poeticdesires

Category: Music

  • Random Observations

    Some random observations that came to mind while at work this evening:

    1- Baby, It’s Cold Outside is really rape-y.

    Like really rape-y. Not all of it, mind you, but parts of it are really REALLY rape-y.

    “Baby don’t hold out”
    “Say what’s in this drink?”
    “What’s the sense of hurting my pride?”
    “I simply must go/The answer is no”

    I’ve owned the Glee rendition of this song for quite some time now, I think almost a year actually, and yet it wasn’t until I listened to it tonight when I realized just how rape-y it is.

    My best guess as to why it took me (a person who prides herself on actually listening to the lyrics of songs) so long to come to this realization is the structure of the song. With two overlapping vocals, I often found myself listening (and singing along) to the “female” portions. (Female, for those who do not know, is in quotation marks because the person who performs that part for the Glee rendition is actually a gay man who happens to be a natural soprano.)

    For some random reason, I listened to the “Male” portions more acutely tonight and I found myself smiling at how rape-y the lyrics are.

    With a sly grin, I wondered if any kinky folk out there had already beat me to the punch. There must have been, or there must be, a scene with this song as inspiration. Hmm, or maybe I’ll write something.

    Ooo… new blog post coming soon.

    2- Why do we not have unisex bathrooms?

    When I left the vendor room to use the restroom, walking in front of me was a gentleman and a little lady.

    You know the type: the flower girl with the huge poofy dress with a large bow in the back, twirling, giggling, getting lost in the fabric, the type that makes me smile and melts my heart and reaffirms my want of a podling some day, hopefully.

    Well the gentleman led the little lady down the hall to the restrooms and opened the door for the men’s room. The little lady then turned around and pointed at the ladies’ room door behind her, saying, “I go in there.”

    The gentleman (I’m assuming her Dad) replied, “Only if your mother is in there.”

    I slipped by the two of them during this exchange.

    As I chose a stall, I could hear the pitter patter of the little lady as she checked every stall. No one else was in the restroom except me. The gentleman yelled, asking the little lady if her mother was in there. And, since she wasn’t, he beckoned her back out.

    Here’s my question: Why didn’t he just stand there and wait while the little lady used the facilities? Did he really think someone (meaning me) would be offended? Was it that big of a deal for a man to be in the ladies’ room?

    I’m sure I could go off on a tangent about our shame based culture, about Puritanical beliefs and practices, societal norms, and blah blah blah…

    It’s just… Since attending a number of kinky camps, and sharing bathrooms with all genders at the same time, I realized at that moment, witnessing this exchange between a man and his daughter, just how much I didn’t care if the man was in the restroom, and just how much he did care.

    Our society (okay, tiny rant) has all these rules but for what? That little girl needed to use the restroom; would it really have rocked the world if the gentleman watching her waited patiently for her inside the restroom?

    Maybe it’s because I don’t live a Puritanical life. Maybe it’s because I don’t give a shit about a lot of random little societal things.

    It’s just… dude, it’s okay if you’re in the ladies room. The world will not end. And I really didn’t care.

    Oh and by-the-way: he took her into the men’s room.

  • NME

    With busy season for my job in full swing, I have once again experienced a bout of seasonal financial panic. I’ve shut down most of my spending, packing food for work, trying to figure out the cheapest way to park my vehicle, etc.

    But there is one thing I can not and will not skimp on, one thing I allow myself to impulse buy always: music.

    I’ve spoken about my love for music before, how at times it saves me (see my Twitter feed). I find myself falling in love with new artists, new sounds, new songs regularly, riding multiple waves of NME almost all the time. (NME: New Music Energy; poly folk can laugh, or cringe, as they wish).

    Recently it has been three artists, one album, and two songs that have taken my heart soaring.

    The first was Frank Ocean. He crafted his first solo album and released it this past summer.

    I learned of his work through an NPR music review. Frankly, NPR has never steered me wrong. (And, to be completely honest, I should’ve listened to them on a negative review that would’ve saved me $12.)

    Ocean has worked on other artists’ albums but this one was his own baby, Channel Orange, and I love it.

    I’ve found myself repeating songs over and over, getting lost in the over arching story, imagining an entire dance performance around the lyrics.

    Often, when I listen to music, my mind goes to dance, or creating a music video, shaping some sort of fantasy with the song as the background.

    With Channel Orange, I saw two bodies moving over a plain stage, teasing at first, push-and-pull, but then together, connected, wrenched by each other’s love.

    There is one particular song on Channel Orange that really strikes me: Bad Religion.

    Frank Ocean is infamous in the hip hop and R&B world for admitting that he fell in love with a man when he was young. Bad Religion is a poetic documentation of his inner struggle. He equates loving someone who can’t love you back as a bad religion, “This unrequited love/To me it’s nothing but a one man cause/And cyanide in my Styrofoam cup/I can never make him love me.” 

    The beauty and pain of this song, of this album, is more than worth your look, your time, and if you so choose, your money.

    My two latest musical muses have been songs I randomly discovered. The first is Adele’s theme to the new Bond movie, Skyfall.

    The story: I was waiting for a party to end, waiting to be able to breakdown the gear and go home, killing time by playing on my phone, when I pulled up YouTube and saw it as a featured video.

    And then I played it. And played it. Over and over, I think at least five times in a row.

    Adele’s voice is one I can get lost in, one I have gotten lost in with her other music. This song does not disappoint.

    This song’s fantasy was a bit… different.

    I imagined myself decked out in a tight modern dancer’s outfit, my hair down and flowing, all while also spinning fire poi.

    (By-the-way, for those who don’t know, I’m pretty sure this can never happen, seeing the whole threat of my hair catching on fire and the outfit burning and sticking to my skin and all; hence why it is a fantasy.)

    I saw myself jumping, leaping, twirling while spinning, gracing the air around me with the fire’s heat and my body’s extensions, lines, curves, flame and movement creating a dark dance with Adele’s voice in the background.

    I haven’t purchased this song just yet, but I did make my first pair of practice poi. Let your mind go where it may.

    The last song, the newest song, the now song, is less about the major name listed and more about the minor artist featured: Wiz Khalifa feat. TheWeeknd – Remember You.

    TheWeeknd’s voice. His voice. Oh my God his voice. And the lyrics. The sensual, sexy, oh my fucking God lyrics. I heard this song once on the radio and immediately thought, Who is this?

    After some Google-fu, I found him.

    TheWeeknd is Canadian (as many fine folk are) and has yet to release a studio album (guttural scream!). He has released mix tapes, and his first studio album is due out next month.

    I tried to purchase the single on iTunes, but unfortunately it is only available if I purchase Wiz Khalifa’s entire album.

    TheWeeknd is another voice where I loose myself. While listening to this song, while listening to this man sing, I loose all sense of time and place and am floating on a racing roller coaster through the sky while being eaten out by his voice.

    He has the kind of voice that makes me want to fuck him. Yes, it is that good.

    Bad bitch, girl, I think I might get used to yah
    I might have to take your number when I’m through wit yah
    All I ask of you is try to earn my memory
    Make me remember you
    Like you remember me

    I want to fuck to this song. I want to fuck to this song on endless repeat, sweaty, nasty sex, where we don’t care who hears, what anyone says, what anyone thinks. Where we get lost in each other’s body, each other’s breathing. Where we get lost in fucking.

    I love this song.

    I will admit I’m a little pissed I can’t get the song. I’ve found it on YouTube and have already played it three times while writing this blog. 

    Sometimes, when it comes to amazing music, you just have to wait. So, for now, I’m being patient. And I keep hitting play on YouTube.

  • Uncensored

    Save for brushing against each other while in passing, we didn’t touch for hours. He did this on purpose.

    “I haven’t decided if I’m going to fuck you tonight.”

    It was the first time I’d seen him since right after my spring break. The first time I’d seen him since he told me he had a girlfriend. The first time we’d gotten together in a month.

    He’d canceled on me twice since, so I didn’t actually think I was going to see the Gent last night, but then he showed up.

    “How are you going to feel if we fuck?”
    “I’ll be fine. Wait, am I lying to myself? My emotions are my emotions. It is not your job to take care of me.”
    “You’re my friend, so of course I want to take care of you. Of course I care about your emotions.”

    I wanted to fuck him. I really wanted to fuck him. I didn’t want to think about how I’d feel after.

    Since I decided to be completely open and honest with him, no longer censoring my thoughts, stopping myself from asking questions or relaying my opinions, words that I never thought I’d say left my lips Tuesday night over french fries among the din of the bar/pool hall.

    “You know you are going to break up with her. She wants to wait til marriage for sex, and you are such a sexual person.

    “I mean, it’s obvious, it is so fucking obvious that you should be with me.

    “So when you break up with her, because you are going to break up with her, I’ll be here, and I’ll say, ‘Alright, let’s do this.’

    “And I’m not saying that this is it or I’ve found the one or some bullshit like that. But our chemistry is amazing. And you’re a good friend. And you make me laugh. So I think we should give this a try.”

    When we finally did touch, it was outside while we stood beneath an overhang away from the light rain. He asked me my odds on us fucking that night.

    “60/40.”
    “In favor?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s high.”
    “Not really. It’s just favorable.”

    He had been playing a song over and over again for the past week. I said I had as well.

    “Wouldn’t it be weird if it were the same song?”
    “It’s not the same song.”

    But he was right; it would’ve been weird.

    His endless repeat reminded me of European pop rock, trance-like, with unintelligible lyrics, though I thought the vocalist was singing about waiting.

    As I listened, his phone resting on his right arm, we both leaned over the railing. My left arm snuck up against his. It didn’t matter that three layers of clothing stood between our skin. It felt intense to be near him.

    I closed my eyes and took in the music. I swiveled my hips, finding myself wanting to dance.

    My endless repeat was J. Cole feat. Missy Elliott – Nobody’s Perfect. Truth be told, J. Cole has nothing to do with why I love the song. The back beat and Missy Elliott’s chorus make me want to hear the single over and over again.

    Nobody’s perfect, Nobody’s perfect, A, A
    But you’re perfect for me
    Nobody’s perfect, Nobody’s perfect, A, A
    But you’re perfect for me
    We rumbling, we riding
    He like to go inside and
    I love to go all night and
    We rock the boat Poseidon
    I love to call your name, name, name
    And baby I love to call your name, name, name, yeah…

    This wasn’t a marathon session, unfortunately; we only hung out for a few hours at the bar. He walked me to my car and said he was going home, alone. No reason why, other than the time. It was around 10:30pm.

    “If we start fucking, I won’t want to stop.”
    “I’ve trained myself to survive on an hour’s sleep.”

    I looped a finger through his belt.

    “Not in public.”
    “Right, your job.”
    “Conservative company.”
    “You could use your job as an excuse for just about anything.”
    “Yup.”

    We finally hugged. He let me linger in his arms as I took in his scent, a scent I caught in passing throughout our evening. I had almost forgotten how good he smells.

    As we parted, and he strolled away, for a moment he paused, spinning his keys on his finger, a large grin on his face. This is how I remember him.

    With Shibaricon in eight days, his now frequent travel for his job, and me neck deep in busy season, I don’t know when I’ll see the Gent again. But I do so look forward to our next encounter.

    I’m guessing when I bring this up to Doc, he’ll praise me for sticking up for myself, not sitting idly by and letting life shit on me.

    I did something different. What comes of it, though, is yet to be seen.

  • She Is Lost

    I wanna dance with somebody
    I wanna feel the heat with somebody
    Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody
    With somebody who loves me

    I often feel weird when a celebrity dies. Because of the nature of our society, it feels like you almost know the person, even though you really don’t. The parts of their lives we see are filtered through the news media, through reality shows, through publicists.

    Some deaths pass over my head because I don’t know the person or their story was just not a part of my life. And then there are those whose presence was weaved into my existence to such an extent that I stop and pause when I hear about the news.

    Last night, as I drove to a restaurant to have dinner with a friend, I found myself singing classic Whitney Houston songs rather loudly in my car. My R&B stations had gone to all Whitney in dedication to her life. I’d learned of the news just before I left, having already stopped for a moment to let the knowledge sink in.

    As I drove, and I sang, I realized how much her music had touched my life. Memories of sitting in the car with my Mom driving here or there. Memories of family members, of summer get togethers, cookouts, barbecues, and the like. Being little and dancing around on my Mom’s King sized bed in just my long night shirt singing to her music on the radio.

    A year or two ago, I bought my Mom a greatest hits album of Whitney’s for her birthday or Christmas; I can’t remember which. My Mom has it in her car still, and not just in its case. It’s in the CD rotator, one of five she listens to on a regular basis.

    Before Bobby Brown. Before the reality show. Before the drugs. Before the mediocre movie roles. She was this vibrant woman with a voice that shook me. Her voice was a part of my childhood.

    So, once again, we’ve lost another celebrity. Possibly to drugs. Possibly because her body was weaken by the toxins. Possibly it was an aneurysm or a stroke or a heart attack or a slip-and-fall or any number of things that can befall anyone at any time. We don’t know yet.

    However she passed, last night we lost another song bird, another voice of our community. She is lost.

  • Music Saves Me

    When you walk by every night/Talking sweet and looking fine/I get kinda hectic inside/Baby I’m so into you/Darling if you only knew/All the things that go through my mind
    Mariah Carey – Fantasy
     
    I wanna dance with somebody/I wanna feel the heat with somebody/Yeah, I wanna dance with somebody/With somebody who loves me
    Whitney Houston – I Wanna Dance With Somebody
     
    What a difference…

    So I wrote, I think, two years ago about a rather unpleasant experience. I was driving my then SO, now Ex, to work as he slept in the passenger seat. Along the ride, the song “Let’s Get Married” by Jagged Edge came on. I loved this song, and would normally sing along, but instead I found myself teary eyed. So much so, in fact, I had to switch stations.

    I soon realized this was because I was in a relationship with someone who, indeed, did not want to get married, a fact that knawed at me, but I didn’t realize how much until that particular tune came on.

    Fast forward to tonight, when the DJ played that song. Instead of being upset, on the verge of tears, I smiled. I sang along. I was, dare I say it, hopeful. No, I’m not in a long term relationship currently, but I have faith it will happen. I believe I will find my LTP(s) and I will have my wedding(s) someday.

    This is so much more than I can say for back then, when the most I received was a shared life but no formal commitment, pulling teeth when it came to the question of children, and the constant worry I was being over emotional.

    As the DJ continued his set list, I found myself singing along to more and more songs. Michael Jackson was heavily favored, including PYT (a personal favorite), Billie Jean, and Beat It. The Whitney and Mariah songs quoted above were also featured, two more I just had to sing along with.

    When I’m happy, when I’m sad. When I’m lonely, or just need something…else, I turn to music. The name of my first iPod was MusicSavesMe. This is the hashtag I use on Twitter when I feature a song I’ve downloaded.

    That simple statement is a truth in my life. I’ve linked so many special moments, sad moments, life changing and mundane occurences to music. It is like my heart beat, like the tempo of my breaths. Without it, I’m left emotionally raw and in need.

    Music has this special way of piercing the veil around my heart, sinking in its teeth, and swallowing me whole. And I am so grateful for it.