Wednesday, December 31, 2003

Is this my obligatory year end entry?

I began a post this morning, but Blogger was down for a while. So instead of writing and saving it as a word doc I moved on to other things.

Now I wish I stuck with my original intent. You see, I was writing about snow.

Snow!!!! It snowed last night. We had about 3 inches. I can honestly say that it may be only the second time I've seen it snow in my 5 1/2 years in Seattle. There have been a few moments I've woken up to a light dusting. But sitting back in my living room and watching it drift down in a silent night is an amazing pleasure.

This morning, a little after arriving at work, it again begins to snow. Flurries actually. Huge, massive flakes floating in slow motion.
It becomes another world. Children were out and a few had never seen snow before.

2 coworkers and I decided we needed a...ahem..."a team building exercise." So we bundled up, and took a walk to the coffee shop for lattes and chai tea. Just hadda be out in the SNOW!!!!

There was a propensity toward snowman building. I saw them in many yards. Next to work, there was a large one at the entrance of an apartment building and a smaller one standing sentry, positioned atop the stone fence. Eyes made of buttons and quarters. Carrot noses. Snow shaped into tophats.
In Seattle, you have to grab it when you get it. It doesn't seem to last more than a few hours.
If you head a half hour east in the mountains, you'll see plenty of snow. I've done that in the past, to hike and play in it. But Seattle proper tends to have snowless winters.

So now, here I the end of the day, and I'm befuddled, and not sure which of the things floating in my head I want to write about.
Currently, the Well Tempered Clavier I & II is playing on my iTunes...

...I've eaten some chinese food...and have cheesy movies for later.
It's New Year's Eve, but I didn't feel like going out tonight. 4 days without migraines, and I'm honestly enjoying the lack of headbanging. So the Cuff or Eagle isn't conducive to this continued state. Freneticism, high decibel level and lots of smoke wouldn't cut it right now.

Instead, I'll open a bottle of red wine, light some candles and be with myself, calmly and contentedly.

It's been an extremely difficult year. Many around me, including myself, have suffered through a pain stricken 2003. Pain leads to change which leads to growth. Tonight is a night for retrospection, gratefulness and serenity. I just may write out that year end blog yet.

Tuesday, December 30, 2003

I earned my Boots after a year and a half in training. I won’t share the story here because it's a huge piece of magic I'm holding in a box for special times. If the future calls me to follow in Sir's footsteps, one on one mentoring, it will be a gift for my students, and a few others I trust.

I earned my belt last Wednesday. Actually, I earned it a few months back, but had yet to take possession. When in a store, I'd scan the belt racks and would feel almost disinterested. Nothing drew me in. Nothing struck me.

I wasn't in a rush, trusting that the belt would reveal itself to me in the perfect moment. Sir taught me that with my boots. He said, "Wait, be patient. You will know when you find them. Trust yourself."

On Christmas eve, beautiful boy and I strolled into Redmond Work & Western Wear. He needed to purchase boots.

Walking into the shop, you can’t help but get hit with the thick stench of leather. Is there any better smell? I think it may even on a higher plane than piss, cum and sweat. Tough call. But, they are all my perfumes. Heading over to the boots...I handled a few...admiringly. Inhaling the pungent smell, I felt it seep into my skin. Tangible.

Scanning the shop I saw belts. I wandered over and began touching. My hand reached out to the variety of black belts...stroking, clasping each between my fingers. One at a time I explored them. I smelled sex. I felt sex.

And yet, they weren't mine. On one, the leather was too thin. Another, too fancy a buckle. Nope, didn't want seams. While handling the belts, I listened for my name. All remained silent.

Working my way back, I saw it. THE belt. I knew it, and my heart sank. There was only one. Not even trying it on I frantically searched for others...a selection of sizes. Vain exercise. Feeling despair, I grabbed the belt, and almost squeezing my eyes shut, tried it on. It needed to fit. It had to. I knew this was the one.

It fit as if it was custom made...for me.

The leather is the right width. A solid, substantial piece of black, fully exposed, not interrupted by seams or shown up by the buckle. It's all about the leather.

A thick black strap that in the hands of the right sadist, will leave the most angry marks. Weilded just right, the edge of the belt would catch the skin with ferociousness, bring blood to the surface, and if lucky, rip my flesh.

A perfect belt. My first earned belt.

The next morning, I wore it for the first time. Sliding the leather through denim loops I noticed the label on the backside of the belt. Reading it, I laughed. The company name?

Monday, December 29, 2003

I woke at 5 am with my head pounding again. Sigh. Although this time, a couple tylenol eased it...and I semi dosed on and off for a few hours until I just had to get up. Fidgety.

But, when I headache. It's the first day in a while with no migraine. Felt great..and wiped. Took it easy, watched movies, played spider solitaire and thought a whole bunch.

As stuff from therapy settles into place, other aspects of who I am are slowly beginning to cry out for their fair share of time and attention. The biggy today is Service.

I need to serve. I fiercely need to serve.
I do serve Sir, when He beckons. Sir will always be Sir, my Mentor, my former Teacher.
But seeing I'm not His...I serve in a different capacity. I know with time, my own family will manifest itself. Students need to move on. It's part of the natural process.

Sitting outside this afternoon, I realized how large my need to serve is. I continually gauge my service self, reeling it in like a fishing line to make sure it's not too much. For example, I trust and enjoy my boss. I could easily be in her office a few times a day to see if she needs anything. But that would be counterproductive. First, I wouldn't have time to do what I was hired for. And secondly, it's not appropriate. So I dole out my offers in spurts. The same thing happens with a few others I love. I find I want to offer myself more frequently, and yet hold back and attempt to keep it to a minimum, dependent upon the context.
With Sir, I still offer, but not as often as before. Therapy took a whack on my energy, and also...I know that when Sir needs something from me, He does ask. But the question periodically slips out.

It's frustrating, doing this with Sir and the others. I feel my service is in bondage. I let it out in little moments to take some of the pressure off the cooker.

I can't immerse myself in service to just any Top. It's about trust. Loads of trust. It's also an exchange, a reciprocal dynamic. For me, it needs to be such to gladly engage. Attention in the form of some structure, hugs and feeding the masochist inside are some ways of reciprocity. Regular sex isn't needed. I can get that from other places. Sometimes I think it's not much different than a dog. With the proper attention, a dog is devoted for life. Unconditionally.

For me, Service is incredibly intimate, many times more intimate than sex. Therefore I can't offer it lightheartedly. I remember a couple instances where Sir would hand me over to another Top to assist them. One I knew, and the other I barely knew. I went into each experience wholeheartedly because I knew it was ultimately for Sir.

I don't know if one reason why service is important is because of my ADD. Being in service allows a fence of sorts...where I can run free. Controlled chaos. When I know it's really directed for another, it's easier to focus. When the task is all about me, from beginning to end...I tend to get lost and wallow. Floundering...and completing in a more frenzied manner.

My mind has been slowly edging back to the question of Master/slave. It's intertwined with service. I believe the difference between a slave and a boy/girl is the level of service. Yes, bottoms do serve in some capacity. But I really wonder if slavery is immersing yourself in service. And yet, I know of collared boys where there is a lot of service involved. So, I don't know. I'm still figuring all this out. I have been given the names of a few people to contact and speak with them regarding slavery. It went on the back burner this summer, and I will pull it out after my internal workings calm down.

Saturday, December 27, 2003

I really did expect to write something before today. But once the migraine faded, I had a lunch meeting, then back to work, which was followed by an evening meeting. And...then the damned headache returned.

I've been sitting with it all day, holding off on taking meds because even with my insurance they are 5 bucks a pop. I'm rationing them and will take one in a little bit. It's geekboy's birthday and I'm headed over to his house.

I wanted to leave you with someone, even though it's not what I originally intended. Thanks to fleshbot, here is Lawrence Grecco.

Friday, December 26, 2003

Good morning...

...or not. I hope you all had a good day yesterday.
I've been battling a migraine for the last couple days. Today, it's pushed into the land of nausea. I seriously don't have time for this. Things to do and I refuse to cancel anything.

Yesterday, I spent the afternoon with Leather family. I figured either I could stay home with a hurt head or go out with one. I chose spending time with loved ones.

There's so much I want to write about, but it may need to wait until the pain in my head eases. On top of it, I'm at work and the prescription for pain meds (which I had yet to fill because I had this wild thought I wouldn't again have migraines) is sitting on my kitchen table, 25 minutes away, with traffic.

I am tempted to retrieve it. You see, I want to talk about the magic amidst the darkness. Yes, it happens. I've experienced a fair share of it this week.

While typing I'm sitting here thinking and have made a decision. I'm running home to get that script filled. Talk with you later.

Thursday, December 25, 2003

Blackbird made me cry this morning.

It's the kind of tears that warm your heart and wrap it in love, not leave you cold and raw.
Blackbird, thank you so much for your gift. Get well soon. You've got lots of playing and exploring to do...and I want to hear all about it, dammit! :-)

Wednesday, December 24, 2003

For you, this week's holiday 'scopes from Rob Brezsny.

Even though I've fully let go of Christmas this year, I know there's magic in the air. I can smell it.

I do want to wish a good season to all of you who do celebrate this time. Be kind, gentle and patient with others. And, try to carry that spirit throughout the year. That's the best gift of all.

Monday, December 22, 2003

I was just reading lthredge's diary and his current entries, written about an hour apart.

Scroll down to "The Solstice" and read that before The Solstice, II. It's important.

Simple and eloquent.
Lately, I've been feeling rather private. Notice?

As I continue to chip away at these walls of fossilized pain, clearing a path, heading deeper into the belly of the beast, the less I want to discuss it.
Interestingly, when buttons are now pushed, it's a lightning quick megaton blast. Along with that is an awareness that the hurtful incident is a dim shadow of ghosts of the past.

I will say I'm slightly encouraged. In rereading my blog this weekend, the written and the unwritten, I see progress. My vision is focusing on the heart of the matter. Everything else that I felt hurt me in my adult life was essentially a mirror for the core pain.

Pain is a selfish Top. It needs and demands, always beckoning "look at will NOT forget Me".
"You will bow to Me."
It has no regard for the child inside who seeks solace. Pain is form without heart. The arms it wraps around its victim do not nurture. Its limbs are meant to squeeze the life out of anything in its path.

Sometimes I think I was crazy to begin this whole process. I mean, I could have had a fine life. Yes, I would have repeated old patterns regarding relationships and how I view myself. Yet I'd be a functioning being. I don't believe that living in pain is living.

But I have this bad habit. I was born asking why. Why am I who I am? Why was I born? Why am I a painter, a freak, a masochist, a service bottom? Why do I so strongly seek a family?

Some whys don't have dramatic answers. I know they are simply and beautifully an "is". And other whys are the first step to healing.

Saturday, December 20, 2003

Thanks to Lydia, here's a little something I'm passin' along for anyone who needs the periodic stress reliever.
I'm still here.

Nope, not busy with Christmas stuff. I don't celebrate the holiday and haven't for the last 4 years.

It's a decision that came on a little at a time. You see, I loved the holidays. Christmas was about lighting the dark. I'd put candles in my window and they'd be lit every night until the end of February. I loved hanging my ornaments on the little 4 ft charlie brown trees I'd hunt out. (Not always easy to find in this land of bigger is better.) My ornaments were all chosen with thought. Most weren't even originally intended to be ornaments, but I'd make 'em work. I wanted something to remind me of people, places, and memories. For example, I'd think of a friend and wanted an ornament to represent them. If I consciously attempted to look for one, I'd never find the one that would scream their name. Some of these took years until they revealed themselves to me. These were found when I wasn't looking. I still don't have ornaments for others. But I knew it would happen in the perfect time. So decorating my tree was a special time for me. Each little bauble I'd unwrap would bring a smile and wrap me in love and memories.

But I stopped doing Christmas. When I returned to school, with final paintings and exams, we'd be thru about 5 days before Christmas. I'd be wiped, and didn't even want to think about looking for a tree. Christmas shopping became a chore because it was now a rushed event, instead of a many month leisurely experience. The gifts ceased being as thoughtful because I no longer had the time and energy. Forget Christmas cards. No cookies. The one thing I had plenty of was guilt over not doing all that I wanted to do and create for the holiday.

I thought I'd kick back into gear once I graduated. Yet I worked in retail. Granted, I was in the warehouse which meant no customer dealings but a heavy freight time. That is, until I became manager, then my duties were the warehouse and the front end. It obviously became a harried time of year, and time, loads of guilt and a new feeling. Distaste.

I did celebrate Christmas my first two years in Seattle. That was the last time. After that, I went into Leather training and the process of stripping who I was and letting go of the assumptions I've created about myself began. So the first Christmas during training, it felt natural to ignore the holiday. I realized I no longer knew what Christmas meant to me, and until I could come up with something...I wasn't going to deal with it.

No longer being a Christian, it wasn't about the birth of Jesus. Without that, I couldn't figure out why I'd engage in the holiday.
I didn't understand the gift giving thing. The very nature and definition of gift is something freely offered and yet that seems to conflict with Christmas. Why did it have to be surrounded around one time of year? If I see something in May that speaks to me of a friend, I'll get it and give it to them at that time. I don't tuck it aside and wait until Christmas because that's when we are supposed to do presents.

Trying to wrap my head around Christmas wasn't happening. I didn't get it and therefore felt hypocritical by celebrating it. So I didn't. That is...I didn't...except for my blood family. Because it's a large family, we'd each (including my parents) pick one name, and set a $40 limit. I would do that, and for the last few years, truly dreaded it for a few reasons. One, my lack of feeling for the holiday. The other reason is I wasn't involved in the lives of my family. We really don't know each other any more. Mom would send out the lists of what each person wanted, so we could scan the list of the person whose name we drew. It would always say the same "little gold earrings....a sweater...a pair of pj's." Sigh. Impersonal, especially because I didn't know tastes anymore.
The last two years carried a lot of pain with purchasing that gift.

As for me, I never put anything on my list, because I didn't want anything. I'd continually ask for having them make a donation to the nonprofit I work for. But, that wasn't acceptable. Somehow that didn't feel good to them. I finally got around it by saying a membership to the Seattle Art Museum would be cool. That made them happy.

This year, I grabbed my gutts and had a heart to heart with mom. I explained to her why she needed to leave me out of the secret santa loop. Tough conversation, but I think she got it. Relief. And this is the first year without any guilt surrounding Christmas.
No guilt, but there is some sadness. No family secret santa meant I was serious. The final Christmas cut. Sadness because this holiday that I loved and cherished has become so foreign to me.

Yet with that, I still smile when I see homes decorated with lights, or a tree flashing in the window. I have no desire to be a downer on someone else's joy with this time and do still enjoy watching others revel in the holiday.
There is a coworker who LOVES Christmas. She's the Martha Stewart of the holiday. When I collect the mail and see cards that come in for the office, I leave them on her chair, so she can open them. Her joy at opening each card is infectious, and that's a little something I can do for her.
I spent the other night with Bear and wonderboy, helping them wrap gifts to ship back east.
I am all about celebrating the joy others have in the holiday.

What I cannot tolerate is the holiday of hafta.
"I hafta get this gift for my step mom otherwise she'll never speak to me again".
"I hafta get all these cards out."
"I hafta figure out how to make the best Christmas for my kids."
"I hafta do something for my coworkers."
"I hafta make sure I spend the same amount on each person."
"I hafta figure out how to get the money to spend on this stuff I hafta get for others to hafta open and then hafta pretend to ooh and ahhh to then hafta stash it in the closet never to be seen again, because yanno... in all honesty we really don't need the stuff we think we hafta have, but we hafta have it otherwise what will that say about us and we hafta to have people like us, right...and of course, the way to do that is through shopping!"

That's my Christmas story. I am open to discovery, and receptive to new ideas about this season. This is the year the pendulum has swung fully to the other side. It'll be interesting to see what happens next year.

Wednesday, December 17, 2003

Right now, I'm in a good place emotionally, and therefore am taking advantage of it by blogging. You get to be the lucky recipients!

Mind you, I've just had a couple glasses of wine, Septieme's. For dinner...(now those of you out there who are good cooks, block your ears)...I just had a large tablespoon of peanut butter. Hey, I got home after 7pm, and was tired. Having no desire to pull stuff out to cook, I dug into the PB. It works, nutritionally (or so I'd like to think). Protein, yanno?

Yesterday, after a long day, we had a board meeting. Yeah, makes for an extremely long day for me. Considering I needed to be "on" for 14 hours, when I was done...I WAS DONE. By 8:30 last night, I looked at my coworkers and said "I'm through. I'm outta here. Love you. See you tomorrow."

See? That's how I am. For me, there's a difference between being social for work (the professional queer), and simply being myself. Although I bring myself to my job, it's different. Socializing and sharing space with people I enjoy, although wouldn't share intimate space with, is friggin' draining. I've learned to just push, do it, and when home beckons loudly....listen and go.

It's not that I wouldn't want to be intimate with some of these folks, but we have different energy, different likes, and different views on sex.

As time passes...and I age, (looking at the gray interspersed in my buzzed head), I see how sex is such a part of all of me. Therefore, it's exhausting to spend time with those who don't appear to have that same view point. Bluntly put...a similar energy - kinky, open and intelligent. I may have a good time, laugh, and do very much care...but it's exhausting nonetheless.

Today, I was somewhat useless. I suppose it didn't help that I was up until almost 3 am, due to a whirring mind. Thinking about all sorts of stuff meant for elusive sleep.

I went to see Tattoo'd Bear after work for a rebuzz. Walking in, he was standing at the counter, saw me, and put out his arm. I slid in under...and he held me tight. He was finishing up with a sales rep the whole time. We held each other, arms wrapped. 5, and then 10 minutes must have gone by as I sunk into his strong flesh. A few times he'd rub his chin against my head...and I held tighter.

It was one of those perfect moments. There was a whole world going on, and at the same time, it was just us....loving each other.

Once the rep left, I hopped into the chair and he clipped away. We agreeably disagreed between using the #2 or #3 clippers. We compromised on both. Afterwards, he had one more client, and then Tattoo'd Bear and I went up to Septieme's for wine.

I love this man. He is such a slut, such a nasty, fuckin' pig...and one of the most compassionate, brilliant people I know. I'm honored to have him in my life. We talked and talked...continually affirming each other.

This was so cool, because I knew I needed the calming, seductive space of Cafe Septieme this evening, for a bit. Almost all my favorite waiters were there. I had a chance to chat with each of them. Great, great guys.

Tattoo'd Bear and I are planning a shaving scene. Yup, I'm going to do it. I highly doubt I'll keep it clean shaved. Too high maintenance. But, I want to do it at least once, and I told him I wanted him to be the one to shave me. It would be TBear or Sir, and this opportunity came up, and so I'm jumping on it.

This won't happen for a couple months. We need my hair to grow out some, for dramatic effect. But he will be the one to take hot lather and a razor to my head. It looks like there may be some type of bondage involved as well as a few more surprises. I promise, I'll fill you in more afterwards. Yeah, I'm psyched.
Today's gems from Rob Brezsny.
Today is the 100th anniversary of the first flight. Here in Seattle at noon, over 100 aircraft are taking off from Boeing Field to fly around Puget Sound.

Check out this site. It's 4 simulated videos of the first flight attempts. Pretty cool. Note, I experienced a few stops and starts in video 4. Be a little patient. :-)
Blackbird wrote:

"I know I have this thing inside me. It’s scary, but I think I am finally letting go. I am going to be kinky forever. I like being submissive. And I want people closer to me."


Tuesday, December 16, 2003

I've been busy and preoccupied these last few days.
Again, like the other day...a huge mishmash of thoughts.

I detest having a pseudonym. I'm all for being out. I want to be able to say, I did this...I created that. Yeah...ego. I admit, it's a big one.
Yet, I need to protect those around me. While talking with a coworker this morning, a new twist on anonymity came to mind.
Perhaps there is power in having my words go out without preconceived ideas attached to the author. Maybe someone will hear my words for what they are. I know our own experience is brought to everything, but could the bias be minimized with anonymity?

I wonder if this is similar in a way to slave spirit. When collared to a Master, you are more than an individual, becoming part of something greater. Yes, your potential is pushed (if it's a healthy relationship) and in being , the accomplishments can shine, but it's not about elevating yourself as slave. I don't speak of hiding under a rock. But I think there's a subtle balance in there somewhere. Although the last few months have seemed to tuck Master/slave stuff away, it hasn't. The ideas and questions are still here, yet not focused on.

I have been thinking a lot about my brain dump on erotic art. I figured once I let go, that would be the end of it. All it did was make room for more thoughts regarding art. I'm a snob when it comes to art. Once I formulate the mess beginning in my head, I'll let you know.

Yesterday I went for my last injections in the Hep A&B series. It feels good to be done with this.
While talking with my doctor, I mentioned the severe headaches I had for 2 weeks. Apparently, they were migraines. She gave me samples of a particular med, in case they come back. We'll see.

Doc made a curious comment. She said it's been observed that some migraines happen in a time of relaxation after great stress. I knew intuitively these headaches were not a coincidence, yet manifested itself as therapy became more rigorous.
So I wondered if there was an emotional stress from keeping original pain hidden, and as I began to free it and allow myself to feel, the headaches appeared.

Something I've become acutely aware of within the last week is how thick the walls, how great my fear, how large my hurt.
Looking in a mirror, the distortions dissipated. I saw myself clearly.

I used to consider myself a romantic. It was something I took pride in. I was incredibly optimistic and painted mental pictures, vivid with mark and music around any and all scenarios. more.
My doctor mentioned yesterday that many say depression is a state of acute awareness.
Looking at her I asked, "and that's supposed to be consoling?" Last week I begged for a full state of oblivion. I asked my shrink over and over to commit me. Lock me up, throw me in a straitjacket and drug me.

A coworker overheard a comment and was surprised I was still living in hell. She said, "but you started painting again and it's going well!!".
I spat out "I'm multitasking".

It's quite bizarre to juggle what appears to be different planes at the same time. I'll be immersed in pain. Then, an idea and a spurt. Out it comes. When complete, pain again encases me again in a cold, concrete cell.

Smashing, isnt' it?

Monday, December 15, 2003

Lydia, from the Pornographer's Diary, added her two hundred cents to my piece on erotic art. That woman can write! She elaborated beautifully on what I alluded to.

I highly recommend the read. It is so worth it. Check it out here.

And while cruising in her site, you gotta read her "Sympathy with the HAIRY BUTTSEX STRAP-ON devil". I promise, you won't be disappointed.

Sunday, December 14, 2003


My piece on erotic art got picked up by Fleshbot sometime last night. I noticed an excessive amount of hits this morning, and so went to referrals to see what instigated the traffic.

Fleshbot is a fairly new e-zine. This is a pretty cool site. At a quick first glance, from looking at the images, it felt like a typical het porn type site. Once I delved into it further, I was impressed. It's about queer and straight sex. There's meat and thought within this world.

They have an arts link which I cruised for a bit. Good stuff. Edgy stuff.
Thank you Jonno and Carly.

Saturday, December 13, 2003

Robert Mapplethorpe, on the subject of erotic art:

"I don't like the word 'erotic'. I think it's pretentious. 'Erotic Art' - either it's art or it's not art. Erotic Art seem to connote something that isn't quite good enough to be art."

For the second year, Seattle is hosting the Seattle Erotic Art Festival.

Both years, I've been asked over and over again to submit work for the show. And, each time, I've opted not to. This doesn’t mean I’ll refuse forever. I may become aware of something new that allows me to change my mind, and so I will remain open to evolution. Yet at this point in my life, erotic art shows are not the place for my paintings.

Now, that being said, I will attend the show. I have no qualms participating, in whatever aspect is required. I love looking at art, always seeking exciting work, something that grabs me. And I am all for people having venues to put themselves out there. But it is currently not the place to show my work.

To preface, I am not discussing literature. Yes, I believe writing can be art as well. Literature, not being my forte, I haven’t even dared think about relating my thoughts to ‘erotic writing’. Regarding painting, drawings, sculpture, photography, etc is a large enough task. I’m not touching music, books, dance, theater. If so inclined, go for it.

The largest problem I’ve had with the term "erotic art" is redundancy. Quality art, in my opinion, is erotic by its very nature regardless of subject matter. There is eroticism in creation. The special something that allows a work of art to stand out is an erotic energy. So either it's art or it isn't. I was excited to find Mapplethorpe’s quote because it summed up, at a base level, what I had been feeling for many years.

'Erotic Art' reminds me of the term 'fine art photography', which I've detested since the late 1980's. Photography is a medium. And either it's art or not. It may be a snapshot, commercial work, or intended art. By labeling it 'fine art photography, I'm reminded of the self-titled 'Lord Master Down on your knees boy' type of Top. Labeling yourself doesn't necessarily make you a good Top.

I've seen some snapshots that were powerful pieces of art. Just show it as such. That's all. If you are into making art from your photographs, the pieces will speak for themselves.

I have one such photo currently sitting on my kitchen table. It’s an image, taken off the cuff, by a boy who does not consider himself an artist. The intent in the photo wasn’t about creating art. He was capturing a moment, simply recording for a larger project. When I printed it out, I was blown away. I told the boy he really needs to mat and frame the image. It’s glorious and it’s a happy accident. Some of our most powerful art is born in those times.

I'm aware that when people talk about erotic art, most speak of subject matter. So what does that really mean? If it's an image of fucking, a closeup of genitals or breasts, or simply a nude, does it automatically qualify as erotic art? Does that mean an image of a naked body falls under the umbrella of erotic art? What about all the traditional figures done throughout the history of art? Those did not need the term 'erotic art' and yet in this day and age...people seem to qualify them as such.

In the realm of art we have landscape, still life and figurative art. Each of those can have what feels to be an intense sexual energy. Erotic art isn't the fourth category. The erotic is quite subjective. What yanks one's chain bores another.

It seems to me that with ‘erotic art', the erotic becomes more important than the ‘art’ part. But how do we define the erotic in ‘erotic art’?

Are we going to attempt to decide what is sexual and what isn't? If so, doesn’t that create a limited view, disregarding the rest of humanity?

Over the years, I’ve seen far too many images that appear to be the standard within this realm, the overdone typical tits and ass shots. The unzipped denim. The woman lounging. It was nice the first time. Now it's boring and trite. What about using the overdone idea and add a twist?
Why not get creative and push your boundaries of what you may consider to be erotic?

Art is about exploration. So, roll up your sleeves, dig in and really explore your definition of erotic. I don't believe art should be safe.

What keeps me painting is the question - can I display my soul on canvas? Can I do that regardless of subject matter? My belly, my cunt, my mind and heart. Isn’t that where the erotic resides?

If the work happens to include what this society considers sexy, what actually makes it successful is the energy that exudes from the work.
I’ve seen a few of these.

My physician has a quilt on her wall in the waiting room. The subject is about choice. The quilt has nine panels, each of operatic heroines in the process of killing themselves. It's done in a simple folk art manner. I love it because it's totally twisted, especially given the context of hanging in a medical family practice office. The concept, and setting somehow make the piece quite sexy.

And here are a couple links to images that I’ve previously posted in my blog. If you’ve been paying attention, you’d know that I attempt to show you work that I consider quite erotic… a few which do not follow the general idea of ‘erotic art’.

Sea Foam Mistake by Stuart Ober

Two models by Grigor’ev Ivan

Emily Eveleth seems to consistently portray the erotic in her work.

various images

this and that

one more.

My largest fear regarding the popularity of the genre of erotic art is the pigeonholing of art. I fear the real possibility of one day attempting to show my work and a gallery says, "I'm sorry, we don't handle this. You need to go to the erotic gallery down the street". It wouldn't be a matter of abstract versus realist, or someone who showcases more mature talent, or a specific subject matter. Yet, they would decide that my work was erotic or too erotic? I don't think so.
I can imagine hearing a similar response when applying for a grant or competition of some sort.

I do NOT want my art to be meant for the over 18 crowd, with disclaimers attached.

I think of Egon Schiele. Or look at Manet's Dejeuner sur l'herbe, which created a ruckus. It was a radical piece at the time, quite controversial. Note Proust’s relaying of Manet’s comment in the link.

What if there was an 'erotic art' venue where they could show their work? Would their art have ever been integrated into the greater history of art? Would we as students have studied their work and had access to viewing them in museums? Or would it have remained separate?

Last year I went to the Frye Museum for an exhibit of figurative work. Many traditional nudes, academic poses. No controversial work. Walking into the gallery space, there was a sign at the entrance that gave me chills. The sign mentioned that much of the work shown may not be appropriate for minors. In a museum!!!!
Is that where we are headed?
This is what I'm afraid of.

I fear we aren't looking at the larger picture.

For being more progressive with our sexuality, I have a real distaste for how we attempt to segregate, under the guise of being sex positive, instead of join art and all of sex. By labeling, we are setting it aside, which also makes for an easier target by the fundies.

In my opinion, being sex positive is a recognition that sex breathes heavy in all aspects of life. It is not a separate category, relegated to the tolerance of a red light district. Sex positive is integration, not simply acceptance, of our whole selves.
I am trying to complete my piece on erotic art which I've periodically alluded to. This morning, weighing heavy on me, I pulled out the document. Let's see if I can finally finish this!

The delay is because my ideas surrounding erotic art are non-linear. It's all very passionate circular thinking. It is quite difficult for me to write down and make concrete such a mental/emotional response.

Friday, December 12, 2003

It's been a few days. Methinks you're gonna get a bunch of snippets.

Although I've desired to write, there didn't seem to be anything I could say. This isn't only with my blog, yet I noticed with my therapist as well. Most times, I'll jot down quick notes and bring it with me, so I don't forget to tell him certain thoughts or incidences. But I couldn't even bring myself to do that this week. I stayed silent. Kept it all locked up.

Fuckin' depressing, eh?

I'm torn between wanting to open up, rage about something going on in the world, finish one of my in process rants and finally post it here....or...keep quiet.

Looking out the window, I notice it's raining. Not regular Seattle rain, but big, fat, hairy drops.

Ohmigod. LOL. Glancing over at my phone I noticed my pets. You see, we all have these critters and toys in the office. There's a tradition that when someone goes on vacation, they bring back cheapo, silly goodies for each of us. It's mostly little creatures. The last time, it was these plastic, goopy, slimy feeling animals - frogs, lizards, dragons, worms etc. Little, 2 to 4 inches. Well, I've had a yellow frog and a turquoise lizard stuck to my phone. Apparently, one of the boys played with them yesterday because their positions are different. Slimy lizard is now wicked into smelling yellow frog's butt.

A really good friend of mine, actually a brother, began a blog last week. I need to speak with him further before I link it here, because I'm not sure how out he wants to be. I'll keep you posted on that.

I owe a few people emails....and set up some coffee dates. Thing is, when the pain gets rough, I retreat into myself.
I feel like a biohazard in these moments, walking around, oozing out green glowing pus that contaminates everything it touches. So, I like to keep it to myself, or may share with a couple that I trust, such as Sir, the Bear, wonderboy and Always Erect.

I think I want to talk about the last week and a half, but sometimes wonder "why bother?" I currently have quite a few daily hits, and except for a handful that I'm in communication with, or know....I still struggle with 'why do I reveal myself to this large black void'? Yet, I began this blog with a mindful integrity. Although I knew I set specific boundaries determining what I reveal regarding others, or certain things in my life....other stuff seems to fall in the gray. This is one of those times.

You know I've been working hard emotionally. It's been a struggle, and at times, although I may not have written about it, a real fight for my life. How interesting is it to write about that?

I'd like to be able to write about a packed lusty filled s/m life, but I wrote before, s/m is a luxury.

Here's an interesting tidbit. For me, not others, but for me, I never wanted to use my s/m as some type of therapy. And I've been quite intent on doing that. Granted, I know a scene may have therapeutic value. I think that's why I've pulled away from play. I figure the biggest scenes are with my therapist right now, and there will be time enough to get back into play when I'm over the worse of this. I have the whole rest of my life.

But last week I noticed a desire to have a unique scene specifically designed to further my soul healing. I mentioned it in my session yesterday...and asked my therapist's advice. He thought it a good idea, although I mentioned (and he concurred) that now isn't the right time. It would be with a sacred healer who specializes in using s/m. And, whether or not he would actually attend, I'd request the presence of my therapist. Not to physically participate, but for possible assistance with grounding afterwards. Yeah, it would be an expensive day. This wouldn't be a one hour session.

Bah. Didn't I say this would be a depressing entry?

Wednesday, December 10, 2003

This week's Rob Brezsny horoscope.

I've never posted my horoscope...well...just because. Today, I'm making an exception.
It says that talent and hard work aren't enough. My problem is a lack of testicles! :-)

"Capricorn actress Drea de Matteo's career is in full bloom. Besides her regular role on HBO's "The Sopranos," she has been in nine movies since 2001. To what should we attribute her success? Lots of talent, for one. A playwright mother who exposed her to the theater early, for two. During her recent appearance on Carson Daly's "Last Call" TV show, she revealed a ballsy magic that constitutes a third ingredient. She told Daly she keeps the testicles of her Great Dane, which she had neutered a few years ago, in a jar of formaldehyde by her bed. Take inspiration from her example, Capricorn. It's high time you acknowledged the fact that skill and hard work may not be enough to get you where you want to go; you also need mojo."
Transvestite potter Grayson Perry wins Turner Prize for art

After seeing that headline in the SFGate, I checked out Grayson Perry's work. Here is his homepage and recent work.

Tuesday, December 09, 2003

Thanks to Padacia for this link. A new photographer (for me). The work is quite good, especially the Soul gallery. Modern primitives of a sort? I'm not speaking of the term coined by Fakir Musafar, with tattoos and piercings. But instead, ancient, primitive art.

Look at this little 8th century greek bronze horse. It's one of my absolute favorite works from the history of art...ever since first glance back in '84.
The images from Soul immediately brought this little horse to mind. From the website, the following description of the little horse could easily be applied to Legoues' glorious figures:

"...we see how the artist has captured the essence of the animal in all of its majestic beauty. The solid masses of the horse's main attributes, such as its head, mane, and powerful legs, are complemented by the slender and elegant curve of its tail and the narrow line of its torso. In effect, the shape of the animal has been simplified to its essential elements. So what at first glance appears to be a seemingly primitive form of abstraction is actually revealed to be a highly developed and sophisticated technique of depiction."

The following so grabbed my attention:

Do artists need narcotics even more than ordinary people?

Of course, I needed to keep reading. In the Independent, Richard Davenport-Hines writes:

"Constant sobriety is not a natural or pleasant condition, and intoxicants are an essential part of life and literature."

This is from a wonderful article on artists and the use of drugs. (I was having problems accessing the be patient and try a little later if you encounter this). Interesting points are made including the fact that it wasn't until prohibition and the 20th century that drugs were deemed bad. Until then, they'd be relax, to sleep, to assist with creation.

Yet now (in my opinion), unless it's a gov't controlled substance, it's considered evil. Hmmm....remember the original witchburnings? The Catholic Church wanted absolute power, and deemed midwives and healers as satanic. If I agree with this article, regarding drug use, I could say the same thing about our government. I may be making a leap here, and honestly don't have the energy to expound on this right now, so maybe it's not fair to throw this out without more explanation. But you know....think for yourselves. Where does your mind go when you begin a thought? Do you need to have all the steps laid out for you? If came to the wrong place. I detest spoon feeding.

Notice? I'm cranky today and therefore totally jumped from one thing to another.
Maybe I need some of those drugs.
I was looking at papers online yesterday, checking out the Nor'easter. Hitting the NYTimes, then the Boston Globe, I ended with the Portsmouth Herald, to see how the seacoast fared. I remember nights, looking up at the sky and seeing the snow moon. It's distinct. There's a large cream, white halo surrounding the moon. The air smells of snow. One of my favorite things to do would be to take walks, late at night, feeling the snow fall. Areas would be lit from the moonlight hitting the snow. Street lights weren't needed. My preference would be to walk in areas without commercial lights.

Another favorite thing is when a storm hits. The wind is fierce, the snow slams sideways. The act of bundling up, knowing I'll stay nestled in my house, would bring special rituals. Walking to the corner store for milk and bread. Making sure I have hot chocolate fixin's, and always a treat, I'd return home, throw in my favorite movies and curl up by the window...watching the snow.

I miss that.

But, I don't miss the day after day cold. I don't miss the slush and ice, although dawn after an icestorm is truly magical.

I think because I've been struggling, my mind has been seeking comfort memories. I have many.

I've been spending much more time at Septieme's, settled in my booth. I intentionally spent time on Green Lake, because that walk around the lake soothes me. My first 3 years in Seattle were spent on Green Lake. I had a nice very little apartment a couple blocks from the lake. I could see Mt Rainier and the lake from my living room window. Each morning, I'd get up around 5:30, to walk the 3 mile loop.

Seeking the familiar. It's because I'm delving into the unfamiliar, which feels odd. It is all a part of me, but it's a me I'm getting reintroduced to, and seeing in a new way.

Monday, December 08, 2003

Gee, I've really pulled back, haven't I?

Just wanted to let you know I haven't disappeared. I still owe Blackbird some answers. :-)

I do have a list of some really fun things to share, but can't right now. Going through the wringer has wiped me out inside. I see my therapist tomorrow...and I can imagine myself walking into his office, crumbling to a heap, and crying. It's been a tough week, although it is getting better. Some release and connection would be good right now.

Saturday, December 06, 2003

Do you remember when I wrote about having tougher stuff to go through, regarding therapy, yet needed the break?

Well, apparently we don't always get to choose. It happens when it's supposed to, I guess. I've spent the last two days walking and being in this place. And honestly, it's horrid. Therefore I haven't been blogging. I thought I could talk about it this morning, but I don't know how. So you may hear from me later...or not.

Friday, December 05, 2003

Remember Senator Rick Santorum?

If not, don't fret. Here's a way to remember him, Spreading Santorum.
Today in Fossilised crustacean boasts oldest penis

From the article:
The five millimetre long crustacean, discovered by UK and US researchers, has been named Colymbosathon ecplecticos - derived from the Greek for "astounding swimmer with a large penis".

The well-endowed creature is surprisingly similar to modern relatives, despite being entombed nearly half a billion years ago, says the team.

Thursday, December 04, 2003

Okay. I found out a couple hours ago how out of it I was this morning. After work, I went to the Cuff (one of the two leather bars in town) to meet a friend. He and I were talking, and I mentioned my blog entry for today. He...ummm...reminded me I was flagging right, not left. I had written "left' in this morning's entry. So, I just went in and edited it (for those of you who have already read this morning's entry). I'm a bottom. Although a novice fisting top, I am so a bottom when it comes to being beat.
Yesterday Hoss wrote about soul memory.

Struck by those words, I reread his entry again this morning. Soul memory. I'm not sure I really know what this is, and being currently mentally engaged with something else, I haven't put the energy into really figuring it out.

But, wanna know my gutt reaction? Sometimes, that's truer than all the intellectual masturbation I can do on a subject.

Soul memory. There have been a few experiences in my life that hit such a deep place. It wasn't a matter of simply feeling extreme emotion, yet it resonated within the darkest, most hidden nook in my being. Some of these moments were painful and others joyful. But they all spoke to home....home, in regards to touching the essence of who I am.

It was more than rekindling a desire or touching a pain. A visceral reaction that had me step back and say "wow...where did that come from?" "Why does it touch me so viciously, so loudly."

I can't even talk about examples right now, although a handful of them are floating in front of my face.

The last few days have been disturbing. It's bizarre at times how we can go through a day and embrace all, the glory and the hurt. Enjoy one while feeling another.

My therapist is away this week. A few nights ago I had a really strange experience. I emailed it to him, and therefore can now mention it here.

I was sound asleep. Everything black, no memory other than sleep. In a flash I'm transported to his office, with each of us sitting in our respective chairs. I can see him so clearly. "You are supposed to be away this week." He responds with "I know, but I'm needed here."

And then I'm flown back to the dark, to sleep. A two minute space of altered reality. That's what it felt like.

The last few days has had new stuff coming up. I'm struggling. Struggling something fierce.

While getting ready for work, for some reason, I pulled out my black hankie...and stuffed it in my right back pocket. Why? What's the purpose? I needed to remind myself that I'm a heavy bottom. Yet the act of placing a black piece of fabric in my right back pocket brought me to tears. I cried all the way to work.

My s/m goes deep. I thought I knew that. But each day, with each new speck of awareness, I discover how integral it is to my living.

So this morning I'm flagging black right. I needed to remind myself who I am, regardless of the pain it brings up.
Just walked in the door. Remember Always Erect?

Well he moved across country at the end of August. Yesterday he arrived in town for 2 weeks. Yahoo! I spent the evening with him. He met me at work. Actually, I had stepped out of the office for a bit, and when I returned, there he the flesh...sitting in my chair. God he looks good. We hugged, and didn't want to let go. He's shaved his head, and given himself a beard. Fuckin' sexy. As I'm oohing over his head, he's doing the same to mine.

We then headed to Septieme's for a bit, to catch up on alone time before heading to the Bear's and wonderboy's for dinner. I can see he's happy. Happy and incredibly relaxed. He kept looking at me, grinning, telling me how beautiful I looked with no hair.

At the guys' home, we sat to dinner, everyone catching up. Then we moved to the living room where we curled up...and chilled. Plopping down next to AE...we just had to touch. I miss him.

He's invited me to spend time with him back east. It's going to happen. In this next year, I'll be there for a visit. AE is busy all week, but we'll hook up again next Wednesday. Can't wait.

Wednesday, December 03, 2003

Blackbird asked me further questions about my job and stuff. I began a blog entry to answer his question, and have been so busy that it's still in draft form, uncompleted.

I'm stressed. It's my third day back at work. Normally, when returning from vacation, there's so much to do that any relaxation from the time off goes out the window...and is forgotten. But I made it thru Monday and Tuesday feeling I had everything under control. Not today. Each time I attempt to work on something that needs to be completed, someone walks into my office asking about something else. Ugh.
I had to step out for a quick walk to clear my head. Now I'm back, and I've gotta dig into this again.

talk with you later.

It's Rob Brezsny time.

Tuesday, December 02, 2003

A little afternoon delight.

Water boy just came and went. He's the guy who delivers our bottled water. All ye who dare cross our portal become fair game.

Water boy is hot. Youngish...late 20's. Shaved, growing out head, scruffy beard and stache...great legs. Due to his uniform, we couldn't get a good view of his ass, but I'm sure it's fine.

He walked in with the bottles of water, coming in the middle of our debate on whether or not Adam Sandler is woofie. Waterboy grins. Great smile. I immediately imagine my coworker's dick in waterboy's hungry mouth.

We watched waterboy come, and waterboy go.

As he was leaving, I envisioned showing waterboy to the quiet room (it's one office that actually is enclosed with walls, ceiling and a door). From there we'd tie him up and leave him. When we need a break from working so hard, we'd take turns visiting waterboy. He'd be kneeling in the corner, with his pants wrapped around his knees. Ready, waiting and blindfolded. He'd learn quickly that his mouth needs to be open when he hears the door. Prepared to take cock or piss. If he's a good boy we'd slap him around a bit. I want to see blood appear at the corner of his beautiful lips. I want his face bruised. Periodically someone would call his workplace, reassuring them he's okay, but has been detained....something about his excellent customer service.

I email 3 of my coworkers with my little group fantasy. One by one I hear chuckles and/or moans as the email is opened.

I love my job.
Mark Morford, columnist for SFGate rocks.

I've copied this morning's Morford fix, and his take on the ToysRUs recall of sidewalk chalk for kids.

Goddammit Timmy Stop Licking The Sidewalk

Toys "R" Us is recalling 50,000 packages of sidewalk chalk because the chalk contains lead at levels high enough to poison young children. No accidents or illnesses have been reported. The chalk comes in a clear plastic backpack-style carrying case and is labeled "Chalk to Go... Totally Me! ... 24 pieces, sidewalk chalk in different colors, fun chalk shapes." The package also says "Conforms to ASTM-D4236," which translates to mean "Affirmative confirmation of fully sniffable dethyhydrocephylcerbramethlyparabin mind-control microparticles present in sufficient numbers herein to further super-secret government-sanctioned Illuminati-funded agenda of gradually and diabolically numbing sweet tender young minds so they will be appropriately mushy and malleable and perfectly ready to accept a life filled with bitter incessant setbacks and credit card debt and vaguely miserable marriages and the notion that professional sports is somehow not totally homoerotic." Toys 'R' Us spokespersons were unavailable for comment, as they were undergoing massive retraining in underground Scientology cult brainwashin' clubhouses so they may stare at kids all creepy-like in participating stores and make them cry.

Monday, December 01, 2003

I'm obviously not with it today.

It's World AIDS Day.

Stop and think.

I'm at work. It's my first unofficial day back. Our board gave us today as a paid holiday, but I opted to come in, knowing there'd be lots to catch up on, and I could do it quietly without distraction. Time enough tomorrow for chatter and listening to everyone's holiday stories.

Writing to a friend this morning, I was reminded how sometimes we, as artists (creative types) are fortunate enough to have another artist in our life who will challenge us as we can challenge them. A reciprical relationship...all about feeding the creative spirit.

In spring of '96, after completing my thesis, I had such a relationship. I met Painter while in school. She was about my age, and we connected on one level because we were the "older" students...both returning after a long hiatus. She was straight...and engaged to be married. I was queer, struggling between the lesbian separatism I knew and what my ass was really screaming for - queer cock. I thought she was the best student painter I had ever met. She thought I was.

We are both shy in a way. Introverts. In general, a dislike for the masses and the chaos and chatter of society. Painting is so personal to each of us, and it wasn't about being liked or becoming famous. We similarly felt that kudos from many didn't mean squat. Yet that one phrase from a tough prof, "I think you are finally getting somewhere"...was gold. Our principles, and ideas surrounding art were in sync.

Painter and I had talked about going out into the public with our easels to paint. We lived on the seacoast. It was gorgeous. There was ocean, and tidal pools and marshes. Little bridges and old neighborhoods with lobster shacks and cobblestone streets. The area cried to be caressed with oils. And it craved a new way of painting this landscape...something different than the typical "motif #1" and cheesy paintings found in souvenir shops. But both being private people who detested having anyone look at us while we paint...we cringed at the idea.

I have no idea where we grabbed our gutts...but we did. For some odd reason, the day after school let out, Painter and I found ourselves outdoors painting. We didn't go to a secluded spot. Instead...we were in the center of town, in Market Square, during the week about 10 am! What possessed us to jump into the fire like that? I haven't any idea. We picked our spots...and painted. Obviously passersby could see us.

After painting a while, we noticed that office workers in the buildings around us were looking out their windows, trying to see what we were doing. Noontime...they flooded into the street, to our corner. Painter and I gave each other these panic stricken looks, quickly packed up our paints and gear, and split...rather quickly...ending up at Poco's on the docks, our favorite mexican restaurant, for massive doses of tequila. We were painters. Absinthe wasn't accessible, but tequila was.

Gee. I had totally forgotten about that, until I started writing. I'm honestly impressed that is how we chose to break ground.

Our need to paint the outdoors was greater than our fear. We tried again. This time we chose more isolated locations. We'd head out to Kittery Point and Fort Foster.

Every once in a while we would attempt to paint in a more populated area. Each time, a disaster. To this day, I haven't painted in public because of our experiences. We felt like caged animals. Tourists would walk by. "Oh honey, look at the artists."
We became nonpeople. Personal space that would normally be respected was thrown out the window because we apparently become public property.

Here are snippets:

"What are you painting?" (get very tired of answering that every 5 minutes especially when the fucking building is right in front of their face)

"Why are you using that color. I don't see it out there. It doesn't belong."

"This doesn't look like what I see"

"Do you mind if we take your picture?" (As we say 'no photographs', the man would walk in back of us, and the woman would snap the photo anyway. Ugh.)

Sitting on a park bench painting, people would sit beside us to see what we were doing. Now it wasn't simply sitting there, but literally glued up against me, pressing their body into mine, their face almost touching mine. Huge ugh.

One day, again painting in the center of town, everyone would stop to ask us for directions to various attractions. Thing is...the information booth was 50 feet away, and it was open!!! Chamber of Commerce should have placed us on their payroll.

After a month of this, we thought we'd be smart. We made a couple sandwich board signs saying (in big letters)... "women working. Keep away". People ignored it.

These aren't singular examples, yet would happen time and time again. The only reason Painter and I put up with it as long as we did was because we really, truly wanted to be out there painting. We thought that maybe this time it would be different. Or maybe we'd get used to it.

One day we went in drag. We decided to get large straw hats with flowers, and put on bright red lipstick. We figured if we were caricatures of sort, and got into a role, maybe it wouldn't bother us so. But that didn't work either.

Once I hit the top of a parking garage. That was great. Looking down on the town, and no one bothered me.
But just want to paint more than isolation.

Someone could be sitting in the park writing, and strangers don't approach that person with "can I see what you wrote?". Construction guys don't get continually stopped with questions... "what are you digging? Why?"
It 's another example of artists not being accepted in the same way as other professions. Yet it's seen as something special, which I think is bullshit. I may be able to paint. But I can't program a computer. I can't do heart surgery. I can't sit at a microscope and research viruses. I can't stay at home, bear children and raise healthy, happy kids. We are all graced with gifts. I hate that some are seen as "different". That differentness prevents artists from being legitimized. It allows for major funding cuts in schools. It perpetuates the myth that art is a luxury.

Anyway, Painter and I enjoyed working together. In the moments we had, before being pestered by the public, we'd immerse ourselves in our work. Peeking over my shoulder I'd see her make a stroke and amazement would rush over me. Running over to her, "how did you do that? Don't you dare change it!!!"

She'd do the same with me. We strove to be better...for ourselves and for the other. We taught each other about painting, taking and giving back. Powerful stuff.
Not much different than a dungeon scene, eh? Whether it's sitting down to an amazing meal with people, painting, fucking or getting the shit beat out of you...if it's with connection and open spirit, the basic power dynamic is the same.

Each bringing their strengths to the table. What can I offer as a submissive...a masochist? As a newly burgeoning fisting top...what do I bring and how can I serve the man spread open in front of me?

Back to my time with Painter. Those spaces of time were great. Until the public came crashing in. It would blow our concentration and the energy created would dissipate. Now that I think of it, it's not any different than having someone crash your scene. Being a voyeur is one thing, because there's an exchange of energy. A lurker, leerer or parasite is another. This is another reason why I prefer not to play in large public spaces. I can feel the difference between a voyeur who is partaking versus a bloodsucker.

Hmmm...keep going off on tangents. Although it is all the same stuff. Simply different tools.

Let me say, regarding working in public - I fully understand that people are curious. I know that painters working outdoors isn't a common occurence and therefore folks want to see. I understand that there's an unspoken idea that if the painter is working outdoors it means he is approachable.

But...I was appalled at how supposed good manners go out the window when something is "out there". There's a sense of entitlement by the greater world. I detest that idea.

I hated the idea that we became common property. And once again...I see that in the Leather community as well. There are some elders, who are somwhat public (when they CHOOSE to be). Believe it or not, I've heard rumblings, whining and complaints by the starving masses..."why don't you teach us. You have to. It's your job. You are out there, and we need it."
There is an idea that someone is selfish if they choose not to share their knowledge with everyone.
And yet...there's never any mention of what these parasitic students will give back in return.

These clamorers don't even stop to think that maybe the elder is serving his community in other ways. maybe they are volunteering outside of the leather community? Maybe they choose to give where it's appreciated and there is an exchange of energy.

Wow...I'm seeing huge connections as I'm writing. Painting in public hits a sore spot in my heart. I desire it so, yet by being public, boundaries seem to go out the fuckin' window. I miss playing in public. For an introvert, I am also an exhibitionist. Yet, the same lack of boundaries, good manners and graciousness keeps me away.

I begin by talking about Painter...and wrap up with Leather.
It's all the same.