poeticdesires

Category: Rant

  • Endurance


    Warning: This is a rant.

    I almost threw up on the plane.

    On my flight home, the Captain warned us it would be a rough landing. We were coming in through a heavy downpour. I opened up the window and could make out the storm as we passed through it.

    After the first time the plane pitched, I knew I needed to find my vomit bag. My stomach, normally happy to brave the ups and downs of a roller coaster, was having none of this turbulance. I endured because I had no choice, because this was what I had to do to get home.

    Our rocky landing wasn’t the only thing I had to go through this traveling Monday just to make it back home.

    TSA decided, once again, that the rosettes on my boots looked suspicious. But, instead of just opening my bag, seeing the boots, and closing it liked they had the last time I left SFO, this time the trainee inspector decided to swipe down all the pockets of my back pack, unpack the entire bag, and run it all through the scanner again. Oh, and she almost forgot to give me back my $500 boots.

    Already pissed off that I’d been hasseled by Homeland Security, I patiently waited for my plane. But at least I was on my way home. At least I would be in my bed by the end of the night.

    And then Murphy’s Law struck.

    The plane that would’ve taken me to Dallas/Fort Worth (the hub from which my connecting flight back home left out) had to be taken out of service for a maintenance issue. All of a sudden a full plane of people was scrambling to find ways home.

    A flight attendant passed out Customer Service cards. Each one of us got on our phone and spoke with a representative trying to find us new flights while we all also stood in line to get reticketed. After about thirty minutes on the phone, my rep found me an 8pm flight to LA and then a direct flight home. Arrival: 6:45am. As much as it sucked, at least I would be home before my work the next day (today).

    However, when I got to the counter, a stroke of luck. The SFO rep found me a direct flight with another carrier, arrival only two hours after my previous expected time.

    But then came snag number three: I had to go through security again. I walked out of terminal two, made my way to terminal three, and waited. When I was half way through the security line, I cursed and exited. I’d forgotten to dump my water bottle which I’d filled after my first security check. Back in line, waiting again, I had the unlucky pleasure of being in front of a douchebag who decided to complain about the wait we all had to endure.

    After shoving my things through the scanner (along with specifically pulling out my boots to avoid another bag check) I was let through fine. I ate an overpriced but pleasing lunch. I waited for three hours for my now direct flight home.

    And just as we were about to board the plane, the attendant asked us to wait just a bit longer. My heart sunk.

    Not again. Oh please God not again. This can’t happen to me twice, can it?

    And, thankfully, it didn’t. One of the restrooms on the plane was out of service, but the flight would still happen. We boarded with plenty of room for the less than half capacity of passengers.

    I sat. I closed my eyes. I wanted, desparately wanted, to pass out.

    But, once we were in the air, I couldn’t. Instead I pulled out my netbook and started typing. I got some NaNoWriMo words in. I roughed out a few blogs. I felt better, much better. And I was on my way home.

    And then the kid in front of me wouldn’t sit still, and decided he wanted his seat all the way back, and oh-my-god-this-movie-is-so-awesome. I moved to the center seat and turned up the volume in my earbuds.

    Later, satisfied I’d gotten some work done, I passed out for maybe an hour before we slowly made our descent.

    With the jossling of the plane, I kept breathing deep trying to keep the contents of my stomach in my stomach. For about ten to fifteen minutes, I wondered if I would have another first in my life. Thankfully puking on a plane is still a cherry I have not broken.

    We landed fine. I am not dead. And even though I still had to endure a ridiculous shuttle ride home (an hour and forty-five minutes when normally it would take about thirty), I did eventually make it.

    I walked through my door at 3am. I did not sleep overnight in the airport. My lugguage was not lost (carry-on only bitches!). I made it to work today.

    I am tired, worn out, exhausted. But I made it. I survived. I endured.

  • Angry, A Rant

    Fair warning: This is not a sexy post. I will understand if you do not wish to read it.

    Fair warning: This post will cover not fun things. Really not fun things.

    YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

    It never occurred to me that people would not realize I am angry. 

    But, as I sat on the couch last night chatting with my roommates, who spoke about their experiences with trying to uncloud the eyes of well meaning (or downright ignorant) people, the subject of being angry came up.

    I am angry. Very angry. I don’t show that side of myself much. I don’t like to.

    I often display bubbly, or eager, or quiet. There is shy or whimsical or horny. But angry, don’t show that much.

    However, for one blog entry, let’s face it.

    As a light skinned black woman with some Native American ancestry, I have quite a bit to be angry about.

    There is the state of the lives of current Native Americans; a quick Wikipedia search brought me this gem:

    “It has long been recognized that Native Americans are dying of diabetes, alcoholism, tuberculosis, suicide, and other health conditions at shocking rates. Beyond disturbingly high mortality rates, Native Americans also suffer a significantly lower health status and disproportionate rates of disease compared with all other Americans.”
    — The U.S. Commission on Civil Rights, September 2004[134]

    But my knowledge of the lives of Native Americans is as an outsider. So instead I’ll focus on my own life experiences.

    I grew up in a majority minority city. Still, when I went to high school, I was part of only ten percent of my small class that was black. Hmm…?

    Could that be because my high school charged a tuition that the people living in the homes surrounding it couldn’t afford? Pretty much.

    My parents could afford it, though, because of two factors. One, my father was a doctor and made a decent living. Two, I received an academic scholarship, which paid between a quarter and a third of the cost. 

    Before college, I actually never went to public school. My parents always found other schools to send me to.

    God, even as I write this, just this, I want to stop.

    I shove down my rage at this country, at my life, every day. 

    At the blatant sexism. 

    At the institutionalize racism. 

    At the disgust and hatred for undocumented workers, who are just trying to make their lives better for their families. 

    At the acceptance and blindness of those with privilege.

    Do you read Captain Awkward? I think they’re pretty awesome. I am fairly new to the blog, with my introduction being the lovely gems of entries #322 & #323 (Sad Panda & Proto-Rapist) and #324 (My Friend The Rapist). 

    Jesus fucking Christ people.

    I mean really. I was yelling at my phone as I read the entries, but thankfully Captain’s response to the letters posted calmed me down.

    As a woman, I am angry and scared.

    Scared one day some guy on my crew is going to get pissed off enough at me to attack me. Angry that un-funny sexist jokes get told by someone higher up than me, so I feel like I can’t say anything.

    Scared when I drop off the truck at ridiculous o’clock at night, all by myself, someone will be at the warehouse, or just pass by, and decide it would be fun to attack me. Angry that I feel if I voice my fear to anyone but female coworkers, I’ll be seen as weak or I worry too much.

    Yup, I’m pretty angry.

    Still, I know I am privileged to have had a good education. I know I am privileged to be light-skinned, with a skin tone that often baffles people who meet me. (“What are you?” Yup, that gem.) I know I’m privileged. I know I have it better than many others of my race.

    But I also see the ownership of the companies I work for, the upper level staff, and the crews I’m a part of, all dominated by white men.

    When I do, when the full measure of shit-i-tude stares me in the face, I just shake my head, take a deep breath, and move on. Because there is rent. And bills to pay. And I have to eat. So I shove down my anger everyday. Everyday.

    I turn on the work face or the social face. I give you pleasant or relaxed or upbeat. I give you what you want to see and say what you want to hear because it is just easier.

    Most times it’s just easier to ignore my anger, easier to not have the conversation. Easier to not feel the despair, the hurt, the pain. Just… easier.

    But don’t be mistaken. Under the facade, in my heart of hearts, everyday I am angry.

    Very angry.

  • Broken

    I feel broken. Chewed up and spit out. Chewed up and shat out.

    It’s 2:17am when I started typing, technically my birthday. Not the best way to start.

    “No, my brains and my bones don’t want to take this anymore…/So, why you being a dickhead for?/Stop being a dickhead./Why you being a dickhead for?/You just fucking up situations.”

    I’ve been repeating Kate Nash’s Dickhead for the past hour. On the drive home. And now in my room as I sit on my bed and write.

    I cried in the car. I wailed a little, but then made myself stop. I can’t wail in the house; I don’t want to wake my roommates.

    It was like I was knocked over, drawn down my the undercurrent, wrenched off my feet.

    It was suppose to be fun, different. Instead it felt like I was used, drained to my last drop, left with almost nothing.

    Today I ran The Rebel Race.

    Me and my friends were pretty excited. Well really they were excited; I was nervous as all hell. I hadn’t seriously ran since before Fusion. I’d never ran a 5k. Everyone around in the crowd seemed way more in shape.

    But I had my friends. And we weren’t going to leave each other.

    So the race started, and not ten minutes in, we were fucked. The only guy in the group slipped off the monkey bars, landed first on his left arm, and then on his right ankle. His elbow and ankle were in no way good.

    And where was the on site medic? Where was someone to say, “Sorry, you have to stop.” Nowhere.

    My friend, being who he is, kept going, hobbling his way along the rest of the course. I, being who I am, never let him out of my sight.

    We’d already decided to walk the majority of the race, as there were bottle necks at just about every obstacle.

    As we traveled along, we came to a rope ladder, wooden walls to climb over, but never any volunteer at the apparatus. Some in my group were afraid of heights. I was able to climb up and help to coax them over, staying at the top with them. But where was the volunteer?

    And then there was the mud. Oh god, the mud. At one point I was fully submerged in it, multiple times. But no water to wash off my face until I trudged through a few hundred feet of a thick muddy path. I was blind, almost panicking. I wiped my face in the grass just to try and see.

    There was no traction as we somehow scaled a mud high with an incline difficult in normal conditions. I fell a few times, but more scary was how many times I almost fell backwards.

    And no one was on the course with a radio. No one was available to whisk me away if, heaven forbid, I did fall down that very large, very steep hill.

    We didn’t talk about it til after we finished, but there came the realization to us that we could’ve been seriously injured or died.

    The scar that’s lasted the most with me, though, is on my back. There was a quasi water slide portion near the beginning. The one time there was someone at an obstacle, the person holding the hose told us to cross our arms and slide down on our back.

    Little did we know this slide was merely a tarp laid over ground littered with rocks. I didn’t know I’d been hurt until my eventual shower at a friend’s home a few hours later.

    When I felt the sharp ache on my back from the warm water, I knew something was wrong. My friend gasped when I raised my shirt. I was bruised. Abraded. And one very long scratch down my back.

    To add insult to injury, water stations on the course ran out of cups and water. Certain pieces of equipment were broken. Their “medal” was a cheap dog tag that for some reason I have not taken off. The free beer ran out, so we had to settle for two free meal tickets, the equivalent of a hot dog. But they, somehow, still had bottles of water to sell us.

    As we tried to wash away the mud from our bodies, our clothes, our hair, it just never seemed to end. Piles of shoes, shirts, and other detritus littered the grounds. There was mud everywhere. Everywhere.

    And they made us pay for parking, $10 in a field with grass up to our knees and no organization whatsoever.

    And our walk away gifts were a cheap draw string bag and a plain white cotton t-shirt with black lettering.

    I just feel used, abused. It felt like I’d somehow ended up in a physical impact scene with no consent and no aftercare.

    But there was a saving grace: I was to see the Gent tonight. I thought, Okay, that will be my aftercare, spending time with a friend.

    When I left Baltimore at 10:45pm, yes I was tired, but by the time I got to his place it would be my birthday. So I drove, preferring softer music this go round instead of my usual Friday night club mixes.

    And as I arrived at a spot to leave my car, I was pleased I would get to spend some time with him.

    But then he texted saying he was not home yet. And then he texted saying he didn’t know how long he would be. Since I was already there, I decided to wait.

    I reclined my seat back and let my eyes close. When they opened again, it was 1:15am. I was hot, achy.

    I texted him, asking for an ETA. And then I thought, Why am I here?

    I texted back, telling him nevermind; I was heading home.

    I cried in the car on the way back.

    Between the shit storm that was that race, and then waiting for a friend who couldn’t be there because he was dealing with another friend’s emotional breakdown, I was done.

    I was…broken.

    Today is my birthday. Happy 29th to me.

  • Stress

    Sleep deprivation sucks.

    Nausea. Short temper. Easier to tears. Micro naps while I drive. And, frankly, I stop giving a fuck, at times acting like a bitch.

    It’s the busy season; I am very sleep deprived.

    When I woke up Sunday morning, my room was muggy and hot. I had gotten to sleep around 5am. It was 12:26pm when my body could not stand the heat any longer.

    Even though I got a relatively good amount of rest, this followed multiple days of 3-5hrs of sleep and a few 20hr days.

    As I laid in bed, I contemplated all the things I had to do. There were, in fact, many errands I wanted to run. It was my first day off since Tuesday.

    I didn’t want to get out of bed. I didn’t want to do anything. But I had a mound of dirty clothes that I absolutely had to wash, not to mention health care paperwork to fill out and Shibaricon packing to start.

    Forcing myself out of bed, I grabbed my clothes hamper and lumbered down the stairs. I heard my roommates laughing and talking in the dining room, but choose to not say hi.

    In the laundry room, I put down my hamper and opened the washer; clothes inside. I checked the dryer; clothes inside.

    I huffed, and then headed to the dining room.

    “Whose clothes are in the dryer,” I asked, I hope not grumpily.
    “Doesn’t matter,” said DeepEnd. “The dryer’s broken.”
    “Really!”

    I stomped my feet. I put my head against the wall.

    “I have to go.”

    I could feel the tears coming as I went back to the laundry room, grabbed my hamper, and rushed back into my room. I stripped off my pajamas. I crawled back into my bed. I cried into my covers, squeezing Tessie tight, wanting the world to go away.

    All I wanted was to wash my fucking clothes. All I wanted was to get something, anything done. This was suppose to be my day off.

    I was angry. I was upset. I was sleep deprived.

    I needed to do something. I wanted to pound a wall, rip something apart.

    With a start, I got back out of bed, put on my workout clothes, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, I grabbed a banana and poured a glass of Silk.

    “Hun, what are you averaging? An hour of sleep a night?” It seemed SkinnyBitch had an idea of my problem. I gave her a grunt of an answer.

    Quickly finishing my food, I went into the Sun Room.

    On my iPhone, I started up my Dance/Pop Mix. I turned on the treadmill and started walking. After a minute, I increased the speed. And again. And again. Each minute or two I kept making it go faster, until I was running. Really running. My feet flying up in the air, breathing heavy running.

    It was the first time I’d really ran on the tread. My workout is normally a mix of fast walking and jogging.

    As my feet pounded on the tread, I imagined my footfalls pounding away my problems, pounding out my anger, pounding away all the bullshit that was my life.

    After a few minutes, I lowered the speed. Slowly I came down. Slowly I returned to walking.

    And, somehow, it made it all better.

    I joined my roommates at the dining room table, feeling more like myself.

    I completed no errands Sunday, and, frankly, I think I am the better for it.

  • Idiots

    I don’t consider myself a bitch, per se. I am highly opinionated, and, when it comes to my job, I am greatly annoyed when others do not know their shit.

    And so it happened that today I had to deal with an annoying dumbass.

    I’d worked with him before. For the first hour of our interactions, I thought he was new. Like brand new. Like just started in the business new.

    I tried to teach him what I knew and help him with the work. It was a 5am call. I was tired. But I figured if I helped him learn now I wouldn’t have to deal with his incompetence later.

    And so it happened, that around 6am, as I’m explaining something else to him, he turns to me and says, “I’ve worked for Company Q before. You don’t have to talk to me like I’m a child.”

    I could have reacted to him in many different ways. I could’ve just turned and walked away. I could’ve laughed, considering Company Q is thought of by many in my industry as being full of idiots who don’t know shit. I could have told him how pathetic a worker I thought he was if he had experience with another company and yet seemed like he knew nothing.

    Instead, I calmly said I was just trying to help him because it seemed liked he didn’t understand something.

    For the rest of my extremely long gig, I attempted to avoid him. For some strange reason, he seemed to take this as me liking him because he then decided to follow me around and try to talk to me like we were buddies. Like we were equals.

    Frankly I was rather angry he was being paid the same amount of money as me to do a piss poor job.

    Of course, since I had such a great time with him before, he just had to show up again. Today. Unfortunately he was the only other crew member for my department; therefore I could not get away from him.

    I put my headphones in and concentrated on my tasks. At one point he got my attention, saying something to the effect of, “What? Do I have to say your name to talk to you?” Obviously the fact that my project was separate from his AND I was wearing my headphones didn’t clue him in to my desire to not fucking talk to him.

    He ended up following me around again.

    His incompetence shined multiple times. Not properly securing equipment. Not know the correct procedure to manipulate the equipment. And messing with equipment from another department that had nothing to do with his task.

    By the end of the day, I just wanted to sit back and laugh. This motherfucker was getting paid the same amount as me. This idiot who didn’t bring the proper equipment to work. Who basically calls me condescending but then shows his incompetence at almost every step.

    Sometimes I just want to scream.

    Why can’t people just show up, know their shit, do their job, and leave? Why do I have to deal with idiots?

    Why?

    [Of course I know the answer. It’s because I’m not one.]

  • Religion and Reproduction

    This is a straight-up rant. This post isn’t meant to be sexy. It’s not specifically about sex, or fucking, or all the fun things my life occasionally entails. Fun Fact: In high school I was voted Most Opinionated. Here is a taste of why.

    [Side note: I was also voted Most Boy Crazy. Snicker as you wish.]

    NEWS FLASH: Catholics use birth control. Jews use birth controls. Muslims, Buddhists, and even Atheists use birth control. And you know what, that is just one of their many rights as American citizens.

    In various religions, it is against their most conservative practices to use condoms, the pill, the patch, the ring, the matchstick, and/or the morning after pill. But you know what, people still use them.

    Why?

    Because condoms help against spreading disease. Because some women don’t want to get pregnant. Because sex is fun and is often enjoyed for more than procreation. Because I wouldn’t want to have the child of my rapist. Or my cousin. Or my father. Because, as Americans, it is our right to choose.

    I can’t help but be pissed when I hear Republican Presidential candidates equate the new healthcare rule concerning contraception coverage to an assault against religious freedom. Unless someone is removing the pills from their dispenser and shoving them down your throat, there is no assault on religious freedom.

    You know what is an assault that involves religion? Trying to force your views and practices on people who do not share your beliefs, namely your employees who want to prevent pregnancy but can’t because you refuse to cover the medication in their healthcare plans.

    This mess has less to do with religion and more to do with women’s reproductive rights. But conservatives don’t want to talk about that. Women don’t have sex for fun. What am I talking about? Meanwhile, those of you who’ve read my blog, or yah know have had hands on practice, know that thinking is utter bullshit.

    The new healthcare rule is, in fact, a step to give women more freedom with their reproductive rights.

    Hey Catholic hospital, you’re a fucking hospital first! Hey Catholic college, you’re a fucking college first! And you know what? Plenty of your employees aren’t fucking Catholic!

    So yes, you need to cover this portion of their healthcare in your plans just like you cover vasectomies and Viagra. And even if an employee is Catholic or Jewish or Muslim, they get to choose what goes into their body, if they want to use condoms, or have sex for fun, or prevent a pregnancy, whether from a lover or from a rapist.

    I get so sick and tired of members of the right spouting bullshit trying to trump up the vote. This time they’re speaking to misogynists who still believe they have a say in what I do with my body. It’s my fucking body, assholes. Step the fuck off!

    Mitt Romney, while governor of Massachusetts, passed a law requiring Catholic hospitals to offer emergency contraception to rape victims.

    Please, re-read that last statement.

    It is important because of a few choice points: 1- If the law was created, it usually means they had to make it in the first place, as in Catholic hospitals were NOT offering emergency contraception to rape victims. (Lemonade moments in-fucking-deed) 2- Romney is a fucking opportunist hypocrite, criticizing the President on reproductive rights after having signed into law similar rights in his own state. & 3- What the fuck, Catholic hospitals!?! Seriously, what the fuck!?!

    I was baptized Catholic, and reached my first communion before my mother converted to Baptist. I went to a Catholic middle and high school. I went to a public college. I call myself Christian because I believe there is something greater than myself. Call it God. Call it the essence that is life. There is something.

    But you know one thing I did learn while suffering through Religion classes I gave little to no weight to: There was this cool guy named Jesus who, if he were alive today, would be a Socialist. Feeding the poor. Healing the sick. You’re probably going to hell if you’re rich. And, shit, keeping the wine flowing and the party going. Cool guy.

    One part about this current “debate” that I find incredibly disturbing is the Quiverfull movement. First, no birth control whatsoever? Not even the rhythm method? Scary. But beyond that, the idea that you can have enough children to eventually out populate the left/liberals/Democrats, and thereby usher our country into a conservative utopia, downgrades women into baby making machines, children into votes, and liberty and freedom into just buzz words.

    But hey, why am I surprised? I’m a black woman and a bleeding heart liberal. It isn’t like this country has been so welcoming of my kind, even if I was born here.

    [Fun fact: go Google ‘Mississippi apendectomy’. I just learned about this a few months ago. This country is so fucked up.]

    /rant

  • Fair and Balanced

    Recently I performed a civic act and showed up, early, for jury duty. 

    In this particular instance of a ritual everyone has to go through, sooner or later, everything went right. Our summons time changed from 8:30am to 1pm because no cases were on the docket for the morning. Almost everyone showed up early. We had a nice lady for our point of contact. We sat through a not-horrible ten minute video explaining the process. We patiently waited for a case to arise. Not three hours later, we were all informed we could go; no cases would be held that day. It should have been an almost enjoyable experience.

    But the moment that has stuck in my craw, the instance that continues to nag me in my side…

    At the end of our instructional video, the judges “thanked us” by showing a picture of each and every one of themselves. And as judge after judge passed on the screen, I got angrier and angrier. The video had spoken about how just and fair our legal system was. It spoke about our laws and equal rights. And yet, as I counted, picture after picture, there was a sea of whiteness.

    The final total, when the video ended, was one black man, one black woman, six white women, and fourteen white men. Fourteen. As in more than the sum of the rest of the judges. As in double the number of women. Yeah, fair and balanced my ass.

    I don’t know if I was the only person who noticed this. I don’t know if anyone else cared. But it pissed me off something big.

    When people of my race are more likely to be arrested, more likely to be incarcerated, more likely to die under the death penalty, how can anyone deign to say our judicial system is fair and balanced?

    Don’t get me wrong; I have no desire to have been born anywhere else. I know good and well, in many other countries, I would not even be allowed to drive a car, let alone receive the education I worked for, and live the open life I have. But the rights I do so enjoy are marred by how far our country still has to go.

    Occasionally I have moments when I regret my decision to have gone into theatre, regret using my intelligence on my writing, regret not pushing myself into a profession that could help people of my race in this country.  Waiting in that jury lounge was one of them.

    When I visited my mother today, in the home where I spent half my life, I was reminded of how poor my family is. I actively forget how old her house is, how hard it was for her to raise me, how much money she still owes me that she borrowed ages ago. I actively forget how my extended family struggles, how my home city, behind its veneer, is splintered and broken.

    But when I sat there in the jury lounge, ready to start writing and zone out for a few hours, reality slapped me in the face. Because our country’s legal system is not fair and balanced. My future children have the deck stacked against them. And if anyone wants to argue with me, go look to see what the makeup of your local judgeships are.

  • All The Reasons Why

    I didn’t get home til after 2am yesterday.

    I was tired and worked a 16hr day.
     
    I was nervous and scared, being in the house by myself.  My brain goes to bad places when I’m alone at night.

    The time I planned to have today was evaporated by outside issues.

    My treadmill time this morning was more important.

    Preparing for having people over this evening was more important.

    Finding cigars for possible play tonight was more important.

    Grocery shopping was more important.

    Cooking lunches for the week, talking to the roommates, and Kinky Trivial Pursuit was more important.

    I’m drunk right now and probably shouldn’t being writing anything.  And yet I’m posting this.

    I’m also quite horny and find it difficult to concentrate on anything longer than a few sentences. Hence the nature of this blog.

    Since I am drunk, I am acting like a pouty child because I didn’t get what I wanted.  I don’t like me like this.  In fact, I hate me like this.  I do not want to write when I am in this mood; I suspect I will both love and hate anything I create while in this frame of mind.  But I’m at a computer typing away.  

    This post doesn’t count.

  • Distance

    Of all the impediments to kinky fun times, there is no other motherfucker like distance. The nature of our subculture, with its multiple get togethers at various locations both in the states and around the world, lends to connections formed with people who, regrettably, do not live near you. And no matter how much you care for someone, geography doesn’t give a shit.

    I just helped put one friend on a bus that will take him four hours away. Another is hopping on a plane tomorrow and traveling across the pond for a few weeks. A third is already there.

    The intensity of the affection we all share heightens the connections we make. BDSM, at least in my life, is not for the casual dabbler. It is a part of who I am. And to find others with the same sentiment and love for this life is a gift I have no intent on returning.

    But as much as I love it, it hurts. I want nothing more than to have all my friends near me, a stone’s throw from my front door, or mere foot steps from my bedroom. But life does not wrap up so easily in a pretty red bow. You fall for people far away and you deal.

    Every minute, every moment counts more for us. A kiss here, a scene there, for me at least, is greater than the average “date” I’ve had in vanilla settings. All of my kink seems imbued with a greater, denser energy. Every smile, every hug is precious, perhaps because we all know at any moment it could be gone.

    I don’t fear jail or prosecution. I fear twists of fate, life deciding to throw a carpet bomb on our happy little existance. I fear the drunk driver, the psycho ex, the hurtful parent. In short, I am not Superman and cannot protect the people I love from the unknown dangers that lie ahead.

    Therefore, every second I am with you, I am with you, present, soaking in all of you that I can, knowing we will soon part once more. Our return to one another will be sweet with the fulfilled longing, but the patience of waiting is a bitter brew swallowed daily, tempered by texts, tweets, and telephone chats.

    We all love; we all deal, even if it is a bitch.

  • The Slave Of Many Masters

    It feels kind of shitty to even be writing this; I’m about expound on a problem I know people would love to have. But it’s my fucking blog, so hmph. And yes, I am pouting.

    Often, too often, I feel torn between the many people in my life. My family and high school friends live an hour drive away. My niece, my best friend’s daughter, is growing up so quickly, getting bigger every time I see her, saying more and turning into a tiny human. And though we have a connection, I often feel like I’m missing out on her life, not being there for the formative moments of this developing person I love.

    My job rocks…and my job sucks. Since I work freelance, I, to a certain degree, choose my own schedule. This allows for huge amounts of freedom when it comes to taking off for big kink events or anything planned out ahead of time. But, and this is a big but, it leaves no flexibility for the spontaneous fun that occurs in any other normal person’s life. My roommates planned a party tonight on a whim just a few days ago, far too short of a notice for me to take off work. By the grace of fate, I am able to attend (once I finish this post), but otherwise I would be working til 1am.

    And now that I’m at home, people streaming in for the revelry, I am again torn. I sit on the floor of my bedroom typing, listening to the heaving breathing of two of my friends sleeping. I want nothing more than to curl up and join them. (And, seeing as we all went to bed at 6am, but I woke up at 8:15am for work, I should do just that.) But my mind is racing, remembering that I did not write yesterday, and that I need to write today. And I can hear all the people downstairs laughing and drinking, getting ready to play Kinky Trivial Pursuit. I want to join in on their fun, but what of my cuddle time with the two in my bed, two people who soon will travel away for a few weeks. Should I not cherish these quiet moments with them while I can.

    It feels selfish to write this post. Oh, I have so many friends, I just can’t hang out with all of them. But it’s more than that, and I know it. I love so many people, to let any of them down is heartbreaking. Everyday it feels like I am missing important parts of their lives, while also having less of a life than I could because I cannot be with all of them. If I were three people, maybe I would come close to fulfilling all the obligations I’ve taken on (work, family and kink). But I am one, fractured inside by my want to please everyone, so that it feels like I please no one, especially myself.