The Immaculate Conception, or: Adventures with Sasha's Uterus

photographer unknown

DISCLAIMER:
So, I normally don't bother with disclaimers. I mean, this is me we're talking about. I'm vulgar and direct and could really give a fuck what people think about it. But, heads up: this entry deals with blood, cunts, and sex. If you've got a problem with that, move right along.

So, I've got the world's bitchiest uterus.

I just started bleeding today. That might not be such a big deal, but it's early. Wicked early. Weeks early. What the fuck, uterus? Why are you such a hateful bitch? Why can't you just shed and bleed when you're supposed to?

Once, I was standing in the religious curio section of Wal-Greens (this is Louisiana -- yes, there is a religious section at the drugstore), and I spontaneously started bleeding. On the floor. In the middle of the fucking store. From my cunt. The look on the clerk's face as the blood spattered against the linoleum floor? Fucking priceless.

A few months ago, Chemlab rolled through town. It was a fucking fantastic show. They blew the fucking house out. I strolled up in that show in a three piece suit and enough red glitter to make David Bowie blush. And you know what? My vag starts bleeding a full TWO WEEKS EARLY. The next day? Nothing. I had a torrential downpour of blood from my vagina for one day, writhing and dancing to some of my adolescent heroes. I figure I must've started bleeding in tribute to Chemlab, because bloody cunts are FUCKING RIVET.

My sheets are black, not just because I've got a penchant for the dark and macabre (leave your spooky jokes at the door, please, I've heard them all), but because I've got a habit of waking up random days smeared and sticky with blood. Yep, that's me, the eternal extra on a snuff film set.

So, for Halloween last year, I was working at Kajun's on St Claude. Around then, we had a lingerie night every week. Halloween fell on lingerie night, and so I had to wear something scandalous and sexorific to work. I was perplexed. What could I possibly wear to work that is clearly sexual, yet also clearly a costume?

Obviously, back alley abortion nun was my first choice.

Short nun's dress, habit, a rubber fetus hanging from a coat hanger around my neck, and about a gallon of fake blood smeared between my legs. Yes, friends, it was fucking fabulous. After work, some friends and I decided to hit the road. While I was crossing the street, cocktail in hand, I watched the slaw-jawed, glazed eyed look of horror dawn on the faces of passerby. My response? "THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION HAS BEEN CANCELED!"

Classy fucking bitch, this one.

I might be a little miffed at the whole gory vag thing, but truth be told, I find blood to be pretty sexy. It's raw. It's pure sex and instinct. It's visually striking. There's little I find more sexy than seeing my blood on my lover's skin, or licking the blood from their's (and I'm not just talking from my cunt, either). Yeah, it's kinda weird, but hey, I never said I was normal, after all.

Also, I've noticed that I use the word FUCK a lot. A whole lot. I've got an A-list vocabulary, and I always come back to good ol' FUCK. It's classic. Deal with it.

Cultivating Consent (or, ideas constructed in the wee hours of the morning)

Image by Ruben Vega

Alright, kids. Sit down. Grab a drink, put on some mood music, get comfy. It's about time we talked about sex.

If we're going to do this, I suppose it's only fair if I give you a bit of background on me. In a nutshell, I am a certain brand of a feminist's nightmare. You know, the type that think porn is evil and breeds violence towards women (and is, itself, an act of violence)? You know, the type that think that a healthy spanking (by a lover) or some highly sexualized lingerie are ten steps backward in the liberation of society from the patriarchy?

Yeah, those. They hate me. If you ask me, what goes down between consenting adults is A-OKAY.

I, personally, have proclivities all over the place. Now, I'm not saying there aren't any fuzzy grey areas (my issues with the current porn industry are many, even though I do not think that porn is inherently evil – I'll go into these issues in a later post). But in a brass-tacks, simplified, boiled down narrative, my stance remains: What goes on in the sex lives of consenting adults is fine, awesome, totally rad, and should be done more and with more gusto and bravado as often as humanly possible, please kay thanks.

But there is an issue that gets pretty dicey, and is the reason I decided to write this damned long-winded blog entry in the first place: Consent.

Consent is, for sure, a Capital Letter Word when it comes to sex. It's a non-negotiable thing. Without consent, sex is assault. Period, the end. There are lots of variations and ways to consent, but at the end of the day, consent is not something you get to weedle your way around.

I'm not going to go through the innumerable list of different forms of sexual consent, but for the sake of clarity, I'll give you a bit of a 'most frequently used', or a 'short cut list' of ways consent can, and does happen, if only to show a brief glimpse at the vastness and delicacy of the situation.

– Verbal consent, each and every time sexual contact is initiated, where an individual can break consent at any time.
– 'Physical' consent, or consent that is understood through body language, and immediately revoked if the individual verbally breaks consent.
– 'Physical consent' of the previous sort, but consent is immediately revoked by a type of 'safe word' that has been chosen to indicate lack of consent (used in a role-play fantasy situation where 'no' does not mean 'no,' but some other word is used to indicate “no”: i.e. “grandma,” “bowling ball,” “daisy.”)
– Verbal consent, each and every time sexual contact is initiated, but where the individual breaks consent with a “safe word.”
– Verbal or physical consent, in which an individual breaks consent with a type of pre-arranged gesture, such as the dropping of an object in their hand (typically used if the person is unable to speak via some sort of gag or mask over their face).
– A contract, of which two or more parties decide for a certain duration of time that consent is inherently implied (often with highly restrictive parameters that neither party can breech, or the contract is immediately null).

We are taught that consent is a verbal agreement, that “no” means “NO.” For the most part, I am okay with this line of instruction – on a basic level of sexual experience, no DOES mean no, and it is important that people understand that very basic idea of consent. But in honesty, how often in our sexual lives do we verbally ask or offer consent? The first time we sleep with a new lover, maybe? The first few times? The first time we try something new, something we're not sure if our lover would quite get down with?

Sure, some of us ask pretty damned often (hey, it's pretty sexy to ask for what you want, just sayin') – but I'd be hard pressed to believe that verbal consent is the norm. So that puts us in what I believe to be the most common denominator of consent – physical consent. I think most people get busy with their lovers because their lovers do not push them away, and because – and this part is important – their lover responds in a way that is similar to their own. There has already been verbal consent prior. Their lover responds with some indication that they want to get down that is based in knowledge of prior experience between these two lovers. They've been here with this person, they've done this with this person, and when their grip gets tighter and their legs curl up and their breathing gets heavy they know, okay, this is game, I can proceed further.

I'm in no way saying that physical response is a fool-proof form of consent by any means, but I do think it is the one with which most people tend to operate. It gets dicey, of course, because of the whole 'precedence' deal: “Well, I had sex with you before, that means you are obviously consenting to sex with me now.” No dice, comrades. That line of thinking only gets everyone in trouble, and everyone hurt (not to mention that sometimes, the body responds in ways we cannot anticipate, but that is another blog for another day).

Other forms of consent (coercion/rape fantasy, contract, edge-play) I'll go in to later. I've seen some dumb shit lately prowling around the cultural psyche (and, of course, the Internets) about the harmful effects of BDSM and fetishism to the feminist movement. I'm not telling you how to have sex, so don't go around telling me what's right and okay about the way that I happily have consensual sex. If you feel like it's your place to tell me how to get down, I gotta say, you can blow me. I'll go buy a strap on and you can wear your best nipple clamps and we can have a party. It will be glorious. Of course, you don't HAVE to play with me and my not-yet-purchased strap on, boths and ladies and gents and others. But I'm sure it'll make my next entry about consent and coercion fantasy faaarrr more interesting. Just a thought.

Now, if you want some really well thought, intelligent articles on consent (and particularly, consent in the arenas a lot of people are scared about), you should check out Sugarbutch Chronicles (fabulous stuff, by the way). Here are some gems:

Yes, No, and Consent
Reconciling Feminism & Sadism


POSTSCRIPT:
Oh, by the way, I am not inviting the internets to have strap-on sex with me. Just so you know. Just sayin'.

I was looking up things on eBay for buying: red eyeshadow (didn't find any I liked), knee high boots (gnar, all badly made), and CORSETS (want want want), and I found the picture displayed above.

Dude, that picture is fucking hilarious. It's comedy fucking gold. I actually quite like the corset itself (latex! buckles! what's not to like?), but the dude is god damned hysterical. Why the sunglasses? WHY DUDE? WHY?!

And are the buckles hanging off the bottom like garters? They fucking SHOULD be.

I want to go put on a latex dress and a pair of heels. Right now.

Gorgeous.

I can't sleep, so I'm at work trying to wind down before trying (again) to fall asleep. Got off work at 6AM, came back for Sunday Brunch (I had the pesto pasta with marinated mushrooms -- fucking delicious) : having a glass of wine (Finca Malbec; it's delicious) : watching the Treme premier because I haven't seen it (neither has the morning bartender, so hey! I feel like every other person in the damned city has seen it, it's about fucking time).

God damn, I really love this city.

I've had some friends recently tell me that I need to seriously consider moving elsewhere to pursue some goals of mine. Drag, promoting, singing, DJing, art, etc. In some ways, I see their point: for most people, living in New Orleans means making a choice. You will never be as successful here as you would somewhere else. You will never make as much money. Unless you can telecommute, are from old money, have a very highly specialized trade skill, or are very lucky, there's a high chance you'll use an upper level college degree working in the service industry. If you do music here, it's unlikely you'll "make it" anywhere else but here (and good luck making a living playing anything but jazz). The city is a warzone, making anything happen academically or socially is next to impossible, and our politics are totally fucked.

But there are things New Orleans can offer that nowhere else can.

You will have music everywhere you go. No one will bat an eyelash if you leave your house in nothing but latex pants, an ace bandage, and enough glitter to make David Bowie blush (trust me, I've done it, and I was living in the St Roch neighborhood at the time). Your backyard is some of the most beautiful urban scenery you'll find anywhere. Street performers on every corner. Art wherever you look. We don't do somber funerals, we do second lines. We dance on our way to work. We treat our neighbors like kin. We say hello when we pass you on the street. We show strangers around town just because we can. We invite you over for a real home cooked New Orleans dinner, with cocktails at the corner bar where everyone treats one another like family. We kiss harder, we dance fiercer, we live life at a pace nowhere else in the world. If New Orleans is your home (and you will know it the second you step foot on this land), you'll feel it in your bones with a certainty that will match nothing else in your life. To quote my dear friend Kalen (roughly, keep in mind it is "late" for me and I haven't slept) in reference to her love for New Orleans and past loves in her life, "I choose New Orleans because it offers me more and breaks my heart less."

This city will break your heart, but it will also teach you to love, and to live, in a way you didn't even know possible.

So when people tell me I need to leave, when they tell me that I have a lot of potential that would be better utilized elsewhere, when they tell me I could take on the world if only I had a larger avenue/difference scene, I inevitably come back to one truth: How could anywhere, no matter how diamond studded, match New Orleans? This city has been my home for as long as I can remember, a wide-eyed child that immediately fell in love. This is a city of fairytales, not the rags-to-riches American fairytale of New York or Los Angeles, but the simple, humble, dirty fable that grows out of old swamp dirt and ghost stories. I can't imagine a payroll ever being more important to me than that.

Damn, it's been a while. Again.

I still don't have the internet at home (and, due to cost, I don't expect that to happen any time soon) so I'm, of course, sporadic. And just damned lazy.

Recent developments:

+ Two of my lovely co-workers have offered to teach me to sew. Now it's just finding a time to actually make this work. When I've got a day to do nothing, I'm going to come down to work and talk to them and try to set up some lessons -- they've got really nice machines that they're willing to teach me on. I've got fifty thousand ideas for pieces and no way to execute them. That will be resolved soon.

+ I had my bike seat stolen outside my apartment. Yeah. Fuckers.

+ I've become increasingly jaded with academia and social movements. You call yourself an anarchist, so you feel you have a right to be a dick to me because I have a job (without even considering my politics or me as a fucking person)? You have a degree sitting behind your name, so you feel your theories and analysis are somehow more valid than mine? How 'bout you fuck yourself, buddy, and go limp away on the horse you stumbled in on. I'm over it.

+ I've become far less social, and far more read-y lately. I spend a good portion of my time devouring books; travel books, fiction, non-fiction, essays, gender analysis, manifestos, short story collections, comics (oh lord, the comics!). Aside from work and DJing, I spend more time with text than with people. I can't say I have a real issue with that.

+ I have ream after ream of blank wrapping paper. I have every intention of buying a lot of spraypaint and utilizing the gazillion pounds of Modge Podge I have and making some custom, one of a kind wall pieces and placing them around town. They'll be mostly text. You'll recognize them when you see them.

+ I think we all need to dance more often. I intend on flash-mobbing, full on with boom boxes, three-piece suits, and Daft Punk. I'm on the lookout for some old boom boxes (that work). Hit a bitch up.

I'm totally done now -- I'm at work, and pretty tired of typing. I just worked eight hours dealing with drunken assholes who couldn't help but spill their Crown and Sprite (TM) all over the bar. Repeatedly. So, forgive me if I am curt. It's a survival mechanism I've cultivated being a bartender in the great galaxy of New Orleans, Louisiana. At least it keeps my wit in good working order.

Major Tom, out.

This post is going to piss a lot of people off.

Alright kids, listen up: I am exhausted. I just worked, entertained, and partied my hedonistic little ass off for over a week through Carnival. I just worked an 8-hour shift with a splitting headache dealing with (mostly) pricks all night. My legs, knees, and ankles scream in pain any time I take a step. I've been dealing with illness, crippling nausea, a wide range of sniveling douchebags, drama, and bullshit.

So, for the record, don't expect me to be especially articulate, or illuminating, or blah de blah blah blah. The only reason why I am here on this bar stool at work after getting off instead of high tailing my tired ass on my bicycle back to my tiny, leaky windowed, and wonderful home is because I was perusing the lovely world of the internet (I don't get much internet anymore as I only get internets at work) and was slapped hard in the face by a line, a single line, in an article, but it is a sentiment that is spread throughout most of feminist thought, and it pisses me off.

I'll quote the line directly:

Every family is different, and every pregnancy is different. Nobody WANTS to get an abortion and nobody takes getting one lightly (well, if you do on either count, you have far more problems than I can to go into in this space).

Alright, it starts out nice and strong. I totally agree that every family and every pregnancy is different. That, to me, is entirely obvious. I'd also agree that pretty much no body out there WANTS to get an abortion -- I've had two, and I'll tell you what, they fucking suck (figuratively and literally, in my case: ha ha!). But it's this, this lovely gem of a line right here:

..nobody takes getting one lightly (well, if you do on either count, you have far more problems than I can go into this space).

Um, WHAT?

Look, I'm half asleep, and when I am less asleep, I will go into a much deeper interrogation of why this kind of attitude is so damaging, but seriously, for now, just, FUCK THAT. I am really tired of feminists touting this party line of "god damn, it's so hard for women who have to get abortions, it fucks with their psyche, it messes them up for a long time man! they aren't monsters, because they feel incredible guilt at this thing they have done."

I think that this viewpoint is highly damaging to the idea that abortion is a perfectly acceptable medical practice that should not have guilt and shame tacked on to it. I have had two, yes two, abortions. I felt no guilt for either. I felt no conflict in the idea of aborting these cells from my uterus. I actually affectionately refer to both of my clinical abortion procedures as my "dates with the hoover."

Yes, I understand to most people this is crass. Yes, I also understand that not every person who gets pregnant in the world and decides to have an abortion feels the same way -- in fact, I am pretty certain I am probably somewhere in the minority. But my point is not that people should be waving around crude humor and irreverence as the banner of their own emotional response to abortion. My point is that this response to getting an abortion is viewed, even by most other feminists, as monstrous, inhuman, unwomanly. I have a much more sophisticated critique of this, with many other examples, but god damnit, it's 8AM, I've been up for 24hrs, and I'm god damned tired. I'll come back to this later. But people who tell me I am too fucked up to even talk about in a linguistic space because I don't carry around an emotion trauma that is mostly entrenched in us by a patriarchal, fundamentalist worldview based more in evangelicalism than science?

You know what? Fuck that.

Get hot, get too close to the flame
Wild, open space
Talk like an open book
Sign me up
Got no time to take a picture
I'll remember someday all the chances we took
We're so close to something better left unknown
We're so close to something better left unknown

I can feel it in my bones
Gimme sympathy
After all of this is gone
Who'd you rather be?
The Beatles or the Rolling Stones?
Oh, seriously
You're gonna make mistakes, you're young
Come on, baby, play me something
Like, "Here Comes the Sun"
Come on, baby, play me something
Like, "Here Comes the Sun"

Don't go, stay with the all-unknown
Stay away from the hooks
All the chances we took
We're so close to something better left unknown
We're so close to something better left unknown

I can feel it in my bones
Gimme sympathy
After all of this is gone
Who'd you rather be?
The Beatles or the Rolling Stones?
Oh, seriously
You're gonna make mistakes, you're young
Come on, baby, play me something
Like, "Here Comes the Sun"

Metric "Gimme Sympathy"

This song is humming through my body this morning. I just got off work, having my shift drink (raspberry vodka mixed with sweet tea vodka mixed with water -- the only "sweet" thing I ever allow myself, as I've not much the sweet tooth, but damn it's divine after a long bar shift), downloading some new tracks to possibly DJ (I'm working EVERY WEDNESDAY THIS MONTH), and am being swamped by this song.

I don't know what it is about this track. I've liked Metric from the get-go. I like it all, from the catchy hooks of "Dead Disco" to the nearly slinky hip-hop undertones of "The Twist" to the hard-hitting epic beats of "Help I'm Alive". I like the singles, I like the b-sides, I like all of it. It's not the best music out there, but it's damn good music, good synths, good fun.

But there's just something about this song that hits me. I've had this debate with many friends before, the Rolling Stones vs The Beatles debate. I've never really thought about what your decision means, but for me (and most of the people I know), the answer is unanimously Rolling Stones. Hands down, no argument. Now, I know we're all rock stars, heathens, and hedonists, but could it mean something more than that?

Honestly, what does it matter? It's a damned good song, worthy of anyone to take one, five, fifteen listens to. It's a love song without being oppressively saptastic (not that there's anything wrong with that, but it's on the CD I'm going to make of "non-traditional love songs" -- there'll be a more in depth blog about that in the furture), it's clever, it's fun, it's danceable, and generally well around awesome. Go hunt it down, you won't be sorry.

Hello, I am now a resident of the French Quarter.

I've been very busy -- with moving, new jobs, restarting my relations with Xtreme Illusions (a drag/andro troupe that performs weekly at Bourbon Pub), busting my ass with Corrosion (the city's best goth night, featuring none other than Yours Truly and your breathtaking cast of hard-hitting, let's-get-naked DJs), and gearing up for Carnival (guess who's bartending for the infamous Krewe De Vieux party? You're looking at it), I haven't had much time for blogging. I also only have the internets at work, so I haven't really had much access to the World Wide Web. I will say this:

YOU GO READ Written on the Body by Jeanette Winterson RIGHT NOW. This book tore my soul apart. It's that good. Were I to underline every single fantastic line in this novel, the entire book would be underlined. Also, the narrator has no discernible gender -- they could be male, they could be female, the book never lets you know. I like that.

Also: fuck my uterus. With a 2 x 4. Holy shit ow motherfucker ow.

I did get my greedy hands on a copy of Mythmakers and Lawbreakers, and I plan on starting it very shortly. I am quite excited about it. I hope the book lives up to my expectations. A comrade who read it, who hates fiction, told me that the book inspired him to try to start writing fiction. How rad is that?

Alright, I've broken the 7AM mark. The grocery store in the quarter is now open, so I'm going to bike my way over and grab some provisions. I'm making dinner tonight in my new house, and realized I don't have too much to offer beyond seaweed, rice noodles, and the weird Brown Sugar PopTarts that my previous tenant left. I am a bit frazzled with after work fatigue and my uterus making me lose way more blood than necessary, so grocery shopping will most likely involve me wandering around rather aimlessly picking up random food objects that have nothing to do with one another. Let's just hope I don't end up with peanut brittle, three fish, some grapes, and mayonaise. I think even in this sleep-deprived state, I doubt I'd end up with that kind of awful assortment.

Good morning, world. Wish me luck.