DUDE: Or, Why Catalog Images Matter

I love latex. I love men in latex. I love wearing latex. I've got no problem with people wearing latex. But someone please inform me why, in a catalog photo for a fetish clothing company, this dude is going for a brisk morning jog?

I AM MOTHERFUCKING BATMAN.

I don't even know, dude.

Imagine that stare at you. Just do it. Srsly.

And this, my friends, is GOLD.

WHAT?!

It's really important to take good catalog photos, y'all. Whether it's etsy, eBay, or your Spring couture line, presentation is important. Don't be these guys -- instead of looking at their handiwork, I'm too busy laughing at these ridiculous photos. Why do you think the fashion industry spends so much money on editorials? Presentation is everything.

I will return to posting about things that aren't absolutely ridiculous. At some point, I might even say something intelligent. But right now?

Think about that last image. Think long and hard.

Your life's not so bad now, is it?

That's what I thought.

*hey, laughing is what the internet is for. don't get all butt-hurt, now.

For me, sexuality is as mental as it is physical, as sacred as it is nature (and who is to say nature is not imbued with sanctity, and vis versa?). The moment when two hands meet with the same electricity, when two people come together with mutual desire and respect and vulnerability -- that moment, to me, is ritual. I am in no way a religious person, but I cannot help but notice that every time we express ourselves erotically, something profound happens. Whether casual romping or the product of a long term love, there is something inherently breathtaking about the machination of giving another person pleasure, and learning to accept that pleasure from others.

I do not mean to say that sex essentially links our hearts or souls to another person, only that there is something about the nature of sexuality and sexual expression that tells us something about ourself, and creates a space for openness. I believe that, if given freedom from shame and fear, claiming our own desires allows us a richer world, and one in which we will more comfortably find ourselves. What better way to get to know yourself than to learn your body, to know what turns you on and what feels good?

I have often found it difficult to articulate desire plain-spoken. The nature of my arousal, my sexuality, my eros most naturally comes dressed in metaphor and lyricism: an elusive courtesan, humming madly beneath layers of silk and intention. In spite of my own verbal apprehensions, eros is a lens through which I see most of the world, a fuzz and warmth that informs and shapes my experiences as a person. Eros, desire and need are enmeshed in my life inextricably, each casting a glow to the smallest of details -- the feel of fishnet stockings against my thighs as I walk; a silk tie firm against my collar; the force of a bass beat or a smoke stained vocal line; a lover's penmanship, slurred with anticipation.

Owning your sexuality can be hard, especially if you come from a repressive culture, or if your desires don't necessarily follow what is considered mainstream. Hell, it's scary sometimes, even to yourself. Coming to terms with my own sexuality meant facing a slew of seeming contradictions, taboos, foreign territories, and many rejections. There are desires of mine that I have yet to speak aloud, but I have learned to say them to myself, to reassert their validity over and over as mine, and as okay. I think this is important, something we all owe to ourselves. And eventually, when we're ready, let it out in the world. Trust me, as I am learning to trust myself: it will be okay.

And kids, I know I went all heavy with this post, but this part is important: sexuality is beautiful, but it is also silly. Don't be afraid to laugh sometimes, don't be afraid to get messy, and for fuck's sake, don't forget to have fun. If you aren't having fun, you're doing it wrong.

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.