He teases me

I like the way he teases me.

Correction. I love the way he teases me.

How is it that he's gotten into my mind, learned where the buttons are, the buttons I used to keep well-hidden but now seem to be revealed to him? Sapiosexual I am, and he knows this, knows to start with my mind.

He starts with little puns. Clever little puns that his clever big brain comes up with on the fly. The first one always catches me by surprise. Makes me laugh. Me. He hits my laughter button regularly. I know people who have made it their mission to make me laugh and he does it with a single pun.

More delightful puns and then comes the sly innuendos. He has a way with words, this talent at finding the twist necessary to alter something innocent into something sexual. Early on he is so deft that I am uncertain as to whether or not the sexual connotation is intentional, but as time goes by my reactions egg him on.

Eventually, he will ask questions that focus my mind upon areas of my body, heightening my awareness of my arousal. He'll slide in a comment about something I'd said or done during love-making that makes me blush. And then the brushes. His arm will brush my nipples with accidental deliberation. His hips will brush up against my ass. He'll whisper something in my ear and his whiskers will brush my neck or shoulder, making my shiver or gasp.

And finally, when I am wet and scented with my own arousal, vibrating with need, he makes me wait. Dinner. A movie. A trip to the store. Always a delay, but an enjoyable one. He'll give me knowing looks. He'll comment on my squirming. Teasing me.

When we get home, he takes me. Bent over the couch. On my hands and knees by the door. Pressed up against a wall. It doesn't matter to me. What matters is that empty place that needs filling, that aches to be filled, and the hardness sliding into me, into the warm and welcoming wetness.

And then its my turn to tease him, to squeeze my muscles around him, to squirm and wriggle and moan and sigh. And when he is on the edge I beg him not to come, even as I grind myself against him, even as I try to wedge him farther into me. I look into him and he looks into me. We watch each other's eyes. And when the moment of ultimate superfeeling arrives, we ride that wave together, crying out, clinging to each other like castaways clinging to a life-raft.

Yes, he teases me so well.

YouTube: She's got a sybian to ride

I've added it to YouTube. Enjoy

Being sad

She looks at me from her frame, an antique art-deco frame, her head slightly tilted, her blonde hair tossed by the wind. At home, I can see her from my bed, and at work, from my desk. She is my hero and my reminder that life is too short and must be lived fully. She would have been 39 this year, on Halloween.

I miss her so much I ache with it, and tears make typing difficult. 9 months since Tammy died. I feel like some part of me is missing, something important, something I've got to find, to remember, to bring with me, to... something. I've been parturient with grief and now I feel it rising in me, seeking exit from my body. I've never given birth. I wonder, is it like this?

I feel sometimes like I've got to live the rest of my life and hers. She was fearful and fearless. She had huge courage and she accomplished great things and I feel I can do no less in honour of her memory. I think of her and smile. I remember her smile, that little girl's shy smile, and her way of laughing that made people feel included. I remember that day at Cannon Beach, the day I snapped that photo. I can close my eyes and smell the air. I can hear the birds, feel the chill in the wind and the sand in my shoes. I remember how thin she was, how little she ate, how easily she tired. And I remember how she had such enthusiasm. She was on fire. She wanted to live and go and do. But she never really learned how to 'be', my sister.

I remember her as a child, napping in the hammock under a pine tree my grandparents planted the year my mother was born. I can smell the scent that the redwood forest has, the scent that permeated my childhood summers. I remember the wind rocking the child in that hammock, and the way her hair stuck out in all directions and her mouth fell open just a bit as she slept. I remember the way her skin smelled of Ivory soap, and how her hair smelled of Breck creme rinse, and how her hands were always dirty. Tammy was never afraid to get her hands dirty.

And I miss her so much I ache with it. I raised her. She was my baby as much as she was my sister. And now she is gone, and that is ok. It has to be ok, right? I mean, we are all born to die, and she always said she'd never live to see 50 and she was right. She had a better sense of her own mortality than most. I got a taste of it in May and I get it now, get that Life is short, but more than that, get that My Life is short and it is meant to be lived fully and honoured fully.

And so I grieve, here on my bed, sitting cross-legged, looking into the photo, into the window of the past, honouring my feelings.... and being... being sad. And that is good. Tears wash away the strain of holding in the grief and that is good, too.

It's all good. Even missing those who have moved on to whatever comes next. Sometimes I forget to remember that. Miss ya Sis.

The jewel is in the lotus

High-points from this weekend:

She was a tall woman, perhaps an inch or two shy of six feet, and junoesque. She was bent over at the waist, and she balanced herself by pressing her hands against the wall of mirrors. Her lushness of body and sweetness of spirit were so very inviting, I could not resist. I crawled under her and sat cross-legged with my back against the mirrors. I cradled her breasts in my hands and lifted my face to kiss her, and the man standing behind her raised his arm. The flogging recommenced with a loud thwap. Her breath left her in a rush and she kissed me softly. Another stroke, and another, and in moments we were sucking at each others lips. My fingers pinched her nipples, tweaked them, squeezed and bounced her breasts. She sighed and moaned. It was divine. I wished it would go on forever, but alas, like all good things, must do, it came to an end.

The violet wand sparked over my nipple, making me gasp and twitch. Again he touched the orb to my breast, and an ecstasy of electricity ran through my body. Hands ran over me, two or three others touching me, teasing me. Next, the tinsel flogger and me turned into a conduit, and the hands and flogger sparked whenever they touched my skin, making me grasp and moan and trill and writhe. It was a banquet for my skin.

Parlour games with a twist, the winner on his back in the center of the room, eyes closed and wearing only his briefs, and beaming. Four women touching him, hands running over his body, kissing and pinching and teasing. He was in heaven.

New podcast featuring sybian recording

I took a ride on my sybian, recorded it, and used it as the background for a podcast of the blog entry "She's got a sybian to ride." Do let me know what you think.

My podcasts are now available on iTunes. You can find them here.

I recorded another ride on my sybian, this one without voiceover--unless you consider gasps and moans and whimpers to be "voiceover." This recording is available for purchase here at Lulu.com.

The sexual is political

I am standing up to be counted, and I'm telling the world: "This is my voice. There are many like it. But this one is mine." (Inspired by "This Is My Voice"--Shane Koyczan's performance poem on politics.)

Humanity is a political body. And we seem to politicize everything that touches our lives, because every aspect of our lives that involves social interaction/relations also involves the acquisition and/or application of power via social/societal influence. In understanding this, I understand that politics is innate and thus deeply personal. Each person wants to be Right, and wants others to recognize that Rightness, and thus begins the application of influence in order to attain acknowledgment of that Rightness, which translates directly into power via the "mandate from heaven" archetype. Proof of this is easily observed in any schoolyard.

Sexual relations and all that it touches is deeply political because it is deeply personal. While two or a handful of people may arrive at an agreement regarding matters of sexuality, it is truly impossible for a large social body to achieve a consensus regarding issues of gender and sexuality, because it is impossible to establish a transparent, democratic dialogue. Dialogue itself is the primary battlefield for power relations, a venue for attempting to influence others (to control/modify their perceptions) in order to gain access to their power and thus wield power over them. The current Campaign 2008 here in the States is an illustrative example of this in action.

In general, I avoid discussing politics of the interpersonal and cultural types, for a variety of reasons. But the politics of gender and sexuality, seeing as they directly affect my personal life, often cause the Libertarian in me to rise up during elections, saying "keep your laws off my person." So here I am, looking into the eye of the hurricane-in-a-teacup that Campaign 2008 is, and wishing I could read tea leaves. But augury is not my talent. There is no guarantee that any person elected will have the ability or intention to follow through with the things they've promised. Thus, I rarely vote for a person, but rather, against specific ideologies. Every person in politics thinks his/her ideology is Right and is looking for the majority mandate that will empower them to act upon that ideology "for the greater good."

Ours is an imperfect world. And mine is an imperfect country. Don't get me wrong, I love my country. But mine is an imperfect country. Mine is a country in which worker productivity has increased dramatically in the past two decades and yet the profits of that productivity have been passed on to corporate executives in the form of $100 million compensation packages while their employees earn less in today's dollars than they did two decades ago. Mine is a country in which women comprise the majority of the workforce and heads of households and yet they still earn considerably less than their male counterparts. Mine is a country in which most women exchanging sex for money are criminals, but women marrying a man for economic security (hah!) are not. Mine is a country in which you have the right to starve and be jailed for panhandling if you beg for food or money. Mine is a country in which most of the Christians seem to have forgotten Christ's mandates to love one another and to give aid to the less fortunate. Mine is a country in which we have the right to bear arms and yet few who are terminally ill have the right to die with dignity and ease unless they want to use a gun to blow their brains out. Mine is a country in which corporations have all the rights of individuals, even to the point of buying votes, and none of the responsibilities. Mine is a country in which some would have us guarantee fetus' right to life without thought to guaranteeing the quality of that life.

People come to me. They say, "Kay, you are a smart woman. I respect your clarity of thinking. I'd like to know how you will vote, and why?"

To them, I say:
Anyone who upholds or favors the implementation of laws that interfere with my ability to do what I want with my body, or with my partner behind closed doors, or who would interfere with other's rights to live free and happy lives, will be voted against, no matter how good their rhetoric is, no matter how kind or fiercely protective they seem. The sexual is political, and this unchaste unmarried woman will never spread her legs to a man or woman who promises to deposit a little godliness in her womb in exchange for her power and amenability. Never. Never fucking ever.

(podcast: listen here)

Jealousy, posessiveness, fear, change, LOVE

Possessiveness, territoriality, the hoarding mentality -- those things have always been so difficult for me to handle in loving relationships. When I was a child, I learned that the harder I tried to hold onto something I feared losing, the more of a certainty that fear became. So I simultaneously arrived at two things: In recognizing that loss was inevitable, I stopped fearing it. And, perhaps fatalistically, I prepared for it. In my past three long term relationships, which ran from 1988 through 2004, I had the same conversations with each of them: That nothing lasts forever, that no one person can be all things to another, that attraction to others is inevitable, that if one of us meets someone else we will be happier with, we should give our blessings to them. The happiness and well-being of the ones I love is essential to my own.

And so I find myself in a relationship with a man whose love makes me a little bit giddy. Who says the sweetest, corniest things that lure my inner child to come out and play. Who has more kindness and constancy in him than I had thought possible in someone of our generation. A man who devilishly plays with my libido like it is a cross between a lute and a cat's toy. He delights in me, melts at my touch, makes me laugh, and supports me. But he also wants me all to himself. And therein lies the very heart of the problem.

I've asked him for 6 months. Give me 6 months. There is a lot going on in my life, my world, and choosing him--which something in me very much wants to do and at the same time is very afraid to do--would be a huge change in my life. Not just a change from polyamory to monogamy, but a change in place, which would mean leaving my community. But when I ask myself what I want, more and more, I find myself answering "him", and when I think about it, I recognize that if I do not choose "us", then I'll always wonder what might have been.

Where does the desire for personal freedom and self-expression find itself when two people merge their lives to form an exclusive partnership? I remember what happened to it when I was younger, less secure in myself, more eager to 'fix' others or to 'make them happy.' I am so far from that place, and yet , I know that it is my daily rituals, my affirmations of self and non-self, my me-time, the pure freedom to be spontaneous--that it is these things which maintain the self I know as 'me' me. And I have seen how easy it is to slide out of healthy habits and ways of being, to let things slip for love, and I find myself conflicted, clinging almost jealously to my current life and way of being in the face of... love. There is tremendous possibility there. I love him like I have never loved another, in ways I never thought possible for me, and I know myself for 10 kinds of a fool if I pass up those possibilities out of fear or possessiveness.

"Mine. I am mine. No one claims me. No one owns me," my inner child says while at the same time she reaches out to him, teases him, shares with him. Loves him.

I like things just the way they are, and yet I know that change is inevitable. He won't keep forever like a doll in a glass case. He's a person with his own needs and desires. I suppose I am faced with the choices we all are: shall I sit on the side of the path and wait for Life to happen and choose for me? Or shall I take action and choose for myself what I want from Life, even knowing the path I choose to walk may not lead where I wanted?

I am reminded of the final words of a poem by slam-poet Shane Koyczan that go something like this: "Its a game. You play, you win. You play, you lose. You play. The world is a window that holds a sign. There is 'help wanted' out there but if you are playing to win, the first thing you have to do is 'apply within'."

Six months. Six months to wrestle with my choices and then take a stand for my own happiness, for what I want for myself and my life. Six months. 180 days. So many days. Why does it feel like so little time?