to live in a state of non-existence. This isn’t some sort of allegorical statement- it was my reality. My reality. Due to continued mental and emotional abuse, I’ve lived half a life for nearly 29 years.

Do you know how it feels to be jarred into full and total reality? Are there words for realizing how much work is ahead of you, since you don’t even know what you truly enjoy in life? Is there a way to sum up a history of wounds, confusion, and disgust?

When a person is young, a family member’s words- my sister, to be exact- can make one hell of an impact. What an outsider might view as harmless sibling rivalry may have deeper roots, and can inflict lasting damage. For me, it was the repeated idea that I didn’t exist. To my sister, it was simply easier to act like I had never been born than to relate to her own failures and shortcomings. This repeated emphasis of “You’re not here. I see right through you. Your entire existence doesn’t make a difference”, over the space of many years, became a permanent part of my definition of self.

There could have been hope for a better outcome, had I been able to defend myself. I wasn’t. The way that she struck was like a coiled, poisonous snake. Her approach was unpredictable, and the venomous words would shoot from her in a hiss or yell (depending on her mood). Then, she would run away. Quickly. Perhaps more invective would be bitten out as she escaped, but there was no opportunity to set boundaries and express anger or hurt. It was akin to urban guerrilla warfare. I was always good and thoughtful, careful to never hurt anyone with my words, and this hesitation cost me, just as it would cost a troop restricted by clumsy, over-planned maneuvers in the face of random attack. Just lately, I’ve gotten to the point of being brave enough to argue back. I’ve now learned that sticking up for myself won’t mean that the person will turn their back on me and run away.

Once the right to exist and defend is questioned, it’s as if you need huge amounts of permission to live. May I sing in this concert without you being angry? May I get my hair cut short without being called a bull dyke (true story)? May I? Every move becomes an exercise in fault-finding and uncertainty. Because of her words, I started to think that I was mannish, or that I was too full of myself and my accomplishments. Of course, I then turned around and projected this judgmental attitude onto everyone else, probably killing several dating opportunities. It certainly killed several huge musical opportunities.

The difference between abuse and rivalry is one of degree, and also of personality. If both siblings are basically happy people who seem balanced and secure, then it will be obvious that their words are from a place of frustration and fear. They’ll have enough compassion and self-love that they won’t feel weakened by apology. In other words, their very strength and inherent goodness will out in the end, and the bad behavior won’t leave permanent damage.

However, in my sister’s case, there is overwhelming insecurity. Not believing in her own merits, my accomplishments would seem like opportunities that were stolen from her. Her lack of self-esteem still makes it impossible for her to applaud anyone else’s successes. It also keeps her from pursuing wins of her own, since there is no trust in her own ability to produce.

A sibling overtaken by negativity will exude negativity. Any nasty words that come out will be delivered with the intent to harm and cut. The other sibling realizes this on some level, and also subconsciously acknowledges that there is no chance of redemption in the eyes of the other. Hope is lost, and mental resistance starts to fail.

It is, however, your own responsibility as an abuse victim to stop the cycle of abuse. That could mean moving away, severing ties, getting therapy, or getting outside intervention. I stopped it cold in its tracks after she crossed the line and physically threatened me just a few weeks ago.

I finally realized something as I watched her run away afterward, screaming that I didn’t exist, that I wasn’t any part of the family, and that I didn’t matter. It became abundantly clear that I existed when she faced my hand, raised in retaliation against her, ready to strike. In that moment, she was forced to see that I was in my space, in a very strong body, and very present in the moment. Her manipulation of my thoughts and fear had come to an end, because there was no longer any power over me.

Regaining this sense of self has meant looking at everything from my dating history to past friendships in a whole new light. I soon realized that many of my female friendships were with women that were insecure, controlling, and dictatorial. I had attracted girlfriends who were threatened by my looks, talent, or desires. Many times, I’d been the recipient of “jokes” that weren’t very funny chiding my choice of dates or clothing. Of course, the tune changed when I realized that I had power and valid needs. There was suddenly less to discuss, or they became flustered and attacked me instead of looking at their own selfish, grasping natures. I figured out that my lack of confidence in my very right to joy opened doors to sexual harassment, exploitation on the job, and poor financial/wealth decisions. Not believing that you deserve prosperity, love, and abundance is a sure way to kill your chances of getting it.

So, now I’m working on existing, and on honoring my destiny. It has become painfully clear that following the path of highest fulfillment will show the shadow side of many more people in my life, not just my sister. I’m actually living near her again, in the same two family house. However, this is a golden opportunity to face my fears and conquer them once and for all in a space of safety that I create for myself. There will be many who hate what my entire being stands for, and they’ll work to tear it down. I know that there are losses in store for me, but they can never be equal to the huge gain of realizing my entire self.

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Letting Go: The Perils Of The Conscious Heart

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Cintra Wilson wrote a gorgeous piece about Anna Nicole Smith. Absolutely beautiful.

Full disclosure: ANS has had my undying love ever since she did the Guess? ads. Just so ya know.

What’s interesting is that people seem to really want to show that they don’t care, or that she was just a trashy piece of whoredom who should have been happy at the Wal-Mart. This is what I said to that (unedited and kinda angry, so heads up):

You are so much better than she was. You’re right. ANS, that tacky, blousy slut, is the very devil. She was the ripened fruit falling off the vine, while you’re the uniform-looking pear that’s hanging there, waiting. Just waiting. Waiting for what? Why, for society to pluck you from the tree, lump you with the rest of the upright, and give you the validity that you crave.

Let’s be honest here. ANS is the girl in the supermarket wearing the adorable platforms, the form-fitting skirt, and the cami top with incredibly perky breasts. Her hair is tousled, shiny, and bed-fresh. She smiles, and people stumble over themselves. The shelf-stocker doesn’t let her even reach for what she wants; he hands it to her. Her manicure and pedicure are flawless.

You stand there, moving slightly when you get hit by another shopper’s cart. The LL Bean crewneck shell that you wore that day at your cubicle mill is rumpled. Strands of mousy hair droop around you. The sensible shoes that you bought from Talbot’s hide your yellowed toes that you don’t make time to cut. The stocker frowns at you when you get close to him.

Well, they can be nice for that showy whore, can’t they? But you’re better. She doesn’t work a normal job, or have to account for herself, does she? Fucking whores like her don’t go to school; if they do, it’s for their MRS degree. Yeah, that bitch probably has ten dates this week…but you have your husband. Never mind that he’s really paunchy and quite selfish, but you’re MARRIED.

You’ve been accepted. That hour long commute into the city, lost in the crowds, shoving people just to get that cup of cheap coffee, is what is right. It’s what’s expected. It’s uniform, and nonthreatening. It’s something that doesn’t make you have to stick your neck out, because only instigators do that.

I suppose, then, that you’ve never worked a pole. It’s hard as hell. Your feet hurt. There are nice clients, and there are nasty ones. It’s hard work.

I suppose, then, that you’ve never worked at a fashion show, or a shoot. It’s tedious, dull, and sometimes painful for the model. There’s a lot of pressure. There are poses in the streets, late at night, overtime, in the cold. Paparazzi are crowding the backstage, trying to photograph your tits. It’s hard work.

I suppose, then, that you’ve never had a child in your teens, or the blessing/curse of being creative and non-traditional- too vibrant and open to be lost in a sea of cubicles and increasingly meaningless degrees.

ANS did all this. Because of that, people like SarahKay and others despise her. She is disgusting, for the very fact that she never conformed, and always fought on her own terms. She represents a spirit that you wish you could touch, but never will, due to your own fear and disdain of what you cannot understand.

In short…

Suck it, y’all. ANS lived balls out, you don’t, and she was fucking hotter than any of you could ever hope to be, or ever hope to screw. Have fun with your mediocrity.

LL Bean should be running a sale soon. Stock up now, y’all!

I’m imagining the reception won’t be that nice. More’s the pity.

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Today, Salon published an article called “A Day At The Porn Palace”. Life on the other side of the lens is quite special, boys and girls…or, should I just say boys? The article, while fun in a voyeuristic, “let’s see what the naughty girlies are up to” type of way, also seems slanted to titillate a hetero male audience. Sex work is painted as being happy and sexually fulfilling, with eternally aroused women loving everything that they do to each other.

See, this is what I don’t get. This is the movies, folks…butt plug or no butt plug. Movies are slow- really, really slow. In porn, the ladies get tired; nerves are overstimulated; people get cranky and angst-ridden from being fondled or poked in the wrong way. The whole shoot couldn’t have sailed through entirely on this shallow level. So, why isn’t this article more honest? It almost looks like Stephen Elliot is out to assuage the male conscience or something by painting this hard, difficult work as some pleasure jaunt that exists solely to catch hot, eternally horny chicks getting off.

Take this passage, for instance:

For the climactic scene, Satine is gagged and tied with her legs held apart by a spreader bar, her head forward and her hair tied to the front of the trunk she’s squatting on. Donna places voice-activated electrodes on Satine’s ass so every time Satine moans she’s electrified. Meanwhile Donna slaps her between her legs with a cane.

Halfway through the shoot they have to stop because Satine is crying.

No crying is allowed in Kink.com videos.

“I’m sorry,” Satine says. “It just feels so good.”

Satine is the author’s pretty, dirty princess. She is illustrated as one-dimensional, fluffy, and flighty. It’s as if Elliot has projected his vision of a porn heroine onto this woman, rendering her about as real as the plastic dolls that you see bent over in any number of anonymously downloaded film clips. There are so many opportunities to deepen the reader’s perception of Satine. Soooo many. It hurts my feelings that he doesn’t take advantage of even one of them.

Between setups Satine and I talk about relationships. She recently broke up with her boyfriend who didn’t want her doing male-female porn. She wasn’t willing to give up control over her career. “I’m an exhibitionist,” Satine says. “I like it when people watch. And I like boy-girl scenes, I like fucking. This is who I am.”

(snip)

“I’m going to get a benefactor to pay for fake boobs,” [Satine] says. “It’s nice when someone will do that for you. I know people that have gotten $2,000 boobs but it’s not the kind of thing you want to save money on. A good boob job costs $10,000.”

Why leave us hanging, man? When I read stories about the realities of the porn industry, the best parts are where I connect with the humanity of the actors. Am I supposed to simply accept that she’s a goldigging airhead, then, who just lives for the moments that she’s poked with a cattle prod? I suppose I am, since the pussy doesn’t matter unless it’s howling and mewling happily. We don’t get much elaboration on why she chose this path (other than the sentence, “I’m just paying off bills…I was an alcoholic. My skin was fucked up all the time because of alcohol and coke. I haven’t had a drink in a year and a half”). The back-story that led to this downward spiral and redemption is probably fascinating, but there’s no evidence by the author that this story is of any importance. What is important is that she’s bound in tape, her hair wrapped around hooks, and her face contorted in grimaces of pain-filled joy.

What I can also tell you is that Satine’s hot, and that the domina of the film, Donna, is also hot.

I’m with Satine Phoenix, a model who flew in for the day from Los Angeles…She has skin the color of sand and long, thick black hair. She’s exotic, extraordinarily beautiful.

(snip)

In the dressing room with us is Princess Donna, the web mistress for Wired Pussy. Donna is effortlessly beautiful. She has long legs and thick black hair and big eyes that soak in her surroundings.

So, we have two beautiful women who are sex! kittens!, right? One of them has “benefactors” (read: johns paying for her time) that will make certain she has the best boobs money can buy. The other is a domina. That’s all you need to know. Donna forbids noise, sticks her hand in Satine’s ass, and tortures her. Donna runs the website. Satine jokes about her broken cooch. They’re hot. That’s all.

I’m going to also have to point out, as a woman who is exploring her sub side, that this all makes subbing seem very…I don’t know…shallow, as well? It’s almost like it’s not real play. Submission and domination is painted as something akin to getting a really good pedicure, or a first piercing:

[Donna] remembers her first bondage porn shoot. She was tied in a box with another woman, the other woman’s foot tied forcibly in Donna’s mouth.

“I love this job,” Donna says.

Donna asks, “Are you nervous, excited?”

Satine: “Yes. I’m excited.”

Donna: “What have you done since your last shoot with us?”

Satine: “I’ve played a lot in my personal life. Flogging. Rope bondage.”

Donna: “What do you like?”

Satine: “I like duct tape. I love hair pulling and I like being face slapped.”

Donna: “You do?”

“Oh, and I caught Chicken of the Sea tuna on sale, 2 for $2 at ShopRite. Better go get some.”

Is there this disconnect to shield the readers (and probable porn viewers) from the realities of sex work? The media seems to either gloss over these people’s lives, or they make them into downtrodden whores that live in a sad world of continual depravity. Reading between the lines, there is this overwhelming feeling that Elliot is assuaging his guilt over massaging his cock. Why else would you make sex work this shiny and happy? Granted, there are some really fun times to be had, but a lot of this stuff is WORK, as I’ve said before. I’ve never done films, but I know people who have. It’s just like any other job, and I’d be hard pressed to find an article about the run-of-the-mill office that was this merry in tone.

There is little here to appeal to the female reader, who is no doubt looking for common ground with these women. We indeed find out toward the end that the story is focused on men:

You may or may not be into electrified bondage, but if you’re male, chances are you’ve watched a porn or bought a dirty magazine in the past year. If you didn’t, look at your friends; they did.

Well, gee, I’ll remember than the next time I’m posting with my other online friends about the gay pr0n that we love to watch, then.

This might as well have been a puff piece for Stuff Magazine. The marginalization of women in porn, both viewer and star, won’t stop until the media takes steps to more fully illustrate the whole truth of the female erotic world. There is a lurking elephant in the corner that needs to be addressed: we can accept the virginal goddess, and we can accept the paid slut…but can society accept a fully sexual woman on her own terms?

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I’ll admit to several things:

First: I now DO want to date. I want a serious relationship. I’m not afraid to admit this now, even though many people find it desperate to do so.

Second: The type of relationship that I want is going to probably be a bit atypical…

Third: I’m an incredibly strong, vibrant, and feminist woman who…er…may want to be “Taken In Hand”. Yeah, yeah, stop looking at me like that.

There’s something about a man being a man that is incredibly sexy and right to me. I don’t want someone “sensitive” who runs around in a dashiki, getting in touch with his feminine side (there’s more to that story, but I’m saving it for a short fiction piece, heh). I want someone who isn’t going to be cowed, overwhelmed, or frightened off easily. A man that takes the lead. A man that courts me and has actual power, rather than a manner of being that seems kind of lazy and complacent.

You may ask, how the hell is this free or desirable in any way, shape, or form? Good question. I think that this section of writing by Sarah Cavendish, the web-mistress of Taken In Hand, explains it all very well:

Please don’t treat me like a slave or expect me to treat you like a master. And if you start writing my name in lowercase or referring to me as your “sub”, I shall be altogether unimpressed. That is just not my cup of tea.

Call me strange, but whilst I do want to please you, I don’t have the slightest desire to call you “Master” or “Sir”. Correction: I might on occasion, of my own free will, call you “Sir” in the same spirit Elizabeth calls Mr Darcy “Sir” in Pride and Prejudice, but in that case I’d expect you to address me in turn every bit as respectfully. I will not call any man “Sir” or “Master” on command. But if you want to address me as “Madam” or “my lady” and make a little bow as you do so, feel free to do so.

If you expect me to wait on you hand and foot, clip your toenails, or give you a full body massage twice a day, sorry, but you picked the wrong woman. But if you want to wait on me and give me a full body massage twice a day, etc., etc., etc., that would be delightful! Perhaps you would like to bathe me too? Oh, and feed me grapes while you’re at it, there’s a good chap.

If you wait for me to bow and scrape and grovel and hover around ready to receive your next order, you’ll be waiting a long time. It’s not going to happen. I don’t want a master or a commanding officer or an employer, I want a relationship with a man, a lover, a friend, an equal. Yes, okay, I do want you to be the head of the household, but I don’t envisage this as you being the employer of a household of servants or even the owner of a single slave.

You may be the master of the house, but for a happy, harmonious home, wield your power quietly, respectfully, and with consideration… If you start barking orders at me, I am likely to rebel and tell you where to stick your orders. Whilst I must admit to having the odd fantasy about being taken in hand by a big muscular military man, I don’t really want a commanding officer - not if that idea is used to turn me into an unappreciated servant anyway.

Don’t even think about commanding me to do all the cooking and cleaning and to have breakfast, lunch and dinner on the table at such-and-such times every day, because if you insist on this, I will be miserable and feel oppressed. It is not that I don’t want to cook and clean. I will do it, but I need either to have the freedom to do it my way (which might not be to your standards or on your timetable) or I need to be given vast amounts of appreciation for my efforts, or both. I may well serve out of love, but I do not love to serve in the sense of having the service kink. If you take the view that I must serve, that I owe you it, that you have a right to expect it of me, then I will not be happy to do it. Allow me to give these things freely rather than demanding them, and you may be pleasantly surprised.

If you start expecting me to do these things - or indeed to wash your clothes, iron your shirts, clean your shoes, or bake you fresh rolls every morning - and particularly if you get angry when I don’t do these things - I am likely to feel taken for granted and treated like a servant and then I won’t want to do anything for you. If, on the other hand, you do not expect such service, you are very likely to get it, particularly if you notice and appreciate it when I do these things. A little appreciation can make all the difference!

I do enjoy giving things and service to those I love, but I react against being told that I must do these things to demonstrate respect. Respect is not something that can be commanded, it has to be earned. The only thing one can give on command is the semblance of respect, the form of respectfulness. Don’t get me wrong, I think that respectfulness is important, but that goes both ways, and to me, it seems disrespectful to treat your lover like a servant unless she likes that.

What is it about this kind of relationship that is attractive? Taken In Hand relationships range from the variety of the former quote to stronger BDSM relationships involving complete subjugation. It’s definitely not the loss of power, because there really isn’t any loss. It is freely given. In any romantic relationship, there’s the driver, and there’s the passenger. It could be that the woman is the driver, and the man the passenger, but someone’s always on top.

From the man’s point of view (posted by Random):

My girlfriend J is incredibly strong, brave, resilient, successful, and yet…. she accepts a submissive role in our relationship. That makes me feel incredibly blessed.

I like a strong, feminine woman who knows what she wants but accepts me as her man and the head of the household. I don’t want a wimp or a weakling. Let’s be honest, I’m dominant, and for someone to put up with me they need to be strong in their own right.

I think with trust being the bedrock of my relationship with J, there is also mutual respect. There can’t be mutual respect unless there’s a person to respect. So I like a woman who’s got an opinion to share and has desires I can enjoy fulfilling. Without that, you might as well be on your own, and you certainly can’t respect a woman who’s always placid or overly submissive. I respect J and what she wants, and she respects my needs, and accepts that I make the decisions for both of us. It is a meeting of equals but with different roles. I could not do this with a woman who was my inferior. I need to be able to respect my woman. That’s why I prefer a strong woman to a weak, placid, one.

The strong, feminist part of me is always appalled when I gravitate toward novels that feature powerful, dominant men that pursue (and win) a strong yet submissive woman. What woman wants to really admit to her girlfriends, or to the world at large, that it’s incredibly attractive to want to serve in a romantic relationship? Not a one, because you’re told that you’re a traitor to your sisters, to feminist living, and independence. So, I don’t see many people admitting to these preferences openly.

One of the best-known examples of this type of relationship would be the movie “Secretary”. The heroine, Lee, surprised at first by her mousy boss’ hidden dominant tendencies, soon surrenders, culminating in the very passionate and total willingness to place herself in the man’s hands. She’s not afraid to show her most raw, vulnerable, human side (hell, she pisses herself because she’s not going to budge an inch until he believes in her dedication to him). What’s interesting is that Lee is a cutter, fresh from a mental institution and completely bereft of any sort of self-esteem. Notice, though, that she drops the cutting and starts to come into herself as the movie progresses. It’s as if she’s found the ultimate outlet for all her pain and inadequacy through safer, less guilt-ridden ways. Lee becomes hot (her walk in the stilettos with the shackle bar is fucking criminal), while Grey starts to become really, really sexy. Grey’s actions allow her to be free and to give in to her true needs without fear of recrimination or judgment…since what she needs is what he needs as well.

Reading through the Amazon reviews, it’s interesting to see people call this relationship “twisted”. It’s really not. More people live this type of life than people realize. Like I said, it may not be as drastic, but the power dynamic of the alpha male pleasing his mate is there in full force. Why is it, though, that it’s fine in a movie…but reviled in real life by many?

The revulsion, I believe, comes from a fear that acceptance is a rejection of all of the advances that feminism has won for women. It doesn’t compute that a woman would choose to give up her hard-won power, or that a woman would take punishment and spanking as part of the day-to-day and like it. We forget that the dominant man is NOTHING without the gift of submission that the woman chooses to give him. What is a single dom man going to do by himself? Absolutely nothing. What about the sub female? Same. One needs the other, and there’s no shame in a woman making that choice. It’s not that it’s an abject rejection of feminism’s higher, liberal ideals; in fact, I would call it one of the ultimate embraces of them. What is more glorious than realizing and knowing that you hold so much power that you can be part of a team- a very, very equal team- without losing yourself? Think about the last part of the movie, and how Lee looks. Think about how they join together in a homemaking task, and how she has this look of temptation, delicious corruption, love, and satisfaction. It’s perfect. I think that was one of the first times I realized that yes! this was a dynamic that I wanted in my life.

Many would point out that Lee isn’t quite right in the head. Well, no, she’s not, hence the visit to the hospital. However, she comes out, decides to take her life into her own hands, and grows the hell up. Yes, she cuts and stresses herself out along the way. Lee is human, very much so. She is also a broken person taking part in passion and using it as a conduit to self-discovery. Lee embraces her shadow side, making it work for her rather than against her in masochistic ways.

It’s verboten to admit need in relationships. It’s also a no-no to want to give yourself up in order to receive what you honestly desire. We are the rich product of our perceptions of the world. For me, I’m formed from huge past successes coupled with crushing blows. I’m a very dynamic, complicated woman who can’t be bothered with a companion that I can walk all over. Many women on the Taken In Hand site are the same way; they’re accomplished, beautiful, and brilliant, and they want to yield to something else, someone else in their personal lives. Is this worse than normal dating situations, where there seems to be a lot of vulnerability that is hidden away out of fear? I don’t think so. I think that these relationships exhibit an huge amount of trust on both parts.

For the dominant, you have to believe that the more submissive/yielding party is strong enough to give of their power honestly. The dominant party has to be able to take what has been given and use it to the betterment of all involved. They have to employ empathy and compassion in the pursuit of their partner’s ultimate fulfillment. The dominant has to be responsible and mature enough to realize the value of the gift they hold, and to treat and value their partner’s loving service to them as something of incredible value. If the relationship includes any sort of BDSM play or punishment, the dominant must be properly versed in technique in order not to cause either party injury.

The giving or submissive party, on the other hand, places in the dominant’s hands their need to give loving service. It is the duty of the submissive to be honest about pain, discomfort, doubts, or issues in the relationship. They are trusted to know themselves well enough to retain healthy boundaries, and to put the relationship in a proper perspective. In other words, they must keep in mind that the other person isn’t using them like a puppet, but that they are an equal half of the whole. This is best done by valuing yourself, and valuing the gift of power that you are willing to share with your mate.

I think that many people are soured against Taken In Hand relationships because they get lost in the agendas of political and social conservatism. We see a woman’s submission as being a key attribute in fundie relationships the world over, and become uncomfortable with a free-thinking woman’s choice to partake in that lifestyle. When Taken In Hand is seen not as a choice, but as a supposed and necessary social truth that is being flouted by the evil feminists, it becomes tainted by inflexibility and restrictive dogma. Conservatism has made Taken In Hand relationships all about the Donna Reed-ism, effectively neutering the sexual undertones that are a vital part of making these relationships work.

Part of what is so appealing about these pairings is their primitive natures. I think that they exude a very raw sort of sexuality, since they are dependent on the most primal and clean definitions of male and female. The sexes are not created completely equal, though there are many ugly societal inequalities that can certainly stand to be thrown out the door. Just like you and your siblings are different, so are men and women. Doesn’t mean that you’re a worse or lesser person than they…you’re just not them. Why is it so wrong to admit this? The sexes have different strengths, and that’s not a crime.

Taken In Hand must be repackaged as a viable, accepted option for fulfillment that is consensual on the part of both parties. True Taken In Hand is free will in a new packaging that in no way signifies disdain of modernism or progress. It is a choice to explore power sharing in a whole new way, embracing a the valid choice, not imposed, of male leadership in a romantic relationship.

Related Posts

When feminism and attractiveness collide

Too bad, so sad…giving the smackdown 6: Dawn Eden doesn’t like sex, and neither should we.

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Stop trying to change yourself for a relationship that’s not meant to be.

In our pursuit of perfect, blissful union, it’s tempting to want to tweak a couple of things to speed the process along. A trip to the salon to change your mousy brown hair to a deep, sensual red is nice. A new wardrobe that makes you feel saucy? Great idea.

A new pair of boobs and lipo to catch the attention of that Abercrombie model wannabe? Not so much.

There is never a good reason to change the essence of what YOU are to fit the requirements of someone else. It’s even more foolish and sad to make those changes for someone you haven’t even made a formal commitment to. Plus, if the person makes these requests of you, they’re attempting to control and belittle the REAL you. That means that they stink. And it means that you need to go.

I had a friend who was a vivacious, Liberal pagan when I first started hanging out with her. She then married a completely jerky Conservative who belittled her, called her fat, and got pissed if she bought pretty new clothing for herself. In time, this woman became a dowdy housewife, gamely agreeing with her husband’s dogmatic political beliefs and torturing herself at the gym to fit his ideal “type”. Her self-esteem was shot to hell, and was estranged from her parents. In short, this partnership meant more to her than her own identity, and she paid the price by trading away the things that were dear to her. This is relationship was never meant to work out, but my friend was willing to subjugate herself for the cause. No amount of change can salvage a relationship that doesn’t click on fundamental levels- in other words, the realities of both parties must gel in order for the pairing to thrive.

At this point, I must emphasize that there is some positive changes that people make, but those changes are ones that suit the individual’s life path and goals. Often, those changes take place not for the attentions of just one person, but for the cumulative effects, ie. going to college in order to meet someone who is a professional. Those sort of changes, if done in the spirit of self-love, joy, and positivity, have wonderful effects that can last a lifetime.

In the case of love, it is natural and completely human to want to do everything in one’s power to save a relationship. There’s nothing worse than staring at the smoking carcass of your bonding, wondering what you could have done differently. Commonly, there’s a period of flashback fault-finding, where the only answer for the unexplainable breakup lies in your shortcomings. This happens to everyone- no matter how good your self-esteem is. For people that are very secure in themselves, though, it’s a quick pit stop on the road to acceptance and learning. For others, though, the perceived failure is one that seems all too personal and preventable. This is where the impulse to change and control the unknown comes in.

There’s a helpless creature that hides inside people that have been hurt. That poor, wounded side of you is the one that begs to be transformed into something that is remotely lovable and accepted. Conformity brings comfort and a feeling of security in the “status quo” of a potential love interest’s approval.

I think that chasing after outside approval through ingenuous means compromises you in fundamental ways. Declaring that you’re one political belief, for instance, when you’re the complete opposite, is very misleading, since party affiliation in this day and age dictates much about your moral and societal stance. Misrepresentation creates a disconnect from the realities of the beliefs that make you who you are, and doesn’t bring about any true satisfaction. The truth will out in the end.

Modern society, in general, is all about meeting some unreachable “standard”. They say that you have to change yourself into a svelte, blond bombshell with a filthy blow job and a sweet tongue. Intellect is hidden, and talents are embarrassments. There is nothing great about being yourself, nowadays. The best possible mates are only available to those who “fit the bill”- a grad diploma, a fast car, 34C boobs, or a high-income job are supposedly the only way to be of worth in today’s world. The criteria rises day by day, and the finish line looks more impossible to touch with every passing moment. The desire to find acceptance for the weak, fragile, real core of us then flings its arms out, grabbing at anything that will bring the dream of perfect love. This is why girls puke in the bathrooms after meals. This is why broke-ass people who can’t make the rent pay $800 for Yaki extensions. This is why there’s so much confusion, because “reality” is anything but.

Love cannot flourish under false pretenses, and affection dangled like a carrot is nothing of the sort. A person that offers love with strings attached isn’t offering anything that will help you along your true path of evolution. They’re playing the Pygmalion to your Galatea. No person is a lump of clay to be molded by anyone. No one can take credit for creating you. You are spirit’s creation- the embodiment of perfection in the present moment.

There is always another person out there for you, one that will accept you with your cellulite, baggy jeans, or piercings. If a potential mate doesn’t think that you measure up, they’re attempting to create some fantasy cooked up from dreams of unreachable perfection, in the hopes that your efforts will redeem them in the eyes of their more “successful” peers. The internal vulnerabilities won’t go away by pleasing someone else, because those remedies are just a band-aid that don’t really heal anything. You don’t need the approval of anyone but yourself.

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A good number of first marriages in the US end in divorce - around 50%. After divorce, most families with children end up with the mother as the custodial parent, and the father in a very limited non-custodial role.

My father is a pretty well-known jazz guitarist. He has chubby cheeks and a huge grin, just like me. We both wiggle our right legs if we sit for too long, and we both have big, loud laughs. We’re even both Tauruses. And, like him, I was a brilliant singer blessed with a great singing voice. I so dearly wanted to be an opera singer, a working musician, just like my father.

My mother wasn’t a fan of that idea, though. From a very young age, she enrolled me in a very serious ballet school with a pre-professional company track. Yet, I always had an interest in learning how to play guitar, or even bass (my grandfather also plays, but was always a hobbyist/fill-in player). Classical music and singing fascinated me, but it was pretty sometimes to get the support that I would need to make a career happen. Oh, she believed that I could do it. But she wasn’t going to be helping me along that much.

I remember when my father left home. I also remember the screaming, then cussing, and the stony silences that would follow their arguments. Those are the obvious memories.

The non-obvious ones? That strong women don’t need men. They don’t need romance. Creative people, musicians especially, are deadbeats. And, men will never, ever stick around- even if you love them.

Neither of my parents were a great support. At the root of it, my father was still an overly-sensitive artist. I think that he was jealous of the attention paid me, sometimes. He once told me that I couldn’t call myself an artist until I had “suffered like he had”. At the time, I thought that I played these words off. I didn’t.

Thinking back, I notice that my mother never really addressed this desire to be a musician. She was all behind me applying to Juilliard for dance, but deep-sixed me leaving high school at 16 to attend Simon’s Rock College; Simon’s Rock has an incredibly strong music program, and is geared toward gifted teens who are academically able to leave behind high school coursework. Her refusal was after I had been accepted, and I was devastated. It was painfully clear, on some deep-down level, that being an artist wasn’t something in my future.

Because of my lack of confidence, I started to self-sabotage.In my senior year, I started to spiral downward as a vocalist. Where before I had been driven to actually cut classes to practice singing with the music department chair, I now started to become shaky. I was the chair’s favorite singer. I quickly became his black sheep. My vocal talent was starting to become a curse.

By the time I left college halfway through my sophomore year, I wielded my voice like a blunt object, and had grown spoiled and demanding. Even though I was the youngest member of the NJ State Opera chorus, it wasn’t enough. I wanted to be in the small ensemble pieces- at 20. I was an artist, and I would prove it. I was still driven, but I held myself back on some levels. Practicing seemed like an affront, something that other people had to do. One of my voice teachers told me off, and I answered her censure by dropping her.

During my time doing period reenactment in the SCA, I became known for my singing. I got the fame and reputation that I always wanted. Down the line, though, there was so much drama from being at the top, involved with Courts and such, that I dropped out. To this day, I beg people to not request me to sing, because the thought sickens me.

All of those small messages served their purpose. I don’t sing anymore. I still have a lovely voice, albeit one that is weak and cracking. But, it’s there. I’ve made token efforts to sing, but can’t stick to it. I don’t trust my voice. It’s brought me nothing but trouble and torment.

So goes it with my sexual life, as well.

It may squick you out to think about your parents and sexuality in the same sentence, but one springs from the other. There is no denying that your parents’ sexual relationship, along with past events, shape your intimate life for years to come. If those effects are negative, they’ll lurk in the background until you find and vanquish them.

When my father left, I think that he fully intended to still be a father…at first. I wondered if he was just frustrated by my mother’s bitterness, or for some other reason. Yet, my father and mother both had a terrible case of the Irresponsibles. They were awful with money, never paid bills on time, and lived on the mercy of my grandparents (mostly my grandfather). After their relationship fell apart, and the man that I loved so much had moved away from me without so much as a goodbye (he was there one morning, gone by the time I came back from school), he went underground. It seemed that I was a victim of the Irresponsibles, yet again.

Stories reached me about how they had to hunt him down for being a deadbeat dad. Everyone hated him, while I still tried to keep an open mind. I didn’t want to judge this man who I admired so much. However, I started to be resentful of the fact that a person that was supposed to care for me, ran away. He dropped his responsibility. Was I disposable? That couldn’t be possible. I was his darling. Right?

I only saw my father a few times after that. I would talk to him on the phone on occasion. If he called, I would get the message, along with a mini-tirade by the message-taker about how he was worthless. Those messages stuck, just like the ones telling me that I wasn’t an artist. This man was bad; he was absolute shit. My mother didn’t need him, was strong enough to boot him, and that was that.

Later on, when I started to date, I noticed something peculiar: the men vanished. Or, they played with me by engaging my affections, getting my admiration, then leaving.

For a while, I just thought that I was fundamentally jinxed. I laughed it off, thinking that this was just a passing phase because I was young. Yet, as I saw the girls around me creating lasting love relationships, I started to think twice about what was going on. I was in therapy, and this was one subject that popped up on occasion. None of us was able to make a dent in the issue.

The routine was always the same, be it with therapist, my Tarot reader, or a friend: I would meet the guy and get along with him wonderfully. We would talk and date a bit. I’d be so happy that I would, of course, tell everybody that I was with someone really special, and that maybe this one would work out. I’d have a bit of intimacy- but only a bit, and I’ll explain why- and then things would change. He would leave. The phone calls would stop or fall to practically nothing. There would be no explanation.

If things lasted for more than a month, I would notice that the man either wanted me as arm candy, or wanted me completely hidden. Now, I’m one for discretion, but this was the sort of hidden that seemed like he didn’t want to be seen with me at all. Attempts to get an explanation would turn up, “Oh, well, I told you that I was an asshole,” as if his behavior could be excused by one offhand remark made a while ago.

In any case, the relationship and/or contact would vanish, and I would be left alone in the end, wondering what I had done wrong.

Sex might as well have not existed in my life. I shut off my sex drive altogether. I didn’t even kiss until I was 18, and lost my virginity at 24. Sex simply didn’t make sense to me. I was disconnected from it, and would often find my mind wandering during the act to other things, like doing my shopping. Sex was something that happened to me, not with me. You can guess what effect this had on the, er, outcome of things. Intimacy was a null value.

I had never seen much affection between my parents, and had been in numerous sexual situations where I was nothing but an outsider, looking in. It was as if I didn’t understand where romance and sexuality fit into the equation of man and woman.

Fast forward to about a year ago, when I finally made the connection in therapy that my sexual problems were connected to my parents. It took till two days ago- January 11, 2007- to understand that my choice of men was resulting in a replay of what had happened during my childhood.

I haven’t seen a man and woman in a relationship that really exuded love during my childhood. My grandparents, who were married more than 50 years, suffered through a lot during their marriage, but I mostly saw them fighting through adversity and staying together throughout. That was a love forged from suffering and hardship in the final years of life. I had never seen love and romance as fresh, comfortable, and possible in a state of permanence.

As far as my mother is concerned, she never dated. Ever. There were a couple of times when she would offhandedly admire some hot guy passing by on the street, but nothing more than that. There was never an attempt to connect with her sexual side. She didn’t even tell me how I was made; I learned that from the book that she handed me when I was about 6. Being a grown woman had nothing to do with sex. She had also enrolled me in an all-girls’ school. There were boys at social events, but I had absolutely no idea how to relate to them, and didn’t know how to handle any kind of attraction. Couple this with a desire to date inter-racially at a teen, and you have the makings of a mess.

My father, though…these realizations are huge. From him comes my idea that I can be discounted, or that I’m a prize to be shown off. Of course I’m going to pick men that will eventually walk away, because he did that when I was a child. Of course no man would ever cherish me enough to take care of me. Why should he? My father kinda did, and kinda didn’t. It was a point of ambiguity. I wanted an explanation? Impossible! My father was never accountable for what he did. I even got a couple of substance abusers in there…just like my father.

I blamed myself for him leaving. The marriage break up was my fault on some level. Thus, I was doomed to repeat the cycle, thinking that it would be different for me, and that my gifts and looks would be enough to keep a man around. Nothing could be further from the truth.

All of these realizations came about while I was meditating. My heart chakra was hurting from a situation in my life where I feared that the cycle was repeating, and that I was about to be abandoned again. The only way out is through, though, so I would have to go to the root of the issue in order to heal the trauma. I went deep into the discomfort, asking myself, “Where does this come from? What happened that brought this cycle of suffering about?”

Things happened so quickly after that. I can’t even tell you exactly how I arrived at the point of realization that I blamed myself for my parents’ divorce. I can tell you, though, that I burst into tears the moment that it hit me. Me, who doesn’t cry for anything, wept out everything that had been in my heart for 28 long years.

On the heels of that came more (it was a great day for meditation, let me tell you). I realized that my healing would have to come about through experience, that I would have to use my heart, not my head, in choosing who to spend my time with, and that part of that healing would be to help others by sharing my pain. That’s why I’m writing this blog ; ) Another obvious point was that, by inviting abundance into my life, I would bring in the means necessary to facilitate those healing lessons.

I still don’t have the answer to whether I’ll be left behind or not. I may be, I may not be. I know that, once free of the intense pain of guilt and fear, I was able to be incredibly grateful for the things that I had shared with the men I cared, or care, about. I still have a terrible time separating pessimism from intuition. That will go on for some time, I imagine.

If you notice patterns in your love life…hell, in your life in general…you owe it to yourself to meditate it out. Even if you don’t like your own company, I beg you to challenge yourself by surrendering to silence and accepting whatever floats up as what it is, free of blame and excuse. Ask it, “Why are you here? What are you here to warn me about? Why are you afraid?” There may be something there of value. I guarantee it.

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OK…this whole thing about feminists needing to hide away with hairy armpits and uncut hair needs to DIE.

I found a really neat blog entry by candyposes, who is a nude model that actually got turned down for a job because she’s a feminist. What, does the photog think that she’s going to snap and plaster him with NOW stickers?

The new wave of feminism is still trying to decide if it stands for open sexuality and the frank appreciation of the female form, or if it stands for restriction, censure of our own drives for pleasure and appreciation, and glorification of sensuality. We need to come to a consensus. No wonder girls are confused with what they see in the media today!

There are so many conflicting messages. Look at the Paris Hiltons of the world. Look at them showing off their coochies to all and sundry, with no real reverence for what they have between their legs. Then, look at the other side…women who fight against the rights of sex workers, or deride exotic dancers, or call miniskirts slutty and degrading. Neither view helps, and the reluctance of the old garde to acknowledge the reality of the new hobbles feminism from really becoming a solid part of American society.

Anyway, visit candyposes’ site, Feminism Without Clothes. She’s got some lovely pics, and she’s very interesting.

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